"The most important thing that I intended to mention, and which makes me feel that our situation is a critical one," continued Mrs. West, "was a letter that came this morning from Molly Pierrepont." "Molly Pierrepont!" echo every one almost in one breath. "Poor erring girl!" said Mrs. Wise slowly. "What has happened her?" "Molly has written me a long and even affectionate letter. She writes, 'Ben Hartright confided to me the other night the ghastly plans of the Rough Riders, a band made up from the most respectable of the whites. They are to be reinforced from all over the State, and even from other States for the purpose of killing and driving from Wilmington objectionable blacks and whites, John Holloway, Nicholas McDuffy, Editor Manly, John Brown, Lawyers Scott, Moore and Henderson, George Z. French, Thomas Miller, Ariah Bryant, McLane Lofton, Pickens and Bell and others of prominence and independenence are to be special marks of vengeance. I beg you my dear Aunt Betty, warn these people. I shall take it upon myself to give the alarm, for these are my people.'

"There is some good in this wayward child after all," said Mrs. West, pushing her spectacles back, and looking up. "But who of these people would believe that such was in store for them? These men would not leave their homes without a severe struggle." "The Government should protect its citizens in their rights," said Mrs. Wise. "Government? Bah!" answered Mrs. West. "Here's the highest official of the State afraid for his own life." "Well if the Governor is incapable of coping with the situation, the President has the power to send in the troops," said Mrs. Cole. "Yes, but will he use that power? I don't believe McKinley is going to do anything to offend the Southern whites if they kill every Negro in the South. The interests of an alien race are too trivial to risk the sundering of the ties that are supposed by the North to bind the two sections. Each State according to the Southern view, is a sovereignty itself, and can kill and murder its inhabitants with impunity. There is no John Brown, Beecher, nor Sumner, nor Douglass, Garrison, Phillips and others of that undaunted host who were willing and did risk persecution and death for us; this generation has not produced such precious characters. God is our only helper and we must look to Him for deliverance. We are living too well for the broken down aristocrats and poor whites who are disappointed because we are not all domestics.

"Molly expresses her intention to call, and I was hoping she would come before you all left. Perhaps you know Molly Pierrepont, for a woman of her reputation cannot help being known to a small community; but you are not all aware of the fact that I raised her, and took special pains to give her a good education, and I thought she'd requite me by trying to lead a useful life." "But you know Mrs. West, that Negro girls of attractiveness in the South have a great battle to fight, if they wish to be pure," said Mrs. Wise. "That's very true" answered Mrs. West; "I have often pondered over the thought since she left me five years ago, that the conditions under which she was born may have had something to do with shaping her course in life. We, innocent as we may be, must suffer for the iniquities of our parents. Before the war, there lived in Brunswick a large slave owner by name of Philpot. He was the father of Molly's mother, one of his slaves. After the surrender, this woman did not leave the plantation of her master but remained there until her death. The child, Molly's mother, whose name was Eliza, at the time of her mother's death was a pretty lass of fourteen; so attractive that the father then an old man could not curb his brutal passion. It is needless for me to speak plainer ladies. There is a passage of Scripture which reads as follows: 'The dog has returned to his vomit, and the sow that was washed is wallowing in the mire.' The young mother brought the child to Wilmington, gave her to me, and disappeared. Molly was then about four years old. Those who knew of me and my affairs know how carefully I raised the girl. She graduated from Hampton with honors, has a fair musical education, and a voice that might have made her a fortune. Imagine how proud her foster mother was when she returned home from school, so full of promise. If she would only leave this place and seek to live a better life in some strange community I would be more content. It would be hard for her to do so here. This Ben Hartright and another white gentleman had a free fight over her about a month ago. Ben was prevented from using his pistol by the girl's timely interference. That fiend of Georgia who is urging the men of her race to revel in the blood of their fellows, would do them more good by urging upon them the necessity of good morals. Doubtless this Ben Hartright is one of the leaders of this proposed raid in Wilmington to drive out undesirable citizens, yet he is so low morally, that he leaves a richly furnished home, a refined wife and pretty child to fight over a Negro woman, for such he has I hear." "But this letter proves that there are redeemable qualities in Molly despite her birth and bad life." "Magdalene made a devoted follower of Christ, you know," said Mrs. Wise; "with God's help, she can if she wills, pull away from her present surroundings and be a good woman." "Yes, she says in her letter that 'never did the full realization of what I am, come so plainly before me, as when this villian so cooly told me of his plans. I drove him from my presence as I would a dog.' This shows that Molly's race pride is not entirely blunted by dissipation and unholy living. I counsel you all ere you depart, to remember that we are at the mercy of the whites, and each one of us should do all in our power to show our men the wisdom of coolness. By this, with God's help, we may be able to avert the evil threatened. I declare the Union Aid Society adjourned, subject to the call of the president."



CHAPTER VII.

Molly's Atonement.

A few evenings after the unpleasant interview between Molly Pierrepont and Ben Hartright, Silas Wingate, chairman of the Republican Executive Committee, sat alone in his office. In that morning's mail had come to him a letter from the Governor, full of discouraging news as to the chances of Republican success throughout the State, and advising that for the safety of life Republican candidates be withdrawn from the field—a request unprecedented in the history of the State. "This would be too cowardly a backdown," he soliloquized. "The situation is not so serious perhaps as the Governor imagines. Such bluffs the Democrats have resorted to more than once before, but they didn't deter us in the least. We put our ticket in the field and fought hard for its election." But never before had the chairman of the Executive Committee seen in New Hanover County such grim and warlike activity on the part of the Democrats. The arming of the poor whites, the hiring of sterner implements of war, secret house-to-house meetings, and the stern refusal of dealers to sell a black man a deadly weapon of any description or as much as an ounce of powder meant something more than bluff. Yet so strong was the faith of Mr. Wingate in the integrity of the better classes of Wilmington's white citizens that he was slow to grasp the situation although the evidence was so overwhelming. He took the letter from the desk and read it for the fourth time since receiving it, riveting his eyes long and intently upon the signature affixed. Of all the years he had known the Governor he had never known him to shrink or show cowardice in any form whatever, although he'd passed through such crises as would tend to test the mettle of any man, it matters not how brave. "Surely the situation must be terrible!" finally observed Mr. Wingate, throwing the letter upon the desk and whirling around in his chair. "I will call a meeting and put the matter before the committee. When that man says back down then surely doomsday is not far off."

There was a timid knock at the door. Feeling that perhaps it was one of his colleagues dropping in for a chat upon the all-absorbing topic of the day, Mr. Wingate did not rise or turn his face in that direction, but simply bid the visitor enter. The latch was timidly turned, followed by light footsteps, accompanied by the rustle of skirts, and before he could turn his head to see who this unexpected visitor might be, the figure had glided up to his chair and two soft hands were pressed over his eyes. "Now, just guess who it is. I will not release my hold until you do," was the soft command. "Now, as I was expecting only politicians to-night and, of course, no visitor in petticoats, I should be excused from trying to guess who you are on these grounds," answered Mr. Wingate, trying to force the hands which were firmly pressing down upon his eyes. "In such times as these you are likely to see even the women in the forefront in the fray, and doing even more than merely making calls," returned the visitor, releasing her hold and stepping in front of Mr. Wingate. "Why, Molly Pierrepont! What brings you here?" exclaimed Mr. Wingate, rising and staring at his visitor, who unceremoniously sank into a chair. "I am somewhat interested in this campaign myself—astonishing intelligence I know," calmly replied the visitor; "yet I am going to astonish you more by saying that I have information to impart to the chairman of the Executive Committee that will be of great value to him in conducting this campaign." Molly's calm demeanor, so unlike a woman of her disposition and temperament, struck Mr. Wingate somewhat humorously. Molly Pierrepont, having chosen a life of shame that she might—if only clandestinely—associate with and enjoy the favors of the men of the white race, would be the last person of the race to take a stand in its defense to give aid to the Negro in his combat with the white man, politically or otherwise. Women of Molly's stamp, possessing no race pride, had never been race defenders, so it was plausible for Mr. Wingate to feel that the woman was jesting, or that she was sent by his enemies into his camp as a spy. "In our present dilemma the Republican Committee stands much in need of information and advice," said Mr. Wingate, slowly. "Things are assuming quite a serious aspect; you are in position to get a good deal of information as to the maneuvers of the enemy. But, my dear girl, if you are here to aid us, have you counted the cost?" Mr. Wingate knew that Molly Pierrepont was the mistress of one of Wilmington's best citizens, a bitter Democrat, and a reputed leader of the White Supremacy League; that she was well cared for, that her gowns, etc., equaled in quality and construction those of her paramour's wife, and, considering her love for such ease and luxury, to come out and reveal the doings, and openly denounce the schemes of the party of her paramour, was a sacrifice that a woman of her character was not generally ready to make—in fact, such thoughts did not find lodgment in her brain. In the flattering embrace of the Philistine all noble aspirations ordinarily become extinct. Mr. Wingate's interrogation was followed by a brief pause, which caused Molly to move uneasily in her chair. "I see, Silas Wingate, that you question my sincerity," she said, slowly. "I can't blame you, though. It is perfectly natural for such as I to be arrayed with the whites or be neutral, stifling all thoughts of being of service to my wronged people, because my life belies it. But I am sincere, Silas; believe me," and Molly reached over and laid her hand upon the arm of Mr. Wingate, whose look betrayed his incredulity. "In spite of the lowliness of my birth, and the life I have chosen, some good remains in me." She went on: "My fair complexion and life of ease have not made me forget that I am identified with the oppressed and despised." "Thank God! thank God!" said Mr. Wingate, his face brightening. "There is a ring of sincerity in your voice, my dear, that banishes doubt." "I come to-night to warn you, Silas," continued Molly. "Before many moons Wilmington will be the scene of a bloody race war. Ben Hartright is my medium of information. He came to my house last evening, and, imbued with the feeling that I was in sympathy with the white element, revealed to me the dastardly plot in all its blood-curdling details." Mr. Wingate trembled and shook like an aspen leaf as Molly named the men and women singled out as victims. "These people have ample time now to make good their escape. Tell them, Silas, that the best whites are in this move, and they are determined to carry it to the bitter end, and their only safety is in flight. Ben tells me that the plans are well laid, that men will be here to assist in the dirty work from as far South as Texas. I listened patiently to Hartright's recital and then denounced him and his cohorts as infamous cowards!" "Did you dare?" exclaimed Mr. Wingate, gazing eagerly into Molly's face. "I drove him from my presence." Mr. Wingate drew nigh and laid his hand caressingly upon Molly's head. "You have risked much," he said, eagerly. "I fully realize that," returned Molly. "When he had left me, what I had said and done came home with its full force, but, like Jephthah, I had sworn, and will not go back; and here now, as I did then, I swear with uplifted hand to renounce forever my life of shame, and will be no longer a Magdalene!" "Angels record thy vow in heaven," said Mr. Wingate. "You can, with God's help, be true to your vow, for Magdalene, who became one of the faithful, was a greater sinner than you, Molly." "But Magdalene perhaps never threw away the opportunities for good that I have," answered Molly, who had arisen and begun to pace the floor. "Magdalene is not charged with having spurned the love and sent to a premature grave a man who offered to honor and protect her through life." "Don't brood over the past, Molly," said Mr. Wingate, a grass-covered mound in Pine Forest Cemetery rising before him. "Let the dead past be gone." "I will not! I cannot!" said Molly, pausing. "The past will spur me to higher aims in the future. I never can forget the time that Harold came to make a last plea to me to be his wife, expressing his willingness to make every sacrifice for my happiness. He had bright hopes of success in his profession. Yet I spurned his offer to live a life of shame with a white man. You know he went to Macon afterwards, and there as a physician built up quite a lucrative practice. He wrote me often; he spoke of his prosperity and his unhappiness without me to share it. He could not forget me. I tried to forget him by plunging deeper into sin. It's some three years ago now since the last letter came, in which he said, 'I am dying! dying! dying for you!' I tried to make light of it as perhaps merely a jest. But, Silas, you know that it's quite two years now since they buried the heart which I had broken in Pine Forest Cemetery. Harold! Harold! If I could only call you back with those sunny days of innocence. No one knows but God what anguish I have suffered since you left me. But I was unworthy of you, Harold, unworthy!" The woman had bowed her head upon the desk and was sobbing convulsively. "Oh, that you could come back to me, Harold! Harold, tender and true. How gladly would I accept your offer now, Harold. You would forgive me, unworthy me." Her voice sank into an incoherent murmur. Mr. Wingate was deeply moved. He arose and bent over her.

