Dawson's Fall

by Roxana Robinson

  The witness exhibited no feeling whatever, and made her statement without a quaver of voice or the suspicion of a tear. Indeed, there was not a tear shed by any of the family, or any one else, during the day, so far as your reporter’s observations extended …

  On the way to the scene of the murder we passed what had been the residence of Mr. Louis E. Holloway, who was murdered last year … Just beyond this are the remains of the shanty of Cash Harris, who was hung last summer for the murder of Holloway. We were also told that Goggins was murdered in the same room where his father was killed about three years ago.

  —THE NEWS AND COURIER, FEBRUARY 23, 1878

  PART III

  19.

  ANONYMOUS LETTER TO F. W. DAWSON ESQ., C. AUGUST 26, 1886

  Sir: I see that you have had the extreme bravery to accuse the Editor of the Columbia Register of publishing “lies,” “falsehoods,” “untruths” &c. There might appear to be something manly in this if we could forget that you have done so behind the protection of that darling pet of yours and of all other cowards & slanderers, which is known as the “Anti Duelling Act.” When we remember this we are at no loss to recognize it as a piece of “chivalry” worthy only of the bully who took refuge behind the Church from Col Rhett at one time and from Gen Gary at another—whose religion never bridles his tongue or pen but serves only as a protection from those he has wantonly insulted. And then to call yourself Captain too. What kind of a Captain are you or were you? Do you remember what Dame Quickly in Shakespeare said to Ancient Pistol when he was styled Captain in her presence? “If Captains were of my opinion they would cudgel thee for taking their name upon thee.” Are you not ashamed of yourself, knowing that you are an object of so much contempt? The people of this state like bravery. They like for a man to be a man and to be responsible for what insults he may give. If a man is too religious to fight he should certainly be too religious to insult any one. It is folly to suppose that duelling is at an end in South Carolina. It never was, for fifty years back at least, of frequent occurrence here, but it has been and still is regarded by the “gentlemen” who seem to be such a terror to you, as the only way of putting the strong and the weak on terms of equality when they must fight, and it will be resorted to again notwithstanding the Anti Duelling humbug, whenever occasion shall occur, and no jury of twelve South Carolinians will be found so lost to all sense of right and justice as to find a man guilty of any crime in defending his honor and manhood or the good name of his family, no matter what may be said by a fellow, as the Macon Telegraph says, “whose hands are befouled with the swag wrung from a prostrate people by political pariahs,” and one who is so plainly seeking to hide his cowardice under a guise of religion and philanthropy. Take my advice, and make up your mind to be a man, if possible, in future and, as you are a man of talent you may yet be regarded with some little respect, perhaps more than I think possible.

  A Citizen

  20.

  TREATED AS BRUTES.

  Pastor Heard’s Description of the “Jim Crow Car” on the Georgia Railroad.

  The Rev. W. H. Heard, pastor of Mount Zion A.M.E. Church, in this city, had made complaint to the Inter-State commerce commission that he and several members of his congregation having purchased first-class tickets over the Georgia Railroad, from Atlanta to Charleston, were forbidden entry to the first-class coaches and compelled to ride in a dirty and uncomfortable car, one-half of which was a smoking car.

  —THE NEWS AND COURIER, JUNE 29, 1887

  “I was on my way from Cincinnati to Charleston,” said Mr. Heard yesterday, “and had a first-class through ticket which I purchased in Cincinnati. I travelled in the first-class coaches and enjoyed all the conveniences and comforts that my ticket entitled me to until I reached Atlanta. There we changed cars. As our party was about to enter the first-class coach on the train that was to go to Augusta a brakeman in uniform said to us: ‘Don’t go in there. This is the car for your people.’ Dr. Gaines said to me, ‘Let’s go in there. We can’t afford to raise a fuss. The brakeman is simply carrying out his orders’ … The car was the half of a dingy old car much inferior to the second-class coaches on the railroads in South Carolina. It was divided from the rest of the car by a thin partition that did not reach to the top of the car, and over which came clouds of tobacco smoke and very offensive smells … Crowds of railroad hands, in dirty clothing, with their buckets and picks, came into this alleged first-class car, and, by their loud talking and boisterous conduct, made themselves disagreeable to refined people with sensitive nerves. Several passengers came into the car, bringing chickens and bags of meal … There was no carpet on the floor and there was no ice in the water tank. It is well that we were told that we were in a first-class car, for the liveliest imagination would never have entertained such an idea.

