“Where have you been hiding?”
“Thalian Hall, like everybody else. Your stage debut.”
The crowd was streaming out of Thalian Hall, more boisterous than ever. Men were passing flasks, shouting and arguing, laughing.
“You want to talk, Harry? You’re all spruced up—what’s the occasion?”
“I felt a need this morning to be professional.”
Sam nodded. “Come with me.”
“We’re just rushing to and fro tonight, aren’t we? Where are we off to now?”
“The jail. Talk to this Thompson.”
By the time they covered the two hundred yards to the jail, a new mob was forming. The Negroes chased away from Thalian had returned with plenty of friends. They swarmed around the jail and made threatening noises, but none of them went in.
“They’ll never get anywhere like this,” Harry observed sadly. “Haven’t got anybody to lead them.”
For the moment, the white crowd milling around the corner at Thalian Hall seemed oblivious to the scene at the jail. But it wouldn’t take them long to get wise. Just then, Sergeant Lockamy appeared on the steps of the jail. Next to him stood John G. Norwood. Norwood stepped forward and raised his hands for silence. He kept waiting, but the crowd wouldn’t quiet down. He spoke anyway, his voice high and trembling. He’s scared to death, Sam thought.
“Brothers, brothers!” Norwood said. “This is no way to do!”
“They got Frank!”
“He is not going to be harmed, believe me.”
“Uncle Tom!”
“Why should we believe you?”
Lockamy stepped forward and said, “We’ll let him out in the morning, after he sleeps it off.”
“Go to your homes,” Norwood said. “Don’t start any trouble.” Over the heads of the black crowd, he could see whites in twos and threes beginning to straggle toward the jail, curious about what was going on, what new speech they were missing. “Go home—now!” Norwood’s voice took on more authority.
Now, two more black men came out of the crowd and took their places beside Norwood—Carter Peamon and the Reverend J. Allen Kirk. Father Christopher Dennen, red hair fiery in the gas carriage lamps mounted on either side of the jail doorway, stood by like a statue of conscience.
They took turns entreating the crowd to break up. A sudden cloudburst that had been threatening all evening began to drench them. The rain was cold and fierce, while it lasted. The Negroes milled around uncertainly, then began to drift away.
“That’s it,” Harry observed. “Don’t give them any excuse.”
The rain passed quickly, leaving the air sharp with lime and earth.
Tom Clawson pulled a buggy up to the curb. “Sam, can I borrow you for an errand?”
Harry said, “You’re a popular fellow tonight. How about a drink later at Polson’s?”
“Right.” Sam climbed aboard the buggy.
Clawson slapped a Winchester across Sam’s knees, then drove fast up Princess to Seventh without speaking. As they crossed Seventh, Sam noticed lights blazing in Hugh MacRae’s mansion. Across the street, Walker Taylor’s house was also lit up so brightly that Sam worried at first it was on fire. Clawson appeared not to notice. He urged the horse down South Seventh toward Free Love Hall. When Sam saw where they were headed, he said, “I hope you don’t expect me to shoot anybody, Mr. Clawson.”
“With any luck, you won’t have to. But you never can tell—it’s a spooky night. I want you to watch my back.”
Sam said, “I don’t get your angle in all this.”
“Makes you think I have an angle?”
“You’re playing fast and loose.” Sam was taking a chance. “But you’re not Hearst—you know better. Yet here you are, drumming up a war.”
Clawson kept his eyes on the road. “Don’t push it. I didn’t like you when I hired you. I’m not sure I like you any better now.”
“That’s your problem. But you can’t fool me. You’re no vigilante.”
“Well, you got one thing right.”
At Free Love Hall, Frank Manly came out of the shadows and approached the buggy from behind. “Mr. Clawson, that you?”
“Look, there isn’t a lot of time. Get Alex, will you?”
“What you got to say to Alex?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Too fast for Sam to stop him, Clawson was out of the buggy and rapping on the locked front door. “Alex! Come out, I have to talk to you.”
Frank said, “It’s okay, Alex—open up.”