"Courage, my child, courage," he whispered, soothingly. "You have just started out to do the noblest work of your life. There are many years before you to live nobly and amend for the past."

"'Up, faint heart, up! Immortal life Is lodged within thy frame. Then let no recreant tho't or deed Divert thy upward aim.

Shall earth's brief ills appall the brave? Shall manly hearts despond? Up, faint heart, up! The blackest cloud But veils the heavens beyond.'"

These inspired lines caused Molly to raise her head. "I must command myself," she said, firmly, "for what I have to do requires courage." She arose and laid her hand caressingly upon Mr. Wingate's shoulder. "You will warn them, won't you, Silas? Keep the men from the polls. Surrender everything. Better to lose a vote than lose a life." She moved toward the door, Mr. Wingate following. Laying her hand upon the knob, she paused and faced him. "Coming events cast their shadows before," she said. "I fear that our days of freedom are at an end in Wilmington. Good night," and Molly Pierrepont was gone. "Poor girl, poor girl," said Mr. Wingate, as he locked the door. "She might have been a queen, but, like the base Judean, she threw a pearl away richer than all her tribe.

"'Of all the sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'

"Harold Carlyle's youthful life was blighted because he could not give up this woman who was unworthy of him. But at last repentance has come. God forgive her."



CHAPTER VIII.

Dr. Jose.

I will read for your consideration this evening Joshua, tenth chapter, eighth and tenth verses, which are as follows:

"And the Lord said unto Joshua, fear them not, for I have delivered them into thine hand. There shall not a man of them stand before thee.

"And the Lord discomfited them before Israel and slew them with great slaughter at Gibeon and chased them along the way that goeth up to Beth-horon and smote them to Azekah and unto Makkedah."

Thus read the pastor of one of Wilmington's Presbyterian churches at the beginning of one of the weekly prayer meetings. "Brethren," said he, "I have chosen these two verses of Scripture this evening because my mind is as, I believe, yours are—weighted down by the situation that confronts the white people of this city. No doubt all of you would like to see white man's government permanently restored, although you are most of you averse to resorting to physical force to accomplish that end. While most all Biblical students believe and teach that God told Joshua to destroy these Amorites, Canaanites and Jebusites because of their wickedness, I go further and say that they were to be destroyed because they were the black descendants of Ham, the accursed son of Noah. Joshua was commanded to utterly destroy them or put them under subjection according to God's word—'Cursed be Canaan, servant of servants shall he be.' The Jew in this instance represented Shem, the blessed son, who was to triumph over Ham and keep him forever in subjection. God has blackened with his curse the descendants of this cursed son of Noah that Shem and Japheth may ever know who the cursed of God is. You who are hesitating in doubt as whether it is right to use force to put this descendant of Ham in his rightful place—the place which God ordained that he should be—I counsel you to ponder over the passages of Scripture just read. The education of the Negro is giving him an advantage that justifies our apprehension. This, combined with accumulated wealth, make him a subject for grave and careful consideration. We are in a condition of subjection under Negro rule and domination that justifies the taking of the sword. We are God's chosen people, the banner carriers of civilization. We civilized the Negro and set him free, and it's our right to return him, if necessary, to his former condition of servitude.

"The meeting is now open for prayer, praise and exhortation." Saying this, Dr. Jose took his seat.

When the country was wrought up over the question of slavery it was the Presbyterian Church South that drafted resolutions declaring that "Slavery is a divine institution." If a divine institution, then the destruction of that institution was wrong, and the champions of freedom and the brotherhood of man open violators of divine law. If it is the will of God that the dusky children of Ham are to ever serve their brethren and ever to be reminded of their inferiority, then why not the professing Christian, the minister of the Gospel, join in the work of carrying out God's decree?

The victory of Union guns at Fort Fisher brought many carpet-baggers to Wilmington, many of them thrifty men of enterprise, who willingly assisted their brethren to restore life to that devastated town. Quite a goodly number of these good people worshipped God in Wilmington's Presbyterian Church. Therefore, among these cool and thoughtful Northerners the ministers' exhortation to retort to the shotgun was not very favorably commented upon at that meeting. But this did not in the least dampen the ardor of this hot-blooded Virginian. He went home, and instead of kneeling, as usual, by his bedside to pray, he knelt in his study. "Lord, we are sorely tried; the enemies of thy chosen people are waxing stronger and stronger. Thou art a God of battle. Thou didst in days of old lead thy children to victory over the enemies. Shall we this day rise in our might? Shall we smite with the sword?" There are many instances recorded where men strong in faith have heard the voice of God assuring them of His divine approval, that He was ready to lead them to victory. But Dr. Jose heard no voice, felt no divine presence near him. He arose, took his Bible and turned again to the wars of Joshua and the terrible triumphs of Jehovah. Mrs. Jose, seeing that her husband lingered longer than usual in his study that night, glided softly in to see what so absorbed his attention. "Why do you sit up so late to-night, my dear?" she asked, softly, laying a hand gently upon her husband's shoulders. "I am exceedingly troubled to-night, Mary, darling," returned the minister. "This question of Negro Domination is troubling us. We are about to the point of desperation. Negroes are becoming so bold that our white angels are no longer safe on our streets. We have made up our minds to arm ourselves and shake off the yoke." Mrs. Jose gently closed the book and laid her hand caressingly upon her husband's head. "Cease to ponder over and keep before you the old Scripture, with its martial spirit. Remember Christ and the doctrine He came to teach. He came to teach the new commandment, to heal the broken hearted, to release the captives. 'Verily, brethren, avenge not yourselves, for it is written Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' What would Jesus do under such circumstances? His was the spirit of love. He would not break the bruised reed nor quench the smoking flax. Come away, darling, and leave the regulation of everything to God." "But Mary," persisted the minister, "you don't understand the situation. We, the men of Wilmington, see utter ruin in store for us unless something is done to check the Negro. Our women can scarcely venture out alone after dark, so ugly and bold has he become under our lenient treatment." "This is all imaginary, my dear," interrupted Mrs. Jose. "I am afraid that you have allowed yourself to be influenced by these designing politicians, whose desire to gain power has stifled their love for truth. Rev. Dr. Jose is a Christian. Dr. Jose is a minister of the Gospel, who should not be enticed by sinners into evil. It matters not how justifiable the deed may seem, you, my darling, cannot afford to lend either hand or voice in this contemplated work. He that taketh the sword shall perish by the sword.' Our homes, our firesides, our women are perfectly safe. The only uneasy ones among us are those who want offices. Come away, my darling; leave wickedness for the wicked to do; you cannot afford to take a hand in it." Mrs. Jose took her husband by the hand and gently led him to his bedchamber. How much happier man would be if in such trying periods of life he'd heed the counsel of the angel of his bosom. But those who read the account of the massacre of November, 1898, learned that among that body of men, who, armed to the teeth, marched to Dry Pond on that fatal morning was a minister of the Gospel. Some papers published the text which that minister of the Gospel took to preach from the Sunday following, "We have taken a city," etc.

