masters would force the chains of slavery on you if they could; all they
lack is the opportunity; and if you are not careful, they will find an
opportunity, or make one. Slavery was profitable to them once, and it
would be profitable again. There is one fact you should never forget,"
said the speaker, warming up a little. "It is a most stupendous fact,
namely: that every dollar's worth of property in all this Southern land
has been earned by the labour of your hands and by the sweat of your
brows. It has been earned by you, not once, but many times over. You
have earned every dollar that has ever circulated here. The lands, the
houses, the stock, and all the farm improvements are a part of the
fruits of negro labour; and when right and justice prevail, this
property, or a very large part of it, will be yours."
This statement was received with demonstrations of approval, one of the
audience exclaiming: "You sho' is talkin' now, boss!"
"But how are right and justice to prevail? Only by the constant and
continued success of the party of which the martyred Lincoln was the
leader. The mission of that party has not yet been fulfilled. First, it
made you freemen. Then it went a step further, and made you citizens and
voters. Should you sustain it by your votes, it will take still another
step, and give you an opportunity to reap some of the fruits of your
toil, as well as the toil of the unfortunates who pined away and died or
who were starved under the infamous system of slavery."
"Ain't it de trufe!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah fervently.
"We have met here to-night to organise a Union League," continued Mr.
Hotchkiss. "The object of this league is to bring about a unity of
purpose and action among its members, to give them opportunities to
confer together, and to secure a clear understanding. No one knows what
will happen. Your former masters are jealous of your rights; they will
try by every means in their power to take these rights away from you.
They will employ both force and fraud, and the only way for you to meet
and overcome this danger is to organise. Ten men who understand one
another and act together are more powerful than a hundred who act as
individuals. You must be as wise as serpents, but not as harmless as
doves. Your rights have been bought for you by the blood of thousands of
martyrs, and you must defend them. If necessary arm yourselves. Yea! if
necessary apply the torch."
There was a certain air of plausibility about this harangue, a degree
of earnestness, that impressed Gabriel, and he does not know to this day
whether this ill-informed emissary of race hatred and sectional
prejudice really believed all that he said. Who shall judge? Certainly
not those who remember the temper of those times, the revengeful
attitude of the radical leaders at the North, and the distorted fears of
those who suddenly found themselves surrounded by a horde of ignorant
voters, pliant tools in the hands of unscrupulous carpet-baggers.
Hotchkiss brought his remarks to a close, and then proceeded to read the
constitution and by-laws of the proposed Union League, under which, he
explained, hundreds of leagues had been organised. Each one who desired
to become a member was to make oath separately and individually that he
would not betray the secrets of the league, nor disclose the signs and
passwords, nor tolerate any opposition to the Republican Party, nor have
any unnecessary dealings with rebels and former slave-holders. He was to
keep eyes and ears open, and report all important developments to the
league.
"We are now ready, I presume, for the ceremonies to begin," remarked Mr.
Hotchkiss. "First we will elect officers of the league, and I suggest
that the Honourable Jeremiah Tomlin be made President."
"Dat's right!" "He sho is de man!" "No needs fer ter put dat ter de
question!" were some of the indorsements that came from various parts of
the room.
The Rev. Jeremiah was immensely tickled by the title of Honourable that
had been so unexpectedly bestowed on him. He hung his head with as much
modesty as he could summon, and, bearing in mind his calling, one might
have been pardoned for suspecting that he was offering up a brief prayer
of thanksgiving. He rose in his place, however, passed the back of his
hand across his mouth, paused a moment, and then began:
"Mr. Cheer, I thank you an' deze friends might'ly fer de renomination er
my name, an' de gener'l endossments er de balance er deze gentermen. So
fur, so good. But, Mr. Cheer, 'fo' we gits right spang down ter
business, I moves dat some er de br'ers be ax'd fer ter give der idee er
dis plan which have been laid befo' us by our hon'bul frien'. I moves
dot we hear fum Br'er Plato Clopton, ef so be de sperret is on him fer
ter gi' us his sesso."
Uncle Plato, taken somewhat by surprise, was slow in responding, but
when he rose, he presented a striking figure. He was taller than the
average negro, and there was a simple dignity--an air of gentility and
serene affability--in his attitude and bearing that attracted the
attention of Mr. Hotchkiss. The Rev. Jeremiah was still standing, and
Uncle Plato, after bowing gracefully to Mr. Hotchkiss, turned with a
smile to the negro who had called on him.
