A QUESTION BROUGHT HOME
“I shall go to Boston next week to meet the directors of the mill and give in my annual report.”
The three had been sitting in Westmoreland library this Sunday night—for Richard Travis came regularly every Sunday night, and he had been talking about the progress of the mill and the great work it was doing for the poor whites of the valley. “I imagine,” he added, “that they will be pleased with the report this year.”
“But are you altogether pleased with it in all its features?” asked Alice thoughtfully.
“Why, what do you mean, Alice?” asked her mother, surprised.
“Just this, mother, and I have been thinking of talking to Richard about it for some time.”
Travis took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at her quizzically.
She flushed under his gaze and added: “If I wasn't saying what I am for humanity's sake I would be willing to admit that it was impertinent on my part. But are you satisfied with the way you work little children in that mill, Richard, and are you willing to let it go on without a protest before your directors? You have such a fine opportunity for good there,” she added in all her old beautiful earnestness.
“Oh, Alice, my dear, that is none of our affair. Now I should not answer her, Richard,” and Mrs. Westmore tapped him playfully on the arm.
“Frankly, I am not,” he said to Alice. “I think it is a horrible thing. But how are we to remedy it? There is no law on the subject at all in Alabama—”
“Except the broader, unwritten law,” she added.
Travis laughed: “You will find that it cuts a small figure with directors when it comes in conflict with the dividends of a corporation.”
“But how is it there?” she asked,—“in New England?”
“They have seen the evils of it and they have a law against child labor. The age is restricted to twelve years, and every other year they must go to a public school before they may be taken back into the mill. But even with all that, the law is openly violated, as it is in England, where they have been making efforts to throttle the child-labor problem for nearly a century, and after whose law the New England law was patterned.”
“Why, by the parents of the children falsely swearing to their age.”
Alice looked at him in astonishment.
“Do you really mean it?” she asked.
“Why, certainly—and it would be the same here. If we had a law the lazy parents of many of them would swear falsely to their children's ages.”
“There could be some way found to stop that,” she said.
“It has not been found yet,” he added. “What is to prevent two designing parents swearing that an eight year old child is twelve—and these little poor whites,” he added with a laugh, “all look alike from eight to sixteen—scrawny—hard and half-starved. In many cases no living man could swear whether they are six or twelve.”
“If you really should make it a rule to refuse all children under twelve,” she added, “tell me how many would go out of your mill.”
“In other words, how many under twelve do we work there?” he asked.
She nodded.
He thought a while and then said: “About one hundred and twenty-five.”
She started: “That is terrible—terrible! Couldn't you—couldn't you bring the subject up before the directors for—for—”
“Your sake—yes”—he said, admiringly.
“Humanity's—God's—Right's—helpless, ignorant, dying children!”
“Do you know,” he added quickly, “how many idle parents these hundred and twenty-five children support—actually support? Why, about fifty. Now do you see? The whole influence of these fifty people will be to violate the law—to swear the children are twelve or over. Yes, I am opposed to it—so is Kingsley—but we are powerless.”
“My enthusiasm has been aroused, of late, on the subject,” Alice went on, “by the talks and preaching of my old friend, Mr. Watts.”
Travis frowned: “The old Bishop of Cottontown,” he added ironically—“and he had better stop it—he will get into trouble yet.”
“Why?”
“Because he is doing the mill harm.”
“And I don't suppose one should do a corporation harm,” she said quickly,—“even to do humanity good?”
“Oh, Alice, let us drop so disagreeable a subject,” said her mother. “Come, Richard and I want some music.”
“Any way,” said Alice, rising, “I do very much hope you will bring the subject up in your visit to the directors. It has grown on me under the talks of the old Bishop and what I have seen myself—it has become a nightmare to me.”
“I don't think it is any of our business at all,” spoke up Mrs. Westmore quickly.
Alice turned her big, earnest eyes and beautiful face on her mother.
“Do you remember when I was six years old?” she asked.
