by James Fearn
When they arrived, the simple, unpolished coffin was laid upon wooden trestles near the freshly dug grave. Quite a large group of people had gathered, and Anna’s white face stood out like a beacon in a sea of black. As the service proceeded, the high-pitched wailing of the mourners sent a chill through Anna. A prayer was said as all of the mourners knelt in the sand, and the coffin was lifted and lowered into the ground. Anna was enveloped in an indescribable sense of wonder at finding herself, a lone white woman surrounded by black slaves praying to the same God. There was within her a curious sense of unity with these people. In this simple act, Anna was symbolising the great truth—that in the sight of God, all people are equal.
Soon after Anola’s first birthday, Anna was able to fulfil her long-held ambition to teach some of the black children of the area—the basics of reading and writing. Her own level of education was not great, her knowledge having been gained largely from the Rector’s wife in Melbourne. But her motivation to do something for the black children for whom she saw only a bleak future of oppression stimulated her to open a little school. Initially, there were five black children between the ages of four and seven who came regularly to her cottage on Thursday mornings. Jesse Godbehere was impressed with her initiative, although his conservative upbringing had conditioned him to the view that universal black education could only bring destruction to the southern economy. An illiterate black population knew a life no better than the slavery into which they had been born.
Jesse provided slates for the children to write on when he saw Anna struggling to scratch the letters of the alphabet in the sand outside her front door. Little Anola ran around the house, enjoying the company of the older children, and sang along with them, albeit somewhat lacking in tune when Anna taught the nursery rhymes she had learnt from her mother. Untouched by the world around her, the toddler accepted the back children as if they were her own flesh and blood. What a pity that the innocence of childhood is often so easily corrupted by the prejudices of adulthood!
The reputation of Anna’s school quickly spread around the community of Mansfield. Most of the children of the affluent families of the town had their own tutors, but these were not usually hired until the children were six or seven years of age. Anna was greatly surprised one day, however, when a carriage stopped in Crosby Street outside her home. Two elegantly dressed ladies alighted with two equally well-dressed children of about five years of age. Anna greeted them at the door.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said in a friendly manner. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We were wonderin’, Mrs Francis, if y’d take our kids in yer class,’ said the older woman. ‘What are yer fees?’ Anna was dumbfounded.
‘Fees?’ she thought. Nothing could have been further from her mind. Her pupils were from penniless black families. It would be pointless to make a charge for her services.
‘You must realise’, said Anna, ‘my school is for black children. Do you want your children to mix with slaves?’
The reaction of the women surprised her. ‘We think it’d be darn good for our kids to work with the niggers. They need to learn how the blacks think,’ said the younger woman. ‘After all, they’ll work for our children some day.’
Anna’s first reaction was to have nothing to do with such a scheme, but quickly saw that here would be a chance to sow the seeds of racial harmony. ‘Well, if you are happy to leave your children, then I’m prepared to take them,’ said Anna. ‘I’ll let you know about the fee later.’
By midsummer, Anna’s school had grown to an enrolment of twelve, with the white children outnumbered two to one by the black. They learnt and played happily together as Anna strove to create an atmosphere of equality. A small fee was set for the white children, sufficient to pay for the reading and writing materials for the whole class. Little did Anna know of the events that were unfolding behind the scenes to undermine her efforts to erase racial distrust and xenophobia.
One school morning, in the middle of the Louisiana winter, the children were busy copying the letters of the alphabet on their slates when there was a sharp rap at the door of Anna’s cottage. Opening the door, Anna was confronted by the Sheriff. ‘Ah’m sorry, Mrs Francis. Ah got orders to close down yer school.’ Anna stared at him in disbelief. ‘Didn’t y’all know that y’re breakin’ the laws o’ the State o’ Loosiana, ma’am?’ he went on. ‘Desegregation ain’t allowed in these parts so yer school ain’t legal. Ah’m sorry, Mrs Francis.’ With that the Sheriff and his officer led the white children down the path to the wagon and drove away. Anna stood in the doorway with tears in her eyes, seven little black faces peeping from behind her ample skirt.
