Hanover; Or The Persecution of the Lowly Part 2

CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Amanda Pervis.

"Whew! dis here win is er blowin pow'ful col fer Octoby. Ther ol sow was er tot'n straw yistedy and that means winter aint fur off. Shoo there! I never seed ther beat er thet ol hen; make hase ter gulp her own co'n down ter driv ther turkeys way from their'n." Thus spoke Mrs. Amanda Pervis as she stood in the door of her humble wooden dwelling on Kidder's Hill a brisk morning in October. "Thanksgiving haint fur off, an turkey meat's er gittin high. Shoo ther yer hussy!" "Who air yu er talkin ter Mandy?" said her husband coming to the door and peeping over his wife's shoulder. "I tho't er trader er some sort wus er pa.s.sin." The wife turned and looked astonished at her husband. "Why fer ther lan sake, what's er comin over ye Teck Pervis? I tho't yer'd be fas er sleep after bein so late ter meetin las nite. I tho't yer'd tak yer res bein yer haint er goin er fis.h.i.+n!" "I felt kinder resliss like, and I tho't I jes es well be er gittin up," answered Teck, plunging his face into the basin of cool spring water that his wife had placed on the shelf beside the door. "Well hit won't tak me long ter git breakfus reddy," and Mrs.

Pervis darted into the kitchen. Teck Pervis dipped his hands into the basin, poured the cool water on his head until his gray hair hung in thick mats over his face then leisurely drawing the towel from the nail beside the door, lazily wiped his head and face. The smell of fried bacon and delicious coffee arose from the kitchen; the rattling of dishes was to him sufficient token of the putting of victuals on the table. Teck Pervis sauntered in, sat down folded his arms upon the table, and sheepishly watched his wife as she flitted from place to place in the humble little kitchen. Mrs. Pervis paused, and her eyes met her husband's gaze. "Well what in ther wor'l is ter matter Teck Pervis?

Why air ye gazin at me so dis mornin, turn yer cup and tak yer coffy."

"We uns had er interestin meetin las night," he said meekly. "Well mus yer put on er graveyard face ter day bekase yer had er interestin meetin las night? Don't put so much gravy on yer rice, hits ergin yer helth.

Maria Tappin tol me yestidy thet her brother Tom was to be nitiated las night with er good meny other uns, an I 'lowed I'd here erbout hit, as my husban was er goin. Now yer air talkin erbout er interestin meetin the candidates muster all bin on han." Teck Pervis looked pleadingly at his wife. Mrs. Pervis went on: "I am glad yer went ter loge meetin; er lot er them Red s.h.i.+rt Varmints c.u.m er roun las night er lookin fer yer to go with em ter that wigwam, and I was proud ter tell em that my husban' was not in politicks when it c.u.m to killin colud folks ter git inter office, an that truth hit em so hard dey sneaked." Teck shuddered.

During a series of revivals in the Free Will Baptist Church during the summer Teck Pervis had professed religion. A fierce struggle was going on 'neath his rugged breast. Must he tell the truth. The best whites were there even ministers of the gospel; but then preachers are not always on the right side; and Teck Pervis had promised his wife that he'd not allow himself to be a tool for hungry broken down aristocrats who only wished to use the poor as cats' paws. He took a big swallow of coffee, drummed nervously with his fingers upon the table. "I jes es well tell yer ther plain truth, Mandy," he said finally, "I got wi ther boys las night and went ter ther Wigwam, an was made Cheerman ov ther meetin. They lowed thet hit wus ter be ther mos importent meetin in ther campain, an hit wus time fer white men ter be er standin tergither."

"Teck Pervis," exclaimed the wife, "Hev I bin er rastlin'in prayer an pleadin ter ther Lawd in vain? Didn't I beg yer not ter fergit yer religin in jine-in in wid sinners in doin eval?" "There aint er goin ter be eny killin done, Mandy, we air jes er goin ter skeer ther n.i.g.g.e.rs way from ther polls, an keep um frum votin." "I know all erbout hit," broke in Mrs. Pervis. "Hit will en' in murder, for yer know thet n.i.g.g.e.rs won't be drove." "Why all ther big guns war there Mandy; merchints, lawyers, docters an ev'n preachers." "Laws e ma.s.sy me!" exclaimed Mrs. Pervis.

