Mr. Williams seemed startled. “I wouldn’t call it that. Now, if your people hadn’t threatened violence …”
“My people, as you call us, had no weapons, no organization. We were helpless against a city in which heavily armed militias, private vigilance committees, and self-appointed Red Shirts ruled the neighborhood. We didn’t have a chance.”
A sneeze tickled my nose. I didn’t want to call attention to myself and tried to stop it, but it came on anyway.
Mr. Williams looked in my direction, seemed to be confused for a moment, but then continued. “We feel that your people would be better off if calm was restored to the Port City. You have to think of their welfare. They will benefit from safe streets.”
Daddy still didn’t raise his voice and continued to be courteous, but his words were fueled by conviction. “Let me tell you something. My wife was born into slavery, but grew up to know what freedom and opportunity are like. And my wife’s mother, she’s working out in the backyard right now. She lived her first thirty years as a slave, bought and sold like the mules that you trade at market. For the past week, these two women have been cowering inside the house in fear.”
“My point exactly,” Mr. Williams said.
“Hear me out.”
Mr. Williams looked around, as if for an escape route.
“And my son sitting here beside you, he’s a smart boy. He wants to go to college. He will do great things in the world. We live in Wilmington because it’s a good place to raise a family. There’s opportunity. He has role models with people of color in the police and fire departments, as aldermen.”
“We’re not asking you to leave the city,” Mr. Williams said.
“Please, let me finish. That boy, I’m so proud of him, and I want him to be proud of me. How’s he going to do that if I cave in to the ridiculous demands of a mob that has stolen the elections, ignited violence, and then pointed fingers at the most powerless people on the political ladder?” He walked to the head of the steps. “No, Mr. Williams, I will not resign as alderman. I was democratically elected. You go back and tell that self-appointed Committee of Twenty-Five that if the people in my ward want me out, there’s a way for them to express their wishes. It’s called an election, and by my calendar, it’s not scheduled until next spring.”
“Well, I’m … I must say … I’m quite surprised. You are quite … quite distressed. I thought you’d be capable of reason.”
“Now get off my porch, before I do something that will justify your view of my race.”
Mr. Williams scurried down the steps. In his flight, he reached up to his bare head and realized he had left his hat behind, but made no effort to return to get it.
I watched Daddy standing at the top of the steps, twirling the man’s hat on his finger. I had never been so proud of him.
Daddy invited me to go to the 6:30 meeting of the Committee of Twenty-Five at the Cape Fear Club. “It’s an important part of your education,” he said.
I felt grown-up, having Daddy include me. If the other twenty-four members of the committee were anything like Mr. Williams, it would be an interesting meeting indeed.
We zigzagged our way to the Cape Fear Club, avoiding the streets patrolled by Red Shirts. The election had passed peacefully, but the militias remained on the streets and people in Darktown stayed indoors.
I was familiar with the Cape Fear Club—everyone in Wilmington was. The brick mansion near the waterfront had four white columns and verandas across the first and second floors. This was where the blue bloods of Wilmington gathered to eat, play cards, and socialize. The only Negroes allowed inside were butlers, maids, and janitors. Mama earned extra money cleaning up after the annual masquerade ball, when Wilmington society turned out in feathered and sequined masks and fancy costumes. Even among white people, it was hard to get an invitation.
Daddy and I approached the mansion by the side door. Other prominent citizens from the Negro community walked up silently with long faces, as if at a funeral. I recognized Lewis’s father, along with the owner of a pawnshop, our family doctor, and a lawyer friend of Daddy’s.
At the side door, a bearded white man in formal dress stopped us while he looked for Daddy’s name on the list.
“The boy will have to leave. No children allowed,” the man said gruffly.
“He’s my son. He’ll sit quietly and won’t be any trouble,” Daddy assured him.
“None of your kind enters here without permission.”
“Could he wait for me in the back hall until we’re done?”
“Most certainly not.”
“But it’s dangerous on the streets,” Daddy said.
“Your choice,” the man said. “Now step aside.”
Daddy looked uncomfortable. Other Negroes filed in and were checked off the list. Finally Daddy put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Wait for us at David Jacobs’s barbershop. You know the one on Dock Street, right? You’ll be safe there, and it’s only a few blocks away. Will you be all right? Are you scared?”
I shook my head no, but it was a lie. I only felt brave when Daddy was around. But the barbershop wasn’t far, so I ran all the way there as fast as I could and arrived out of breath.
After only twenty minutes, Negroes from the meeting started arriving at the barbershop. Before long, some thirty men had squeezed into the small space with three barber chairs. The large mirrors on facing walls made it look as if twice as many people were there. The men were as noisy here as they had been silent filing into the Cape Fear Club. Daddy was one of the last to arrive. He searched the crowd, and when he found me, he nodded and smiled.
Everyone was speaking at once. I picked up the words document, Declaration of Independence, and deadline. From what I could gather, the white men had presented the colored citizens with an ultimatum and demanded a response by 7:30 the following morning.
Dr. Hudson, our family doctor, stood nearby with a document in his hand. I asked if I could take a look. He handed it to me.