  “When the conductor came around to collect tickets, I said to him, ‘This is not the way to treat men with first-class tickets.’ He replied: ‘You will have to ride here or get off the car.’”

  —THE NEWS AND COURIER, JUNE 30, 1887

  “The Jim Crow Car.”

  As we have said before, it is not unlawful to separate the white from the colored people. But it is not right or just that a colored passenger to whom the railroad company has sold a first-class ticket shall be crowded into a dirty car along with “chickens, railroad hands and dogs,” while the white passenger, who has purchased a first-class ticket has infinitely better accommodations for the same money. If chickens, railroad hands and dogs can be hauled in the first-class car for colored passengers, dogs, railroad hands and chickens should not be kept out of the first-class car for white passengers. In this case it is the amount of money that the railroad company receives for its tickets, and not the color of the ticket-buyer, that must decide the question of accommodations.

  —THE NEWS AND COURIER, JUNE 30, 1887

  “Change Cars.”

  The answer of the Georgia Railroad Company to the complaint of the colored man, W. H. Heard, that he had been refused the first class accommodation for which he had paid, and had been compelled to ride in the “Jim-Crow car,” does not in any wise help the case of the company.

  The remarkable assertion is made, in the first instance, that the company is not aware that any of its cars have been spoken of as Jim-Crow cars. As this name is familiar to every one who has ever travelled on the company’s road, it is very singular, to say the least, that the company has never heard it. Perhaps, however, it is as ignorant as it claims to be, and this would account for its other remarkable assertion that the differences between the cars provided for the colored people and the cars provided for the white people, “relate to matters aesthetical only, and consist in higher ornamentation and matters of that sort, rather than in those which affect the substantial conditions of safety, comfort and convenience” …

  There is a very practical way of putting all the assertions of … this railway to the test, and that is by issuing an order that, for one week, the white passengers shall occupy the cars now assigned to the colored people, and the colored people shall occupy the cars now reserved for the whites …

  The colored people want to ride in the first-class cars, and the railroad company declares that there is no reason why the white people should not be delighted to ride in the Jim-Crow cars. We challenge the company then to put its counsel’s assertion to the proof … and we risk nothing in saying that the new arrangement, with all its beauties, would not stand for twenty-four hours. It would have the effect, however, of exposing the deceptive character of the statements which were made to the Inter-State Commerce Commission, and would probably lead to justice being shown to first-class colored people who pay first-class fare.

  —THE NEWS AND COURIER, AUGUST 1, 1887

  21.

  To the people of the South the race problem is the most stupendous problem of the century. It meets us at every turn. It obtrudes itself upon us in our political and industrial life. It touches every element of present prog
ress and stands up like a great black wall against the future. All expedients for its solution which are not grounded in the spirit of absolute justice between man and man, or race and race, will fall to the ground.

  —THE NEWS AND COURIER, JANUARY 2, 1889

  January 15, 1889. Charleston

  A COLD WIND had come up from the harbor, squalling through the streets, catching hats, snapping the furled corners of umbrellas. Dawson stood on the sidewalk outside The News and Courier talking to the mayor. He was wearing his new black wool overcoat from London. The wind gave a sudden swirl, lifting Dawson’s hat, and he raised his hand to it. The sensation—his hat, the wind, the new warm coat—made him feel ebullient. He’d just sat through a long meeting on tax codes and now he was liberated.

