Chapter XI THE LYNCHING BEE
Dr. Baxter went to his store, where he informed the poor whites he found assembled there, drinking his corn whiskey that a “nigger” was to be lynched—burned at the stake—down at the crossroads at midnight. He wanted them all to be there, without fail, and, of course, bring their “shooting irons.” He did not tell them what crime the “nigger” had committed, and they dare not ask. To hear Dr. Tom Baxter was to obey him. Then it was of little concern to them whether the “nigger” had failed to lift his hat to Dr. Tom Baxter or had “outraged a thousand of the fair daughters of the Palmetto State.”
Newton Capps and Dr. Bell went to the other store and informed the crackers that there would be a lynching that night, just before midnight. They were more considerate than Dr. Baxter, for they told their “poor white” friends that two “niggers” were to be lynched (one burned to the stake) for kidnaping a young white lady and keeping her for weeks in a log cabin, where they had subjected her to all kinds of insults and outrages the human brain could conceive. They were to meet at the old cotton warehouse at 9 o’clock for “instruction,” and all promised to be there. The joyful news spread like wildfire. Some ran home to get their guns, others jumped up on the backs of mules and horses and rode out into the interior for ten miles to inform the poor whites that there was to be a “nigger” lynching. Three “Crackers” rode to the neighboring hamlet, London Bridge, seven miles away. About fifty white males averaging in age from twelve to sixty were informed that “the pleasure of their company was earnestly requested” at a “nigger” lynching, and every man and boy (after going home and getting their guns and revolvers) started on a dead run for the hamlet in which the lynching was to take place. Eight o’clock found every white male over twelve years old residing in two counties standing before the old cotton storehouse. The Negro Americans, who numbered ten to one of the white, were conspicuous by their absence.
It had been an open secret for over a week that there was going to be what the whites who had been indirectly informed called fun, and what the Negro Americans called trouble. Neither party knew the exact time the “fun” or trouble would take place, but both blacks and whites had been informed in the usual mysterious way that it would be some time after “Christmas candle light.” The wise Negro Americans knew that after “candle light” meant any time after dark, and told the unwise ones so. The result was that every Negro American who was not looking for trouble (and none were) came out to the crossroad stores before noon and exchanged their eggs for “toddy” and whiskey and sugar and went home. The more frightened ones had started for Charleston. The Negro Americans of this section were not cowards, neither were they fools. In the county every male citizen over ten had been restricted from having in his house guns, pistols or other firearms when the local inspector called (after he had informed the whites a la New York city police not on dens of vice). In the next county a Negro American could not buy firearms “for love or money.” These people knew that “discretion was the better part of valor,” and that ten poor whites with repeating guns were brave men when they went out to kill one unarmed “nigger.” Facts are facts, and this is simply (from A to Z) a romantic record of facts—a few unwritten pages in the history of “the land of the free and the home of the brave”—God’s country, these United States of America. Ten o’clock found every white male over twelve years old, residing within ten square miles of the old cotton warehouse, standing “armed to the teeth” before the warehouse. Dr. Baxter sent down to his store for twenty-five candles and as many potatoes. When he got the same he and Dr. Bell entered the old ghostly warehouse, and while Dr. Bell held one lighted candle the older doctor cut a hole in the potatoes and then cut off the ends so that they would stand upon the window sills of the large gloomy interior of the old warehouse. The number of candles was not sufficient to light up the place properly and gave it a weird light.
The place was soon filled to the door with Negro blood-thirsty white men of all ages and classes, impatient and anxious to receive their last instructions from their leader, Dr. Baxter, before they rushed down the road to perform the pleasant task of lynching a “nigger” or two.