Sam laid aside his Winchester, but he stayed in the buggy. He didn’t want anybody paying attention to him in this neighborhood at this hour of the night. Frank Manly stared at him, arms crossed, blood in his eye.
The door opened. Alex Manly appeared, looking drawn and groggy. “Mr. Clawson? Why didn’t you say so? Come on in.”
“No need. I just came to warn you—this time, they mean business.”
“What exactly was it they meant last time?”
“You’re smart enough to know the difference. I’m telling you, get out while you can. Get gone and stay gone.”
Alex Manly was buttoning his shirt. He hadn’t put out the newspapaer in days and had been sleeping at the office for some time now, trying to make up his mind about the future. “But the printing press, we can’t just—”
“Leave it behind. I’ll come collect it, by and by. When all this blows over.”
Alex Manly laughed. “You must have me mixed up with another gentleman. Gentleman who doesn’t know business. I own more than half of that press now.”
“And I still own the other half. And the half you do own won’t be much good to you when you’re hanging from a lamppost.”
“That what your whitefolks committee going to do to me?”
“It’s a thought. Look, this has gone far enough. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You just don’t want to lose your investment.”
“I’m telling you for your own good. I must be crazy even to try and talk sense to you.” He turned and stalked back to the buggy.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Clawson.” Manly came outside, and the two stood next to the buggy. “All I’m saying is, I’ve got an investment to protect.”
Clawson pushed him away. “You just don’t get it, do you? This town’s all worked up. There’s a mob down at city hall getting the ropes ready, and they’ve got your lamppost all picked out. Don’t hold me responsible—I wash my hands.”
“You wash your hands?” Alex Manly shouted furiously. Sam tensed, expecting him to strike Clawson. Then Sam would have to intervene. But Manly didn’t—he wasn’t that kind of fighter. Sam relaxed. “That trash you’ve been printing? Driving a wedge between white and black? Just what do you call that?”
“Don’t forget who sold you your printing press. Who got you started in this business so you could tell your side of the story. Don’t forget that.”
“Lot of good that’s doing me now.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Clawson said, “who wrote that editorial?”
“What makes you so sure I didn’t?”
Clawson shook his head. “Not your style. Come on, for the record. Who wrote it?”
Alex was still angry. “A black man.”
Sam wanted to get out of there. He said, “Mr. Clawson, he has a point about the money.”
Clawson dug in his pocket. “Here. Twenty-five dollars—it’s all I’ve got.”
“Ought is an ought, and a figure is a figure,” Alex Manly said, sighing in disgust.
Frank said, “All for the white man, and nothin’ for the nigger.”
“Now, there’s no call—”
“It’s not enough,” Alex said. “You’re short by a hundred.”
“It’ll have to be enough,” Clawson said, and climbed aboard the buggy. “Leave a receipt with the press, so there won’t be any trouble about it later.” It had always been a handshake deal. At the time, Clawson had been happy to unload the old press. Who co
uld have figured it would cause so much mischief?
Manly looked up at them. “I can’t decide if you’re trying to cheat me or save my life.”
“Good,” Clawson said. “Giddap!”
Clawson drove home down Market Street to take advantage of the street lamps and the lights from houses. From Seventh down to the Cape Fear, armed men were deployed in pairs on every street corner.
As they passed the Wilmington Light Infantry Armory, Sam heard the sound of men’s voices singing a marching chorus. “They’ll be bunking up the whole lot of them, on alert,” Clawson said. “Hundred and fifty men, or nearly. Makes a body feel safe just to think about it.”
Sam wanted to go home and see Gray Ellen. He hadn’t talked to her all day, he’d been so busy running around. But he needed to see Harry, too. Clawson let him off at Polson’s Saloon.
“Just one thing, Sam,” Clawson said before Sam climbed out. “Where we went tonight? What you heard?”
“I know. None of it happened.”
Clawson clapped him on the back. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”
Sam hopped out of the buggy and turned. “So which was it, Mr. Clawson? Were you saving his life, or just trying to cheat him?”