But those hands which turned the leaves of the sacred word were crimson with the blood of the defenseless. "And Pilate took a basin of water and washed his hands before the multitude." But would we suppose that Pilate washed his hands only once? Doubtless far into the night, when the faint shouts of triumph from the enemies of God resounded through that ancient city, Pilate arose from his bed and washed his hands again, but the blood stains were still there. The court scene appears. The cry of the Pharisees rings in his ears, the humble Nazarene stands bound before him, then Calvary, with the three ghastly instruments of death upon its brow, looms up. "Out, damned spot! will these hands never be clean?" The blood stains upon his hands have doubtless worried Dr. Jose somewhat, and all the others who joined with him in the work of carnage. But the blood stains are on their hands still, and the groans and wails of innocents must ever ring in their ears. "It was a knavish piece of work." "Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph."—II Samuel, i, 20.



CHAPTER IX.

George Howe.

From the fall of Fort Fisher and political upheavals of the Reconstruction period to the awful tragedy of 1898, with the exception of a few tragic scenes, Wilmington had been the theatre of one continuous comedy, performed by gifted players, whose names and faces will ever remain indelibly fixed in the memory. Phillis, "State Mary" Tinny, George Howe, Uncle Abram, Bill Dabney, "Uncle Billy" pass over the stage before me as I write. But of those who unwittingly struggled for the foremost rank in the line of fun-making, George Howe must be the acknowledged star.

Unlike others of the same school, whose minds had become unbalanced by overwork, worry or disease, George Howe was born a fool. Being a child of honorable and respectable parentage, the playmates with whom he associated in his early youth were of that class who regarded his imbecility as a terrible affliction, were charitable and kind, never allowing others to impose upon this simple fellow, who was incapable of taking his own part. But as George Howe advanced in years he gradually threw off his stupidity, and although he never outgrew the habit of keeping his mouth open, he ceased to slobber, and acquired the habit of looking respectable. He entered school and became quite proficient in one branch of study in particular—he was an excellent reader, with a wonderfully retentive memory. But he never outgrew his simple-mindedness, and appellation of "Fool" always justly clung to him, for, bright as he seemed to be upon many things, he was incapable of applying his knowledge to his own advantage. George Howe kept abreast with the doings of the times, especially in the political and religious world, and these two subjects he was always ready to discuss. Was there a public meeting called, religious, political or otherwise, George Howe would be there, often in some conspicuous place, with wide-open mouth and staring eyes, drinking in all that was said or done.

It mattered not how many were held in a single day or night, George Howe would spend sufficient time at all of them to tell something of what took place. For, with a jewsharp as his sole companion, George could cover more ground in a single day or night than any other inhabitant of Wilmington, keeping time to its discordant twanks. During political campaigns, before the press of the city could announce to its readers the result of the contest, George Howe could be heard howling the news through the streets of Wilmington. "Oh-o-o, look er here, every bod-e-e-e! New York, New Jerseee, Dilewar hev gone Dimocratic by big majoritees. Great Dimocratic gains throughout ther country." When, in 1884, the Democratic party astonished the country and itself by electing Grover Cleveland to the Presidency by a safe majority, it was George Howe who led that host of elated Democrats down Front street and toward the Custom House on the evening of election day to inform Republican officeholders that at length their time had come to give place for others. Being generally shunned by those of his own race, George Howe cherished quite a liking for colored people, and could be very frequently found among them in their religious meetings. There was something in the Negroes' mode of worship that seemed to fascinate him, especially the saints of color who worshipped in old Ebenezer Church, in South Seventh street. When that most eloquent of pulpit orators, the Rev. William H. Banks, led his hosts to Cape Fear River's brink, and drew 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 marching song:

"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 flowed from the mouth of that great divine. No Negro woman or man could lisp the name of "Brother Banks" with sweeter accent than George Howe, and no one could sing his praises more earnestly. Who can forget those early days of revivals and religious enthusiasm in Wilmington, and the three great divines who filled the three great pulpits from which the bread of life was given to hungry multitudes. There was Lavender in "Christian Chapel," Slubie in St. Stephen, and, more powerful and influential than either of these, was William H. Banks, the pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church. Even years after Slubie and Lavender had been called to other fields, it was George Howe's delight to stand upon the street corner opposite the residence of the Rev. Banks and sing the parody to that famous old song that electrified and filled with the spirit the revival meetings 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 still lives. Banks was the last to go, and when that coffined clay was being borne from old Ebenezer, where for sixteen years he had labored, George Howe was one of that multitude of bleeding hearts who followed his precious bones to the burying ground. He stood and looked on until the last spadeful of earth was thrown upon the coffin and the mound shaped above it. After the death of the Rev. Banks George Howe became very much attached to his eldest daughter, Mary Elizabeth, and he could often be seen leisurely strolling down Seventh street in the direction of Banks' residence, playing his jewsharp and singing the praises of "Sister Mary Lizzie" 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 his mouth, roll his eyes and make all kinds of comical expressions. "Sister Mary Lizzie, I'm jus' out er jail-l-l, I'm full er lice-e-e; but jus' as soon as I take er bath I'm comin' back to see you-u-u, for I have news-s-s-s to tell you-u-u." The young lady would often have to run in and lock her doors when she'd see this harmless nuisance approaching.

George Howe was one of the few that listened to the Colonel and Teck Pervis in the Wigwam on this particular night in October. Even when the ghastly plans of the murderous clan were being discussed, no one thought of excluding the town fool, who stood gaping around taking it all in. Schults, the German, was arranging things in and about his well-filled and well-patronized grocery store on Castle street on the following morning, when George Howe entered. Grabbing a handful of dried apples from a tray which sat upon the counter, he stuffed them into his mouth, threw his long legs across a flour barrel and momentarily watched the German 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 clear his throat for conversation.

"Oudt! oudt weer?" asked Schults, pausing with a tray of onions in his hands. "To the meetin' in the Wigwam," answered George. "They done er powerful lot er plannin' there las' night. The Dimocrats mean business this time. They say they'll carry the election this time or kill every Nigger in the district. An' white men who are lukewarm, who don't come out an' take er stan' with white men will share Niggers' fate. They got the 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 tray of onions and was eyeing George from behind the showcase. "What did you say boudt black lisdt, Gheorge?" "I say they read your name on the black list last night, an' that means they are goin' ter kill yer, for their air determin' ter kill everything in the way of white supremacy. I don't want ter skeer you, Schults; I jes' wan' ter warn you. You hain't tended eny of their meetings, and they conclude you air agin them. An' then you wouldn't discharge your Nigger." Schults' eyes flashed. He locked his hands 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 mid Schults. Before I vould hep dem ter harm dese kullod peeples py dams I suffers 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 Schults on der sthreets. Who helbs Schults den? Kullud peeples! An' befoe I rais' mine hand 'gin dem I suffer det. Let dem kum, kum an' git Schults when 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 gintz deir kullud frients who thrade mit dem an' keeps dem from starvin' when dese rich bocra thry ter dhrive dem frum des country deserbe de cuss ov Almighty Got! An' you damn po bocras dat allows yo'uselfs ter be make fools mit you'selfs fer broke down risterchrats ter dhrive kullud peeples frum dey homes deserfs efry one eff you' ter be kilt." George Howe's under jaw dropped. He stared at Schults in astonishment, for he did not expect to witness such a show of bravery on the part of this quiet German grocer. "I didn't mean to insult you, Schults," said he, reaching over and helping himself from a barrel of apples which stood close by. "I jes thought I'd warn you." "Now, dere's dat Gheorge Bohn," continued Schults, with apparent inattention to what George had said. "I see his nhame in der bapers as one uv der leaders in dis supremacy humbug. Who makes Bohn whadt he is on Dry Pon'? Who makes Gheorge Bohn whad he is in dis counthry? Dem very peeples who he is now thrin' ter kill. Dem broke down ristercrats, sich as Moss an' odders, cares no more fer sich as him den dey do fur de grass neat der feets. When dey gits demselfs in office dem Dutchmen kin go, po bocras kin go, dey cares noddings fur yo when dey wus rich. Now dey air po as Job's turkey, dey wants us Dutchmans an po bocras to dhrive oud our meat an' bread so dey kin demselfs git fat at de public crib. But I tells you dis: Schults will haft nodding to do mit dem. I stays in mine house, mine house is mine castle, and ef dey wants me let dem cum to mine house, by dams I fills dem full uv lead; yo kin put dat in yo pipe and shmoke id." George Howe arose, yawned, then slowly walked to the door, turned, dropped his under jaw and stared again at Schults, who had resumed his work about the store. "Didn't mean ter hurt yer feelings, Schults, but ter put yer on yer giard, that unless you jine em dey air goin' ter do yo." George stepped out upon the walk, drew forth his jewsharp and sauntered up the street, twanking upon it as he went.

The German to the Southern Negro has been and is what the Jew is to the Russian peasant—the storekeeper, the barterer. The German citizen has never been a manufacturer or a farmer; he is in no business that gives extensive employment to wage earners. But, as a corner grocer, he lays for the Negro as he goes to and from his toil, and, with cheap wares and bad whisky, he grows fat upon his unwary customer. The German usually comes to this country poor, enters small towns, and, by the aid of other older residents of his nation who have already grown prosperous, he goes into business on a small scale—grocery business as a rule. He begins in a one-story structure, one-half devoted to business, while in the other he lives. These little stores were never without their indispensable liquor departments, where the trader was invited to refresh himself after paying his weekly grocery bill.

Before the war the South's best people had no use for the German emigrant, and did everything in their power to discourage his living among them. If the slave returned home to his master under the influence of liquor, the master in many instances went and cowhided the seller. The flogging of the Negro did not keep him from returning to the German to trade, and the German prospered, and to-day is among the foremost property owners in the South. I do not exaggerate when I say that the German's wealth has come to him solely through Negro patronage; not even to-day does the people known as the best people trade with Germans.

