“That’s putting it mildly,” Benjamin Keith said. He stood and circled the table, punching one hand softly into the palm of the other. This was about utilities, he figured: private water, private electric, private gas, even a private ferry. And railroad rates, municipal bonds, dollars and cents. Monopolies, and how to keep them. This white versus black business was just a screen—heartfelt, but still just a screen. The real issue was business. “The greedy sons of bitches finally—”
“Sit down, Benny. Keep a level head.”
Abruptly, Keith parked himself in his chair, thudding his big fists onto the table. “Never thought I’d live to see this day,” he said, then said it again. Across the table, John Norwood nodded solemnly.
Wright continued, “If we’re lucky, we’ll all live to see tomorrow.”
“What do you propose?” Norwood asked.
“First, let’s continue the ban on alcohol.”
“Oh, that’ll fix everything, all right,” Keith said. “The town’s full of vigilantes, and you’re worried about beer. What we need is to wire Washington and ask for federal marshals! Federal troops!”
“Benny,” Wright chided.
“Go on, we’re listening,” Norwood said tiredly, as if he knew what was coming. Had he been such a fool to believe things were getting better?
“Extend the ban on liquor and beer,” Wright said.
Alderman Daniel Gore, a bank vice president and insurance man, said, “Would that be all consumption, or just sale?”
Keith exploded. “Jesus Christ! The whole city is crumbling down around our ears, and all you can think to do is close down the saloons?”
Wright said, “Sometimes modest actions—”
“Modest actions? For Christ’s sake!” Keith bolted from his chair and slammed it hard into the table. Morrill, who sat at the head of the table wrapped in a shawl, said nothing—he hardly looked conscious.
“Sit down, Benny,” Wright said again, but Keith remained standing. “The hooligans are fueled by liquor. If we can put an end to drunkenness—”
“Some of the hooligans are wearing uniforms,” Norwood interrupted. He, too, was starting to lose his temper with Dr. Wright. They must act. Otherwise, they were going to lose their city for good.
“That’s right,” Elijah Green, the other black alderman, said. “We’ve got to do something, and now.”
“There’s a motion on the table,” Wright said patiently.
“Second,” Gore said.
“Discussion?”
Keith said, “Jesus Christ. Call the question.”
Wright said, “All in favor of banning the sale of alcoholic beverages until further notice within a mile of the city limits, signify by saying ‘Aye.’”
They voted in favor.
Keith sat down and clasped his hands eagerly. “Now, let’s wire Washington.”
“Let’s not overreact,” Wright said. “We don’t want outsiders thinking we can’t take care of our own house.”
Keith gave him a look. Outsiders?
Norwood said, “The police seem to have disappeared from the streets. Where’s Chief Melton?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who called in the State Guard? Has martial law been declared?”
Wright said, “Is the State Guard here?”
Keith said pointedly, “As long as it’s still functioning, only this board can declare martial law. In a vacuum of civil authority, the governor.”
Gore said, “Gentlemen, there is a solution.” All eyes looked his way. None of them had forgotten that he’d caved in to the Redeemers under threat, then publicly announced support for the white supremacist platform. The rumor was that he’d actually contributed money to Rountree’s campaign committee. “I have had certain conversations with leading individuals.”
“Rountree,” Keith said, and swore.
“Yes,” Gore said. “And others. They assure me that order can be restored.”
“I’ll bet,” Keith said. Who had broken the order in the first place? “Let me guess—they want a new board.”
“That’s it, yes.”
“You resign if you want to—not me,” Norwood said. Green agreed.
Gore said, “It won’t work unless it’s unanimous. That’s the only way they can guarantee control.”
“Never,” Keith said. “This is still a democracy, and we’re still the legally elected board.”
Gore said, “It’s beyond that now. No sense in arguing the finer points.”
“The finer points! My God, if fair and legal election is a finer point, then what in the name of Christ are the broad principles?”