Clawson smiled and leaned toward him. “Sometimes in life, son, there transpires what is known as a coincidence of interests. Tell Harry I want him sober tomorrow.”
Sam didn’t go into the tavern right away. He lingered in the open air trying to take in all that had happened today. What had Saffron meant?—some girls fancy a preacher man. Just talking, he figured. A girl like that, she was liable to say anything.
Sam inhaled the river, ripe and tangy. The rain had roiled the waters. Low tide, he reminded himself. He checked the piling at the ferry landing: six feet under the high-water mark. The current was stalled. The tide was about to turn. From now on, he could watch the Cape Fear rising.
Voting was not a right but a privilege, and should be exercised only by qualified people.
George Rountree
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tuesday, November 8
ELECTION DAY DAWNED chilly and clear. The first Negroes to venture outside found handbills tacked to their doors, plastered on shop windows, hammered onto telephone poles. Remember the 6, the handbills declared over a crude skull and crossbones. Which six? The answer was far from clear.
Alex Manly yanked the handbill from the back door of the Record. Three possibilities occurred to him: the six leading Republicans who had been ousted from the ticket; the six white businessmen who made up Group Six, a white supremacy organization he had learned about only yesterday; and the six Negroes who, according to the legend, were lynched in 1831, their severed heads mounted on poles on all the roads leading out of town. Lately, folks had been retelling that story a lot.
He stood reading, shirtless, in the chilly backyard of Free Love Hall. The rest of the text left no room for ambiguity: These degenerate sons of the white race whose positions made them influential in putting Negro rule on the whites, will suffer the penalty of their responsibility for any disturbance consequent on the determination of the white men of this county to carry the election at any cost.
So it hasn’t even happened yet and they’ve already picked out their scapegoats, he reflected—Benny Keith, Flavell Foster, Father Dennen, all the Yankees who had come here to seek their fortunes. And Mayor Wright and any others, black or white, who were trying to see past color. Inarticulate anger welled in him. He was not used to being inarticulate. He was used to speaking his mind. He had spent years mastering the craft of persuasion, the art of eloquence. But he had no say anymore.
He crushed the handbill in his fist. In this city, despite everything, he was still a stranger.
Frank stood suddenly at his shoulder. “White man don’t come around on ordinary business,” he said softly.
“Don’t I know, brother. Don’t I know.” Clawson’s visit last night. His final warning.
“They’ll be coming around on extraordinary business, directly.”
“No need to spell it out. I can read.”
“So you can, brother. Horse and buggy waiting. Just say the word.”
Castle Hayne again, under cover of darkness, slinking away like a common criminal, leaving behind everything—his people, his voice.
“Going to be a moon tonight,” Frank said. “Can’t be helped.”
“What will be,” Alex said.
“I have sent a wire to New Jersey. They will cable Carrie in London. Another two months, she’ll be home. You’ll forget all this.”
Home, Alex thought. Where would that be from now on? New Jersey, Asbury Park? Maybe Philadelphia? How would he face Carrie? How would he explain that he had run away?
“I will shame her,” he said.
“Shame ain’t got nothing to do with it.” Frank was getting angry. “Common sense. It ain’t worth getting killed.”
“No, brother, you’re right. You’re always right.”
“Tonight. Soon as it gets full dark.”
“What about the others?”
“They don’t want the others.”
Alex stood dumbly, looking down the alley at the new day. The world seemed suddenly narrow, constricted, seemed to lead inevitably to a place he didn’t want to go. Had he been so foolish to think he could change things? How had all his choices, all the grand possibilities he had dreamed, disappeared so quickly?
“Don’t go out today, brother,” Frank said.
“I have to vote.”
Frank spat. “They’re going to stuff the ballot boxes anyhow—and they’ll be laying for you, you show your face.”
Alex knew he was right. His vote wouldn’t count—none of their votes would. The whole thing was already cooked. He was surprised to learn that he wasn’t up to a symbolic act of courage—a grand gesture. He had always assumed he would be. Now, he had nothing, not even his good opinion of himself.
