Parties Unknown by the Jury; or, The Valour of My Tongue
P. M. Carlson
P lease, I beg you! Don’t ask me to recount the story of that cruel night in 1892! As Shakespeare says, “On horror’s head horrors accumulate.” I have nightmares to this day! Besides, I was not the tragedy’s heroine. I’m bound to admit that I was merely the comic relief. Or worse.
But if you insist—
To begin with, my handsome gray bengaline gown with bouffant Parisian-style sleeves was not suited to the night wind that blew chilly as a graveyard into the open door of the railroad car. But the conductor remained adamant. “Madam, you must get off here.”
I fluttered my eyelashes at him, doing my best to appear a proper lady, though I feared he had long since realized that I was of the theatrical profession. “But, sir, my family in St. Louis can pay amply when we arrive. Surely you can allow a young lady a few more miles in the middle of the night!”
“Madam, St. Louis is more than a few miles on. The Chesapeake and Ohio is not in the business of giving free rides to St. Louis.” So saying, the conductor thrust my small steamer trunk and my Gladstone bag onto the station platform. I leapt from the train and lifted my trunk, attempting to heave it back aboard, but with deafening blasts of steam and screeches of metal on metal, the train began to move. My trunk and I thumped down onto the platform. I shook my fist at the conductor and shouted into the departing clamor of iron and steam, “The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!”
There was no response. The train disappeared into the blackness. I shivered again and opened my trunk to get out my worn blue traveling cape, my blond wig—far warmer than any hat—and a cigar. I pulled the wig over my red hair, wrapped the cape about me, and sat down on my trunk for a smoke and a good think.
Was ever a lady so beset by misfortune? Ticketless, penniless, jobless, hungry, and lonely, I was in sympathy with the perturbed spirits that seemed to ride the frosty March wind. I missed my brother, who had long since died for the Union cause, and my dear Aunt Mollie. I sorrowed that my beloved elocution tutor, the illustrious English actress Mrs. Fanny Kemble, was failing and might soon join them in their heavenly abode. So, too, my famous colleague Edwin Booth was in decline, seldom leaving his grand home on Gramercy Park. I tapped the ash from my cigar and grieved for the passing of a glorious era.
The great Sarah Bernhardt was still alive and well, of course, but that was of limited consolation to me just now, for she too was touring the American provinces and had cut deeply into my troupe’s profits whenever our paths crossed. I was hard put to leave enough with my friends in St. Louis to provide for my dear little niece’s spring toilette. My troupe had continued to New Orleans, and not having to contend with Bernhardt, our first night there had been reasonably profitable. I had dared to hope again. But disaster had struck. Our handsome leading man, succumbing to the charms of the French Quarter, had drunk himself into such a stupor that the patrons began to stamp and to throw unpleasant objects at us amid shouts demanding their money back. Leaving the drunken Richard in a blinking heap center stage, we scurried for the stage door, only to find the manager’s men there before us. We did not escape until they had emptied our pockets completely so that they could reimburse the angry audience. Thus I was forced to board the train in New Orleans in great stealth, and without benefit of ticket.
And now, the Chesapeake and Ohio had struck the crowning blow, removing me from the train and abandoning me heartlessly in the middle of the night! Do you wonder that I felt forlorn? I found myself longing for my dear departed friend Jesse James, who was handy at wreaking revenge on selfish banks and railroads.
I looked about. The few passengers who had alighted by choice had long since left the station, and the ticket master, snug in his office, would most likely chase me from the waiting room. The rails, reflecting the dull gleam of the station lamps, disappeared north and south into the inky Tennessee night. To the west, the great dark Mississippi rolled. A few shacks and piers could be made out along the near shore, but they appeared to be deserted at this hour. To the east, the city of Memphis slept. I remembered spending three days here with dear Mr. Booth’s tour five years before, in 1887. Being short of funds, I’d inquired of a kindly Negro letter carrier if there was a way for an honest lady to earn a few pennies to get her dress repaired, and he had introduced me to an ambitious young teacher at the colored school who desired elocution lessons. Aside from these industrious people, who were doubtless fast asleep somewhere in the colored section, I knew no one in Memphis, and remembered it as one of the sleepier river towns.