  Mayor Bryan was a cautious man, with a small face and short neck. He talked slowly, and was cautious about city funds, storm drainage, building renovations, everything. It made Dawson want to whistle.

  “I’ve gone into these new raises very carefully,” Bryan said. “From one point of view it makes perfect sense.”

  “The city certainly needs the income,” said Dawson. He shifted his walking stick on the pavement, setting the metal tip an inch farther to the left, as though this might hurry the conversation along.

  “I don’t want to put too great a burden on the taxpayers,” said Bryan. “I spoke to the comptroller just now.”

  “And he thinks?” asked Dawson, though he was quite sure he knew what the comptroller thought.

  Over Bryan’s shoulder he saw two well-dressed men approaching. One of them he knew: Reverend Dart, of the Morris Street Colored Baptist Church. He and Dawson had worked together after the earthquake. The other man was white, a stranger. They were heading straight for Dawson.

  “That it isn’t nearly enough,” said Bryan.

  “Always the issue,” said Dawson. “Finding the balance between needs and resources. You have a difficult job, Mayor.”

  His tone contained a note of finality. Smiling, he looked at Bryan and also past him, at the two men in black overcoats. They stopped just beyond Bryan, hovering politely. Reverend Dart was tall and thin and dignified, with hunched shoulders, a lined face and round glasses. The white man had a long flat face and a high forehead, his hair rising in wrinkled waves. He had narrow eyes and a dark challenging stare.

  Bryan, seeing Dawson’s gaze slide past him, turned.

  “Good morning, Mayor,” Dart said, bowing. “Captain Dawson. If you have a moment.”

  “Morning, Dart,” Bryan said. “I’ll be off, then.”

  “Good morning, Reverend,” Dawson said.

  “Captain,” said Dart. “I’d like to introduce a distinguished visitor from Virginia.”

  Dawson had pulled off his glove. He took the man’s hand as Dart was finishing the introduction. He was gripping the other man’s fingers when Dart said, “Professor John Langston, Captain Dawson.”

  Dawson knew who Langston was. He was not white. Dawson was shaking the hand of a colored man. At the realization he gripped harder. He held the grasp for an extra second, meeting the man’s eyes with particular intensity, as though carrying out a dare.

  “Professor Langston,” said Dawson, his voice hearty. “Welcome.”

  “The professor has a favor to ask,” Dart said.

  “Glad to do whatever I can,” Dawson said. “Come inside, out of this wind.”

  Inside, the front room was full of reporters. Red-headed O’Hare sat with his back to them, his finger jammed in his ear. He was jiggling it like an idiot. Moroso was standing up, gathering his papers. A boy jogged down the stairs with a wire basket of trash. The door to the printing room was open, and full of clacking noise.

  Proud of his domain, pleased by its energy, irritated by O’Hare’s jiggling finger, Dawson led the men upstairs. He tried to remember what he knew about Langston: Was he the president of a Negro college? The head of a Negro law school? He’d run for Congress in Virginia, but things had gone wrong. Election fraud, voter suppression, intimidation, the usual mess. They were shameless in Virginia.

  Dawson ushered them into his office. They took off their coats and sat down. Dawson rubbed his hands briskly.

  “Professor, welcome to Charleston,” he said. “I think you gave a speech last night, at Reverend Dart’s church. How was it?” They’d put a notice in the paper.

  “I was pleased,” Langston said, though he didn’t seem so. His eyes were hooded, his gaze guarded.

  “Very good.” Dawson nodded and looked at Dart.

  Dart said carefully, “There was some confusion about the location.”

  “Oh?” Dawson asked.

  “The notice said the Morris Church, not the Morris Street Church. They are different establishments. Some people went to the other church.”

  Dawson nodded, waiting. Then he understood.

  “Did we get it wrong in the paper? Was it our fault?”

  Dart said nothing.

