“I went with him,” says Parrish. “We come near a village an’ we stopped at a man’s house. He mistrusted something wrong.” (Naturally! Dr. Powell says he saw his guests moulding bullets, ordered them out, and they defied him, declaring they would spend the night.) “He sent out an’ got two men an’ they come in thar wid thar guns an’ staid all night. When we got up in de little town nex’ mornin’, thar come out twenty men wid guns in thar han’s, an’ de Mayor he was thar, an’ McGiffen tole ’em to stop; an’ they stopped. He tole ’em thar couldn’ but one or two come near. They suspicioned about our having the little chile along. You see, thar was trouble ’bout dat time ’bout children bein’ kidnapped an’ carried off to de Dismal Swamp. I see ten or thirteen men on de railroad, an’ they comin’ pretty close. McGiffen hollered out for ’em to stop, or he would certainly shoot. An’ they stopped. Then somebody hollered ‘Close up!’
“I had de little boy in my lap. To keep him f’om gittin’ hurt, I set him down by de roadside. McGiffen an’ me had been ridin’ one horse, takin’ turns, de one ridin’ carryin’ de baby. A feller kep’ comin’ closer, an’ I hollered, ‘Stop, sir, or I’m goin’ to shoot you!’ an’ I shot him in de han’. He kep’ hollerin’ I had killed him, an’ de other fellers sorter scattered, an’ that give McGiffen chance to git away. An’ I got away. Had to leave de baby settin’ thar side de road. An’ they follered me up an’ got me, an’ they got McGiffen. After they captured us, they heard about thar bein’ three strangers down whar we had come f’om, an’ they suspicioned we was de men dat had been advertised for because of de trouble in Brunswick. An’ they sent after Lewis. It was one night. He had unbuckled his pistols an’ laid ’em on his bureau, an’ some visitors come to see him; an’ he was talkin’ to them, an’ eight or ten men stepped up behin’ him an’ that’s how they got him. An’ they had de three of us. An’ Governor Walker sent Bill Knox, de detective, an’ Dr. Powell he was sent to identify us. An’ we were carried to Richmond, an’ then we were carried to Greensville, an’ we were tried. De little boy was sent back to his mother. I was sent to de penitentiary for eight years, but I got out sooner for good behaviour; an’ I learned a good trade thar. But I don’t think they ought to ha’ sent me, because I was jes a boy an’ I done what I was ordered to do when I shot Mr. Lett—that what’s they sent me for. An’ de military soldiers had said I warn’t to blame. Lewis he played off crazy like he done befo’, an’ they sent him to de asylum, an’ he escaped like he done befo’. De superintendent was a member of de Loyal League. An’ McGiffen was hung, an’ I never thought he ought to ha’ been hung.” Military rule was at an end and Virginia was back in the Union when the fugitives were captured.
There was another flutter of the public pulse in this county when, perhaps, the one thing that saved the day was the confidence of the negroes in Sheriff Jones. Court was in session when several people ran into the court room, shouting: “Sheriff! Sheriff! they are killing the negroes out here!” Sheriff Jones ran out and saw a crowd of five or six hundred negroes, some drunk, in the street, and in their midst two drunken white men. A few other whites were lined up against a fence, their hands on their pistols, not knowing what a moment would bring forth. People cried out: “Don’t go into that crowd, Sheriff! You’re sure to get shot!” “Here, boys!” called the Sheriff to some negroes he knew, “take me into that crowd.” Two negroes made a platform of their hands, and on this the officer was carried into the mob, his bearers shouting as they went: “Lis’n to de sheriff! Hear what de sheriff say!” He called on everybody to keep the peace, had no trouble in restoring quiet, and arrested everybody he thought ought to be arrested. “But our coloured people soon became orderly and well-behaved after the carpet-baggers left us,” says Sheriff Jones.
In several Southern States at this period, such a termination to the last incident would have been almost impossible. Here, the officer was a representative native white; he understood the people and all elements trusted him; the interest of the community was his own. With an outsider in position, the case must have been quite different; the situation more difficult and the sequel probably tragic, even conceding to the officer sincere desire to prevent trouble, a disposition carpet-baggers did not usually betray. Riots in the South were breath of life to carpet-bag governments. July 25, 1870, Governor Smith, Republican, of Alabama, said over his signature, of a politician who had criticised him for not calling out negro militia to intimidate whites: “My candid opinion is that Sibley does not want the law executed, because that would put down crime, and crime is his life’s blood. He would like very much to have a Ku Klux outrage every week, to assist him in keeping up strife between whites and blacks, that he might be more certain of the latter’s votes. He would like to have a few coloured men killed weekly to furnish semblance of truth to Senator Spencer’s libels against the State.”
