CHAPTER VI
The Mayor of the Death-Chamber
I had ruled undisputed for a year—it seemed a century. By common consent I was the acknowledged “Mayor of the Death-Chamber,” and very properly so, for was not I the oldest inhabitant? All questions were referred to me. I was the final court of arbitration; what I said “went.”
This delightful state of affairs was undisturbed, even undisputed, until Benjamin appeared. Benjamin was a gentleman of color, a youth with a penchant for politics. Before he had been among us long enough to learn to appreciate “State” tobacco, he became rebellious. He disputed my authority. He was evidently jealous. His ambition vaunted itself till it seemed as if he would attempt to appropriate to himself the perquisites of my high office. Benjamin was altogether impossible. He knew all about politics; his brother worked for an alderman. Benjamin insisted upon expounding their intricacies and the subterfuges necessary to carry wards and districts. What a mayor could or could not do was an open book to him. Benjamin knew everything. He would hear no reason, listen to no explanation, had no respect for my year in the Death-Chamber. He trampled upon my rights; he was unceremonious, even familiar. He questioned the legality of my claims. He demanded a fair and open election, announcing himself to our citizens as a candidate, the people’s candidate, the poor man’s friend, a Democrat! All that evening he gave us of his oratory. He denounced me in every scathing phrase to which he could lay his tongue. I was an aristocrat, a representative of trusts, a vile Republican.
A rival had presented himself. The issues were joined. I bribed him into silence with a cigar. The next evening he demanded two to stop talking. I refused. It was war to the death. I made no speeches, but consulted with my constituents. “We were seven,” and seven fat cigars left my pocket; but into the same receptacle from whence they came I put the solid and unanimous vote of the Death-Chamber. I did more. I taught Benjamin a lesson. I told him I did not care for that office any more; that it was a burden I would gladly lay down. He wept as he thanked me. He worked hard, and received pledges of support from every voter—they had their instructions.
It seemed a “walkover” for Benjamin. He began to think how “Honorable” would sound before his name. The voting proceeded. The superintendent of elections was the night keeper. He announced Benjamin’s unanimous election to the office of Mayor. The sounds of revelry and thanksgiving from Benjamin’s cage sounded like rival camp-meetings possessed of the devil. He—Ben, not the latter—made an eloquent speech of thanks as befitting the occasion in which, for the last time in his life, he spoke well of me.
In response he heard the announcement of my election as—Governor. Then there was silence in Benjamin’s executive mansion, the “city hall,” as he had just christened his cell. The first official act of “His Excellency” was to exercise his inherent right and remove “His Honor, the Mayor,” from office. Benjamin never recovered. When, a few months later, they escorted Ben through the “little door,” I think he was perfectly willing to go.
