by Jack Thorne
CHAPTER IX.
George Howe.
From the fall of Fort Fisher and political upheavals of theReconstruction period to the awful tragedy of 1898, with the exceptionof a few tragic scenes, Wilmington had been the theatre of onecontinuous comedy, performed by gifted players, whose names and faceswill ever remain indelibly fixed in the memory. Phillis, "State Mary"Tinny, George Howe, Uncle Abram, Bill Dabney, "Uncle Billy" pass overthe stage before me as I write. But of those who unwittingly struggledfor the foremost rank in the line of fun-making, George Howe must be theacknowledged star.
Unlike others of the same school, whose minds had become unbalanced byoverwork, worry or disease, George Howe was born a fool. Being a childof honorable and respectable parentage, the playmates with whom heassociated in his early youth were of that class who regarded hisimbecility as a terrible affliction, were charitable and kind, neverallowing others to impose upon this simple fellow, who was incapable oftaking his own part. But as George Howe advanced in years he graduallythrew off his stupidity, and although he never outgrew the habit ofkeeping his mouth open, he ceased to slobber, and acquired the habit oflooking respectable. He entered school and became quite proficient inone branch of study in particular--he was an excellent reader,with a wonderfully retentive memory. But he never outgrew hissimple-mindedness, and appellation of "Fool" always justly clung to him,for, bright as he seemed to be upon many things, he was incapable ofapplying his knowledge to his own advantage. George Howe kept abreastwith the doings of the times, especially in the political and religiousworld, and these two subjects he was always ready to discuss. Was therea public meeting called, religious, political or otherwise, George Howewould be there, often in some conspicuous place, with wide-open mouthand staring eyes, drinking in all that was said or done.
It mattered not how many were held in a single day or night, George Howewould spend sufficient time at all of them to tell something of whattook place. For, with a jewsharp as his sole companion, George couldcover more ground in a single day or night than any other inhabitant ofWilmington, keeping time to its discordant twanks. During politicalcampaigns, before the press of the city could announce to its readersthe result of the contest, George Howe could be heard howling the newsthrough the streets of Wilmington. "Oh-o-o, look er here, everybod-e-e-e! New York, New Jerseee, Dilewar hev gone Dimocratic by bigmajoritees. Great Dimocratic gains throughout ther country." When, in1884, the Democratic party astonished the country and itself by electingGrover Cleveland to the Presidency by a safe majority, it was GeorgeHowe who led that host of elated Democrats down Front street and towardthe Custom House on the evening of election day to inform Republicanofficeholders that at length their time had come to give place forothers. Being generally shunned by those of his own race, George Howecherished quite a liking for colored people, and could be veryfrequently found among them in their religious meetings. There wassomething in the Negroes' mode of worship that seemed to fascinate him,especially the saints of color who worshipped in old Ebenezer Church, inSouth Seventh street. When that most eloquent of pulpit orators, theRev. William H. Banks, led his hosts to Cape Fear River's brink, anddrew three-fourths of the worshippers of other denominations with them,George Howe would be there, yea, marching with the converts themselves,joining as lustily as they in the singing of that familiar old marchingsong:
"I'm er goin' up ter join in the army of the Lord, I'm er goin' up ter join in the army."
Upon the river's bank he'd stand and drink in every word that flowedfrom the mouth of that great divine. No Negro woman or man could lispthe name of "Brother Banks" with sweeter accent than George Howe, and noone could sing his praises more earnestly. Who can forget those earlydays of revivals and religious enthusiasm in Wilmington, and the threegreat divines who filled the three great pulpits from which the bread oflife was given to hungry multitudes. There was Lavender in "ChristianChapel," Slubie in St. Stephen, and, more powerful and influential thaneither of these, was William H. Banks, the pastor of Ebenezer BaptistChurch. Even years after Slubie and Lavender had been called to otherfields, it was George Howe's delight to stand upon the street corneropposite the residence of the Rev. Banks and sing the parody to thatfamous old song that electrified and filled with the spirit the revivalmeetings of the early seventies:
"Brother Lavender's got some liars, Brother Slubie's got some, too; Jus' carry 'em down to Cape Fear River, An' Banks'll put 'em through."