“Of course I do.”
“Suppose—suppose—that our poverty had come to us then, and you and papa had died and left brother and me alone and friendless. Then suppose we had been put into that mill to work fourteen hours a day—we—your own little ones—brother and I”—
Mrs. Westmore sprang up with a little shriek and put her hands over her daughter's mouth.
Richard Travis shrugged his shoulders: “I had not thought of it that way myself,” he said. “That goes home to one.”
Richard Travis was always uplifted in the presence of Alice. It was wonderful to him what a difference in his feelings, his behavior, his ideas, her simple presence exerted. As he looked at her he thought of last night's debauch—the bar-room—the baseness and vileness of it all. He thought of his many amours. He saw the purity and grandeur of her in this contrast—all her queenliness and beauty and simplicity. He even thought of Maggie and said to himself: “Suppose Alice should know all this.... My God! I would have no more chance of winning her than of plucking a star from the sky!”
He thought of Helen and it made him serious. Helen's was a different problem from Maggie's. Maggie was a mill girl—poor, with a bed-ridden father. She was nameless. But Helen—she was of the same blood and caste of this beautiful woman before him, whom he fully expected to make his wife. There was danger in Helen—he must act boldly, but decisively—he must take her away with him—out of the State, the South even. Distance would be his protection, and her pride and shame would prevent her ever letting her whereabouts or her fate be known.
Cold-bloodedly, boldly, and with clear-cut reasoning, all this ran through his mind as he stood looking at Alice Westmore.
We are strangely made—the best of us. Men have looked on the Madonna and wondered why the artist had not put more humanity there—had not given her a sensual lip, perhaps. And on the Cross, the Christ was thinking of a thief.
Two hours later he was bidding her good-bye.
“Next Sunday, do you remember—Alice—next Sunday night you are to tell me—to fix the day, Sweet?”
“Did mother tell you that?” she asked. “She should let me speak for myself.”
But somehow he felt that she would. Indeed he knew it as he kissed her hand and bade her good-night.
Richard Travis had ridden over to Westmoreland that Sunday night, and as he rode back, some two miles away, and within the shadows of a dense clump of oaks which bordered the road, he was stopped by two dusky figures. They stood just on the edge of the forest and came out so suddenly that the spirited saddle mare stopped and attempted to wheel and bolt. But Travis, controlling her with one hand and, suspecting robbers, had drawn his revolver with the other, when one of them said:
“Friends, don't shoot.”
“Give the countersign,” said Travis with ill-concealed irritation.
“Union League, sir. I am Silos, sir.”
Travis put his revolver back into his overcoat pocket and quieted his mare.
The two men, one a negro and the other a mulatto, came up to his saddle-skirt and stood waiting respectfully.
“You should have awaited me at The Gaffs, Silos.”
“We did, sir,” said the mulatto, “but the boys are all out here in the woods, and we wanted to hold them together. We didn't know when you would come home.”
“Oh, it's all right,” said Travis pettishly—“only you came near catching one of my bullets by mistake. I thought you were Jack Bracken and his gang.”
The mulatto smiled and apologized. He was a bright fellow and the barber of the town.
“We wanted to know, sir, if you were willing for us to do the work to-night, sir?”
“Why bother me about it—no need for me to know, Silos, but one thing I must insist upon. You may whip them—frighten them, but nothing else, mind you, nothing else.”
“But you are the commander of the League—we wanted your consent.”
Travis bent low over the saddle and talked earnestly to the man a while. It was evidently satisfactory to the other, for he soon beckoned his companion and started off into the woods.
“Have you representatives from each camp present, Silos?”
The mulatto turned and came back.
“Yes—but the toughest we could get. I'll not stay myself to see it. I don't like such work, sir—only some one has to do it for the cause—the cause of freedom, sir.”
“Of course—why of course,” said Travis. “Old Bisco and his kind are liable to get all you negroes put back into slavery—if the Democrats succeed again as they have just done. Give them a good scare.”