The Bohns—Joseph, Charles, George and William—coming into Wilmington in the seventies, had lived principally and conducted business in that section of the old city known as Dry Pond, and, like the most of their kind, have accumulated their wealth from the patronage of the colored people, among whom they had ever lived. This makes the crime of George Bohn appear the more atrocious and cowardly. George joined the White Supremacy League during the uprising in Wilmington, and was one of its most active members. There was a certain colored citizen who knew of Bohn's secret relations to the movement which disgraced the city. This man gave the information to the people of his race who were patronizing Bohn, and entreated them not to support such an ingrate. When the excitement was at its height, when Red Shirts and Rough Riders were terrorizing the city, a band of poor whites, headed by George Bohn, sought this colored man's residence, battered down the door, fired several bullets into the bed where the man and his wife lay, the latter in a precarious condition. The house was riddled with shots; they were compelled to get out and leave their own home, to which they have not as yet been permitted to return. Bohn, after the deed was done, sneaked back to his home, and when the horrible crime was reported, tried to prove an alibi. But George Bohn is the guilty man, and George Bohn shall not escape! The hand of Justice shall point him out. His name shall go down 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 little cities on the American continent.



CHAPTER X.

Judas Iscariot.

When the Executive Committee, in response to Mr. Wingate's call, met in his office the following evening, the Governor's letter was read to them, and Molly Pierrepont's story repeated. Plans of action were mapped out, but not without some bitter attacks upon the enemy. Mr. Wingate's proposal to surrender for the sake of averting bloodshed, if possible, however, prevailed. The bitter language and threats made by hotheads would, if they reached the ears of whites, only add fuel to the fire already burning; so the members were cautioned by the chairman to give to the enemy no opportunity. But even among the twelve chosen of God there was a traitor, and since that memorable time nearly every band of brothers has had its Judas ready at any time of trouble to sacrifice others to save himself, or betray them for reward. Was there a Judas on the Republican Executive Committee of New Hanover county? Yes!

In the days of slavery there existed in the South a kind of Negro known as the "Good Nigger" or "White folks Nigger," who was a stubborn believer in his own inferiority and the righteousness of his enslavement. He sneaked around, grinned his way into the confidence of other slaves, then stole away and told their secrets. Were there any plots being concocted to rise up and strike a blow for liberty, the good nigger would inevitably be there to join in the shaping of plans, only to go out and hang his fellow-conspirators.

The San Domingons in their struggle for liberty found this good nigger a most formidable barrier, and those who are familiar with the history of that bloody struggle know just how heart-sickening was the taking off of this creature wherever found. In many instances they cut off his toes, his fingers, his ears, his nose, stuffed pieces of these extremities into his mouth, and left him to die a slow death. The emancipation and the consequent opportunities for intellectual advancement have not changed this good nigger, for in numerous instances you will find him well educated, and often swaying quite an influence in a community. But he is generally an ignorant, shiftless fellow, forever lamenting about his freedom, flaying the Yankees for taking him away from his master, who took care of him. He still likes to sit around on the back steps of the whites' residences to talk about good old days when he was free from the responsibility of "keerin' fer mase'f." Or, in higher walks of life, from pulpit and public rostrum, he's bewailing the shortcomings of his own people and magnifying the virtues of the whites. He stands among the ashes of the victims of a mob's fury to abuse the Negro for having been killed, and to praise the whites for the crime.

George R. Shaw, a prominent negro, writes a card to the public, in which he says:

"One reason why such crimes are committed by negroes is that there is no discipline over negro children. From ten years up they are allowed to loaf about from place to place and with all kinds of characters. They have no moral restraints. Book learning in colleges dooms the negro to be fit for nothing. They think they cannot do manual labor. What my people need is an industrial, moral, common school training. Lynching does no good, and makes bad worse. The brute who will commit these crimes never sees a newspaper. Sam Hose and all such should die, but not at the hands of a mob. The negro must be taught to abhor crime from principle, not through fear. Let critics take this Sam Hose case home to themselves. If the same crime was to happen in my immediate vicinity most any of us would do very nearly like those Georgians did. If we did not lynch him we would hold the clothing of those that were doing the lynching."

Shortly after the burning of Sam Hose in Georgia, a good nigger, signing his name as Shaw sent to a certain Southern paper an article commending the action of the mob, and expressing a willingness to have held their coats while the dastardly act was performed. Did this man know that Sam Hose committed the crime for which he suffered such a horrible death? Can men capable of committing such deeds as the burning and mutilating the body of this wretch be relied upon for truth? If Cranford was one of that mob of cowards who shot to death those manacled men at Palmetto, the knocking out of his brains would have made a man of another race a hero.

Calvin Sauls, who had heretofore been a kind of an independent, having at various times voted with Democrats, Populists, Green-backers and Republicans, had shown a disposition to be earnestly interested in Republican success in the campaign of 1898. Running here and there, attending primaries and committee meetings, full of information as to the movements of the enemy, he had worked his way into the confidence of these unwary colored politicians, who considered him an earnest worker for the cause of Republicanism, so much so that he had been admitted into the headquarters of the Executive Committee on that evening. "And Judas, having received the sop, went immediately out, and it was night." No one noticed Calvin Sauls on that night, as he, taking the advantage of a moment of exciting debate, slipped out into the darkness, and made his way into the Democratic headquarters. At the corner of Fourth and Chestnut streets a dark figure stepped out from the darkness and confronted him. "Hello dar, Calvin Sauls!" said a gruff voice. "Where is you sneakin' ter? You got er few uv us fool, but not all. Goin' down ter tell wa't you foun' out at de committee meet'n, eh?" "O, g'wan way f'm me, man; I got dese white fo'ks bizness ter ten' ter." The man seized Sauls and held on to him. "Look er here, some women waited at de corner of Red Cross an' Fourth street to beat yo' las' night." "Wa' fer?" asked Sauls, trying to free himself from the man's grasp. "Fur trying ter suade dey dauters down ter dat Fayette Club for dem white mens." "It's er no sich ting!" "You lie, you louse!" exclaimed the man, loosening his hold, and shoving Sauls nearly off the sidewalk. Sauls, recovering, staggered on his way.

Ben Hartright leaned against a post on the veranda of the Democratic Club's meeting place when Calvin Sauls came up. "Why hello, Calvin, is that you?" "Yes, sah, Marse Ben," returned the Negro. "I comin' ter make ma report." Ben Hartright intercepted Sauls as he placed his foot upon the door sill and drew him aside. "Say, Calvin, I saw you talking to a rather striking looking colored girl the other day; who is she? Can't you fix it so I can get an interview?" "Uh, uh," said Sauls, shaking his head. "Dat's Bob Sims' gal; she jes from college, an' she's all right now, I tell yer. You know dem Simses is top er de pot Niggers." "That's the kind I always play for, Calvin; you know me," answered Ben. "Gentlemen must always have the best, ding it all! I though you were sufficiently well bred to know that the best of everything in this world is for white people." "Dat's so," said Sauls, "but yo member dat time Bob Sims cum nie beat'n dat white man head off bout insult'n dat tudder gal er his. I feared mon." "That's all right, Calvin; I'll stand by you. Molly's gone back on me now; I'm afraid she's converted and joined the sanctified band. By thunder, she defied me the other night." "Yes, sah, an' she's in yernes', too; she's on de warpath fur true. I got er heap ter report ter night, so I see you later on dat udder matter." And Sauls pushed past Hartright and made his way into the club room.



CHAPTER XI.

Uncle Guy.

On looking over the list of Wilmingtons' personages who have been instrumental in moulding its character and making it one of the most desirable places on earth, and the memory of whose face and name revive the sweetest recollections of early youth in the dear old town, the name and face of Uncle Guy comes most vividly before me.

In ante-bellum days in the South, one week in all the year was given by the master to the slave—a week of absolute freedom, in which the Negro, unrestrained, danced and frolicked and otherwise amused himself to his heart's content. This season of freedom commenced with the dawn of Christmas, and lasted until the beginning of the New Year. The slave heard not the story of the Christ, of the wise men, or the shepherds of Bethlehem; he saw no Christmas tree brilliant with tapers even in the home of his master. For, unlike Christmas observances in the North, full of solemnity and historic significance, the Southern Christmas was and is still a kind of Mardi Gras festival, ending with the dawn of the New Year. Early on each Christmas morning the slaves, old and young, little and big, gathered at the door of the "Big House" to greet their master, who gave each in turn his Christmas "dram," and then, like a kennel is opened and pent-up hounds are bidden to scamper away, the slaves were let go to enjoy themselves to their heart's content, and were summoned no more to the field before the dawn of the New Year. While in the rural districts the frolics and kindred pleasures were the chief pastimes, in the cities and towns the celebrations were more elaborate. In gaudy regalia the "Hog Eye" danced for the general amusement, and the Cooner in his rags "showed his motions." For many years before the war Uncle Guy was the star performer at these functions in Wilmington. With whip in hand, he danced and pranced, and in sport flogged children who had been naughty during the year. But to us, who were youngsters in the seventies, Uncle Guy is most vividly remembered as a musician—a clarionet soloist—a member of the Shoo Fly Band, whose martial music will ever ring in the ear of memory.