"You know mighty well, Br'er Jerry, dat I ain't sech a talker ez ter git
up an' say my say des dry so, an' let it go at dat. Howsomever, I laid
off ter say sump'n, an' I ain't sorry you called my name. In what's been
said dey's a heap dat I 'gree wid. I b'lieve dat de cullud folks oughter
work tergedder, an' stan tergedder fer ter he'p an' be holped. But when
you call on me fer ter turn my back on my marster, an' go to hatin' 'im,
you'll hatter skuzen me. You sho will."
"He ain't yo' marster now, Br'er Plato, an' you know it," said the Rev.
Jeremiah.
"I know dat mighty well," replied Uncle Plato, "but ef it don't hurt my
feelin's fer ter call him dat it oughtn't ter pester yuther people. How
it may be wid you all, I dunno; but me an' my marster wus boys
tergedder. We useter play wid one an'er, an' fall out an' fight, an'
I've whipped him des ez many times ez he ever whipped me--an' he'll tell
you de same."
"But all this," suggested Mr. Hotchkiss coldly, "has nothing to do with
the matter in hand. The coloured race is facing conditions that amount
to a crisis--a crisis that has no parallel in the world's history."
"Dat is suttinly so!" the Rev. Jeremiah ejaculated, though he had but a
dim notion of what Hotchkiss was talking about.
"They have been made citizens," pursued the organiser, "and it is their
duty to demand all their rights and to be satisfied with nothing less.
The best men of our party believe that the rebels are still rebellious,
and that they will seize the first opportunity to re-enslave the
coloured people."
"Ah-yi!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah triumphantly.
"Does you reely b'lieve, Br'er Jerry, dat Pulaski Tomlin will ever try
ter put you back in slav'ry?" asked Uncle Plato.
The inquiry was a poser, and the Rev. Jeremiah was unable to make any
satisfactory reply. Perceiving this, Mr. Hotchkiss came to the rescue.
"You must bear in mind," he blandly remarked, "that this is not a
question of one person here and another person there. It concerns a
whole race. Should all the former slave-owners of the South succeed in
reclaiming their slaves, Mr. Tomlin and Mr. Clopton would be compelled
by public sentiment to reclaim theirs. If they refused to do so, their
former slaves would fall into the hands of new masters. It is not a
question of individuals at all."
"Well, suh, we'll fin' out atter awhile dat we'll hatter do like de
white folks. Eve'y tub'll hatter stan' on its own bottom. I'm des ez
free now ez I wuz twenty year ago----"
"I can well believe that, after what you have said," Mr. Hotchkiss
interrupted.
The tone of his voice was as smooth as velvet, but his words carried the
sting of an imputation, and Uncle Plato felt it and resented it. "Yes,
suh,--an' I wuz des ez free twenty year ago ez you all will ever be. My
marster has been good ter me fum de work go. I ain't stayin' wid 'im
bekaze he got money. Ef him an' Miss Sa'ah di'n'a have a dollar in de
worl', an no way ter git it, I'd work my arms off fer 'm. An' ef I
'fused ter do it, my wife'd quit me, an' my chillun wouldn't look at me.
But I'll tell you what I'll do: when my marster tu'ns his back on me
I'll tu'n my back on him."
"I'm really sorry that you persist in making this question a personal
one when it affects all the negroes now living and millions yet to be
born," said Mr. Hotchkiss.
"Well, suh, le's look at it dat away," Uncle Plato insisted. "Spoz'n you
ban' tergedder like dis, an' try ter tu'n de white folks ag'in you, an'
dey see what you up ter, an' tu'n der backs, den what you gwine ter do?
You got ter live here an' you got ter make yo' livin' here. Is you gwine
ter cripple de cow dat gives de cream?"
Uncle Plato paused and looked around. He saw at once that he was in a
hopeless minority, and so he reached for his hat. "I'm mighty glad ter
know you, suh," he said to Mr. Hotchkiss, with a bow that Chesterfield
might have envied, "but I'll hatter bid you good-night." With that, he
went out, followed by Wiley Millirons and Walthall's Jake, much to the
relief of the Rev. Jeremiah, who proceeded to denounce "white folks'
niggers," and to utter some very violent threats.
Then, in no long time, the Union League was organised. Those in the
closet failed to hear the words that constituted the ceremony of
initiation. Only low mutterings came to their ears. But the ceremony
consisted of a lot of mummery well calculated to impress the
simple-minded negroes. After a time the meeting adjourned, the solitary
candle was blown out, and the last negro departed.