Chorus: "Git on board, children," etc.
These great men are gone into the spirit world, but George Howe stilllives. Banks was the last to go, and when that coffined clay was beingborne from old Ebenezer, where for sixteen years he had labored, GeorgeHowe was one of that multitude of bleeding hearts who followed hisprecious bones to the burying ground. He stood and looked on until thelast spadeful of earth was thrown upon the coffin and the mound shapedabove it. After the death of the Rev. Banks George Howe became very muchattached to his eldest daughter, Mary Elizabeth, and he could often beseen leisurely strolling down Seventh street in the direction of Banks'residence, playing his jewsharp and singing the praises of "Sister MaryLizzie" between the twanks.
"I'm er goin' down to Sister Mary Lizzie Banksies; Sister Mary Lizzie is the daughter of Brother Banks, An' I think er great 'eal of Sister Mary Lizzie; Sister Lizzie, I've got ter tell you-u-u."
Pausing in front of the door, he would roll up his sleeves, stretch hismouth, roll his eyes and make all kinds of comical expressions. "SisterMary Lizzie, I'm jus' out er jail-l-l, I'm full er lice-e-e; but jus' assoon as I take er bath I'm comin' back to see you-u-u, for I havenews-s-s-s to tell you-u-u." The young lady would often have to run inand lock her doors when she'd see this harmless nuisance approaching.
George Howe was one of the few that listened to the Colonel and TeckPervis in the Wigwam on this particular night in October. Even when theghastly plans of the murderous clan were being discussed, no one thoughtof excluding the town fool, who stood gaping around taking it all in.Schults, the German, was arranging things in and about his well-filledand well-patronized grocery store on Castle street on the followingmorning, when George Howe entered. Grabbing a handful of dried applesfrom a tray which sat upon the counter, he stuffed them into his mouth,threw his long legs across a flour barrel and momentarily watched theGerman as he busied himself about the store. "You didn't git out las'night, Schults," said he to the German, gulping the apples down to clearhis throat for conversation.
"Oudt! oudt weer?" asked Schults, pausing with a tray of onions in hishands. "To the meetin' in the Wigwam," answered George. "They done erpowerful lot er plannin' there las' night. The Dimocrats mean businessthis time. They say they'll carry the election this time or kill everyNigger in the district. An' white men who are lukewarm, who don't comeout an' take er stan' with white men will share Niggers' fate. They gotthe names of the lukewarm in this affair. I don't want ter skeer you,Schults, but you are on the black list." Schults had laid down the trayof onions and was eyeing George from behind the showcase. "What did yousay boudt black lisdt, Gheorge?" "I say they read your name on the blacklist last night, an' that means they are goin' ter kill yer, for theirair determin' ter kill everything in the way of white supremacy. I don'twant ter skeer you, Schults; I jes' wan' ter warn you. You hain't tendedeny of their meetings, and they conclude you air agin them. An' then youwouldn't discharge your Nigger." Schults' eyes flashed. He locked hishands and brought them down upon the show case hard enough to break it."What I keers fer der black lisdt, eh? I dondt keers whadt dey duse midSchults. Before I vould hep dem ter harm dese kullod peeples py dams Isuffers ter be kilt. Who ish mine frients? Who buys mine groceries?Kullud peeples. When Schults cum ster Wilmiton sick mit der rhumatiz,mit no moneys, mit no frients, who helbs Schults ter git on his feets?Dese rich bocra? No; dey kicks Schults off de sidewalks, cowhide Schultson der sthreets. Who helbs Schults den? Kullud peeples! An' befoe Irais' mine hand 'gin dem I suffer det. Let dem kum, kum an' git S
chultswhen dey chuse. Don't let dem t'ink fur er moment I no prepare fer dem.Dem Ghermans who 'lows dem down bhroke ristocrats persuade dem gintzdeir kullud frients who thrade mit dem an' keeps dem from starvin' whendese rich bocra thry ter dhrive dem frum des country deserbe de cuss ovAlmighty Got! An' you damn po bocras dat allows yo'uselfs ter be makefools mit you'selfs fer broke down risterchrats ter dhrive kulludpeeples frum dey homes deserfs efry one eff you' ter be kilt." GeorgeHowe's under jaw dropped. He stared at Schults in astonishment, for hedid not expect to witness such a show of bravery on the part of thisquiet German grocer. "I didn't mean to insult you, Schults," said