The fall of Fort Fisher added many a new face and character to Wilmington life. Negroes who had in the conflict just closed learned of the art of war, added impetus to and stimulated the old city's martial spirit and love of gaudy display. And those who through the same agency had learned in the military bands and drum corps the art of music were indispensable adjuvants in elevating her lowly inhabitants. But he who came with the knowledge of music had a much wider field for usefulness before him; for the Negroes' love for music is stronger than love for war. Frank Johnson, who had the credit of organizing the Shoo Fly Band, had not tasted of war, but he and Uncle Guy had been "orchestra" musicians before the war. And now, as the increase of talent in Wilmington opened a wider field, the band was organized. It was called Frank Johnson's Band at first, but in after years more familiarly known as the "Shoo Fly." The name is a small matter, however; music was the chief thing. And how that band could play it! There was a ring in that music that electrified the soul and filled the limbs with renewed vigor.

There was Dick Stove with his trombone, Henry Anderson with his bass, Making music swift as raindrops in a race. There was Guy Wright with his clarionet, Henry Adams with his B, And the music made the youngsters dance with glee. There was Johnson, he play'd second, Who, when horn-blowing was dull, Could play a fiddle tempting to the soul. At Hilton, Paddy's Hollow, at the Oaks, on Kidder's Hill, Where good and bad alike could dance their fill. Then there was Jim, the drummer, Who could beat a drum like Jim? Oh! we little ones were awful proud of him. How nicely he could keep the time. "Shoo Fly, don't bother me!" For I'm a member of old Comp'ny D. It was down old Seventh to Market, And through Market down to Third. Playin' Molly Darlin', sweetes' ever heard; From thence up Third to Castle, while "Up in a Balloon" Made us wish to pay a visit to the moon. Then we had no Gen'l Jacksons Dressed in gol' lace all for show, Then such hifullutin notions didn't go. It was music! Sweetes' music! "Darlin', I am growin' old," Will live, forever live within the soul.

The old Shoo Fly Band is a thing of the past; no more shall we listen to its inspiring music, for the majority of its members have crossed the melancholy flood. The last time that they appeared on the streets of Wilmington only a sextet remained. Dick Stove's trombone horn had been curtailed in order to hide the marks of decay upon its bell. They gallantly marched up Market street, and with a dismal, yet not discordant blast, turned into Fourth, en route to Hilton. I think that Uncle Guy is the only remaining one of that gallant few living in Wilmington to-day, and the friends of those who departed this life in later years followed their bodies to the grave keeping step to the sad wail of his lone clarionet. Jim Richardson, Dick Stove, Johnson, Adams, Anderson—I wonder, does he think of them now, tenderly, emotionally and with a longing to join them on the other side. I wonder if they all cluster about him when in his lonely hours he consoles himself with his clarionet. For many years Uncle Guy has been Wilmington's chief musician. Bands magnificent in equipment and rich in talent have been organized, to flourish for a few years only. But Uncle Guy's trio of clarionet and drums has withstood the test of time; yea, they were indispensable for base ball advertisement and kindred amusements, heading both civic and military processions, white and black, in their outings and celebrations, or with bowed head and thoughtful countenance he has led the march to the grave. As I recollect Uncle Guy, he was the embodiment of neatness, feminine in build—it seemed that nature intended to form a woman instead of a man. Like a woman, he plaited his hair and drew it down behind his ears. His hands and feet were small, his fingers tapering; his face was black, his eyes small, his lips and nose thin, his voice fine, but harsh, and he slightly stooped or bent forward as he walked. There is poetry in every move of his bent figure as he slowly walks down the street on this autumn morning. As we gaze upon him strolling feebly along, we involuntarily sigh for the days when the heart was young. May Day, with its buds and blossoms, Christmastide, full of bright anticipations, come trooping up the misty way. We are following the old band; listen to the music! How enchanting!

"Up in a balloon, boys, up in a balloon, Where the little stars are sailing round the moon; Up in a balloon, to pay a visit to the moon, All among the little stars sailing round the moon."

We are making water-mills in the brooks; we are swinging our sweethearts; we feel again the heart throbs of early youth when we dared the first caress.

"Shoo fly, don't bother me! For I belong to Company D."

* * * * *

It is Monday morning—the washwoman's day of preparation; when the clothes are brought in, the shopping attended to; when the women congregate on the street corners, sit upon their baskets and bundles or lean against the fences to discuss the doings of the Sunday just past—what the preacher said and what the neighbors wore, etc. Three women stood upon the corner toward which Uncle Guy was tending. But they were not talking about texts and fashions. Uncle Guy heard the following as he drew nigh: "Bu'n um! Bu'n um! Good fer nuthin' broke down ristercrats an' po' white trash. Ef de men kayn't git gun we kin git karsene an' match an' we'll hab um wahkin' de street in dere nite gown." Judge Morse passed by, turned his head to catch as much as possible of what was being spoken. "Negro like," he said, as he went on his way. "They are all talk. I was raised among them, heard them talk before, but it amounted to nothing. I'm against any scheme to do them harm, for there's no harm in them. This Negro domination talk is all bosh."

Uncle Guy stepped to one side and humbly saluted Judge Morse as he passed, then bore down upon the women who were vigorously discussing the all-absorbing topic. The old man walked out to the edge of the sidewalk, squinted his eyes and came slowly up to where the women stood, comically pointing his index finger at them: "Look yer," said he, "yuna ta'k too much!" raising his voice. "Yuna mouts g'wine ter git yuna inter trouble; hear me? Did yuna see Jedge Morse when he go by? Did yuna see 'im stop ter listen at you? Le' me tell yuna sumthin' right good." The old man shook his finger several seconds before proceeding. "Dese white fo'kes is onter you, dey got de road all map out. Dey no ebry move yuna Nigger makin'. How dey no it? How dey no it, I say?" Another long finger shake. "Yuna Nigger uman tell um, yuna runnin' yuna tongue in de kitchen, yuna runnin' yer tongue in de street. Now, instid ov de bocra bein' in de street in dey nite gown, yuna gwine ter be thar wid nuttin' on. Don't you no dat we ain't bin able ter by er gun er ounce powder in munts, an' de bocra got cannon an ebry ting. See how he'pliss yer is? Now yuna go home, an' quit so much ta'k. Keep cool fer dese bocra pisen." Uncle Guy walked slowly on and the women dispersed. Those who read the newspaper accounts of that terrible massacre know full well just how true was the prophecy of this old citizen. Doubtless he looks back over it now as a catastrophe beyond his expectations or dreams.



CHAPTER XII.

The Massacre.

The five days prior to the massacre Wilmington was the scene of turmoil, of bickerings between the factions in the political struggle; "Red Shirts" and "Rough Riders" had paraded, and for two or three days Captain Keen had been displaying his gatling gun, testing its efficiency as a deadly weapon before the Negroes.

All of these demonstrations had taken place to convince the Negro that to try to exercise his right as an elector would have a disastrous result. Upon the conservative and peace-loving these things had the desired effect. But the bolder ones showed a rugged front, and on election day hung about the polls and insisted upon exercising their rights as citizens, and many clashings were the results. But the major portion of black electors stayed at home in hope that the bloodshed which hot-headed Democrats had been clamoring for as the only means of carrying the election might be averted. When the sun set upon the little city on the 9th of November there seemed to be a rift in the storm cloud that had for so many weeks hung over it, and the city had apparently resumed its wonted quiet. Far out on Dry Pond, in the old "Wigwam" a gang of men had met, who ere the sun should set upon another day would make Wilmington the scene of a tragedy astonishing to the State and to the nation. They had gathered to await the signal to begin; they had good rifles and a plentiful supply of ammunition, and their tethered steeds standing about the old "Wigwam" were pawing and neighing for the fray. The clock in the old Presbyterian Church on Orange street dismally tolled out the hour of three. Teck Pervis arose, yawned, walked up and then down the floor among the men who lay asleep with their weapons beside them. He made a deep, long, loud whistle; the men began to arise one after another, and soon the room was in a bustle. Some were washing faces, others sipping coffee as a forerunner of something hotter that would stimulate and give force to the spirit of deviltry that the work of the day required.

"Gentermen," said Teck Pervis, standing in the middle of the hall and holding a cup of coffee in his hand. "This is ther day thet ther white people of North Ca'liny is going ter show Mr. Nigger who's ter rule in Wilmin'ton, and there's ter be no drawin' back in this here bizness." Just then Dick Sands interrupted the leader by jumping out into the floor. He shuffled, he danced, kissed his gun, threw it into the air, and twirled it between his fingers like a born drum major. "Gentermen! hit's ther happies' day I seed sence way foe ther war. This is er day I bin er longin' fur and prayin' fur eber since ther ding Yanks cum and freed Mr. Nigger an' sot im on ekal footin' wid er white man. Laws er massy me'. Gentermen, I'se seed things happen in this here town sence Fo't Fisher fell thet wus enuf ter make eny dec'nt white man go inter his hole, an' pull his hole after 'im. Think uv it, gentermen, think uv it! Nigger lawyers, Nigger doctors, Nigger storekeepers, Nigger teachers, Nigger preachers, Niggers in fine houses—why, gentermen, jedgmint hain't fur off. Who was in ther Cote House thet day when thet Nigger White tole Colonel Buck he did'n no law? I wus thar, an' never wanter see sich ergin. Evrybody jis' opened his mouth an' stared fus at ther Nigger an' then at Colonel Buck. I felt thet ther merlineum wus at han', jus' waitin' ter see ther worl' turn een uppermos', an' go ter smash. Whoopalah! but we air goin' ter show um sump'n ter day, an' I jes wish thet Nigger White wus in Wilminton, fur these big Niggers'll be the firs' whose cases we'll try. Oh. Mr. Peaman, Oh, Mr. Bryant, Mr. Miller and all you uns er the Afrikin foe hundered! yo time is cum!" Dick Sands ended his harangue by turning a somersault. "I jes bet Dick Sands owes Tom Miller now," said a young chap who sat leaning against the wall with his legs spread out, laughing at Dick's Indian-like antics. "Yes," broke in another; "Tom's he'ped er lot er we po' devals; he's lent out thousans er dollars in all ter white men. Hits er shame ter do him!" "Yes, I mus admit that I owe Tom, but this is er time fur me ter jump bail," said Dick Sands. "I don't b'lieve thet er Nigger should hav es much money es Tom's got no way. Hit's ergin his helth. You know Niggers liv longer po' then they do when they air rich, bekase when they're po' they air in ther natruls, an air easier kept in their places. Hit's these foe hundred Niggers thet er raisin all ther trouble." ...