Angling the paper so the lantern lit the surface, I began to read. Across the top, in spidery penmanship, were the words “White Declaration of Independence.”
Believing that the Constitution of the United States contemplated a government to be carried on by an enlightened people; Believing that its framers did not anticipate the enfranchisement of an ignorant population of African origin, and believing that those men of the State of North Carolina, who joined in forming the Union, did not contemplate for their descendants subjection to an inferior race:
We, the undersigned citizens of the City of Wilmington and County of New Hanover, do hereby declare that we will no longer be ruled, and will never again be ruled by men of African origin.
Before I could get any further, Daddy stood on a table and called for everyone to be quiet. I handed the document back to Dr. Hudson.
Daddy opened a discussion about how to proceed.
“Why don’t we respond point by point?” someone said. “How many points are there?”
“Seven,” came the response from the back of the room.
Lewis’s father asked Daddy to read the first and fourth points.
“Who has the copy?” Daddy said, and Dr. Hudson handed him the document. Daddy’s voice was clear and strong as he read: “ ‘First: That the time has passed for the intelligent citizens of the community owning ninety percent of the property and paying taxes in like proportion, to be ruled by Negroes.’
“And the fourth point is as follows,” he said. “ ‘That the progressive element in any community is the white population and that the giving of nearly all the employment to Negro laborers has been against the best interests of this County and City and is sufficient reason why the City of Wilmington, with its natural advantages, has not become a city of at least fifty thousand inhabitants.’ ”
Lewis’s father, owner of a bank and lots of rental property, spoke up: “So, do I have this right? On the one hand, they’re saying that us no-count, shiftless colored folk d
on’t have jobs and don’t pay taxes. Then in the very next breath, they say the coloreds are taking jobs away from the whites and must be stopped. That doesn’t make any sense. Which way is it?”
A roar of anger swelled up from the crowd. Light from the lanterns bounced from one mirror to another, giving the room the impression of being ablaze.
“It doesn’t matter. We can’t react to this logically,” Daddy said. “There is no logic.”
Mr. Walker, the grocer, was the next to speak. “If we can’t get things quieted down, I can’t make a profit. With folks terrified to venture out these past two weeks, I gots fruit rotting on my shelves. I say give whitey what he wants and get our people back on the streets, spending money.”
A murmur passed through the crowd. In the mirror, I could see Daddy from the front and back.
Upon request, he summarized the fifth point, which said that in the future, all jobs would go to white men. The last two points demanded that the Record cease publication, and that Alexander Manly leave Wilmington or the citizens would take him by force.
I waited for Daddy to announce that Mr. Manly had already left town, but on this point he was silent.
A man near me said, “We don’t have nothing to do with Mr. Manly’s editorial. He doesn’t speak for us all.”
“Exactly. Good point. That’s what we put in the response,” offered Mr. Bainbridge, who owned a funeral home.
“What do they want from us?” came a shout from the crowd.
“That we say ‘yes, massa,’ ‘no, massa,’ then shuck and jive back to the plantation.” It was Salem Bell speaking. He owned a fish and oyster business at the Front Street Market.
“Why didn’t you speak up at the Cape Fear Club, when it counted? I saw you slinking out of there, hat in hand.”
“Quiet, Charles,” Daddy said. “You were at the meeting. You know they didn’t allow any questions or discussion of any kind.”
Everyone broke out speaking at once and the room was filled with chatter until Daddy got everyone quieted down.
“We’ll never get anywhere if we try to answer point by point. We have to step back and look at the bigger picture.”
From the crowd came a murmur of approval.
“The white citizens have presented us with a cowardly document—saying they know best, writing their own Declaration of Independence, as if the original document needed improving.”
Daddy paused a moment. The room was so quiet you could hear the lantern flames flutter.
“It is now thirty-five years since Emancipation. No one appreciates the right to vote more than those who have been denied it for so long. Anything is possible as long as we have the vote. We cannot let them take away that power without a fight.”
Daddy’s shadow lurched and swayed overhead like a black ghost.
“They want us to give up our manhood, our self-respect, and our faith in the future. And they want us to do it voluntarily. Well, my friends, do I have any volunteers?”
“Nooooo!” bellowed the men in the room, drawing the word out into a lowing sound, like a barn full of cows.
“I have been asked to resign as alderman, along with any white men who support Negro rights, including the mayor and the chief of police.”
“That’s not legal,” said David Jacobs. He owned the barbershop and also served as Negro coroner.
“Exactly, and this kind of illegal action calls for a firm response. But we must proceed carefully, respectfully. It’s a delicate balance. There can be no violence, no actions that can be used to reproach us.”
A man I didn’t recognize turned to me. “Your daddy’s going to get us out of this. He’s the only leader we have,” he said, and patted me on the shoulder.
“There is not one Constitution for white folks and a separate one for black folks. There is one Constitution for all Americans, no matter what the color of their skin, and it promises us the right to vote. This is what we are guaranteed, and we will settle for nothing less.”
I recognized a little of the old Daddy—cautious, measured, polite. But in other ways, he was totally changed. He was moving the men to action with his words.