"An if ther shepod wus ther, yer kaint blame ther flock." "Teck Pervis did I understan yo ter say that--" "Don't git excited, Mandy, yer jes es well git use ter ther new tern things air takin. Them preachers war thar bekase they sed hits time fur white uns ter stan tergither. Radicul rule mus be put down." Mrs. Pervis crossed her hands upon the table and looked resigned. "Teck, do tell me what preachers war they?" "Why ef yo own minister wus'n thar hiself I hope er hoppergra.s.s may chaw me." "Teck Pervis, do ye mean ter tell me thet Brother Jonas Melvin wus at thet meetin?" "Yes, and Hoosay too, thet Presberteen man thet sines his name with er dubble D hung on ter ther een." "Jonas Melvin is er windin up his kerrare in Free Will Church. We'll hev no sich men fumblin wi ther werd ev G.o.d in our pulpit. I never did think them Presbyteens hed eny religin no way. They air full of book larnin, but havn't bin tech wit ther sparit. This Hussy is lik ther res er these hi tone preachers thet hang on ter this docterin thet ther yerth moves insted uv ther sun."

"Hoosay Mandy. Why don't yer tak proper! Hoosay!" "Well, he jes oughter be named Hussy, fur he is er hussy. When ole sat'n meets them two at the cross-road thars er goin ter be er tussle now I tell yer." "Well now yer know thet ther scripter says cussed be Canyon, least wise thets the way Brother Melvin splained hit tother night, cussed be Canyon means cussed be n.i.g.g.e.rs." "Now Teck Pervis, wher is yer proof thet the scripter ment n.i.g.g.e.r? I aint rusty un ther scripter ef I am er gittin ole." "Now, Mandy, yer know ther scripter reads thet Canyon was the son er Ham an wus cussed bekase his daddy laffed at ole Noey, bekase when he layed down ter sleep he didn't pull the kivver on his self proper like. When de ole man woke up the tother boys tole him what Ham hed done, he cussed Canyon Ham's son, and sed sarvant of sarvants s.h.i.+ll he be. Ham wus ther n.i.g.g.e.r boy in ther family, and we uns air carin out ther edicts of ther scripter when we try ter keep the n.i.g.g.e.r cussed. Sarvant ov sarvants s.h.i.+ll he be, an we air--" "Hol on, Teck Pervis," exclaimed his wife.

"Let me git in er word kinder catiwompus like et leas. Now we air all ther time er lookin fer scripter ter back us up in our devalmint. Ther scripter don't say thet G.o.d'l mighty cussed Canyon, it says thet Noey cussed him, an ef Noey hed kep sober an b'haved hisself he wouldenter hed ter cuss at eny body. Whose teachin air we er follerin? Ole Noey's er our Blessed Lawd an Saviour? He sed all things what soiver ye wood thet men should do ter yo, do ye evan so ter thim. Have yer back slided an fergot yer religin erready Teck Pervis?" Teck was dumb. "Yo Red s.h.i.+rts Ruff Riders an broke down ristecrats kin go on an do yer devilment but mark what Mandy Pervis says, G.o.d'l Mighty will giv yu uns ther wurk er yer hans." "Why, Mandy, yo ought ter git er license ter preach, why you kin spit scripter lik er bon evangilis," and Teck Pervis reached over and slapped his wife upon the shoulder. This compliment from her husband stimulated the old lady to more earnest effort. "Now look er here," she continued. "What do them risticrats kere er bout the likes er we? In slave times we war not as good as their n.i.g.g.e.rs an ef we didn't get out ther way on the road, they'd ride their fine critters plum over us. They hed no use fer we uns unless. .h.i.t wus ter use us fer somethin. Whan ther war broke out, of course they wanted der po'uns ter do ther fightin, an they kill me ole daddy bekase he would'n jine em. He didn't think it right ter tak up an fight agin the Union; an I can't fergit thet you'ns who did go ter ther fight ware promis'd er n.i.g.g.e.r an er mule. But did yer git em?" Teck Pervis winced. Mrs. Pervis continued. "Now sich es ole Wade an Moss Teele an uthers air hungry ter git er bite at ther public grip, so they throw out bait fer yo uns ter nibble; an yer air fools ernuff ter nibble. Jane Snow tells me thet all ther big bug n.i.g.g.e.rs er goin ter be driv out, and we uns will git ther property and wash up in ther churches." "Thet wus promused," broke in Teck. "But who hes ther rite ter tek them critters property an giv hit ter yo uns?" replied Mrs.

Pervis. "Teck Pervis yo may mark my words, but jes es soon es them broken down ristocrats git er hol of ther gov'mint, jes es soon es yo po fools help them, then yer kin go." Teck Pervis glared at his wife like a fierce beast at bay. He was Teck Pervis of old, the defiant, blood-thirsty rebel in the rifle pit glaring over the breastworks at the enemy. "Wese got ther guns!" he thundered, bringing his fist down upon the table, "an ef they dont give ther po' uns er show when ther city is took, why! we'd jes es leave kill er ristercrat as er n.i.g.g.e.r, and we uns will do it. Wat yo say is right frum start to finish. We uns air watchin um; wese got ther guns, an we uns'll hold em till we see how things air goin ter wurk. Reach up there an han me my pipe Mandy."