“Get inside. There’s riders all over town. I don’t want no brother of mine to wind up with his head stuck on a pole. They might remember he has kin.” Frank steered Alex through the back door of Free Love Hall and locked it behind them.
Before it was fully light, Mike Dowling assembled his Red Shirts behind the post office and led them at a walk past the Orton Hotel on Front Street, then around the corner onto Market, heading away from the river. The horses walked with their heads up, nostrils steaming, nickering nervously.
Off to the right, they passed the Gothic tower of St. James Church, crowned with cypress pinnacles, built to stand the weather. They paraded past the Temple of Israel, a Moorish-style oddity dedicated for its Jewish congregation in 1876 with a speech by Colonel Alfred Moore Waddell.
Half a block farther on, to the left, members of the Wilmington Light Infantry and the Wilmington Naval Reserves were already forming up on the lawn facing the street. The milling soldiers watched Dowling’s men with curiosity. A few of them waved. The Red Shirts did not wave back. Their faces were set. They were on a mission. They were past fooling around. Some of the horses balked at the sight of so many uniforms and tossed their heads. Their riders slapped the horses’ necks reassuringly and half-stood in the stirrups to gentle them. The column was quiet except for the murmuring of rider to horse, the creak of stiff saddles, the jingle of harnesses.
Now, Dowling urged his little sorrel horse into a trot, and the column followed suit. He barely noticed the fortresslike First Baptist Church at the corner of Fifth Street.
At Seventh Street, a lone rider waited for them in the middle of the intersection—Hugh MacRae.
“Whoa, boys,” Dowling called, reining up.
MacRae sat on his big bay hunter, one leg crossed over the pommel of the English saddle, looking bored and irritated. His high, soft boots were spattered with mud, and his hair was windblown and disheveled, as if he’d just galloped miles cross-country. In fact, he had ridden less than a block, in no particular hurry.
“Want to come along
to the party?” Dowling said. He could not get his horse to stand still—she was prancing all over the road.
MacRae waited patiently for him to get his mount under control. His own hunter, seventeen hands tall, dwarfed the skittish sorrel. “Just what do you think you are up to?”
Dowling sawed at the reins, cursed, and half-stood in the stirrups. “You heard Colonel Waddell last night—we’ve waited long enough. We’re going to take back this town.” Dowling looked over his shoulder for support and saw the sullen faces of his men. They all knew Hugh MacRae.
“Just how do you propose to do that?” MacRae’s hunter remained so still the two of them could have been a monument. Waddell was getting out of hand—these poor-bockers were starting to take him literally. His first instinct had been right: keep Waddell out of it. Rountree had agreed. It had been the others, dazzled by the myth of the Confederacy, who had insisted. Well, whenever you went against your best instincts, sooner or later you paid.
“Burn down that nigger paper,” Dowling said. “It ain’t very complicated. Lynch that dandy little monkey that runs it.”
“Quite a plan,” MacRae said. Turn him on his side, MacRae thought, and the sawdust would run out his ear.
“We’d be glad to have you along.”
“But you’re overlooking other considerations.”
“Such as?”
Off his right flank came a sound that stopped Dowling’s heart: the metallic slap of eighty rifle bolts. The Wilmington Light Infantry, armed with high-powered Krag-Jorgensen carbines, had double-timed up Market underground, in the tunnel, and come out ahead of the Red Shirts. Now, they were formed up in ranks, three deep, blocking Seventh Street. The front two ranks, kneeling and standing, aimed their rifles for volley fire. The third rank stood in reserve.
Behind the milling Red Shirts, Captain Kenan and his crew had quietly drawn up the Gatling gun, taken the tarp off, and leveled the gun at the mounted Red Shirts. Between the Gatling gun and the ranks of riflemen, they’d have the Red Shirts in a deadly crossfire.
Don’t do anything stupid, Kenan thought. Don’t make me crank this fine brass handle. Go slow. Listen to Mr. MacRae. If we fire on you, we’ll kill a lot of good horses.
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