Gore got up, angry. “Suit yourselves. I only told them I’d try. It’s going to come to that, sooner or later. You might as well resign yourselves to it. We’re all lame ducks now—why not save what we can? I’ll wait for your answer at city hall.” He strode out and slammed the front door behind him.
Mayor Wright held his head in his white-gloved hands.
“So that’s it?” Norwood said.
“Well, if you won’t wire Washington,” Keith said to the mayor, “I will.”
Wright lifted his head. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid Dan has a point. We don’t have a lot of options. We’ve got to end the bloodshed.”
They talked for another hour, but nothing came of it. After they adjourned, Keith, Norwood, and Green went to Keith’s home and called three federal judges before they found one who would intercede with Washington. An hour later, Keith received a telegram from the office of Attorney General John W. Griggs, who had conferred with President McKinley: At this time no evidence to warrant action by Washington.
Norwood said, “That’s it, then.”
Keith said, “Gentlemen, look out for yourselves from now on.”
Norwood sat silently, tears streaming down his face. How had it all come to this?
Green lifted him gently by the elbow. “Come on, brother—we’re on the wrong side of town.”
George Rountree was determined to end the violence. It was already midafternoon. In just a few hours, when the sun went down, absolute terror would descend on the city. It wouldn’t just be a few isolated confrontations, but wholesale shooting and burning.
When he arrived at his home to change into a fresh shirt and make some telephone calls, Chadbourn, the postmaster, was waiting in his parlor.
Chadbourn fanned a dozen telegrams toward Rountree and said without pleasantries, “Offers from all over the state to send down militia.”
Rountree grunted. “Just what this fire needs—more kerosene.”
“Colonel Waddell is calling the committee to meet.”
“His idea?” Meta had fetched a clean shirt, and Rountree changed right there in the parlor in front of Chadbourn—unthinkable, for a man who called his wife “Mrs.” even in private.
“Mine,” Chadbourn said. “Dan Gore thinks he can persuade the board to resign.”
Rountree buttoned his shirt, fixed the celluloid collar around his neck, knotted his tie. “I thought that was already settled.”
“Take it easy. He has a couple of conditions.”
Rountree swore. Meta ducked her head and pretended she hadn’t heard. Couldn’t everybody see it was way past that? They had to send a clear signal to MacRae and Moore and Dowling and all the other little generals roaming around loose that the government was back in firm control. That meant a new mayor and board.
Chadbourn said, “Police Chief Melton will disappear if we pay him the remainder of his year’s salary. That’s only two months.”
“The job he’s done, he ought to give back what we already paid him.”
“Mayor Wright will resign if you let him pretend it’s his idea.”
“Great—let’s all pretend. What else?”
“Gore has suggested a slate of candidates for a new board.”
“I knew it!”
Chadbourn smiled. “It’s okay, George. He’s come over to our side. They’re all our people.”
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All but three had signed the White Man’s Declaration of Independence.
The meeting was already in progress in city hall in the room across from the board chamber. As Rountree entered, Waddell stopped in mid-sentence. “I see we have a stranger present,” he said sharply. “George, this is a closed meeting.”
“Stranger?” Rountree said. “What the hell?”
Hugh MacRae, who was seated up front with J. Allan Taylor, said, “It’s all right, Colonel.” MacRae had brushed his coat and changed his shirt, but his plantation boots were still spattered with mud, and his hair was disheveled. He looked wildly alive.
Waddell opened his arms in a mock-gracious gesture.
Rountree said, “I’ve got an offer from the board. Hear me out.” He was still nonplussed by the hostile reception he had received. What new alliance was being formed?
“By all means,” Waddell said.
Rountree gave the details.
“Splendid,” Waddell said when Rountree finished. “Now, all we have to do is fill out the slate.” He grabbed the lapels of his clawhammer coat and stared fiercely in the direction of MacRae and Taylor.