Anola was approaching her second birthday when her brother, William, was born. He was a strong baby, and although Anna was exhausted after a long labour, the birth had been quite satisfactory. She received quite a few visitors, and her bedroom was heavy with the aroma of flowers and numerous presents for the baby lay at the foot of the bed. On the table near the window was a vase displaying a huge bunch of yellow roses. The card that was attached read simply ‘Best wishes to Mrs Francis.’ It was signed—George Baker, Sheriff of Mansfield.
It was always a struggle for John and Anna to understand the way in which the southerners, so likeable in many ways, rationalised the presence of racism in their midst. Indeed this was an enigmatic society. With its huge black population and cosmopolitan white farming community, derived largely from Britain and Europe, the South struggled to define its identity. The diversity of cultural mores and the disparity of wealth distribution had generated a social order under great stress.
There were many entrepreneurs who seized upon the situation to further their own financial interests. Travelling salesmen and itinerant evangelists were a dime a dozen and constantly on the lookout for opportunities to exploit the gullible.
John was not unfamiliar with street preachers. He had encountered them before in Sheffield and on the diggings at Forest Creek. But he had to admit that Zephaniah Cruickshank was the master when it came to the manipulation of the emotions of a crowd. His open-air evangelistic meetings were profoundly moving experiences even for the cynics. John himself felt that he was being dangled over the sulphurous jaws of hell by this charismatic figure. Such preaching had a fatal attraction for many of those who passed within earshot of this flamboyant orator, who stood upon a wooden box like a reincarnated John Wesley. John reckoned that the people wanted someone to spell out their sins and the anticipated punishments clearly as if the confrontation itself was sufficient to expurgate their transgressions.
Zephaniah Cruickshank had thus acquired for himself a reputation as the conscience of the South, and the financial offerings of the fascinated public kept him in relative affluence.
‘A generation of vipers! That’s what the Lord in his great holiness calls all who refuse to obey him. Those who cheat and steal, who rape and pillage, and take the lives of others. Thou shalt not, says the Lord! He will vent his judgment upon all those who reject his law.’
Zephaniah’s magnificent voice ebbed and flowed as he mesmerised the growing audience with his dramatic words.
‘Ah tell y’all that the Lord says in the Good Book that unless y’all repent and come to the altar of forgiveness, then y’all shall for ever be cast into outer darkness where there’s weepin’ and wailin’ and gnashin’ o’ teeth. Yes, gnashin’ o’ teeth!’ he repeated, vehemently.
‘The fearful grave leads all who will not repent to a lost eternity.’ His voice rose as he emphasised the inevitable destiny of all of his hearers some day. Quite a few of them stared in fear as the preacher catalogued the punishments that would befall the unrepentant. Women wept uncontrollably. Some shuffled forward to stand at the preacher’s feet in penitence when he gave the altar call. Here and there small groups of people knelt in the dust to pray, calling upon the Lord to deal with his people and cast Satan from their presence.
John’s conservative sensitivities were somewhat offended by this public display of crude emotion. He had a profound respect for the Bible and the church, and his mother had raised him in the Christian faith. But why all of this? Is this true religion? Not a word about the immorality of slavery!
As John pondered these questions, an angry voice boomed out the preacher’s name from the back of the crowd. ‘Zephaniah Cruickshank!’ John turned to see a very flustered man, in his early forties, elbowing his way through the crowd towards the preacher.
‘You hypocrite! You blasphemous bastard! You religious charlatan!’ cried the intruder. ‘It was this man who raped my daughter, Sarah! And now she’s carrying his child!’ he cried, turning to the assembled crowd. The congregation was unbelieving and murmured its disapproval at such a far-fetched accusation.
‘It’s true!’ wept Sarah, standing up for all to see. There was no doubting her condition, but was she telling the truth?
John turned to see what Zephaniah Cruickshank’s reaction was to this accusation, but he was gone—vanished without a trace. The angry crowd dispersed, so much for preachers. The cynics were sure to make the most of this scandal.