The ghostly wind rattled through the weeds and fluttered a corner of my cloak. With a last puff on my cigar, I lifted my Gladstone bag and my heavy trunk and hid them under a stack of grain sacks that were awaiting shipment. I headed for town on the slim chance that I might encounter a kind-hearted and helpful gentleman still awake.
I picked my way along the pitch-dark street that led away from the river. But when I reached Front Street, the first crossing, I saw lights and several small clusters of gentlemen standing and talking in the street. The Front Street tavern was doing a brisk trade even at this late hour. I paused to pull my rouge from a handy pocket in my bouffant sleeve, applied just a touch to my lips, and went in.
I know, I know, a proper lady would never enter such a low establishment, certainly not at night in a river town. But what do you expect a poor penniless lady to do? It would be many long hours before the pawnshops opened, and I could hardly book a suite at the Ritz.
Fortune smiled upon me immediately. I caught the eye of a blond fellow with a fine mustache waxed into stylish points and a watch fob ornamented with a golden fleur-de-lis. He wore a gunbelt with a small blue-black pistol. He was sitting at a round table with a plate of catfish, a glass of ale, a newspaper, and a notebook before him. As I entered he inspected my blond hair and elegant gray gown with Parisian sleeves, then jumped to his feet most politely. “Good evening, madam,” he said.
“Oh, sir, what a joy to encounter a kind face like yours in this hour of my need!”
Several other gentlemen had turned to look at me, a couple of the more inebriated favoring me with loud suggestions that I shall not dignify by repeating. My fair-haired hero scowled at them, then bowed me into a chair at his table. I couldn’t help eyeing his dinner plate.
“I would indeed be delighted to assist you, madam,” said my new acquaintance, waggling his blond eyebrows at me. “Tell me—but no, I see that you have not yet dined. They prepare a tolerable catfish here.”
“Oh, sir, that would be most delightful!” He signaled the innkeeper and I continued, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Bridget Mooney, of the St. Louis Mooneys.”
“Delighted, madam. My name is Reginald Peterson, and I write for the Memphis Commercial Appeal.” He indicated the newspaper before him. It featured an editorial vehement on the subject of protecting southern womanhood.
Well, I wished someone would protect southern womanhood from the greedy Chesapeake and Ohio, but I didn’t think that was what the editorial meant, so I kept mum about it. Instead I said, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, for I greatly admire your profession.”
“Thank you, my dear Miss Mooney. A journalist’s calling is to serve society by observing truly. Sometimes even the law fails, and then we must say so and fight for justice.” Mr. Peterson smiled at me quite warmly, perhaps impressed by my conversation, perhaps by my rosy lips. I feared it was my lips. Since I did not want our acquaintance to progress so rapidly that I would miss my dinner, I looked about for a conversational topic that might distract him.
“I see that Memphis has its share of ambitious Negroes,” I commented, indicating his notebook, which had jottings about a grocery store owned by three of that race.
My diversion succeeded. Mr. Peterson snorted, “More than ambitious! Saturday night a few fine white men were entering the grocery premises and the damn darkies shot at them!”
“How dreadful!” I exclaimed. “No doubt the men wanted only to purchase groceries!”
“Well, in fact—” My well-dressed and well-waxed companion cleared his throat. “But tell me, Miss Mooney, what misfortune brings you to this place?”
Just then the innkeeper arrived with a handsome plate of catfish, which was indeed as delicious as Mr. Peterson had predicted. I applied knife and fork most daintily while recounting a tale of a dreadful pickpocket who had stolen my money and train ticket.
But just as I was delicately approaching the subject of how eternally grateful I would be if he loaned me enough money for train fare, a stout man entered the room. He was wearing two diamond rings and an expensive dark woolen muffler that hid the lower part of his face. This man stopped briefly at several tables, including ours, and said with barely suppressed enthusiasm, “Let’s go, Peterson.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Carmack.” My new friend leapt to his feet and bowed to me politely. “Please excuse me for a moment, Miss Mooney. My employer calls.” He strode swiftly out the door.