CHAPTER V.

Molly Pierrepont.

"Sweet and low, sweet and low Wind of the Western sea Low, low, breathe and blow Wind of the Western sea Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow Blow him again to me While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps."

This sweet old lullaby of Longfellow's, sung by a rich soprano voice floated upon the cool October air out from a beautiful and richly furnished suburban cottage in Wilmington. The singer sat alone at the piano. Though vulgarly called a "Negress," her skin was almost as fair as a Saxon's; and because of the mingling of Negro blood--more beautiful in color. She was gowned in an evening dress of gossamer material, ashes of rose in color. Her hair let out to its full length hung in silky profusion down her back. There were plain old fas.h.i.+oned half moon rings in her ears, and bands of gold upon her bare arms enhanced their beauty.

No one will deny that among the women of mixed blood in the South, there are types of surpa.s.sing beauty. The inter-mixture of Negro and Saxon, Negro and Spanish and Indian blood gives the skin a more beautiful color than exists in the unadulterated of either race. While the mulatto and octoroon may reveal the Saxon in the fairness of the skin, the Negro reinforcement shows itself generally in the slight inclination of the lips toward thickness, the l.u.s.trious black of the eye and hair which is generally abundant and slightly woolly in texture. This is brought out plainly in the case of the Jew. Although centuries have pa.s.sed since the Jews very extensively amalgamated with the dark races of Egypt and Canaan, their dark complexions, l.u.s.trous black eyes, abundant woolly hair plainly reveal their Hamatic lineage. To pa.s.s through the Bowery or lower Broadway in the great metropolis at an hour when the shop and factory girl is hurrying to or from her work, one is struck by the beauty of Jewish womanhood. King David's successful campaigns placed Solomon over large dominions of Moabitish and Canaanitish peoples; and for the stability of his kingdom, Solomon took wives out of all of these nationalities; and Solomon's most favored wife was his black princess, Naamah, the mother of Rehoboam, his successor. The poet describes Naamah as the "Rose of Sharon, the most excellent of her country." The marriage of Solomon to his black princess was the most notable of any of his marriages; for that wonderful poem, "Solomon's Songs," is mainly a eulogy to this one of his many wives. "I am black but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look not upon me because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me." In the most beautiful language in the gift of the poets of that day Solomon converses with Naamah in the following dialogue: "Return, return O Shulamite; return, return that we may look upon thee."

Naamah, "What will you see in Shulamite?" Solomon, "As it were a company of two armies."

We have conclusive evidence that the Southern gentleman did, and does sing such love ditties, and talk sweet nothings to the Southern black woman, and the woman of mixed blood, but unlike Solomon, he is too much of a coward to publicly extol her. During the slave period in the West Indian Islands a child born to a slave woman shared the fortunes of its father; and if the father was free, so was the child. But the American slave holder reversed that law so that he could humble the bond-woman and d.a.m.n her offspring with impunity. Upheld by the law the Southerner sold his own daughter and sister into a life of shame. The pretty Negress and the woman of mixed blood brought extortionate prices in Southern markets. Northern sympathizers may talk of the New South, and the Southern orator may harp upon the shortcomings of the "inferior race," but on this line of thought and conduct, the Southern whites have not changed one whit. Before the war, Sambo only had a quit-claim on his black or mulatto wife, and now the laws are so framed that he cannot defend the woman of his race against the encroachments of his white brother, who looks at the destruction of the Negro woman as only an indiscretion. The humble black fool is often forced away from his own wife or sweet-heart at the point of a revolver, cowed by the feeling that a manly stand against a white man might cause incalculable loss of life. Yet the advocate of Lynch Law pictures this humble fellow, this man who is afraid to attempt to defend his own home, as a reckless dare-devil, keeping the whites in constant terror. How incompatible these two traits of character. No; it is not the reckless dare deviltry of the Negro that terrorizes the South, but the conscience of the white man whose wrong treatment of a defenseless people fills him with fear and intensifies his hatred. He is determined to fill to overflow his cup of iniquity. Like Macbeth, he has waded in so far, that to return were as tedious as to go over. It matters not how loud the Southerner shouts about "the good-for-nothing n.i.g.g.e.r," he still has the same old anti-bellum liking for the women of that race. Bishop Turner is the only honest and earnest advocate of Negro Emigration, the others have only a half-hearted leaning in that direction. If it were possible for emigration to become a reality, the Southern whites would be the hardest kickers against the scheme. The only beneficiaries from this wonderful enterprise would be the steams.h.i.+p companies; for after the hundreds of years of transportation are over, then excursion parties would be the order of the day for time immemorial. Our Southern gentleman will not be deprived of the Negro woman. There is no ocean too wide for him to cross; no wall too high for him to scale; he'd risk the fires of h.e.l.l to be in her company, intensely as he pretends to hate her. Wilmington, North Carolina, the scene of that much regretted phenomenon--the fatal clas.h.i.+ng of races in November, 1898, was not, and is not without its harems, its unholy minglings of Shem with Ham; where the soft-fingered aristocrat embraces the lowest dusky sirene in Paddy's Hollow, and thinks nothing of it. Molly Pierrepont whom I introduce to the reader in this chapter, is a type of Negro women whose progress along enn.o.bling avenues is more hotly contested than any other woman in the South, because of her beauty. To decide between the honor with poverty offered by the black man and the life of ease with shame offered by the white one is her "Gethsemine." Yet where love of honor has conquered, she has made a devoted wife and a loving mother.