  “My dear Reverend, I’m so sorry,” Dawson said. “What a blunder. I hope your audience came to the right place in the end.”

  Dart looked relieved. “It’s quite all right, Captain.”

  “No, I do apologize. We do our best, but we make mistakes.” Dawson turned to Langston. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what your talk was about, Professor.”

  “Progress.” Even sitting down Langston was perfectly erect, his shoulders militantly square. “For the Negro race.”

  “A salutary topic,” Dawson said. “And what’s the key, in your opinion?”

  “Education,” Langston said. “If the blacks are to take their place in society, they must have education.”

  “Undeniably,” said Dawson. “And you’re head of the law school at Howard, is that right? Is that your alma mater?”

  “Oberlin,” Langston said. “But it had no law school for Negroes when I graduated. I had to apprentice with a lawyer. Which is precisely the problem we face.”

  Langston’s eyes were fixed on him as though he held Dawson responsible. What was confusing was that Langston spoke like a white man. An educated, Northern white man. With his pale skin and light eyes and his precise speech, he seemed white. It was mesmerizing: Langston seemed to change from race to race before Dawson’s eyes. It wasn’t only his skin and accent but his confident manner, his ramrod posture. His impatience. His lack of deference: he acted like a white man. But he was here with Reverend Dart, who spoke in the local accent, whose head was humbly lowered, his shoulders hunched, who waited for Dawson to speak before he did.

  “Absolutely,” said Dawson, nodding.

  He was remembering more about Langston: His mother had been a freed slave, his father a white plantation owner. They’d both died when he was a child; the boy had been taken in by a white Quaker family in Ohio, friends of his father. So he’d been raised white. He’d always spoken like this, this was his real voice. It gave Dawson a strange feeling. He’d never heard a black American man who sounded white. He remembered the Negro at the Sorbonne.

  “We’re losing ground,” Langston said sternly. “It’s almost worse now than it was before the war. Negroes are held back from education, from good jobs. From voting.”

  “It’s a terrible problem,” said Dawson. He agreed with this, but there was something accusatory about Langston’s manner. It was disagreeable. “What do you recommend?”

  “Legislation,” Langston said. “Negroes must have more political power. I ran for Congress last fall in Virginia.”

  “And what happened?” asked Dawson.

  “I won, but the results were challenged,” said Langston. “There was ballot fraud, interference, harassment. Lynchings. The whites try to prevent black voters from voting.”

  “The lynching is utterly barbaric,” Dawson said shortly.

  But it was awkward, talking about this to a black man. It was different from talking to Riordan or McKinley. With Langston he had a different relationship to the issue; he felt challenged in some way. He changed the
subject.

  “What do you think of the return to Liberia?” Dawson asked. Black leaders had endorsed the idea, and hundreds of people had bought tickets on ships to the homeland.

  “Utterly ridiculous,” Langston said crisply. “Blacks have lived here for centuries. This is their native land. They should no more be sent back to Africa than you should be sent back to England.”

  Crispness was unexpected.

  Now Dawson remembered something else: Langston’s father had been English. This gave him a strange doubling feeling. He tried to imagine himself as a Negro, looking at his white father. It was disorienting, Langston’s light eyes, his uncompromising gaze, his accusatory voice. His accent: he seemed like Dawson, only hidden behind something else. Dawson wondered where in England Langston’s father was from. He didn’t ask; the question seemed somehow risky.

  “American blacks have a white heritage as well,” Langston added. “Why should they be sent to Africa when half their families are white?”

  But this was distasteful. Racial mixing was not discussed. Whatever had happened during slavery was shadowy and unsavory; whatever happened now was illegal. All miscegenation carried some ethical stain. Langston raised it so baldly; he was so upright, so composed, so unashamed.

  Reverend Dart sat silent, his hat in his lap.

  Dawson changed the subject again. “Tell me what we can do for you, Professor.”