Well, did you ever hear of such dreadful manners on the part of a southern gentleman? Fearing that the innkeeper would make unreasonable demands that I pay for my dinner, I snatched up my blue cape and skedaddled out the door after my new acquaintance.
But Mr. Peterson’s fine mustache was nowhere to be seen. Instead, many gentlemen were milling about in the middle of Front Street. They had all tied dark cloths about their faces, like Mr. Carmack, who had summoned my new admirer. Not wishing to anger gentlemen with covered faces, I shrank back into the shadows against the tavern wall, thinking that Mr. Peterson was a clever reporter indeed, masking himself in order to observe the activities better.
The men began to move along the street, quite silently. Not knowing what to do, but hoping to find Mr. Peterson when they had finished whatever mysterious business they were about, I stole along behind them, keeping to the shadows.
They did not go far. Soon I heard the ringing of a bell, and an answering voice, “Who’s there?”
“I have a prisoner.”
“All right. This is the place, and I am always ready to receive them.”
I was hiding next to a large shadowy building and was just able to make out the sign: SHELBY COUNTY JAIL. The voice, no doubt the watchman’s, had come from inside. In a moment I heard a click of keys and saw the gate swing open. Instantly, three of the masked men pushed inside. I heard the watchman cry out, “What does this mean?” Then the voices were drowned out by the tramping feet of the rest of the mob rushing into the jailyard.
Hang it, this was not the place for a proper lady! I decided to wait no longer for the attractive and just-minded Mr. Peterson. My Aunt Mollie had taught me that too much knowledge about gentlemen’s affairs could be dangerous to a lady. Wrapping my cape about me, I slipped away from the jail and peeped into the Front Street tavern to confirm that every gentleman awake was behind a mask at the jail, excepting only the innkeeper, whom I wished to avoid, I turned back toward the river. Now that I had dined properly, a night among the grain sacks might be more easily borne.
Imagine my distress when I reached the railway and saw the very mob of men I had left behind, pouring out of Auction Street onto the rails! I scurried under a porch to hide, because I did not want these gentlemen upset with me. They turned north, marching briskly and silently along the tracks, and driving before them three Negroes, gagged and securely bound. The three must have done something unspeakable to a white lady, I told myself, to so outrage the law-abiding citizenry of Memphis. Otherwise, surely, these kind gentlemen would let the prisoners’ cases be tried legally, in court.
In the lantern light, I could see no unspeakable evil in the prisoners’ dark eyes. Only fear.
I waited until the secretive army had passed by. At least their activities would be reported, for one of the masked men, I saw, had a watch fob ornamented with a golden fleur-de-lis. Another wore two handsome diamond rings.
Their footsteps rang out loud and dreadful, and slowly receded into the night.
There hadn’t been a lynching in Memphis since the war.
After a time, I heard the crackle of a far-off fusillade. My catfish dinner turned a slow somersault within me.
I waited under the porch, but no one returned along the tracks.
Shivering even in my cape, I tiptoed out into the darkness and back to the grain sacks on the station platform. I curled up among them, but could not sleep. I thought no one had seen me watching the mob, and yet I was nervous, and more than nervous. I had supp’d full with horrors.
I know, I know, a proper lady wouldn’t fret about the sound of gunshots in the night. A proper lady wouldn’t presume to think that gentlemen might be wrong, and that the virtue of white southern womanhood might be as well protected by judges and courtrooms as by midnight abductions of prisoners. A proper lady would be grateful to her protectors. But I’m just a poor foolish girl from Missouri, and never got the hang of thinking like a proper lady, and I couldn’t sleep, not with the nightmare memories of dark fearful eyes and the crackle of far-off gunfire.
Shortly before dawn, a freight train pulled into the station. Although I knew I should wait for the pawnshops to open, I couldn’t bear to spend another minute in Memphis, and decided to gamble. Taking advantage of the dark, I hauled my trunk and Gladstone bag to a boxcar door, and when the trainmen were occupied with unloading some bales of cotton, I shoved my trunk inside and scrambled up behind it. I found myself amid crates of turnips, beets, and onions. At last, I could doze.
