The Forged Note Part 46
"REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY AND KEEP IT HOLY"
This was the inscription under a cartoon in the Effingham Herald, one Sunday, following a Sunday when crime seemed to have run riot. The cartoon pictured a huge knife stuck into a human heart, and the moral was, that on the Sabbath day, when its population was supposed to be at pious worship, murder was un-G.o.dly.
The Sunday previous to this, seven different murders had occurred in that many different parts of the town. Sidney had read the accounts, and said nothing when he saw they were all black people. Only one exception, and that was one who had shot another, and in attempting to escape, had been shot by the police.
Thus was the condition of crime in Effingham. It was a rare Sunday that didn't have five or six shootings, killings and cutting affrays. The record for the previous year showed more than three hundred murders, mostly by Negroes upon each other, and in part by the police. Eighty per cent of all murder in the city was among two-fifths of the whole, or the Negro population. But what surprised Wyeth was, that insofar as speaking of it as an everyday occurrence, and something to be expected, the colored people paid little attention to it.
By this time, Wyeth had become known as a severe critic. And, therefore, against colored people in their effort for salvation, so the critics complained. There was one, however, who saw beneath the surface, and who said, in reply to the criticisms going the rounds, that Wyeth was criticised, not for the criticisms, but for his method of bringing the truth before the eyes which did not wish to see it.
"We've tried every way possible to obtain a library," said one.
"What are some of the ways?" he inquired pointedly.
"Well, for instance, we have asked the teachers to each give a book for that purpose. We have almost two hundred teachers in this town, and if each one gave a book, and the preachers likewise, that would make considerable of a library."
"For sixty thousand people, yes." And under his breath he added, "You fool!"
"Why do you not write an editorial and bring attention to the dreadful amount of crime that seems to have submerged your population," he said one day to Mathews, a very excellent writer.
"I'm writing of what people are doing that is uplifting," the other returned.
"Do you not consider that all this murder the Negro is committing, to the disgrace of the state, the city, the county, and the race to which he belongs, is a thing that requires some effort, or some comment on our part as citizens of this commonwealth?"
"Oh, but the best colored people don't care to read of that," he explained.
"But it's a fact, is it not; and one that is going forth every day through the columns of the big dailies, and a fact that the public is making record of, and holds up to the gaze of the world, and gives this town the name of being the most uncivilized community in the country?"
"There is, of course, Mr. Wyeth, no use in trying to argue these things with you," complained the other. "About town, although you have been here only a short time, you are regarded as a contentious person, always forcing your way of seeing things upon people, and criticising our teachers and preachers and best people for their lack of concern, in regard to a lot of criminal Negroes, that find their way to this town, from every convict camp in the state and other states. If you would struggle to get into society and mingle with the best people, you would forget what these brutes are doing. Instead of that, you can always be seen standing at a distance, viewing all of us as one."
"Abraham Lincoln, our emanc.i.p.ator, said: 'This country cannot continue with one part of the people free and the other in serfdom, and thrive.'
I am wholly at a loss to understand this att.i.tude of what you term the 'best people' toward the ma.s.ses." Wyeth persisted, thoroughly aroused.
"We complain of the injustice of prejudice, which is well worth the complaint. But, while we see that the white people refuse to accept us on an equal basis with themselves, we cry out about the 'best people.'
We cannot expect the world to accept us as a race on the reputation of a precious few. And yet right here in this town, on all sides, among the 'best people' we hear that 'you' cannot be responsible for the condition of the great herd. I do not think you are expected to by the public; but what stirs me, fires me sometimes to denunciation, is this utter disregard for the evil things in which our people indulge themselves, to the disgrace of all."
"Have it your way, Mr. Wyeth," said the other, resignedly. "That is the reputation you have, 'having your way.'"
This was the end of that, but not of murder. Everywhere it continued.
Wyeth went to the churches. He listened to the sermons; and at the drug store, where the more logical members of the city could often be found, he met the same condition. n.o.body was worried. n.o.body cared. Just as long as their own affairs were going along in a satisfactory manner, no complaint was forthcoming. And, as time went on, Wyeth took notice that everybody carried a revolver. One evening, at the drug store, someone displayed a revolver of a new type, which brought about some comment.
