by Jack Thorne
CHAPTER XIII.
Mrs. Adelaide Peterson's Narrative.
New Bedford, Mass., Dec. 19, 1899.
Dear Jack Thorne:
In compliance with your request for a narrative of what I witnessed ofthe massacre which took place in Wilmington, N. C., in November, 1898, Iherewith write for the information of the world what happened in thesection of the city known as Dry Pond. The plans for the slaughter ofNovember 10th had been carefully laid. The negroes, lulled into afeeling of security by the usual yet unexpected quiet election, wereutterly surprised on the morning of the 10th to find the streets chokedwith armed men and boys. The mob, it seems, formed at the Court House,and dividing itself into bands scattered into every direction, holdingup and searching both black men and women, beating and shooting thosewho showed a disposition to resist. On the corner of Seventh and NunStreets stands Gregory Normal Institute for colored youth, with ChristChurch (Congregational) and the teachers' home, comprising the mostbeautiful group of buildings in the city. This is the property of theAmerican Missionary Association. The morning devotions had just ended inthis school on the morning of the 10th, and scholars were going to thedifferent class-rooms, when the report of a gun threw the entire schooland neighborhood into confusion. Children ran to their teachers forsafety, who, with blanched faces, stood dumb with terror, for a mob ofarmed whites had already surrounded the buildings and completely blockedSeventh, Ann and Nun streets. On Seventh street, between Nun and Churchstreets, in a small wooden structure, the much talked of _WilmingtonRecord_ had found a temporary home, and this was the objective point ofthe mob. Surrounding this building, they battered down the door, brokein pieces the printing outfit, and then set fire to the building. Manywomen, with their little ones, took to the woods, so thoroughlyfrightened were they at this strange and unlooked-for spectacle. Blackmen were awed into helplessness by the superiorly armed mob. I was atthe ironing table, when one of my little ones ran in and told me thatthe school house was on fire. I hurried out to join the crowd of anxiousmothers, who were hurrying in that direction to rescue their children,whom, they supposed, were in danger. But we were not able to get pastthe crowd of men who surrounded the Record building. The cries of thefrightened children could be heard, and the inability of the mothers toreach them added to the horror of the scene. One mother, frenzied withgrief and desperation, pushed and shoved her way through, despite thethreats of the mob. One little girl died of sheer fright. The shootingwithout, mingled with the oaths of the men and the frantic wails of thewomen without were too much for the little one to bear. Her teacher'sassurance of safety were of no avail. The teachers finally made a boldfront, pushed their way through the crowd and delivered the frightenedchildren to their frightened parents, some of whom did not return totheir homes, but hastened to the woods for safety. I returned home. Myhusband, who worked at the Press did not arrive until late that night,he having had serious difficulty in passing the armed whites who linedthe streets, and challenged him at every corner. He informed me thatColonel Moss, on leaving Dry Pond, went immediately to the Press withthe intention of killing all the men at work there, but was thwarted bythe coolness of Mr. ---- and Molly Pierrepont, who went from her home towarn them. I bless that woman for her courage. She stood like a goddessamong those men and prevented them from rushing into a trap prepared forthem. My husband at first thought it unsafe to remain in the house thatnight; the poor whites were heavily armed and were likely to do mostanything. They had already fired into several houses in theneighborhood. Some one rapped at the door. I was too frightened to move.My husband finally opened the door, and in staggered Joe Bently,bleeding profusely from a large gash in his forehead. He said: "I wastrying to reach the hill this evening without being searched, as I didnot want to part with my gun. At the corner of Market and Front streetsI met Mr. Philip Hines, who offered to take me through the crowd tosafety, and led me right into trouble. I was held up and searched. BenTurpin took my revolver from me and gave me this gash on my foreheadwith the butt of it." I bathed and bound up Bently's wound, and he layhimself upon the lounge in my dining-room, and being weak from the lossof blood, soon dropped off to sleep. We were too frightened to lie down.Thirty minutes elapsed. We heard the sound of footsteps approaching; thedoor received a vigorous kick. "Hello!" came from without. "SayPeterson! Don't be afraid; this is McGinn!" My husband opened the door."Is that you, Mr. Mac?" said he. "Yes, we are looking for that fellerManly." "I guess he's far away," returned my husband. "Well, its goodfor him that he is. Who's in there with you?" "My family." "Well, Ibelieve you, Peterson. Good night." The men went their way. We weremolested no more during the night, but shooting was kept up at intervalsin the neighborhood all night. Some citizens slept under their housesfor safety.