As John rode home that afternoon, he reflected upon what he had seen in Mansfield’s main street. His experience on the Australian goldfields had brought him into contact with many a fraud from gold cheats to health quacks, or snake-oil merchants as the diggers called them—wherever one goes in this world, the cunning prey upon the naive. He recalled his father’s humorous saying, ‘God sends his rain on the just and the unjust, and the unjust use the just’s umbrellas’.
In the distance, John could see a small crowd of people moving animatedly. Reining in his horse, he stopped to inspect the scene from a safe distance. It looked like a covered wagon parked up ahead. Cantering slowly towards the crowd, he found ten or so men standing in a semicircle around a tree. He craned his neck to see what was happening. He was amazed to see Zephaniah Cruickshank lashed to a tree, his face dripping with the slime of squashed fruit and rotten eggs. The stench was appalling. A wry smile settled over John’s face as it dawned upon him that this dispensation of justice, although a little crude, was nevertheless well deserved.
By now, John, who had come as a stranger, had become deeply immersed in this complex southern society. However, his passionate belief in the right of individuals to express their views and to have political representation seemed to him to sit very uncomfortably in a society whose economy depended heavily on the acceptance of African slavery. How could he rationalise these two emphases. Although John was becoming known in the Mansfield community, he still thought of himself as an Englishman with no urgency to resolve his dilemma.
John was never more conscious of these inconsistencies of the South than on market days in Mansfield. In some instances, the slaves were treated with gross disrespect.
Indeed the Master’s dogs were often given pride of place in the plantation hierarchy above them. Many of the slaves seemed cowed beyond belief. ‘Hey, boy! Move that bale o’ hay! Be quick about it!’ The white Master cracked his whip around the legs of the tardy bondservant.
‘Yas, Massa!’ came the tamed response.
But it was not until the incident of the closure of Anna’s school that John began to suffer their effects personally. Such was the case, one Saturday morning, when he and Anna had driven into town in one of Jesse’s sulkies and were strolling past the stalls, inspecting the produce—boxes of colourful fruits and vegetables, and trays of meat interspersed with pens of turkeys, chickens, and squealing hogs attracted their attention. The warmth and the bustle of this country market gave the impression of a prosperous and close-knit community, but behind the facade lay a dark spirit of prejudice and suspicion.
The pub was the favourite meeting place for many on a Saturday morning, and it was not uncommon for groups of youths and their female friends to lounge outside merry with corn liquor, joking and jesting among themselves and throwing crude remarks at the passers-by. Two young black girls walking closely together for protection became the objects of the lewd comments. ‘Hey, Mary,’ called one of the boys. ‘Let’s see yer legs, sweetie!’ Gales of laughter erupted from the gang. ‘Got anything else y’d like t’ show us?’ called another. ‘It’s worth twenty cents t’ yer. Come on, how about it?’
This behaviour sickened John and Anna, who were walking a few paces behind the girls. They veered to the other side of the street and tried to avoid eye contact with the louts. ‘So look who’s comin’ by!’ called another voice. To Anna’s dismay, it was Charles Godbehere. ‘If it ain’t the Francis woman. How’s yer school for niggers now?’ A peel of laughter emphasised the barb. ‘Why don’ yer go back where yer came from and teach the blacks there? We got no place f’r do-gooders in this town.’ The gang roared with derisive laughter again. John winced. ‘Take y’rself and y’r ideas outa ’ere yer white slut.’
The insult to Anna was too much for John. Bounding across the road, he grabbed Godbehere and shook him violently. It was now or never. He’d establish his authority once and for all. Humiliation was the only answer to such bullying.
‘Keep yer filthy ’ands off me yer nigger-lover!’ Charles taunted. An aggressive roar of encouragement rang out from young Godbehere’s drinking mates.
‘Only when you apologise for your insult to my wife,’ yelled John, glaring at the drunken lout. His flashing eyes and flaring nostrils might have suggested caution to a more sobre man. But that was not Charles Godbehere.