Dr. Baxter stood in the middle of the room upon a dry goods box, and several times stamped his feet and yelled “silence.” At last all was still. The pencil of no artist skilled in the drawing of Satan, his imps and their infernal abode could do justice to the scene. Dr. Baxter was short and pointed. He told his followers that a “foreign nigger” had kidnapped a young white woman and had her confined in a log cabin about half a mile below the village at the crossroads. They were going to burn him at the stake, rescue the girl and put her in an asylum (as she had doubtless lost her reason since her forced confinement). The “local nigger,” old Uncle Tom, who had been in the past a good, quiet, harmless darkey, was perhaps forced to harbor the “foreign nigger” against his will, or by a big offer of money. In view of his past good record the vigilance committee had decided not to burn him at the stake, but simply hang him as a warning to other weak-minded local darkies. Dr. Baxter concluded by telling them to see that their guns were loaded, but not to shoot unless so instructed by him. There was a lot of old lumber in the corner of the warehouse from which was selected several pieces of chain and rope, after which Dr. Baxter gave the word, “forward march,” and the mob, now nearly three hundred strong, made a mad rush down the road towards “Uncle Tom’s cabin,” where we left Jerry Stratton cleaning and loading his rifles and Ella cooking the supper.
Mr. Martin W. Sykes was at that time just entering Charleston with the forewritten account of the lynching, which he at once telegraphed in full to the New York Morning Sensation, which also printed an evening edition, or, more properly speaking, an edition every two or three hours from daybreak to midnight.
It was just half-past 10 that night (New York City time) when the newsboys of New York rushed out of the publication office of the New York Sensation with copies of that paper hot from the pressroom. The streets were full of people. One bright businesslike lad, with two perfect lungs, started the cry which his companions took up (several of whom were Negro boys), and soon the air was filled with yells of “Extray! Extre-e-e! Git ther extray. Full account of the lynching and race riot down South. Great excitement in Charleston. One man shooter kill soldiers call out. Oh! get ther extray.” It is the custom of New York City newsboys to run four or five words together to excite the curiosity of the passerby and make him buy a paper. The [evening papers] mentioned “sold like hot cakes.” Those who bought copies read the following with large full page headlines printed in red ink:
EXTRA!!!
RACE RIOT Is Feared IN SOUTH CAROLINA!
Because Two NEGROES WERE LYNCHED
Is Feared That THE STATE TROOPS
Will Be CALLED OUT.
(From Our Special Correspondent.)
Charleston, S. C., Dec. 25.
The beautiful little village of C——, twenty miles south of this city, is in the hands of a mob of wild and excited Negroes, who threaten to murder every white person from the cradle up. As the Negroes in this section number nine to one white person, the citizens have grave fears as to the results. Dr. Thomas Baxter, the leading citizen of the community, has wired the Governor for troops, as more than five hundred aimed Negroes are camped just outside of the village.
The cause of this Negro uprising was the justifiable lynching of two Negroes late this afternoon for committing an outrage upon a white girl. The facts in the case are that a strange Negro, claiming to be a Pullman car porter, residing in New York City, came to C___ a few days ago and took up his abode at the log hut of an old Negro, “Uncle Tom,” who had heretofore borne a good name in the community with the best white citizen. The Northern Negro, Jerry Stratton, spent money freely with the local Negroes at the village stores, hunted on posted land, stared at white ladies, talked impudent to the leading white men of the community, and in several other minor ways made himself obnoxious to the w
hite people. His influence over the local Negroes was soon noticed by their impudence to whites. The climax was reached a few days ago when a young white lady, the granddaughter of a distinguished Confederate general—the hero of the battle of Fort Pillow—was returning home at night fall. She was struck on the back of the head by this Northern darkey with a sandbag and dragged for half a mile to the log hut of the old Negro “Uncle Tom,” where she was kept for several days beaten, starved and outraged before the facts were known to the white citizens. The old Negro, either from fear or a large bribe of money, failed to report the outrage. The fifth day as he was going to the village store she managed to pin unseen to the back of his coat a note containing the startling facts enclosed in an envelope marked: Help! Read this note! When the old Negro reached the store one of the best citizens in the community saw it, took it off and read its contents. The news spread like wildfire and this afternoon about fifty of the best citizens in the community surrounded the Negro hut, rescued the girl and burned the Negro “Jerry” at the stake. The young lady struck the match herself, and set fire to the light wood which slowly consumed the black wretch. The old Negro confessed all and in view of his past good record was simply hanged to a neighboring tree his body riddled with buckshot and left hanging with a warning to all the local darkies nailed on to his breast on a placard:
NIGGERS
TAKE
WARNING
The Negroes are arming for revenge and have surrounded the town several hundred strong. It is reported that they have burned several barns and cotton gins and killed three white children a few miles above C——. Great excitement prevails. Dr. Thomas Baxter, mayor of the town, has sent a telegram to the Governor asking for troops to protect the law-abiding white citizens.