The morning of the 11th of November dawned clear and cold, and thesufferings of those who were compelled to sleep in the open air wereterrible. At about nine o'clock Rev. Simons called at my house. He hadhis wagon laden with comfortables for the suffering ones. "Hundreds arein the woods," he said after greeting me, "and God only knows what theirsufferings were during the night."
"People of the Saxon race, whom we have trusted so implicitly, this isyour work, for which you must answer to God," and with his hand hebrushed away a tear. Together we rode to the woods, my husband remaininghome with the children. Far beyond "Jump and Run" we came upon quite acrowd of women and children, who had built a large fire, and werehuddled about it. One woman, a tall creature, ran to meet us as weapproached with outstretched hands and a maniacal stare in her eyes."Where's my husband?" she shrieked. "Is it true he is killed? An' areyou comin' to kill me?" "No, my dear," answered the minister, "we cometo bring you comfort." "No! no! no!" she cried. "Tell me no more aboutGod. Hagar's children have no God. They are forsaken! Lost! lost! lost!"Several women came up and took hold of the demented creature and led heraway. "She's los' her mind," said one. "She sat here las' night an' sawher dear friend an' neighbor die in the agony of childbirth; and that,with the news of her husband's death has unbalanced her mind." "Therelays the woman," said another, taking the minister by the hand andleading him to where--cold and lifeless--the body of the woman with thatof the new-born babe by its side. The poor, demented creature had takena seat upon a stump beside the corpse, and was moaning and wringing herhands. "Lord, be merciful!" exclaimed the minister, with clasped hands."They are all about here," said another woman; "these are not all thathave died during the night." We busied ourselves in giving such comfortas lay in our power. In our search among the bushes we came acrossseveral dead and others dying from the night's exposure. So thoroughlyfrightened were these people that we could not induce them to believe itsafe to venture back to their own homes. The situation was indeedappalling. On our way into the city we met some humane whites going outto persuade the frightened refugees back.
The 10th day of November, 1898, can never be forgotten. I will not closethis narrative without mentioning an act of bravery performed by a lonewoman which stopped the vulgar and inhuman searching of women in oursection of the city. The most atrocious and unpardonable act of the mobwas the wanton disregard for womanhood. Lizzie Smith was the first womanto make a firm and stubborn stand against the proceeding in the southernsection. It was near the noon hour when Lizzie, homeward bound, reachedthe corner of Orange and Third streets. A block away she saw a womanstruggling to free herself from the grasp of several men who were, inturn, slapping her face and otherwise abusing her. The woman foughtuntil her clothes were torn to shreds; then with a shove the men allowedher to proceed on her way. Lizzie could have saved herself by runningaway, but anger at such cowardice had chased away every vestige of fear.She leisurely walked up to where the fight was going on. "Halt," saidone of the ruffians to Lizzie, "an' let's see how many razors you gotunder them duds. That tother wench was er walkin' arsennel. Come now!"roared the man, "none er your cussed impert'nence." Lizzie, instead ofassaying to comply, akimbowed and looked defiantly at the crowd abouther. "Oh, yo' po' white trash." "S
hut up or we'll settle you an' havedone with it," said the leader, making a motion toward his hip pocket."Yo' will, eh!" answered the girl, "yo' kan't skeer me. But ef yo'wanter search me I'll take off ma clothes, so yo' won't have ter tear'em," and Lizzie began to hurriedly unfasten her bodice. "Yo've got tersearch me right," she continued, throwing off piece after piece; "yo'llfin' I am jes' like yo' sisters an' mammies, yo' po' tackies." "That'lldo," growled one of the men, as Lizzie was unbuttoning the last piece."Oh, no," returned the girl, "I'm goin' ter git naked; yer got ter seethat I'm er woman." White women were looking on from their windows atthis sight so shocking. One had the courage to shout "Shame! how dareyou expose that woman in that manner?" "Them's the curnel's orders,"replied the leader, raising his hat. "Who is the Colonel, and what righthas he to give such orders?" shrieked the woman. "You ought to beashamed of yourselves for your own wives and daughters' sakes." The menskulked away and left Lizzie victor on the field. Yours for justice andright,
ADELAIDE PETERSON.