“We'll fix him to-night, boss,” said the black one, grinning good naturedly. Then he added to himself: “Yes, I'll whip 'em—to death.”
“I heard a good deal of talk among the boys, to-night, sir,” said the mulatto. “They all want you for Congress next time.”
“Well, we'll talk about that, Silos, later. I must hurry on.”
He started, then wheeled suddenly:
“Oh, say, Silos—”
The latter came back.
“Do your work quietly to-night—Just a good scare—If you disturb”—he pointed to the roof of Westmoreland in the distance showing above the beech tops. “You know how foolish they are about old Bisco and his wife—”
“They'll never hear anything.” He walked off, saying to himself: “A nigger who is a traitor to his race ought to be shot, but for fear of a noise and disturbin' the ladies—I'll hang 'em both,—never fear.”
Travis touched his mare with the spur and galloped off.
Uncle Bisco and his wife were rudely awakened. It was nearly midnight when the door of their old cabin was broken open by a dozen black, ignorant negroes, who seized and bound the old couple before they could cry out. Bisco was taken out into the yard under a tree, while his wife, pleading and begging for her husband's life, was tied to another tree.
“Bisco,” said the leader, “we cum heah to pay you back fur de blood you drawed frum our backs whilst you hilt de whip ob slabery an' oberseed fur white fo'ks. An' fur ebry lick you giv' us, we gwi' giv' you er dozen on your naked back, an' es fur dis ole witch,” said the brute, pointing to old Aunt Charity, “we got de plain docyments on her fur witchin' Br'er Moses' little gal—de same dat she mek hab fits, an' we gwi' hang her to a lim'.”
The old man drew himself up. In every respect—intelligence, physical and moral bravery—he was superior to the crowd around him. Raised with the best class of whites, he had absorbed many of their virtues, while in those around him were many who were but a few generations removed from the cowardice of darkest Africa.
“I nurver hit you a lick you didn't deserve, suh, I nurver had you whipped but once an' dat wus for stealin' a horg which you sed yo'se'f you stole. You ken do wid me es you please,” he went on, “you am menny an' kin do it, an' I am ole an' weak. But ef you hes got enny soul, spare de po' ole 'oman who ain't nurver dun nothin' but kindness all her life. De berry chile you say she witched hes hed 'leptis fits all its life an' Cheerity ain't dun nuffin' but take it medicine to kwore it. Don't hurt de po' ole 'oman,” he exclaimed.
“Let 'em do whut dey please wid me, Bisco,” she said: “Dey can't do nuffin' to dis po' ole body but sen' de tired soul on dat journey wher de buterful room is already fix fur it, es you read dis berry night. But spare de ole man, spare 'im fur de secun' blessin' which Gord dun promised us, an' which boun' ter cum bekase Gord can't lie. O Lord,” she said suddenly, “remember thy po' ole servants dis night.”
But her appeals were fruitless. Already the “witch council” of the blacks was being formed to decide their fate. And it was an uncanny scene that the moon looked down on that night, under the big trees on the banks of the Tennessee. They formed in a circle around the “Witch Finder,” an old negro whose head was as white as snow, and who was so ignorant he could scarcely speak even negro dialect.
Both his father and mother were imported from Africa, and the former was “Witch Finder” for his tribe there. The negroes said the African Witch Finder had imparted his secret only to his son, and that it had thus been handed down in one family for many generations.