‘Where’d y’all get ’er anyway? She can’t be too bright if she makes friends o’ niggers.’ Charles’ friends agreed noisily.
‘Y’all think yer smart buyin’ that property from m’ daddy so cheap’, he drawled abusively. ‘Y’all swindled ’im that’s what yer did, swindled ’im’.
The brush was down. It was jealousy that lay at the heart of Charles’ animosity towards John.
Enraged to breaking point, John struck him a blow on the jaw, which knocked him backwards to the ground. He staggered to his feet and, urged on by his friends, circled John menacingly. ‘You disgust me, Godbehere,’ said John. ‘You’re a disgrace to your family.’
With quick footwork, he avoided Charles’ ill-directed blows and planted his right fist on the point of Charles’ chin. Staggering backwards, the offender collided with a horsetrough at the side of the road and collapsed into it with a spectacular splash. The coarse laughter of the mob ceased as John readied himself for a fight. But one by one, they shrank back into the pub to seek courage in another glass of corn liquor. Given John’s experience with his fists, in such situations, they had made a wise decision. It was now public knowledge that there was no love lost between Charles Godbehere and the young Englishman from Australia.
The purchase of their own property had been a significant event in the lives of John and Anna Francis. After years of struggle, they were beginning at last to feel that fortune was with them. Material possessions may not lead to ultimate happiness, but it had to be acknowledged that the acquisition of property and a home, however simple, was regarded amongst the white society of nineteenth-century Louisiana as a measure of one’s worth as an individual. The cogent work ethic with which John was imbued was at last finding its fulfilment in his life.
Their parcel of land, though small, gave John and Anna some stability and the hope of a secure future for themselves and their family. They grew maize as a cash crop together with a few vegetables and fruits to supply their growing family. With its hot, humid, and subtropical climate, Louisiana was not the most hospitable of States to settlers from Europe, but the young couple’s gold-prospecting exploits in central Victoria had conditioned them to life in the temperature extremes.
The season following the purchase of the property was a good one for the maize growers of the north-west. Everyone seemed to have smiles on their faces, while many of the farmers of the district talked interminably
about the strength of Louisiana’s rural economy.
It was into this buoyant society, one sunny afternoon, late in summer, that there came a dapper little man of obvious affluence. He stepped down from the stagecoach, cane in hand, resplendent in frock coat and top hat. A yellow rose was pinned to his left lapel, and his manner was that of one who knew he was the purveyor of good things.
‘Thank y’all,’ he said, tapping the coachman on the arm with his cane. ‘This ’ere town looks like it’s ready for a guy like me,’ he said with the supreme confidence of a man on a mission.
‘Have Ah got news f’r yer!’ John, who had been waiting for the arrival of the coach, was fascinated by this little man who acted with all the charisma of a Baptist preacher.
This was Abraham Pickering, a man of urbane charm and wit. The ladies were immediately taken with him, and he played to them particularly with all the assurance of one who knew that their resistance would melt before his seductive charms. He was a man of incredible self-assurance, and it mattered little to whom he spoke, sheriff or senator, pauper or prince. His charisma was such that all who came near him were attracted like an iron pot to a magnet. Words flowed from Abe Pickering’s mercurial mouth like the northern reaches of the Red River in flood, considerable in volume but shallow in depth.
‘Hi, y’all,’ he began addressing the crowd gathered on the Post Office veranda. ‘Ah got an outstandin’ business proposition to put t’ anyone who’s willin’ t’ listen. Now Ah’m stayin’ at Mrs Beecroft’s lodgin’s an’ Ah’ll make the announcement in ma suite at seven t’night. See yer there!’
Reckoning that it would be interesting at least to hear what the fellow had to say, John arrived at the appointed place at seven as arranged. It was interesting to him to see who else of his acquaintances was arriving. Were they taking the little man seriously? John was initially surprised when the door opened at his knock, revealing a pretty young woman who introduced herself as Mr Pickering’s personal assistant. But it didn’t take him long to figure out her real role in Pickering’s life.