"Well, les git ter bizness, gentermen," broke in Teck Pervis "There's er lot befoe us ter do; Hell is ter begin at ther Cotton Press under Kurnel Moss, while Cap'n Keen'll kinder peramerlate er roun in ther middle er ther town with thet everlasting hell belcher uv his ter keep tings in check. Kurnel Wade, Tom Strong, Hines an uther big uns will sortie er roun' to'ards Dry Pond an blow up ther print'n press; thets ter draw ther Niggers out frum ther Cotton Press, so thet Kurnel Moss kin git at um, an mow em down. We uns will canter to'ards Brooklyn holdin' up Niggers as we go. Then we air to jine Hill, Sikes, Turpin, Isaacs an' others, an' raise hell in thet sexion. We uns air ter take no chances wid theese Wilminton darkies. I ain't ferget Seventy-six. Let nun git by without bein' sarched, uman er man. Shoot ef they resiss. Them's the Kurnel's orders." "Who is this man Isaacs?" asked a stranger from Georgia. "A Jew?" "Thet name's Jewey e'nuff fur yir, ain't it?" replied Dick Sands. "He is er Jew, an er good un, I tell yer. I never took much stock in er Jew, but this here un is er bo'n genterman, mo fit ter be Christun. No church in hard circumstance is ever turned away from Ole Mose; he he'ps em all, don't kere what they be, Jewish, Protestan er Caterlick, white er black. He throde his influence with ther Prohibitionists some years er go, an foute hard ter make er dry town outer Wilminton, but ther luvers uv ole ginger wair too strong an jes wallop'd ther life out er ther cold water uns. Ole Mose tuk hit cool, he died game, took his defeat like er bon fighter, bekase he'd done an fill'd his jugs an' stowd em up in de house afore ther fight begun, so he cu'd erford ter be beat. Takin er drink in public was ergin his creed. Nice ole Jew tho. Keeps er paint store down street, and deals in painters' merterial, but never buys er baral er biled oil wonc't in five yers; but, like de widder in the Scripter, he alers has er baral ter draw frum when er customer wants biled oil. Ole Mose is er fine man tho; jes go in his stoe ter buy sumthin, pat him on his back, and tell him he is er bo'n genterman, an thet you b'lieve he kin trace his geneology back ter Moses an ther prophets, and thet his great-granddaddy's daddy was ther only Jew thet sined ther Dicleration of Independance; thet he looks like Napolyan, and he'll jes go inter his office an fetch yer ther fines' segyar yer ever smoked an foller yer all over ther stoe. Nice ole Jew Isaacs is. Ter see him stridin down ter bizniss ov er mawnin, yer air reminded uv ther prophets uv ole jurneyin toards Jarusalum ter read ther law." "What is the feller's name?" soliloquized a sallow-looking chap who stood with his back to the stove scratching his head in perplexity. "Name?" returned Dick Sands. "Why is you bin er listenin ter me all this time an dunno who I'm talkin erbout?" "Excuse me," returned the sallow man; "I no powerful well who yer ware talking er bout, and I wus tryin ter think uv ther name uv thet chap who's bin er stump speakin up in Sampson." "Fisher?" "No-o-o, thet ain't ther name; he's ther feller thet's runnin fur Congress." "Belden!" exclaimed several in one breath. "Thet's ther feller. Look er here," continued the sallow man, "he tole we uns up there thet ef we cum an he'p ter make Wilminton er white man's town, we ware ter jes move inter ther Niggers' houses an own em; thet's what brung me here ter jine in this here fite." "Well, I tell yer fren," answered Dick, "we air goin ter make this er white man's town, thet's no lie, but ther ain't no shoity er bout ther other matter." "Boots an saddles." Further conversation was cut off. Every man flew to his horse and the host of murderers were off in a jiffy.

The city of Wilmington was startled by the loud report of a cannon on the morning of November 10th, 1898, which made her tremble as though shaken by an earthquake. Molly Pierrepont arose, hastened to the south window of her cottage and looked out; the clouds which hung low over Dry Pond were as brilliant in hue as though they hung over a lake of fire. "Tis fire!" exclaimed Molly; "the hell hounds are at their work. Ben Hartwright is keeping his word. But it's at the Cotton Press that the dance of death was to really begin, where hundreds of unsuspecting men are at work. The fire and the cannon shot are only a ruse to entice them out to be shot down. They must be warned! I must warn them!" She hastily dressed herself, locked her cottage and hurried away. Down Bladen street she hastened, turned into Fourth and across Bony bridge. At the corner of Campbell street she came upon a large body of armed men who were parleying with a negro who was making a futile protest against being searched. More than half a dozen of them thrust pistols into the helpless and frightened man's face, while two others rifled his pockets for firearms. All this Molly took in at a glance, as she hurried down Campbell street toward the press. At the corner of Third street she encountered five white boys, mere lads, who were proceeding up Campbell street. "Halt!" cried they all in one voice, and five pistols were thrust into her face. Molly paused, but with no show of embarrassment or dismay. "Come, hol up your hans!" commanded one of them, advancing a step nearer. "Hol on, fellers, we're not to search white ladies," said another, lowering his pistol, and attempting to push the others aside. "O, she's no lady; she's er nigger; I know her," returned the lad who gave the command. "Search her! tear her clothes from her! All er these nigger women are armed." The boy raised his hand to seize Molly, but was not quick enough. Molly stepped back; a quick raise of her foot sent the boy sprawling into the gutter. This completely demoralized his companions, who broke and ran. A gang of men coming up Third street inspired the boys to renew the attack upon the woman, who was hurrying on her way. "Nigger," cried the boy, raising himself up and scrambling from the gutter into which Molly's well-aimed kick had sent him. The men ran and overtook Molly, spread themselves across the sidewalk in front of her. "Will I never be permitted to reach the press?" she murmured to herself. "You've got ter be searched, ole gal," said one of the men, with a mocking smile of triumph in his face, "an' you jes' es well let these boys go through them duds er your'n an' have done with it. Come now, hands up!" and they all glared like hungry wolves at the woman, who stood apparently unmoved. Molly drew herself up to her full height. "Cowards!" she shrieked. "Not satisfied at the cutting off of every means of defense from the black men of Wilmington, that you may shoot them down with impunity, you are low enough to take advantage of their helplessness to insult weak women. But here I stand!" she cried, stepping backward, and drawing a gleaming revolver from beneath her cloak. "Search me! but it must be done when the body is lifeless; I'll be a target for the whole of you before I'm searched; so let the battle begin."

The men stared at the woman in amazement. "Pluckies' Nigger gal we're tackled ter day!" exclaimed a gruff and rough-looking chap. "Got grit enough ter buil er fort. Let her go, men; not er hair un her hed mus' be tech'd!" The men stepped to one side, and Molly proceeded on her way. When she reached Front street the sight which met her gaze caused her blood to chill. From Front to Water street below was choked with armed men. To pass through such a crowd without much more difficulty was impossible. "Too late!" she sobbed. Rushing across the railroad bridge, she hastily descended the steps to the road below, crossed the tracks to the shed of the great compress, and entered by one of the large side doors. News of burning and pillage on Dry Pond had been conveyed to the workmen by another, and the news had brought confusion among them indescribable. At the main entrance to the press stood an army of whites, ready to shoot them down as they rushed forth to go to the rescue of their wives and little ones whom they thought were being murdered. White men with a cannon mounted on a lighter anchored in the river just opposite were waiting to fire upon those driven back by the fire from Colonel Moss' riflemen in Water street.

A crowd of frightened and angry men hastily retreating towards this death-trap were suddenly confronted by a woman, who like an heavenly messenger, stood with uplifted hand, her hair streaming in the wind. "Back! Back men!" she cried. "To go to the river is to be killed also; they're waiting there for the opportunity." "Molly Pierrepont!" exclaimed one of the men in astonishment. "No time for questions now!" said the woman; "your only safety from slaughter is to remain in this shed; you are not able to cope with that mob of cowards on the outside, who now are even searching women in a most shameful manner on the streets. Back! Don't rush like fools to death." Molly's head began to whirl. Before any one could reach out a hand to catch her, she sank in a swoon upon the floor. Tenderly the prostrate form was lifted up, and borne to a place of safety, and an effort made to revive her. At the front entrance were huddled hundreds of negroes, cursing and crying in their desperation. On the opposite side of the street in front of a company of armed whites stood Colonel Moss, his face red with determination. Above the oaths and groans of the helpless negroes his harsh voice was heard: "Stand back, Mr. ——! I tell you again, stand out of the way, that I may blow them into eternity." Mr. —— heeded him not, and Colonel Moss was afraid to fire for fear of injuring a British Consul. There were tears in the eyes of this good man as he went about among his angry workmen imploring them to keep cool. It was his bravery and presence of mind that prevented the ignominious slaughter of hundreds of defenseless men by a mob of armed cowards, who stood there awaiting the signal from Colonel Moss to "Blow them into eternity."