It was all happening so fast, Rountree still didn’t quite have his bearings. The killing had spooked him, thrown him off. With Waddell presiding and Hugh MacRae offering in nomination some of the names Gore had suggested, they filled all but two of the seats.
Then, scarcely pausing for breath, Waddell said, “I move we add the illustrious names of Hugh MacRae and John Allan Taylor to our new board.” He’d already worked it out with MacRae—part of their new relationship. They were approved by acclamation.
MacRae said immediately, “And I nominate for the office of mayor the man whose leadership has inspired us all—Colonel Alfred Moore Waddell.” Taylor seconded, and Waddell, too, was approved by acclamation.
Rountree was stunned: so that was what Waddell had been after all along.
Waddell proclaimed, “We shall now adjourn to the chamber to be sworn in. Hugh, see if you can’t round up the old board.”
MacRae said, “Colonel, it’s happening as we speak.”
In a body, they marched out of the room. Solomon Fishblate was waiting in the hall. “Figured you’d be here,” he whispered to Waddell. “When you didn’t call. Where are we in the process?”
J. Allan Taylor bumped him out of the way, “Solly, allow me to present our new mayor.”
Fishblate glared at Waddell. “You? You?”
Waddell patted him on the shoulder and smiled confidentially. “Solomon, events are proceeding very rapidly. One cannot always predict.”
Then, in a rush of coats and guards, he swept into the chamber. Silas Wright and the old board, except for Benjamin Keith and Morrill, were waiting. Wright had already secured a letter of resignation from Morrill. They’d pick up Keith any minute.
One by one, in strict observance of the law, the aldermen resigned. After each stepped down, a name from Waddell’s list was placed in nomination, and the board—gradually changing from Fusionist to Democratic—voted him in. Even the police chief resigned.
Finally, Dr. Wright resigned, and Colonel Alfred Moore Waddell, C.S.A., retired, became mayor of Wilmington.
Waddell smacked his hands together—it had all worked out perfectly. Once again, he was in command. “All that’s left is the swearing in,” he said. “Let’s get a judge in here.” Somebody went to fetch one.
“Just a minute, Colonel,” MacRae said. He put an arm on J. Allan Taylor’s shoulder. “John and I are going to forgo the ceremony for the present. We’ll take up our offices first thing Monday morning.”
Waddell was momentarily flummoxed. “But why?” Something was cooking—he’d thought they’d let him in on all of it. But he should have known. With MacRae, there was always one more item on the agenda.
“Unfinished business,” Taylor said. “Nothing that concerns the board.”
“Right,” Waddell said. “Well. If there are no objections?” What were they up to? Whatever it was, they clearly didn’t want to be encumbered with the legalities of office.
While he was pondering, a justice of the peace arrived with a Bible, and, as they all raised their right hands, MacRae and Taylor slipped out.
After swearing in Waddell’s government, the justice swore in 250 special constables. By God, Waddell meant to have order. It was four o’clock. As the courthouse clock next door was tolling the hour, the board unanimously voted to declare the city under martial law.
Meanwhile, MacRae and Taylor ducked from the corridor of city hall into the portal to the Thalian Hall mezzanine. Flanked by autographed portraits of Tom Thumb, Helena Modjeska, John Philip Sousa, and Frederick Douglass, all of whom had played there, they pored over two sheets of paper. One was a railroad timetable. The other was a list of names—all the men who must be banished from the city, for good. Even now, Roger Moore’s citizen troops were rounding them up.
Alex Manly’s name was still at the top of the list, though he had already been reported shot five different times in five separate locations.
“When we finally get that dandy nigger, we’ll prop him up in a pine coffin outside city hall,” Taylor said. “The way they did with Jesse James.”
Manly’s brothers, Frank, Lewin, and Henry, were also on the list.