“We will not roll over and let them rewrite the Constitution without a fight. And we will fight—not for ourselves, but for our children. That’s what’s at stake, and it is everything.” He looked toward my corner and nodded.
“I aspire to a world in which my son can become whatever his talents and his vision combine to make him. A world where, if he works hard and treats others with respect, there is no limit to what he can accomplish. As a parent and as a citizen, this is what matters most to me.”
Sounds of approval broke out among the crowd.
“In yesterday’s election for state and county offices, the Democrats caught us off guard. They used Negro baiting, hatred, and fear to win at the ballot box. And win they did. We need to acknowledge that. What we cannot allow them to do is consolidate those gains by doing what no city in the history of America has ever done: overthrow the legally elected city government.”
From the crowd came cries of “Amen” and “Tell it, brother,” like at a church revival. Daddy seemed to feed off the energy of the crowd.
“But we will not surrender. Right is on our side. The Constitution is on our side. We will prevail!”
Cheers erupted. Someone threw his hat into the air. Others followed. Fists were raised. I knew I was witnessing something extraordinary. I decided then and there that I didn’t want to be a fireman; I wanted to be a political leader.
The men in the barbershop appointed the lawyer Armond Scott to deliver the group’s response to Alfred Waddell’s house by 7:30 the following morning. When the meeting turned to the more boring job of drafting a response to the White Declaration of Independence, I sat in one of the barber chairs and waited for Daddy.
When we arrived home, two plates of food were waiting in the kitchen. I told Boo Nanny and Mama about the evening in as much detail as I could recall. They exchanged worried glances.
“Lord, what’s the world coming to?” Mama said.
“You should have seen Daddy. He was unbelievable. He had everyone’s attention.” I was mad that they didn’t understand how important the meeting was, and what a major part Daddy had played.
“Trouble be a-brewing. I can feel it,” Boo Nanny moaned, washing her hands with invisible soap.
“How?” The older I got, the less I trusted her superstitions.
“Like the rain that whispers to my bones afore it comes,” she said.
Around nine, someone knocked at the front door. I heard low voices, then Daddy said loudly, “What do you mean? How can this be?”
After more hushed talking, I heard Daddy say, “No, it’s completely understandable. I’ll see what I can do.”
When he came back to the kitchen, he told me what had happened. On the way to deliver the group’s response to Alfred Waddell, Armond Scott had run into a group of drunk and rowdy Red Shirts, who bunched around him and shoved him against a tree. He got scared, and instead of continuing through the white neighborhood to deliver the message, he dropped it in the mailbox. Mr. Waddell would receive the response the following day, but not by the 7:30 a.m. deadline.
“What happens if he doesn’t get it?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Daddy said. “I’ll stop by his house tomorrow and let him know what happened.”
ELEVEN
Boo Nanny shaded her eyes and looked up at the sky. “Keep an eye out. I don’t likes what I sees,” she said.
It was the following morning, and I was in the backyard doing my daily chores before school. The air was heavy and felt like rain. Gulls and buzzards flew overhead—white specks and black specks that kept to separate parts of the sky.
“Trouble’s a-brewing,” she said, watching the buzzards.
I no longer believed in omens. No buzzards dotted the sky on election day, or the day after, and trouble was brewing then, for sure.
On my way back f
rom the woodpile, Boo Nanny said, “Git your body inside, quick.” She pushed me so hard toward the porch that I stumbled and dropped an armload of wood. My chin hit the top step just as a buzzard swooped down low toward the house.
“His shadow didn’t get me,” I assured her so she wouldn’t worry. I put my fingers to my chin to see if I was bleeding. I was.
“Don’t matter. Old Mr. Buzzard, he back. Today be a bad-news day.”
“How do you know?” I said, gathering the wood I had dropped and putting it by the back door.
“That ol’ buzzard set hisself down on our chimbley like he owned the place. Trouble be on the way, for true.” Boo Nanny hugged me tight. “You is the sweetest thing that ever lived or died, and I loves you to pieces, Cocoa Baby.”
I wriggled out from her grip. She looked hurt, but I was too old to believe in omens and too old to be hugged like a little baby.
Before I left for school, she dabbed the cut on my chin with a salve. Maybe my classmates would think I nicked myself shaving.
Daddy came onto the porch and said, “Are you ready?”
I tightened my book strap and started to leave, but Boo Nanny stopped me. “Your coat. You’ll catch your death,” she said. She went inside and returned with my corduroy jacket.
To humor her, I put it on, and Daddy and I started off together. It was two days after the election, and he still insisted on walking me to school. But first, he told me, he needed to go by Mr. Waddell’s house to let him know that the Negro community’s response to the ultimatum would be delayed by several hours. Mr. Waddell lived on Fifth Street, just like us, but across the bridge and closer to Market, where the rich people lived.
We stopped at an enormous clapboard and shingle house that had a round tower, like a lighthouse, with a conical hat on top. We went to the front door and Daddy knocked.
A middle-aged lady answered. Daddy took off his hat and held it in front of him.
“Good morning, ma’am. I’m here to see Alfred Waddell,” he said with his usual flawless manners.
“Go around to the back and someone will receive you.”
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