Such a character as Molly Pierrepont was an exclusive luxury for gentlemen. The poor white could not afford to support a mistress who of course went to the highest bidder. Ben Hartright left the Wigwam before the close of the meeting in which he was so deeply interested, and proceeded directly to Molly's cottage; but he did not notice as he tipped lightly through the gate a cloaked and veiled form crouching down in the bushes a few yards away. He heard not the light footsteps as it drew nearer to be sure that there was no mistaking the visitor. Ben Hartright entered boldly; knocking was unnecessary, he was master there.

The furniture and hangings were all his purchase, even the expensive jewels that the woman wore. The figure on the outside drew still closer, peered in, tip-toed upon the piazza, pressed the ear against the window to catch as much as possible of what went on within. Only a few minutes did it tarry however. As the door swung open, Molly arose from the piano and advanced with outstretched arms to meet him.

"h.e.l.lo, Ben! I thought you were to be here by eight to-night."

Ben Hartright sank upon a sofa and gently drew the girl down beside him before he a.s.sayed to answer her.

"Well, Molly, you must remember that I am in politics now," he said, kissing her fondly, "and I must attend the different meetings, business before pleasure you know. We are in the most exciting period of the campaign; a campaign the like of which has never before been experienced in North Carolina. We are organized and determined to save the State to the Democratic party and make white supremacy an established fact if we have to kill every n.i.g.g.e.r and n.i.g.g.e.r-hearted white man in it. To make a.s.surance doubly sure, we are arming ourselves, and seeing to it that no n.i.g.g.e.r shall buy an ounce of powder, and every n.i.g.g.e.r man and woman is to be searched and what weapons they have taken away that no white man's life may be endangered. There are some n.i.g.g.e.rs and white men who must be killed, and they are carefully listed."

Ben Hartright unbosomed to Molly the plots of the White Supremacy League in all its blood-curdling details, naming every man and woman who were to be the victims of the mob's fury.

"Do you think that a very brave thing to do?" asked Molly at the conclusion of Ben's recital.

"Oh, anything is fair in dealing with n.i.g.g.e.rs," answered Ben. But the look of astonishment in Molly's black eyes suddenly brought Ben Hartright to the full realization that he was revealing the secrets of his klan to one of the race he was plotting to ma.s.sacre.

"Of course we don't include such as you, Molly," he said, lightly tapping her on the shoulder. "You are no n.i.g.g.e.r, you are nearly as white as I am."

"Nearly as white," echoed Molly with a sneer. "Do you mean to try to choke it down my throat that my whiteness would save me should your people rise up against n.i.g.g.e.rs in Wilmington? Honestly, Ben Hartright, do you mean that?" Molly arose from the sofa and stood up before her lover that she might the better study his face. Hartright was silent.

In Southern legislative halls white minorities in old Reconstruction days ruled Republican majorities by appealing to the vanity of light-skinned Negro representatives.

"You are almost white, why vote with them n.i.g.g.e.rs?" Ben Hartright was using the old tactics; he had realized that he perhaps had been careless with his secrets. "What I really mean, Molly, is that you are a friend of white people--that is you are not one of those n.i.g.g.e.r wenches who want to be er--er--ladies--that want n.i.g.g.e.r dudes to raise their hats to them--want to be like white people you know."

"I understand," said Molly.

"We white gentlemen believe in having colored girl friends, and we always stand by them no matter what happens." Molly momentarily eyed the ceiling.