Ivanhoe Grant was on the list, as were Tom Miller, the pawnbroker, and the former Negro aldermen, Norwood and Green, who would be taken just as soon as they left city hall. Ben Keith was also on the list, along with Silas Wright and the former police chief, Melton. Lawyer Armond Scott had made the list. So had the customs collector, John Dancy, the Reverend Jim Telfair, the Reverend J. T. Lee of St. Stephen’s A.M.E., the Reverend J. Allen Kirk of Central Baptist, and Carter Peamon. Peamon’s name was crossed off.
It was a long list. There were nearly a hundred names in all: preachers, lawyers, merchants, restaurateurs, barbers, politicians, policemen, magistrates. All men with a lot to lose. The leaders of the Negro professional class.
Sam Jenks sat on the steps of his porch, gathering his wits and vaguely listening to Callie Register prattle about her husband, Farley, who had returned only a couple of days ago, fired from the railroad gang. Now, he was prowling with the vigilantes.
“Got no use for a man such as that,” she was saying. “Out chasing the colored folk. Him and his shotgun, both of ’em loaded.”
“Do you know where she went?”
Callie shrugged, irked at being interrupted. “Gray Ellen? She didn’t go nowheres. Never come home from school.”
Sam tried to remember: had she gone to school today? This day had gone on so long that he couldn’t remember when it had started, which things had happened today and which yesterday. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind—Dan Wright staggering into the sand while the infantrymen shot him again and again. Then they had just let him lie there for the longest time.
Norwood’s office at the school must have a telephone. Sam walked down the street to the drugstore across from the courthouse and called the operator, who tried to connect him. But no one picked up on the other end. He would just have to go up there.
On Third Street, he spotted Harry Calabash crossing from city hall. “Harry!” he called. “For God’s sake.”
Harry had on a shabby gray duster over his frayed wool suit. A gray fedora was perched on his head as if someone else had carelessly put it there. “Where’s your raincoat?” he said.
“Raincoat?” Sam looked at the sky and saw that it was clouding up with a low overcast. All at once, he shivered with the new chill. “Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Come along with me,” Harry said. “You’ve been missing all the news.”
“Can’t, Harry,” Sam said, pulling away. “Got to get up to Williston and find Gray.”
“Williston’s closed. All the schools, hours ago. Where on earth have you been?”
“Brooklyn, mostly.” If not Williston, where? He had no idea where to start looking.
If she’d had any friends, he would have gone to their homes. But there was only Gabrielle, and Gray wouldn’t go there.
“Then let’s trade notes,” Harry said.
Before Sam realized it, Harry had steered him past the guards and into the Cape Fear Club, which was full of businessmen and out-of-town reporters. Representatives of the Businessmen’s Committee were meeting their trains and escorting them directly to the club, so they’d get the straight story from the men who knew it best. It wouldn’t do to have them roaming around forming independent impressions. Only the woman in the crimson Eaton jacket was allowed to wander unmolested, and, Sam suspected, that was mainly because, as a woman, she was barred from the club.
They stood at the bar. Harry ordered a whiskey for himself and a Coca-Cola for Sam, but Sam was still shaken from what he had watched today. He was actually shivering.
“Give me a whiskey, water back,” he said.
“Special occasion?” Harry asked. He wasn’t smiling.
The Negro bartender delivered the drinks immediately and stood off in the corner. Sam could not tell whether he was in or out of earshot—he supposed people used to servants didn’t worry about such things. Right now, he didn’t care, either.
“You should have seen it, Harry. That poor son of a bitch,” he said, and related the story of the capture and shooting of Dan Wright. He groped for the right word to describe what he had witnessed. “It was—”
“Obscene?” Harry said.
“That about covers it,” Sam agreed.
As Sam reached for his glass, Harry covered it with his hand. “You sure about this?”
Sam nodded, then took a hot slug of whiskey on his tongue. He almost gagged. But he held the whiskey in his mouth, letting it burn. Already, he could hear his ears buzzing. He could feel his panic subside, replaced by a warm wash of reassurance.
Harry said, “I just came from city hall. We are now under martial law.”
“Silas Wright did that?”
Cape Fear Rising Page 38