“Well, Deacon,” said he, rising in his stirrups, “we have submitted long enough, and too long, and there must be a change: and I am bound to do my share to secure it.”
“And I won’t be behind yo’, Cap’n,” replied Deacon Atwood. “These niggers must be put down where they belong, and the carpet-baggers driven back where they came from.”
“It’s doubtful whether many of them would be received there. I apprehend that the most of them “left their country for their country’s good” when they came here. A man don’t emigrate for nothing, and I expect they have been run out of the North for some mean acts, and have come to the South to prey upon a conquered people.”
“I reckon that’s so, and I wonder how yo’ men that ’a’n’t no church obligations on yo’ ken keep from swearing when yo’ think of it. I declar, when I get to turning it over in my mind I get so mad that I can’t hardly keep from it myself. As yo’ war saying, it reaches everywhere. Less than half the people is white to be sure, but then we own nine-tenths o’ the land, and yet we must be taxed to support nigger schools, and niggers and carpet-baggers in all the offices, and new offices trumped up where there a’n’t enough to serve them as wants ’em—health officers in every little town, and scavengers even, under pretense of fear of yellow fever, to give salaries to dumb niggers as don’t know nothing only how to rob Southern gentlemen, and all sorts of yankee “public improvements” as they call ’em! Why, I’m taxed this year to mend a road that runs down past me there, and nobody but niggers never travels on it. It is positively insulting and oppressive!”
“Well, Deacon, I suppose your statement that niggers and carpet-baggers are in all the offices might be called a slight exaggeration, but then we could sit here till dark and not finish enumerating the grievances this State government, backed by that Cæsar Grant, at Washington, imposes upon the people of South Carolina—those that ought to be the ruling class—the South Carolinians.
“But the best thing we can do is to take hold of these military clubs and work them; and in that way bring about a better state of things. I, for one, am determined this State shall go Democratic this coming fall; and if we unite in this method I’ve been explaining to you, we can effect it. Just bring this Mississippi method up in your club to-night—or support Lamb, if he does—and we’ll whip the rascals. Nigger voters are too thick—must be weeded out!”
“That’s just what I’m going to do,” replied Deacon Atwood; “and in order to do it, I reckon we’ll have to go on.”
“Yes; my sabre club meets this evening, too, for drill. So good evening!”
“Good evening, Captain.” And the two men separated. The Captain kept the main road, and the Deacon took a sort of back, plantation route, seldom traveled except by the farmers residing upon it, where he soon fell into deep meditation, his chin dropping upon his breast, and his respiration becoming slow and heavy. His old white horse, even, seeming to pass into a similar state of somnambulency, walked dreamily along, till his nose, far down towards the ground, came in contact with a fresh and tender shrub, around which his long tongue instinctively wrapped itself, and he came to a full stop.
“Hud up!” said the startled Deacon, gathering up his bridle with a nervous jerk; and his small eyes quickly swept a circle around him.