Gabriel waited until all sounds had died away, and then, with a brief
good-night to Tasma Tid, he opened the closet door, slipped out, and was
soon on his way home. But before he was out of the dark grove, some one
went flitting by him--in fact, he thought he saw two figures dimly
outlined in the darkness; yet he was not sure--and presently he thought
he heard a mocking laugh, which sounded very much as if it had issued
from the lips of Nan Dorrington. But he was not sure that he heard the
laugh, and how, he asked himself, could he imagine that it was Nan
Dorrington's even if he had heard it? He told himself confidentially,
the news to go no further, that he was a drivelling idiot.
As Gabriel went along he soon forgot his momentary impressions as to the
two figures in the dark and the laugh that had seemed to come floating
back to him. The suave and well-modulated voice of Mr. Hotchkiss rang in
his ears. He had but one fault to find with the delivery: Mr. Hotchkiss
dwelt on his r's until they were as long as a fishing-pole, and as sharp
as a shoemaker's awl. Though these magnified r's made Gabriel's flesh
crawl, he had been very much impressed by the address, only part of
which has been reported here. Boylike, he never paused to consider the
motives or the ulterior purpose of the speaker. Gabriel knew of course
that there was no intention on the part of the whites to re-enslave the
negroes; he knew that there was not even a desire to do so. He knew,
too, that there were many incendiary hints in the address--hints that
were illuminated and emphasised more by the inflections of the speaker's
voice than by the words in which they were conveyed. In spite of the
fact that he resented these hints as keenly as possible, he could see
the plausibility of the speaker's argument in so far as it appealed to
the childish fears and doubts and uneasiness of the negroes. If anything
could be depended on, he thought, to promote a spirit of incendiarism
among the negroes such an address would be that thing.
If Gabriel had attended some of the later meetings of the league, he
would have discovered that the address he had heard was a milk-and-water
affair, compared with some of the harangues that were made to the
negroes in the old school-house.
All that Gabriel had heard was duly reported to Meriwether Clopton, and
to Mr. Sanders, and in a very short time all the whites in the community
became aware of the fact that the negroes were taking lessons in
race-hatred and incendiarism, and as a natural result, Hotchkiss became
a marked man. His comings and goings were all noted, so much so that he
soon found it convenient as well as comfortable to make his
head-quarters in the country, at the home of Judge Mahlon Butts, whose
Union principles had carried him into the Republican Party. The Judge
lived a mile and a half from the corporation line, and Mr. Hotchkiss's
explanation for moving there was that the exercise to be found in
walking back and forth was necessary to his health.
Uncle Plato was very much surprised the next day to be called into the
house where Mr. Sanders was sitting with Meriwether Clopton and Miss
Sarah in order that they might shake hands with him.
"I want to shake your hand, Plato," said his old master. "I've always
thought a great deal of you, but I think more of you to-day than ever
before."
"And you must shake hands with me, Plato," remarked Sarah Clopton.
"Well, sence shakin' han's is comin' more into fashion these days, I
reckon you'll have to shake wi' me," declared Mr. Sanders.
"I declar' ter gracious I dunner whedder you all is makin' fun er me or
not!" exclaimed Uncle Plato. "But sump'n sholy must 'a' happened, kaze
des now when I wuz downtown Mr. Alford call me in his sto' an' 'low,
'Plato, when you wanter buy anything, des come right in, money er no
money, kaze yo' credit des ez good in here ez de best man in town.' I
dunner what done come over eve'ybody." He went away laughing.
Nevertheless, Uncle Plato was more seriously affected by the schemes of
Mr. Hotchkiss than any other inhabitant of Shady Dale. He had been a
leader in the Rev. Jeremiah's church, and up to the day of the
organisation of the Union League, had wielded an influence among the
negroes second only to that of the Rev. Jeremiah himself. But now all
was changed. He soon found that he would have to resign his deaconship,
for those whom he had regarded as his spiritual brethren were now his
enemies--at any rate they were no longer his friends.
But Uncle Plato had one consolation in his troubles, and that was the
strong indorsement and support of Aunt Charity, his wife, who was the
cook at Clopton's, famous from one end of the State to the other for her
biscuits and waffles. Uncle Plato had been somewhat dubious about her
attitude, for the negro women had developed the most intense
partisanship, and some of them were loud in their threats, going much
further than the men. No doubt Aunt Charity would have taken a different
course had she been in her husband's place, if only for the sake of her
colour, as she called her race. She was very fond of her own white
folks, but she had her prejudices against the rest.
When Uncle Plato reached home and told his wife what he had said and
done, she drew a long breath and looked at him hard for some time. Then
she took up her pipe from the chimney-corner, remarking, "Well, what you
done, you done; dar's yo' supper."
