by Jack Thorne
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Colonel's Repentance.
The riotous excitement was slowly abating in the old city. The woodswere full of panic-stricken, starving colored people, and trains wereleaving the city laden with those who had means to get away. The leadingwhites, feeling both alarmed at and ashamed of the havoc and miserytheir ambition had wrought, had begun to send men into the woods tocarry food to the starving, and induce them to return to the city. Butso thoroughly frightened were these poor refugees that the sight ofwhite faces made them run away from the very food offered them. Theambassadors came back to the city disgusted, and dispatched colored men,who were more successful. It was the evening of the 15th of November.Mr. Julius Kahn, Eastern North Carolina's representative of the LifeInsurance Company of Virginia, sat at his desk in his office on Frontstreet. This company, which had been giving, for a small weekly payment,quite a substantial and satisfactory death benefit, and consequentlydoing quite an enormous business among the poorer classes of the coloredpeople, were among the heaviest sufferers from the massacre, for some ofthe collectors had been pressed into the service of the rioters to shootdown, and intimidate their very means of support. As Mr. Kahn sat there,he saw nothing but absolute ruin staring him in the face. "Well, whatnews?" he asked a man who stalked in, and sank heavily into a chair. Theman threw his book upon the desk before him, shrugged his shoulders andsighed wearily. "It's useless," he answered finally. "I give it up. Ihaven't succeeded in getting within ten yards of a nigger woman to-day.If I went in at the front door, every occupant in a house would bolt outat the back one, and run for dear life. They will listen to no overturesof friendship. Our very faces fill them with abject terror. We had justas well throw up the insurance business and quit, as far as Wilmingtonis concerned. God's curse on the men who are responsible for thisblight upon the good name of this city. One woman opened her door,cursed me, threw her book at me, and slammed the door in my face; and Ican't blame her, for she saw and recognized me among the mob who shother husband down right in her gate. And God knows I did not want to beamong them, but was compelled to. And they say that old devil, afterusurping the Mayoralty of the city, and killing and driving from theirhomes so many colored people, has softened, and has sent out to inducethe wretches to return," said Mr. Kahn after a long pause. "Yes,"returned the agent, "but that won't help us. They say they've lost theirconfidence in white people. Why, you have no idea what a wretched stateof things I've come across. The last five days' experience has maderaving maniacs out of some of the niggers. The papers have announced thegiving out of rations at the City Hall to-morrow, but I doubt if manywill go to get them." Mr. Kahn leaned over, rested his elbows upon thedesk, and slowly ran his fingers through his hair. "Some of our men leftthe city before they would be mixed up in this affair, and I wish nowthat I had done the same. But," he continued slowly, "we may just aswell wait until all excitement is at an end before we pull up stakes.Other blacks will doubtless pour in to fill the places of those that aregoing, and we may be enabled to build up business." "You can remain andwait, Mr. Kahn," answered the agent rising. "This accursed town can nolonger hold me. I leave to-night for Richmond, for I can no longer lookinto the faces of the people whom I have had a hand in killing andterrorizing. Good bye, Mr. Kahn," and the collector was gone.
* * * * *
"Everybody git in line an' pass one ba one before ther Mair an' git yerpermits; fer yer can't git rations thoughten 'um," shouted a policemanto a crowd of hungry citizens who stood upon the steps of the City Hall."Git in thur ole Aunty an' wait yer turn!" to an old lady, who startedto leisurely climb the steps. The Mayor sat at his desk, which had beenplaced just behind the railing in the court room, and mildly lecturedeach applicant as he or she came up. "This state of affairs is terrible,but it's your own fault. White people were born to rule, and you toobey. We liberated you and we can re-enslave you. Freedom and Yankeeadvice have ruined a good many of you. What's your name, old Aunty?" heasked an old woman who came limping up. "Maria Tapp'n, marster,"answered the old woman courtesing. "That's right, you haven't lost yourmanners," said the Mayor with a smile, writing out for her an order fora double portion. "Emulate these old mammies and uncles, who know theirplaces, and you will have no trouble. Next!" "Ef ther's eny who needs erdouble po'tion hits ther widders an' orphans," said a policeman gently,pushing a little woman in black before the Mayor's desk. "Whose widoware you?" asked the Mayor. "Was your husband killed in theriots?--resisting arrest, I suppose." "This is ther widder of DanWright," answered the policeman; "an' ef Wilmin'ton had er had a hundredniggers like that, we uns would er had er diff'ant tale ter tell. He wasded game." "Dan Wright," repeated the Mayor slowly. "He's ther darkeythat drawed er bead on an' defied we uns ter the las'," said thepoliceman pushing the woman away, and pushing another up to the desk.But the Mayor neither answered nor looked up. One by one they continuedto come up to receive their orders and pass out; but the executivelooked them no more in the face, nor essayed to speak. The crowd slowlydwindled away until the last applicant had passed out. The Mayor laidhis pen upon the desk before him, leaned back in his chair, raised hisfeet upon the desk, and fell into a reverie. The doings of the past fewdays came back to his mind in all their shocking significance. Thecurses, the groans, the agonizing cries of the bereaved and the dyingsounded a hundred-fold more voluminous and heart-rending. Then thebloody form of Dan Wright appeared with hands uplifted, eyes staring athis murderers, the blood streaming from a hundred wounds.
The Mayor had seen hard service in war, was one of the immortal few who,under the leadership of Pickett, made that gallant but futile charge atGettysburg, to be driven back for a third time, crushed, mangled anddefeated. He doubtless assisted in digging the trenches into which thoseghastly remnants that told of the cannon's awful work were thrown. Thatwas war, and such sights had never so affected the veteran as the visionnow before him.
"Avaunt! avaunt! Quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation In those eyes that thou dost glare with!"
The Mayor started up, opened his eyes. Uncle Guy stood before him. "Ijes' taut I'd drap in, Kurnel, but didn't speck ter fin' yer sleep,"said he, wincing under the Mayor's abstracted gaze. "Oh, I don' wantnut'n; don' make er scratch on dat paper. I ain't beggin'," heexclaimed, as the Mayor, recovering, reached for his pen. "That's soGuy; you needn't be a beggar as long as the white people own a crust,"he answered, settling back in his chair again. "Well, what are Negroessaying about the uprising, Guy?" The old man shrugged his shoulders, andshook his index finger at the Mayor. "Le' me tell yo', Kurnel, you naWilmin'ton rich bocra, dun throw yo' number an' los'; hear me? Efenybody gone tell me dat dese people I bin raise wid, who bin called debes' bocra in de worl' would go an' kick up all dis ere devil, I'd ertole um No." The old man straightened up, pointed skyward. "Lowd deliveryunna bocra when yer call befo' de bar. Dese niggers ain't su'prise atpo' white trash; dey do enyting. But yunna fus class white fo'ks--"
"Well, Guy," broke in the Mayor, "it was hard for us to resort to such,but it was in self-defense." "Self-defense! self-defense!" repeated theold man. "When po' nigger han bin tie, an' yunna bocra goteberyt'ing--gun, cannon an' all de am-nition, an' beside dat, de townfull wid strange trash frum all ober de country to crush dem? Some erdese men I sees shootin' an' killin', dars men an' umen livin' er myrace dat nussed an' tuk keer er dem w'en dey bin little. God er mightygwinter pay yunna well fer yer work, Kurnel, an' de gost er dem po'murdered creeters gwine ter haunt yo' in yer sleep. God don' lub ugly,an' yunna can't prosper." The old man concluded with a low bow, strodeout, and left the Mayor alone with his thoughts.