In quiet country places where people did not live close enough for mutual sympathy and protection, the heavy hand was often most acutely felt. Such neighbourhoods were shortened, too, of ways to make oppression known at headquarters; it cost time and money to send committees to Washington, and influence to secure a hearing. When troubles accumulated, some hitherto peaceful neighbourhood, hamlet or town would suddenly find unenviable fame thrust upon it. There was, for instance, the Colfax Riot, Grant Parish, Louisiana, where sixty-three lives were lost. Two tickets had been announced elected. Governor Kellogg, after his manner of encouraging race wars, said, “Heaven bless you, my children!” to both, commissioned the two sets of officers, and told them to “fight it out,” which they did with the result given and the destruction of the Court House by fire. Negroes had been called in, drilled, armed and taught how to make cannon out of gas-pipe.
And now for the portrait of a carpet-bagger of whom all who knew him said: “He is the most brilliant man I ever met.” I can only give fictitious names. Otherwise, innocent people might be wounded.
A young lieutenant, discharged from the Federal Army, located in Roxmere, a college town. His first move was to pose as a friend to whites, and to insinuate himself into nice families. When there was trouble—which he stirred up—between the races, he would assume the authority—none was given him by the Government—to interfere and settle it. For instance, he would undertake to punish negroes for impertinence. He began to practise law. He married a young lady of the section, of means but not a daughter of the aristocracy; she had owned many negroes; he made out a list, which he kept, expecting the Government to pay for them. He said his father was an English clergyman, and he spoke beautifully and feelingly of his early life. When it became apparent that the negro was to be made a voter, Yankee Landon (as Roxmere called him), changed tactics; he organized Union Leagues, drilled negroes and made incendiary speeches.
One day, Judge Mortimer, hurrying into the Court House, said: “Yankee Landon is on the hustings making a damnable speech to the negroes!” Landon’s voice could be heard and the growls of his audience. The whites caught these words ringing clear and distinct: “We will depopulate this whole country of whites. We have got to do it with fire and sword!” Some one else, much excited, came in, saying, “A movement’s on foot to lynch Landon.” The old Judge hastened up the street. He met some stern-faced men and stopped them. “We know what Landon is saying,” they told him, “and we intend to swing him.” He tried to turn them from their purpose, but they declared: “There is no sense in waiting until that scoundrel has incited the negroes to massacre us.” Another cool-headed jurist sought to stay them. “Do you realise what you are going to do?” he asked. “We are going to hang Yankee Landon.” “That will not do!” “We’ve got to do it. The safety of our homes demands it.” The combined efforts of conservative men stayed summary action. Landon got wind of what was brewing, and for a time was more prudent of tongue; then, concluding that the people were afraid to molest him, broke forth anew.
In the Union League season, there was a tremendous negro crowd on the streets; whites had hardly room to walk; they got very sick of it all. Roxmere’s college men decided to take a hand and disposed themselves for action. “Don’t give way one inch to these old slavocrats!” Landon was shouting from a goods-box, when they sent Cobb Preston out. Cobb, in a dressing-gown trailing four feet, walked into the crowd. He placed a chip on his hat. “Will some one step on my dressing-gown or knock this chip off?” he asked loudly and suavely. Everybody gave him room to trail around in. Nobody stepped near the tail of that dressing-gown! No hand approached within yards of that chip! Any sudden turn he made was a signal for fresh scatterings which left wide swath for his processional. Did he flirt around quickly, calling on somebody to step on his gown or knock off his chip, darkeys fell over each other getting out of his way. Landon understood. He knew if the college boys succeeded in starting a row he would be killed. After that, whites could use sidewalks without being shoved off. Landon was adept in pocketing insults. Men cast fearful epithets in his teeth. “I have heard Vance McGregor call him a dog, a thief—and he would take it,” says a lawyer who practised in the same courts with him.
He and a negro “represented” the county in the Black and Tan Convention. He came back a much richer man. Nobody visited his family. One day, Rev. Dr. Godfrey encountered on the street a little girl, who asked: “Have you seen my papa?” “Who is your papa, little one?” “Yan-kee Landon!” she piped. He led her to the corner and tenderly directed her way. Rev. Dr. Godfrey did not hesitate to arraign Landon from his pulpit. One Sunday, when Landon and his wife sat in the front pew, and the conversion of Zaccheus happened to be his subject, the congregation was electrified to hear him draw comparisons between Zaccheus and carpet-baggers, to the great disparagement of the latter. He spoke of the fine horses, wines and cigars of modern Mr. Zaccheus, and of Mrs. Zaccheus’ silks and jewels. “Zaccheus of old could say,” he cried, “‘If I have taken anything from any man, I restore him fourfold!’ Not so Zaccheus of today,” and he looked straight in Landon’s face. Landon’s contribution was equal to that of all the other people in the church put together. The Landons gave up their pew, and attended worship elsewhere, but presently came back to Dr. Godfrey’s, the “swell” church. He spared them not. But he went to see Landon’s wife and sent his wife to see her. “Mrs. Landon is a young mother, my dear,” he said, “you should go.”