Dispatching a messenger to Dry Pond, who returned with the assurance that no one had been killed, was instrumental in cooling the negroes and inducing them to return to work. Mr. —— kept at his post until the white mob melted away to join their fellows in other portions of the city. Look! up Front Street comes an excited crowd of men and boys. Every one of them seems to be wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. Every individual is struggling to get to some one who is in the centre of the crowd. On they come! struggling, pushing and swearing. As the mob draws near, the tall, stately figure of an old man is seen towering above them. His abundant hair and beard are shaggy and gray. He stares wildly at his tormenters, and begs them to spare his life. They shove, they kick, they slap him. "Shoot the Yankee dog! Hang him to a lamp post! Nigger hearted carpet bagger! Kill him!" Still the crowd pushes towards the depot. "Who is this man? What has he done?" asked a stranger. "Done!" exclaims a citizen close-by. '"Why he's been teachin' niggers they're es good es white men." "How long has he been in Wilmington?" "Ever sence the fall er Fort Fisher." "Is he a tax payer? Is he or has he ever engaged in any business in the community?" "Well, yes; he owns er whole county up the road there er piece." "Think of it! Bin here all these years, an' we can't make er decent white man out'n him!" "Well, if he has been in this community as long as you say, and is to the community what you acknowledge, I'd like to know what right his fellow citizens have to—" "Well now, stranger, don't you think you're gettin' too inquisitive? When er white man shows that he's ergin er white man, the question of what he owns don't cut no ice; he's got ter go. This is er white man's country, an' white men are goin' ter rule it." Saying this the citizen hastened away to join the mob, who were then crossing the bridge to the depot to put the undesirable citizen upon the train to send him away.

The mob that had a few hours previous made a futile attempt to butcher the negroes at the Compress had now moved in the direction of Brooklyn like a whirlwind, sweeping men, women and children before as it went. Negroes, filled with terror and astonishment, fled before this armed mob, who shot at them as they ran.

When in a certain battle during the Revolutionary War, terror stricken colonists were retreating before the superiorly equipped and disciplined British soldiers, it was Israel Putnam who vainly implored the frightened Americans to make a stand. General Putnam cursed and swore, when he saw that it was impossible to stop his men and induce them to give battle to the British. Was there a Putnam here to essay to inspire courage into these frightened negroes, who left their wives and children at the mercy of the mob, and were fleeing toward Hillton? Yes, there was one, and his name was DAN WRIGHT. Did Dan Wright fully realize the enormity of his act as he faced this mob of white men, armed to the teeth, now pressing down upon him? Did Dan Wright feel that death was to be his reward for this act of bravery? Yes, but this did not deter him or affect the steadiness of his aim. Above the oaths and yells of this band of cowards, now almost upon him, the report of his rifle rang out, and a bandit reeled and fell from his horse. But Dan was not to escape; the crowd pressed upon him and crushed him to the earth; they riddled his body with bullets, and dragged him bleeding and torn through the streets. "Back wench!" cried a bandit, as poor Mrs. Wright pressed forward to succor her dying husband. "You shall not touch his black carcass; let the buzzards eat it!" But the mob did not tarry long beside Dan's bleeding form; they swept on to Brunswick Street, where they divided, some turning into Brunswick, while others rode toward Hillton. Dan Wright did not die in the street, however. Torn and riddled as his body was, he lingered a few days in agony in the city hospital before death released him. "And the king followed the bier; and the king lifted up his voice and wept; and the king said, 'Died Abner as a fool dieth?'"

As we gaze upon the bleeding form of this simple negro, this question comes forcibly to us: Died Dan Wright as a fool dieth? Was it right for him to stand alone against such fearful odds? Yes, that the chronicler in recording this terrible one-sided fight might be able to mention one act of true bravery; that among so many cowards there was one man.

I knew Dan Wright ever since he was a lad. He was simple, quiet, unobtrusive; pious in life and glorious in death.

"He was swifter than an eagle; he was stronger than a lion." Over the humble grave in which he sleeps no shaft of granite rises to point to passers-by where this martyr to the cause of freedom lies. But when Justice shall write the names of true heroes upon the immortal scroll, she will write the names of Leonidas, Buoy, Davy Crocket, Daniel Boone, Nathan Hale, Wolf, Napoleon, Smalls, Cushing, Lawrence, John Brown, Nat Turner, and then far above them all, in letters that shall shine as the brightness of the firmanent, the name of DAN WRIGHT.

Unlike most of the heroes named above, Dan's name will not in this generation be engraved upon brass or steel, or carved in marble. To an unsympathetic world he was an outlaw, who raised his arms against kings and princes, who feel that they have the sanction of God Himself to trample upon the lowly.

With tall pines as sentinels keeping watch over it, and stars for tapers tall, the body of this immortal hero lies beneath the soil enriched by his blood.

"Fleet foot on the corey, Brave counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is the slumber!"

Who killed this simple fellow, and the score of others of his race who fell on that eventful day? The blame is laid upon the Georgians, who were invited there to assist in restoring white man's government, when there had never been any other government in existence there. But who is really responsible for this cowardly massacre? Wilmington's best white citizens, by whose invitation and under whose directions the Georgians acted. And what better market could have been sought for murderers and cowards and assassins, and intense haters of negroes than Georgia? In ante-bellum days Georgia outdid all other slave-holding States in cruelty to its slave population. The North Carolina master could subdue the most unruly slave by threatening to sell him or her into Georgia. The old negro voo-doo doctor or fortune teller could fill any negro for whom she had formed a dislike with terror, and bring him to her feet begging for mercy by walking backward, making a cross with her heel and prophesying, "You'll walk Georgia road."

When Georgia, the altar for human sacrifices, perfumed by the odor of cooked human flesh, travailed, she brought forth the prodegy of the nineteenth century, whose cries for blood would startle Catherine De Medici and cause Bloody Mary to look aghast.

Georgia bore upon her sulphurous bosom an Andersonville, within whose walls thousands of the nation's noblest sons suffered the most inhuman treatment and died the most agonizing and ignominious death. Georgia trained her cannon upon these emaciated, starved vermin-eaten creatures rather than submit to their rescue by an invading army. Georgia's convict camps of the present day are worse than slavery, and more intolerable than the Siberian mines. The order of the States upon the map should be changed so as to read as follows: North Carolina, South Carolina, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisana, Texas, Georgia, Hell. The people of Wilmington were bargaining for the genuine article when they sent to Georgia for trained murderers and assassins.

Josh Halsey was the second one to fall on that fatal day. Josh was deaf and did not hear the command to halt, and ran until brought down by a bandit's bullet. Josh Halsey was asleep in bed when the mob turned into Brunswick Street, and his daughter awoke him, only to rush from his house to death. The mob swept on over his prostrate form, shooting into private dwellings, and frightening men and children, who fled to the woods for safety, or hid beneath their dwellings.

Let us go back and see what has become of Molly. To bring her around it required heroic efforts on the part of men and the women who were the sewers of bagging on the docks. Too weak for further effort in behalf of her people, she was tenderly lifted into a buggy, carried up by way of the old Charlotte depot to her home in Brooklyn. Mrs. West, who knowing of her determination, and anxious as to her fate, had arrived at the cottage that morning too late to intercept Molly. She lingered about the cottage, however, and when they bore the exhausted and faint girl home, the foster mother was frantic with grief. "It was only a fainting spell, mother," said Molly, as Mrs. West bent over her. "I was there in time to save them, but it cost me—oh so much." "You have done nobly," returned the mother, soothingly. "Your name should be placed upon the roll of honor, my dear. Go to sleep; rest serenely upon your laurels."

Dr. Philip Le Grand.

St. Stephen's Church on the corner of Red Cross and Fifth Streets, in Wilmington, is among the finest and most refined of the A. M. E. Conference. In appointing ministers to this post the most diligent care has always been exercised, for the appointee must be of the most eloquent, the most learned and efficient in the gift of the assembly. So St. Stephen's audiences have listened to some of the world's best orators, and have had the word expounded by superior doctors of divinity. Who of that great church can forget Frey Chambers, Thomas, Nichols, Gregg, Epps and others whose names I cannot now recall? St. Stephen's is among the finest of church edifices in the city, put up at a cost of over sixty thousand dollars, with a seating of twenty-two hundred. Back of her pulpit stands an immense and costly pipe organ, operated by water power, and presided over by a young woman raised up in the church, educated in the public schools of Wilmington. During the political upheaval in Eastern North Carolina, it was the fortune of Rev. Philip Le Grand, D. D., to be the pastor of St. Stephen's, in Wilmington, and there is living to-day. Many men and women owe their lives to the wonderful presence of mind, superior tact and persuasiveness of this grave, good man. Besides being a minister, he had filled many positions of trust in the South. Yet Dr. Le Grand was both unassuming and undemonstrative. He looked for and expected a clashing of races on election day in Wilmington, but that which took place on the 10th of November was far more than he was prepared to grapple with. The dawn of that fatal day found the streets of Wilmington crowded with armed men and boys, who had sprung, as it were, by magic from the earth. Aroused by loud noises in the neighborhood of his residence, the minister arose early, dressed and hastened into the street. A large crowd of colored citizens, mostly women, stood upon the street corner half a block away, excitedly talking and brandishing broomsticks, stove-pokers, hoes, axes and other rude implements of war. All was confusion among them. There seemed to be no leader, but each individual was wildly ejaculating in a manner that showed that she or he was highly wrought up. Dr. Le Grand came slowly up to them, paused and raised his hands for silence. "Why this excitement so early in the morning?" he asked. "We's prepared fer um ter day," said a woman, coming forward and brandishing a broomstick. "Dey says dey gointer kill niggers, but we's gwine ter tek er few er dem long wid us." "Bah!" exclaimed the minister. "What will such a thing as that amount to against rifles? Disperse and go home, or you'll be sorry." This command had but slight effect upon this throng, whom Rev. Le Grand left and proceeded toward a crowd of white men and boys who stood not far distant, apparently debating the question of bearing down upon and dispersing the blacks on the corner. "Halt!" said one of the men, stepping in front of Mr. Le Grand and placing his rifle against his breast. "You can't go no further; this town's under military law now." "What means this demonstration?" calmly asked the minister, with his eyes fixed steadily upon the face of the man who had given the command. "It means that white men are in charge of things from now on," said another fellow, stepping up and eying the minister contemptuously. "You educated nigger preachers have been teaching your race that white men are not ordained to rule, and such teaching has got 'em beside themselves, so much so that the white people are compelled to take stringent measures."