Uncle Plato had a remarkably good appetite, and while he ate, Aunt
Charity sat near a window and looked out at the stars. She was getting
together in her mind a supply of personal reminiscences, of which she
had a goodly store. Presently, she began to shake with laughter, which
she tried to suppress. Uncle Plato mistook the sound he heard for an
evidence of grief, and he spoke up promptly:
"I declar' ef I'd 'a' know'd I wuz gwine ter hurt yo' feelings, I'd 'a'
j'ined in wid um den an' dar. An' 'taint too late yit. I kin go ter
Br'er Jerry an' tell him whilst I ain't change my own min' I'll j'ine in
wid um druther dan be offish an' mule-headed."
"No you won't! no you won't! no you won't!" exclaimed Aunt Charity. "I
mought 'a' done diffunt, an' I mought 'a' done wrong. We'll hatter git
out'n de church, ef you kin call it a church, but dat ain't so mighty
hard ter do. Yit, 'fo' we does git out I'm gwine ter preach ol' Jerry's
funer'l one time--des one time. Dat what make me laugh des now; I was
runnin' over in my min' how I kin raise his hide. Some folks got de
idee dat kaze I'm fat I'm bleeze ter be long-sufferin'; but you know
better'n dat, don't you?"
"Well, I know dis," said Uncle Plato, wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand, "when you git yo' dander up you kin talk loud an' long."
"Miss Sa'ah done tol' me dat when I git mad, I kin keep up a
conversation ez long ez de nex' one," remarked Aunt Charity, with real
pride. "An' den dar's dat hat Miss Sa'ah gi' me; I laid off ter w'ar it
ter church nex' Sunday, but now--well, I speck I better des w'ar my
head-hankcher, kaze dey's sho gwine ter be trouble ef any un um look at
me cross-eyed."
"You gwine, is you?" Uncle Plato asked.
"Ef I live," replied Aunt Charity, "I'm des ez good ez dar right now.
An' mo' dan dat, you'll go too. 'Tain't gwineter be said dat de Clopton
niggers hung der heads bekaze dey stood by der own white folks. Ef it's
said, it'll hatter be said 'bout some er de yuthers."
"I'll go," said Uncle Plato, "but I hope I won't hatter frail Br'er
Jerry out."
"Now, dat's right whar we gits crossways," Aunt Charity declared. "I
hope you'll hatter frail 'im out."
Fortunately, Uncle Plato had no excuse for using his walking-cane on the
Rev. Jeremiah, when Sunday came. None of the church-members made any
active show of animosity. They simply held themselves aloof. Aunt
Charity had her innings, however. When services were over, and the
congregation was slowly filing out of the building, followed by the Rev.
Jeremiah, she remarked loud enough for all to hear her:
"Br'er Jerry, de nex' time you want me ter cook pullets fer dat ar
Lizzie Gaither, des fetch um 'long. I'll be glad ter 'blige you."
As the Rev. Jeremiah's wife was close at hand, the closing scenes can be
better imagined than described. In this chronicle the veil of silence
must be thrown over them.
It may be said, nevertheless, that Uncle Plato and his wife felt very
keenly the awkward position in which they were placed by the increasing
prejudice of the rest of the negroes. They were both sociable in their
natures, but now they were practically cut off from all association with
those who had been their very good friends. It was a real sacrifice they
had to make. On the other hand, who shall say that their firmness in
this matter was not the means of preventing, at least in Shady Dale,
many of the misfortunes that fell to the lot of the negroes elsewhere?
There can hardly be a doubt that their attitude, firm and yet modest,
had a restraining influence on some of the more reckless negroes, who,
under the earnest but dangerous teachings of Hotchkiss and his
fellow-workers, would otherwise have been led into excesses which would
have called for bloody reprisals.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Nan and Her Young Lady Friends_
Nan Dorrington found a pretty howdy-do at her house when she reached
home the night the Union League was organised. The members of the
household were all panic-stricken when the hours passed and Nan failed
to return. Ordinarily, there would have been no alarm whatever, but a
little after dark, Eugenia Claiborne, accompanied by a little negro
girl, came to Dorrington's to find out why Nan had failed to keep her
engagement. She had promised to take supper with Eugenia, and to spend
the night.
It will be remembered that Nan was on her way to present her excuses to
Eugenia when the spectacle of Mr. Sanders, tipsy and talkative, had
attracted her attention. She thought no more of her engagement, and for
the time being Eugenia was to Nan as if she had never existed.