Mr. Martin W. Sykes was not sending this dispatch (which he believed was true, in the main, to-wit, that Jerry Stratton had been burned at the stake and Uncle Tom strung up to a tree) “for his health.” He kept in communication with the New York. Sensation until he received a telegraphic money order, and then after some changes and improvements, sold his story to the Charleston agency of the Associated Press in time for it to appear in every morning newspaper of note in the United States on the morning of the 26th. Many of the New York City papers had editorials upon the lynching, and most of these editorials justified the lynching. The few white friends of the Negro, of the good old Charles Sumner stripe, were discouraged and downhearted. The majority of New York City’s white population said “it was right,” and they would have done the same thing (even in New York) if it had been a female relative of theirs.
We know that more than half of Sykes’ story was false. Let us return to South Carolina and see how much of it was true.
Chapter XII THE ESCAPE
The mob of lynchers rushed down the road towards “Uncle Tom’s” cabin. When within a few hundred yards of the cabin, above a bend in the road, with pine woods on either side, the mob gave a yell—the yell all old G.A.R. men who fought on land in the Civil War will recall.
“Silence! D— you. Silence! Do you want to arouse the niggers and give them an opportunity to escape their just punishment? No more of those yells. March silently until you reach the other side of the bend in the road, then about twenty-five of you go across fields to the right and twenty-five to the left, and surround the house. When the rest of us reach there knock on the door, and when it is opened pull the niggers out, or if they do not open the door break it in,” remarked Dr. Tom Baxter.
The warning came too late. Jerry Stratton heard the rebel yell break out upon the silent midnight air, and remarked to Ella:
“Here they come; put out the lights and do not speak.” He was a good marksman, and selected the best of his repeating rifles and calmly cleaned the range glass on the barrel of the gun. “I know these Southern gents outnumber me a couple of hundred to one and will kill me in the end, but as I have committed no crime (except coming down here) I am going to sell my life as dearly as I can,” remarked Stratton as the mob turned around the curve of the road. The full moon was at its zenith, making the night as bright as day.
The mob, the size of a small army, moved forward, with Newton Capps, “Buck” Walker, Dr. James Bell and Dr. Tom Baxter in the lead. They stopped in the open road, just outside of the range of Jerry Stratton’s repeating rifle. Dr. Tom Baxter pointed the way on each side of the road to the fifty odd men who were to go around about way and surround the house. They advanced. Stratton, with his rifle at his shoulder, sighted them until they were over twenty-five feet within the range of his gun, then he drew a bee line on the first man to the right, Newton Capps, and fired. Bang! Bang! Bang! and three men, Capps, Walker and Dr. Bell, fell to the earth. Dr. Baxter, hearing the shots, and seeing the men fall dead, rightly concluded that the fourth shot would kill him, and he fell a second after the third shot, just before the fourth. The fourth shot struck a man in the next rank in the shoulder, and he dropped down in fear. Stratton had never studied the art of science of war, but it came to him in a minute after the front rank fell, to shoot low and cripple his foes, as it would take two men to take one injured from the field of battle. He fired about twenty-five shots, all but one hitting a mark. These shots caused a retreat—a stampede—of the mob. Someone yelled, “The house is full of niggers all armed. Here they come.” The mob rushed backward, their brave leader, Dr. Baxter, in the lead. After they had retreated around the bend in the road, behind the woods, Dr. Tom Baxter regained his courage and thus addressed them: “Boys, that house is full of armed niggers, but we will get them out. Three of you men get into this cart and drive over to my house; in my barn you will find three small cannon we used in the war with the Yankees. I have balls and powder at the store, bring the cannon here and we will plant it at the curve and blow the niggers sky high. We will be beyond their range.”