"Will you kindly inform me who the leader of this movement is?" persisted Dr. Le Grand calmly. "Big words these," said the first man who had spoken. "I guess we'd better settle this nigger." "Hold on, Sam," said the second man, pushing aside the gun the man had raised. "This is St. Stephen's preacher. He is not on the list." "I'm out here in the name of peace," said Dr. Le Grand, "willing to do anything to bring that end." "Well," said the leader, producing a notebook from his breast pocket, and scribbling something in it, "we came out to-day to wash the streets in nigger gore, and if you can induce them to go home, you and others of the leading men of your race, instead of encouraging them to bully white people, you can save many lives. Colonel Moss is the gentleman to go to. But you'll need a pass," tearing a leaf from the notebook and handing it to Dr. Le Grand; "and I doubt if that will take you through the lines. You will doubtless find the colonel somewhere in the down-town section of the city. Stand aside, men, and let him pass." Dr. Le Grand took the slip of paper and started for the section of the city indicated, but the way was so choked with men and boys, who challenged and parleyed with him in spite of the permit he carried, that progress was slow. Men whom he had met in his common every-day life in Wilmington, men who had been cordial and gentlemanly in their greetings, now either hurled bitter epithets at him, or passed him with averted eyes. Several times during that morning were guns pointed into his face as he paused here and there to stop collisions that were constantly occurring between white and black men, fatal in every instance to the blacks, who, without arms, were no match for the well-equipped whites, who took advantage of their helplessness to bully them. The most thrilling scene witnessed was that which made the minister's heart faint, although the incident excited the admiration of all who beheld it. Above the oaths of excited men and boys was heard a wild cheer a few blocks away, followed by the defiant cry of a negro boy, who came panting up the street, unmindful of the cry of "halt" that issued from many lips. Frantically waving a huge revolver in his hand, he fell upon his face within a few yards of where the minister stood, pierced by a rifle ball. Turning over slowly upon his back, he leveled his pistol and fired into the crowd of men closing in on him, shattering the arm of a Georgia bandit. "He is dying!" exclaimed the minister, with uplifted hand to prevent the men from doing further violence to the dying lad, whose life-blood was making crimson the sand where he lay. One man in the crowd stooped and picked up the pistol that had fallen from the lad's grasp. He raised it up before the crowd and said: "Let him die in peace, boys; I admire a brave heart, if it is under a black skin." The crowd dispersed. The minister got down upon his knees and raised the lad's head into his arms. He opened his eyes and fixed them upon the face of the man of God, who had begun to stroke his forehead with his hand. "God be merciful to thee, my son," said the minister tenderly. "Dat's all right, parson," returned the lad faintly, with a smile upon his ebony face. "I tol' um I'd die foe I'd giv' up ma gun, an' I tink dat when I tun ober dat time I got one er dem."

"What is your name, my son?" asked Dr. Le Grand, eagerly. There was no answer; the boy was gone into undying life. The minister gently laid the little hero back upon the ground to await the arrival of the undertaker's wagon, and went on his way. This incident somewhat awed the bandits, some of whom stood off some little distance and watched him through the scene; and his progress was attended with but little further difficulty. When he reached Front Street, however, the Record Office on Dry Pond had been burned, and the futile attempt to murder the workmen at the cotton press had been made. Several black men had been killed during the morning, and their bodies left where they had been shot down. At the corner of Front and Chestnut Streets three men passed him under guard, walking rapidly toward the depot, and whom he recognized as prominent citizens—one a grocery man another quite an extensive real estate owner and money lender, while the third, a white man, had been a magistrate in the city for quite a number of years. These men were being escorted to the trains by soldiers, who had considerable trouble in keeping a mob of men and boys from doing them violence. "Well, what are you standing up here for?" asked a man, turning aside from the throng that surrounded the fugitives, and akimbowed in front of the minister. "No niggers are allowed to loiter; white men are in charge of affairs from now on." "I have a pass that permits me to interview the Colonel," answered Dr. Le Grand, holding up the paper before the man's eyes. The man took the paper and read it slowly. "Come," said he in a gentler tone of voice, "I'll take you through to the Colonel, for you can't go by yourself." Across the street, and in the direction of the cotton press they proceeded. At the corner of Mulberry Street they met Colonel Moss going southward, with a crowd of soldiers and citizens about him. He scowled at the minister, his face flushed with anger as the minister saluted. "What do you want?" he roared. "That's the question I have come to ask you," returned the minister. "What do you wish us to do? We are willing to do anything to stop this carnage." "We want nothing! We are masters of the situation," answered the Colonel hotly. But the minister persisted. "Hear me, Colonel. This is indeed a one-sided fight. Our men are unarmed, and are the chief sufferers in this affair." "It's your own fault," roared Colonel Moss. "We gave you colored leaders time to comply with our request to burn the negro's printing outfit. We waited twelve hours for your reply, and it came not, so we took the matter into our own hands. We propose to scourge this black pest out of Wilmington. If you can induce them to go to their homes and recognize the authority of the white people, you can prevent further bloodshed." "I will do my best," replied the minister. Dr. Le Grand was placed in a buggy, between two whites, to protect him against violence. This man of God finished that day, and the other days of terror to the unfortunate negroes, in inducing rebellious black citizens throughout the city to submit to overwhelming odds against them, and staking his own life upon the good character of this or that man or woman in danger of being killed for some trivial charge made by a white person, whether remote or recent.



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 of the massacre which took place in Wilmington, N. C., in November, 1898, I herewith write for the information of the world what happened in the section of the city known as Dry Pond. The plans for the slaughter of November 10th had been carefully laid. The negroes, lulled into a feeling of security by the usual yet unexpected quiet election, were utterly surprised on the morning of the 10th to find the streets choked with armed men and boys. The mob, it seems, formed at the Court House, and dividing itself into bands scattered into every direction, holding up and searching both black men and women, beating and shooting those who showed a disposition to resist. On the corner of Seventh and Nun Streets stands Gregory Normal Institute for colored youth, with Christ Church (Congregational) and the teachers' home, comprising the most beautiful group of buildings in the city. This is the property of the American Missionary Association. The morning devotions had just ended in this school on the morning of the 10th, and scholars were going to the different class-rooms, when the report of a gun threw the entire school and neighborhood into confusion. Children ran to their teachers for safety, who, with blanched faces, stood dumb with terror, for a mob of armed whites had already surrounded the buildings and completely blocked Seventh, Ann and Nun streets. On Seventh street, between Nun and Church streets, in a small wooden structure, the much talked of Wilmington Record had found a temporary home, and this was the objective point of the mob. Surrounding this building, they battered down the door, broke in pieces the printing outfit, and then set fire to the building. Many women, with their little ones, took to the woods, so thoroughly frightened were they at this strange and unlooked-for spectacle. Black men were awed into helplessness by the superiorly armed mob. I was at the ironing table, when one of my little ones ran in and told me that the school house was on fire. I hurried out to join the crowd of anxious mothers, who were hurrying in that direction to rescue their children, whom, they supposed, were in danger. But we were not able to get past the crowd of men who surrounded the Record building. The cries of the frightened children could be heard, and the inability of the mothers to reach them added to the horror of the scene. One mother, frenzied with grief and desperation, pushed and shoved her way through, despite the threats of the mob. One little girl died of sheer fright. The shooting without, mingled with the oaths of the men and the frantic wails of the women without were too much for the little one to bear. Her teacher's assurance of safety were of no avail. The teachers finally made a bold front, pushed their way through the crowd and delivered the frightened children to their frightened parents, some of whom did not return to their homes, but hastened to the woods for safety. I returned home. My husband, who worked at the Press did not arrive until late that night, he having had serious difficulty in passing the armed whites who lined the streets, and challenged him at every corner. He informed me that Colonel Moss, on leaving Dry Pond, went immediately to the Press with the intention of killing all the men at work there, but was thwarted by the coolness of Mr. —— and Molly Pierrepont, who went from her home to warn them. I bless that woman for her courage. She stood like a goddess among those men and prevented them from rushing into a trap prepared for them. My husband at first thought it unsafe to remain in the house that night; the poor whites were heavily armed and were likely to do most anything. They had already fired into several houses in the neighborhood. 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 was trying to reach the hill this evening without being searched, as I did not want to part with my gun. At the corner of Market and Front streets I met Mr. Philip Hines, who offered to take me through the crowd to safety, and led me right into trouble. I was held up and searched. Ben Turpin took my revolver from me and gave me this gash on my forehead with the butt of it." I bathed and bound up Bently's wound, and he lay himself upon the lounge in my dining-room, and being weak from the loss of blood, soon dropped off to sleep. We were too frightened to lie down. Thirty minutes elapsed. We heard the sound of footsteps approaching; the door received a vigorous kick. "Hello!" came from without. "Say Peterson! 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 feller Manly." "I guess he's far away," returned my husband. "Well, its good for him that he is. Who's in there with you?" "My family." "Well, I believe you, Peterson. Good night." The men went their way. We were molested no more during the night, but shooting was kept up at intervals in the neighborhood all night. Some citizens slept under their houses for safety.

The morning of the 11th of November dawned clear and cold, and the sufferings of those who were compelled to sleep in the open air were terrible. At about nine o'clock Rev. Simons called at my house. He had his wagon laden with comfortables for the suffering ones. "Hundreds are in the woods," he said after greeting me, "and God only knows what their sufferings were during the night."