he,reaching over and helping himself from a barrel of apples which stoodclose by. "I jes thought I'd warn you." "Now, dere's dat Gheorge Bohn,"continued Schults, with apparent inattention to what George had said. "Isee his nhame in der bapers as one uv der leaders in dis supremacyhumbug. Who makes Bohn whadt he is on Dry Pon'? Who makes Gheorge Bohnwhad he is in dis counthry? Dem very peeples who he is now thrin' terkill. Dem broke down ristercrats, sich as Moss an' odders, cares no morefer sich as him den dey do fur de grass neat der feets. When dey gitsdemselfs in office dem Dutchmen kin go, po bocras kin go, dey caresnoddings fur yo when dey wus rich. Now dey air po as Job's turkey, deywants us Dutchmans an po bocras to dhrive oud our meat an' bread so deykin demselfs git fat at de public crib. But I tells you dis: Schultswill haft nodding to do mit dem. I stays in mine house, mine house ismine castle, and ef dey wants me let dem cum to mine house, by dams Ifills dem full uv lead; yo kin put dat in yo pipe and shmoke id." GeorgeHowe arose, yawned, then slowly walked to the door, turned, dropped hisunder jaw and stared again at Schults, who had resumed his work aboutthe store. "Didn't mean ter hurt yer feelings, Schults, but ter put yeron yer giard, that unless you jine em dey air goin' ter do yo." Georgestepped out upon the walk, drew forth his jewsharp and sauntered up thestreet, twanking upon it as he went.
The German to the Southern Negro has been and is what the Jew is to theRussian peasant--the storekeeper, the barterer. The German citizen hasnever been a manufacturer or a farmer; he is in no business that givesextensive employment to wage earners. But, as a corner grocer, he laysfor the Negro as he goes to and from his toil, and, with cheap wares andbad whisky, he grows fat upon his unwary customer. The German usuallycomes to this country poor, enters small towns, and, by the aid of otherolder residents of his nation who have already grown prosperous, he goesinto business on a small scale--grocery business as a rule. He begins ina one-story structure, one-half devoted to business, while in the otherhe lives. These little stores were never without their indispensableliquor departments, where the trader was invited to refresh himselfafter paying his weekly grocery bill.
Before the war the South's best people had no use for the Germanemigrant, and did everything in their power to discourage his livingamong them. If the slave returned home to his master under the influenceof liquor, the master in many instances went and cowhided the seller.The flogging of the Negro did not keep him from returning to the Germanto trade, and the German prospered, and to-day is among the foremostproperty owners in the South. I do not exaggerate when I say that theGerman's wealth has come to him solely through Negro patronage; not evento-day does the people known as the best people trade with Germans.
The Bohns--Joseph, Charles, George and William--coming into Wilmingtonin the seventies, had lived principally and conducted business in thatsection of the old city known as Dry Pond, and, like the most of theirkind, have accumulated their wealth from the patronage of the coloredpeople, among whom they had ever lived. This makes the crime of GeorgeBohn appear the more atrocious and cowardly. George joined the WhiteSupremacy League during the uprising in Wilmington, and was one of itsmost active members. There was a certain colored citizen who knew ofBohn's secret relations to the movement which disgraced the city. Thisman gave the information to the people of his race who were patronizingBohn, and entreated them not to support such an ingrate. When theexcitement was at its height, when Red Shirts and Rough Riders wereterrorizing the city, a band of poor whites, headed by George Bohn,sought this colored man's residence, battered down the door, firedseveral bullets into the bed where the man and his wife lay, the latterin a precarious condition. The house was riddled with shots; they werecompelled to get out and leave their own home, to which they have not asyet been permitted to return. Bohn, after the deed was done, sneakedback to his home, and when the horrible crime was reported, tried toprove an alibi. But George Bohn is the guilty man, and George Bohn shallnot escape! The hand of Justice shall point him out. His name shall godown to posterity on the list of cowards who, on the 10th of November,1898, brought into disrepute the fair name of one of the best littlecities on the American continent.