Meanwhile, the members of the Dorrington household, if they thought of
Nan at all, concluded that she had gone to the Gaither Place, where
Eugenia lived. But when Miss Claiborne came seeking her, why that put
another face on affairs. Eugenia decided to wait for her; but when the
long minutes, and the half hours and the hours passed, and Nan failed to
make her appearance, Mrs. Absalom began to grow nervous, and Mrs.
Dorrington went from room to room with a very long face. She could have
made a very shrewd guess as to Nan's whereabouts, but she didn't dare to
admit, even to herself, that the girl had been so indiscreet as to go in
person to the rescue of Gabriel.
They waited and waited, until at last Mrs. Dorrington suggested that
something should be done. "I don't know what," she said, "but something;
that would be better than sitting here waiting."
Mrs. Absalom insisted on keeping up an air of bravado. "The child's safe
wherever she is. She's been a rippittin' 'round all day tryin' to git
old Billy Sanders sober, an' more'n likely she's sot down some'rs an'
fell asleep. Ef folks could sleep off the'r sins, Nan'd be a saint."
"But wherever she is, she isn't here," remarked Mrs. Dorrington,
tearfully; "and here is where she should be. I wonder what her father
will say when he comes?" Dr. Dorrington had gone to visit a patient in
the country.
"Perhaps she went with him," Eugenia suggested.
"No fear of that," said Mrs. Absalom. "Ridin' in a gig is too much like
work for Nan to be fond of it. No; she's some'rs she's got no business,
an' ef I could lay my hand on her, I'd jerk her home so quick, her head
would swim worse than old Billy Sanders's does when he's full up to the
chin."
After awhile, Eugenia said she had waited long enough, but Mrs.
Dorrington looked at her with such imploring eyes that she hesitated.
"If you go," said the lady, "I will feel that Nan is not coming, but as
long as you stay, I have hope that she will run in any moment. She is
with that Tasma Tid, and I think it is terrible that we can't get rid of
that negro. I have never been able to like negroes."
"Well, you needn't be too hard on the niggers," declared Mrs. Absalom.
"Everything they know, everything they do, everything they
say--everything--they have larnt from the white folks. Study a nigger
right close, an' you'll ketch a glimpse of how white folks would look
an' do wi'out the'r trimmin's."
"Oh, perhaps so," assented Mrs. Dorrington, with a little shrug of the
shoulders which said a good deal plainer than words, "You couldn't make
me believe that."
Just as Dr. Dorrington drove up, and just as Mrs. Absalom was about to
get her bonnet, for the purpose, as she said, of "scouring the town,"
Nan came running in out of breath. "Oh, such a time as I've had!" she
exclaimed. "You'll not be angry with me, Eugenia, when you hear all!
Talk of adventures! Well, I have had one at last, after waiting all
these years! Don't scold me, Nonny, until you know where I've been and
what I've done. And poor Johnny has been crying, and having all sorts of
wild thoughts about poor me. Don't go, Eugenia; I am going with you in a
moment--just as soon as I can gather my wits about me. I am perfectly
wild."
"Tell us something new," said Mrs. Absalom drily. "Here we've been on
pins and needles, thinkin' maybe some of your John A. Murrells had
rushed into town an' kidnapped you, an' all the time you an' that slink
of a nigger have been gallivantin' over the face of the yeth. I declare
ef Randolph don't do somethin' wi' you they ain't no tellin' what'll
become of you."
But Dr. Dorrington was not in the humour for scolding; he rarely ever
was; but on that particular night less so than ever. For one brief
moment, Nan thought he was too angry to scold, and this she dreaded
worse than any outbreak; for when he was silent over some of her capers
she took it for granted that his feelings were hurt, and this thought
was sufficient to give her more misery than anything else. But she soon
discovered that his gravity, which was unusual, had its origin
elsewhere. She saw him take a tiny tin waggon, all painted red, from his
pocket and place it on the mantel-piece, and both she and Mrs.
Dorrington went to him.
"Oh, popsy! I'm so sorry about everything! He didn't need it, did he?"
"No, the little fellow has no more use for toys. He sent you his love,
Nan. He was talking about you with his last breath; he remembered
everything you said and did when you went with me to see him. He said
you must be good."
Now, if Nan was a heroine, or anything like one, it would never do to
say that she hid her face in her hands and wept a little when she heard
of the death of the little boy who had been her father's patient for
many months. In the present state of literary criticism, one must be
very careful not to permit women and children to display their
sensitive and tender natures. Only the other day, a very good book was
damned because one of the female characters had wept 393 times during
the course of the story. Out upon tears and human nature! Let us go out
and reform some one, and leave tears to the kindergarten, where steps
are taking even now to dry up the fountains of youth.