The old negro now sat upon the ground in the center of the circle. He was a small, bent up, wiry-looking black, with a physiognomy closely resembling a dog's, which he took pains to cultivate by drawing the plaits of his hair down like the ears of a hound, while he shaped his few straggling strands of beard into the under jaw of the same animal. Three big negroes had led him, blind-folded, into the circle, chanting a peculiar song, the music of which was weird and uncanny. And now as he sat on the ground the others regarded him with the greatest reverence and awe. It was in one of the most dismal portions of the swamp, a hundred yards or two from the road that led to the ferry at the river. Here the old people had been brought from their homes and tied to this spot where the witch council was to be held. Before seating himself the Witch Finder had drawn three rings within a circle on the ground with the thigh bone of a dog. Then, unbuttoning his red flannel shirt, he took from his bosom, suspended around his neck, a kind of purse, made from the raw-hide of a calf, with white hair on one side and red on the other, and from this bag he proceeded to take out things which would have given Shakespeare ideas for his witch scene in Macbeth. A little black ring, made of the legs of the black spider and bound together with black horse hair; a black thimble-like cup, not much longer than the cup of an acorn, made of the black switch of a mule containing the liver of a scorpion. The horny head and neck of the huge black beetle, commonly known to negroes as the black Betsy Bug; the rattle and button of a rattlesnake; the fang-tooth of a cotton-mouth moccasin, the left hind foot of a frog, seeds of the stinging nettle, and pods of peculiar plants, all incased in a little sack made of a mole's hide. These were all given sufficient charm by a small round cotton yarn, in the center of which was a drop of human blood. They were placed on the ground around him, but he held the ball of cotton yarn in his hand, and ordered that the child be brought into the ring. The poor thing was frightened nearly to death at sight of the Witch Finder, and when he began slowly to unwind his ball of cotton thread and chant his monotonous funeral song, she screamed in terror. At a signal from the “Witch Finder,” Aunt Charity was dragged into the ring, her hands tied behind her. The sight of such brutality was too much for the child, and she promptly had another fit. No other evidence was needed, and the Witch Finder declared that Aunt Charity was Queen of Witches. The council retired, and in a few minutes their decision was made: Uncle Bisco was to be beaten to death with hickory flails and his old wife hung to the nearest tree. Their verdict being made, two stout negroes came forward to bind the old man to a tree with his arms around it. At sight of these ruffians the old woman broke out into triumphant song:
“O we mos' to de home whar we all gwi' res',
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon!
An' take de ole weary ones unto yo' bres',
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon!
Fur we ole an' we tired an' we hungry fur yo' sight,
An' our lim's dey am weary, fur we fou't er good fight,
An' we longin' fur de lan' ob lub an' light—
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon.”
And it was well that she sang that song, for it stopped three horsemen just as they forded the creek and turned their horses' heads into the lane that led to the cabin. One who was tall and with square shoulders sat his horse as if born in the saddle. Above, his dark hair was streaked with white, but the face was calm and sad, though lit up now with two keen and kindly eyes which glowed with suppressed excitement. It was the face of splendid resolve and noble purpose, and the horse he rode was John Paul Jones. The other was the village blacksmith. A negro followed them, mounted on a raw-bone pony, and carrying his master's Enfield rifle.
The first horseman was just saying: “Things look mighty natural at the old place, Eph; I wonder if the old folks will know us? It seems to me—”
He pulled up his horse with a jerk. He heard singing just over to his left in the wood. Both horsemen sat listening:
O we mos' to de do' ob our Father's home—
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll nurver mo' sorrer an' nurver mo' roam—
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll meet wid de lam's dat's gohn on befo'
An' we lie in de shade ob de good shepherd's do',
An' he'll wipe away all ob our tears as dey flow—
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
“Do you know that voice, Eph?” cried the man in front to his body servant. “We must hurry”; and he touched the splendid horse with the heel of his riding boot.
But the young negro had already plunged two spurs into his pony's flanks and was galloping toward the cabin.
It was all over when the white rider came up. Two brutes had been knocked over with the short heavy barrel of an Enfield rifle. There was wild scattering of others through the wood. An old man was clinging in silent prayer to his son's knees and an old woman was clinging around his neck, and saying:
“Praise God—who nurver lies—it's little Ephrum—come home ag'in.”
Then they looked up and the old man raised his hands in a pitiful tumult of joy and fear and reverence as he said:
“An' Marse Tom, so help me God—a-ridin' John Paul Jones!”