Yes, my Aunt Mollie would agree with you. It was foolish to stow away in an ill-smelling boxcar when the morning would bring the opening of pawnshops, and perhaps even another meeting with kind Mr. Peterson, who might well be as upset as I at what his profession had forced him to observe. But hang it, those nightmares had me plumb scared and worn out, and I wanted to get shut of Memphis.
Alas, this proved to be very difficult. We had traveled a mere fifteen miles north when an overly alert attendant discovered me huddled half asleep among the vegetable crates. He was as heartless as the conductor of the passenger train. Before I could wake up to protest, he had tossed my trunk down the embankment, and I had to leap after it, Gladstone bag in hand, fortunate only in that the train had slowed considerably to round a curve. My bag and I skidded down the stony embankment and fetched up on a narrow road that paralleled the tracks. I stumbled back half a mile to where my trunk lay, hauled my baggage into a willow copse, and gave myself over to sleep, and nightmares.
I woke at noon, ravenously hungry and eager to continue my journey to St. Louis. But my o’er hasty departure from Memphis had left me worse off than before. It was now clear that the Chesapeake and Ohio was not in the mood to provide journeys on credit. I would have to obtain money somehow. Unfortunately, the nearest source of money was back in Memphis, with its pawnshops and Mr. Peterson. Much as I disliked the idea, the prudent thing to do would be to turn back.
But with no money, and with baggage to carry, it required two days to cover those few miles. I was delayed by an episode involving some fresh-baked loaves of bread that someone had carelessly left on the windowsill of a ramshackle house, and also involving two mangy yellow hounds that lurked under a porch nearby. They chased me into the woods, where the heel of my shoe broke off. Ididn’t want to shoot them as the sound might bring unwanted visitors, so I shinnied up a maple tree where I remained for a miserable night finishing the loaf and pelting the hounds with branches until they lost interest. I was further delayed because although a few farm wagons were going my direction, even the ones driven by colored men, who are usually compassionate and helpful, did not pause and even increased their speed. I consoled myself by muttering, “A ragged multitude of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless,” and trudged on.
At last a rickety mule-drawn wagon filled with baskets of yams and driven by a rotund old Negro woman stopped.
“I reckon I’m gonna be sorry
for this,” she said in the warm rural accents of the South, “but you’re lookin’ like you need some help, ma’am.”
“Oh, please, could you help? My money and ticket were stolen on the train, and if I could only get back to Memphis—”
“Memphis!” The woman snorted. “I wasn’t plannin’ to go by that route, ma’am! There’s trouble there, heaps of trouble.”
I realized then that the colored men who had passed me by feared for their lives if they were caught in the company of a white lady. I clasped my hands in supplication. “Oh, please, if you could take me even part of the way—”
She considered and asked abruptly, “Can you read?”
“Of course!”
“No ‘of course’ about it, ma’am, if you’re born a slave and nobody sends you to school. But my cousin’s husband, he says this newspaper has a story ‘bout the lynchin’, and if you read it to me I s’pose I can swing down as far as the Memphis streetcar line.”
I didn’t want to read about a lynching, for the mere thought of what I’d seen made me quake, but I had little choice. I heaved my baggage onto the wagon bed and climbed up onto the seat beside her. Bessie, for such proved to be her name, handed me a copy of the Memphis newspaper, and as the mule picked his slow way along many bumpy, bone-rattling miles, I began to read the dreadful story, wondering if Mr. Peterson had written it.
The reporter explained that twenty-seven colored men had been arrested because they had ambushed and shot four deputy sheriffs while the officers were “looking for a Negro for whose arrest they had a warrant.” Bessie snorted at that, and I decided that Mr. Peterson, out of delicacy, had not mentioned the true reason. Lynchings, I’d always been told, occurred when fine gentlemen became so incensed at the violation of their virtuous women that they lost their heads and dealt out justice themselves instead of waiting for the courts. This fact was so well known that my friend Phoebe in St. Louis, who’d consorted willingly and frequently with a handsome mulatto stevedore, was easily able to save her reputation when her aunt discovered her emerging from his cabin. Phoebe simply accused him of assault. A lynching party was formed but the young man had very prudently left town. Still, no violated virtue was mentioned here in Memphis.
Women on the Case Page 2