"Benny, did you ever read Uncle Tom's Cabin?"

"Yes, I have," answered Ben, but it has been too long ago to remember very much of its contents.

"Why? Everybody should read that book it seems to me; read and read again Ca.s.sie's story of her love for the man who after promising to protect and defend her, sneaked away and sold her. Ca.s.sie was almost white. Ca.s.sie was a white man's friend, and to that man she was true; but Ca.s.sie's story of betrayal, disappointment, misery at the hands of that long haired brute who afterwards became her master, would make the strongest heart weep. _You will stand by your colored girl friend._ Perhaps you think you would, but I doubt it, Ben Hartright. When that time comes that the two races are arrayed against each other, my fair complexion will be of no avail. I am a n.i.g.g.e.r, and will be dealt with as such, even by the man who now promises me protection."

Ben Hartright quailed under Molly's biting sarcasm. He was unprepared for this change of front on the part of his mistress. His pretention of love were not sufficient to create in Molly a feeling of security.

"Then d'm it all! you as good as tell a gentleman to his teeth that he lies then?" said he doggedly.

"No; I don't mean to say that you lie. What you say to me _now_, you may earnestly mean, but under circ.u.mstances just mentioned, you would deny that you ever knew me. What you have revealed tonight concerning your aims and plots, portrays to my mind just who and what you are, and just who and what I am. Samson has revealed his secret to his Delilah, and its Delilah's duty to warn her people of the dangers that await them.

Men whose lives are threatened must be warned; women who are in danger of being ignominiously dealt with must be put upon their guard; must know that these defenders of virtue, these Southern gentlemen who are thirsting for the blood of a slanderer (?) of white women are hypocrites, who strain out a gnat and swallow a camel."

"By the thunder, what do you mean by such language?" and Ben Hartright arose from the sofa and glared at the girl, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng. "Do you know that you are talking to a gentleman?"

"Be careful," said Molly, "You wouldn't have the women for whom you would be so chivalrous know who Ben Hartright _really is_, would you?"

"Why, what's the matter Molly?" said Hartright in a more subdued voice.

"Have you joined the sanctified band?"

"No; but I realize as never before just who and what I am, and your trying to flatter me into the belief that I am better than black women who try to be pure, is a revelation to me who and what _you are_. There are men whom you have named to be killed whose only offense is that they are respectable and independent; and women who are hated because they are not easy victims such as I am--women who will live honestly upon bread and water. These are colored people who have so much confidence in the better cla.s.s of white people, that they would not believe that such a plot is being laid for their destruction."

Ben Hartright put his arms around Molly's waist. "I thought you were a true friend of white people, Molly; but I find that you are not, so let's drop the unpleasant subject. If the n.i.g.g.e.rs keep away from the polls, and don't attempt to run a ticket, there will be no trouble; but if they persist in defying the whites, there'll be h.e.l.l. But all pretty n.i.g.g.e.r gals such as you will be all right."

"Unhand me!" said Molly, twisting herself from his grasp. "Go tell your hypocritical a.s.sociates in crime that the deed they are about to commit will recoil upon their own heads, and upon the heads of their children."

"But--er--now Molly--"

"Go!" hissed Molly, pointing to the door.

Ben Hartright walked slowly to the door paused and wistfully eyed Molly who stood with uplifted hand pointing in that direction. "Oh, you are quite full of race pride just now, but when it comes to deciding between the easy life that a white man pays for and n.i.g.g.e.r drudgery, you'll doubtless change your tune. I leave you to reflect."

Hartright walked out. Molly sank upon the sofa and buried her face in her hands. "How true!" she sobbed. "What have I done?" but she rose and her anguish was gone in a twinkling. "Easy life! Drudgery! But _here I swear from this hour Molly Pierrepont will live no longer such a life_."

Ben Hartright reached his home in Orange street about three o'clock, noiselessly opened the door and strode up to his apartments, thinking he would get to bed without disturbing his young wife; but she was not there. The bed remained as it was when the chambermaid left it that morning, after giving it its finis.h.i.+ng touches. Ben Hartright looked about the room in wild amazement. He drew out his watch, scanned its face eagerly. "By ginger!" he exclaimed, "it's past three o'clock.

Wonder where is Emily? This is indeed something unusual." Thinking perhaps that his child might have taken ill during the night and that his wife had remained in the nurse's room with it, he crossed the hall and rapped upon the door; a second rap brought the nurse to the door rubbing her eyes. "What's the matter, Fannie; is the baby sick?"

"No, sah!" answered the girl.

"Isn't Miss Emily in there?"