Three men started for the cannon, and the rest of the mob went in the old cotton warehouse and waited. When Jerry Stratton saw them retreat, he reached a conclusion. “Hurry up, Ella, and let us pack up and get out, the cowards have gone for more men. They concluded that two hundred (minus those I have killed) were not enough to kill one ‘nigger,’ and have gone for more brave men,” he remarked as he refilled his rifles.
“Hurry up, Ella; pack up all of your things that you can comfortably carry, disguise yourself by putting on a suit of mine, and let us get out. We have no time to lose.” Ella did as she was directed without any comment pro or con, a remarkable thing for any woman to do. When they were prepared to leave the cabin Jerry got some flour and rubbed over his face; he then pulled a hunting cap down almost over his eyes and turned his coat collar up. The greater part of his face was hid, and what was exposed looked white from the flour. Ella, with a duck hunting suit, looked like a man instead of a woman, and armed with a rifle each, they prepared to leave the cabin. Jerry took a can of oil and poured it over the floor and sides of the house. He went out in the barn and brought in a keg of turpentine, which he also poured over the floor.
“What are you going to do?” asked Ella.
“Why, set the house on fire, of course. When they see the house burning, they will conclude that some of the braver of their men have stolen up and set the house on fire and burned us up. This will throw them off our track, and prevent them following us.”
He raked the hot wood coals out of the fire into the middle of the floor. “Good bye ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ and good bye (we hope) old Palmetto State,” he remarked as he and Ella rushed from the burning house. They stood a few hundred yards down the road to the southward (the same way Uncle Tom had gone). All nature seemed to favor the Strattons in their fight for life. When the attack was made upon them, the full moon made the midnight as bright as day, which aided Jerry to shoot a few of the best citizens of the community. Now, as they took their flight northward, the moon was hidden behind black clouds, and the night was dark. Dressed like two city hunters, they hurried down the road towards Charleston, miles away.
When the house was all of a blaze, Dr. Tom Baxter saw the reflection upon the midnight sky. “The hut’s afire. Some of our boys have stolen up and set it afire. Let us hurry down and see the niggers roast,” he yelled, as he led the wild mob on a run down the road. When they had turned the bend in the road and were in full view of the burning cottage log cabin, they all stopped. Some one with enough imagination to be a writer of romance yelled, “See them! See them dancing about in the fire? See the girl! Shall we try and save her?”
“No!” yelled Dr. Baxter. “Let her burn with the niggers. Advance and fire at the house, so if any of them get out they will be shot.” Immediately about one hundred shots were fired at the burning house. In the meantime the cannon arrived upon the field of battle and was placed in position, loaded and fired several times at the burning log cabin. The fire at last burned out and Dr. Baxter concluded that the “niggers” were all dead, and the party returned to the village. They stumbled over the dead bodies of their brave comrades. Dr. Baxter waved silence. “Pick up those bodies and put them in the cart and take them to the old cotton warehouse,” he said to the men nearest to the dead lynchers. They obeyed in silence. “Now, boys,” continued the doctor, “we don’t want the outside world to know that those niggers killed three white men. We have no telegraph from here to Charleston, and the rest of the world will never know it unless some one here tells it, and the man who does will die like a dog. Remember!”
A Treasury of African American Christmas Stories Page 14