Forthwith, among the twelve present, ten additional revolvers were produced and displayed, Wyeth being the only one not possessing one. He was looked at in surprise, and made the object of much comment.
"Why, I wouldn't go from here home one night, without my cannon," said the druggist. A prominent doctor smiled grimly, as he pocketed his, while others laughed and patted their weapons fondly.
"You from out of the west and haven't a gun. Man, you are crazy,"
laughed one. "You better send out west there, and have them send on that dungeon."
"I never owned a gun in my life."
"What! Been living out in that wild country these many years, and never owned a cannon! What kind of people do you have out there?"
"Civilized people."
"Uh, well, I ain' never been without a smoker, believe muh."
"He'll be carrying one before he's here long," laughed a physician, as they filed out into the night.
More conspicuously here than elsewhere he had been, Wyeth saw that the undertaking business thrived better in this city than any other conducted by colored people. A half dozen companies were incorporated, with a paid-up capital stock, and declared handsome dividends every six months. And each company owned one or more ambulance carriages, or "dead wagons," as they were commonly called as they moved busily about the streets, picking up wounded and dead Negroes. Almost daily they whirled through the town at break-neck speed, to the tune of a dreadful alarm.
Then Wyeth began to see, without looking, why crime thrived. The mills, coal mines and furnaces employed thousands of men, as we know, and paid them at various times. And to a saloon they filed and drank their fill.
In his observations, Wyeth had never seen saloons do such an excessive bottle business. Great cases, the length of the bar in many instances, and piled everywhere, were half pints of liquor. A man said to him one day, "You'll find, upon searching the ignorant Negro, three things almost any time: A bottle of booze, which might be empty if you searched him at his work--a cannon, if not, it is because he is not able to possess one--a knife, with a blade long enough to go through you--additionally, a pair of dice."
But it was not at the saloons that they bought all the whiskey, regardless of the great number in sight. But barrel houses and wholesale stores were operated in connection therewith. Here the tiger conductors purchased their supplies, which consisted mostly of whiskey, and the cheapest available, which was, to be exact, a dollar and a half a gallon; but, if bought in smaller quant.i.ties, it came at forty cents a quart; while the beer used by the tigers was so cheap that finally, no label was used on the bottle. And it was this kind, he learned, the tiger people used almost exclusively. It was likewise, this kind that produced the most fighting drunks, and was sold after midnight--Sat.u.r.day night. So, on the outside of a good supply of drink and a c.r.a.p game in sight, crime ran high in this city, and was ever in continuance.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"_This Is Mr. Winslow, Madam!_"
After his conflict with Moore, Legs took a silent pledge; he would quit gambling and drinking, and start a bank account. "I'm going to use some sense and save my money," he declared, with much sincerity. "There is nothing like a few dollars, in case of emergency."
"If you stick to that theory in practice, Legs," Wyeth corroborated, "you'll never have cause to regret it."
He started the same at once, with one dollar. The next week he added another, which made two, and was jubilant. The next week he added another, and at the end of four weeks, had five dollars to his credit, and was discussing investments. "I'm going to buy me a house and lot by and by," he said, laughing over his prospects.
"I own the L. & N. R.R.," cried a dirty, black, fat Negro, coming up the street. "Haf a the A.G.S. too!"
"That's Sam," said the Mis', coming to the door at that moment. "Ever since a white man took his wife, they say he's been like that. He imagines he owns railroads, and if you happen to be going by the station, you can see him standing gazing at the trains, with a foreign expression."
"Git that car back on the right switch there! Flag that engine, and make them push that section to the left! All right. Now, pull her ahead.
That's all."
"How-do, Sam," she greeted him as he came abreast. He halted a moment, and gazed at her remonstratingly.
"This is Mr. Winslow, madam. Always address me as such, and in that manner hereafter. I am Mr. Winslow, understand, and I own the L. & N.
R.R."
"And the A.G.S.?"
"Own haf a that too."
"And the T.C.I. Company?"
"They wanted to sell it to me. I wouldn't buy it. Come on there with that train, engineer. Drop that car on siding G. Now, switch that other chain around on track E.