That there were some white men who had learned little and forgotten nothing goes without saying, for knowledge and wisdom are not impartially distributed among even the most favored race. There were ignorant and vicious negroes, and they had a monopoly of neither ignorance nor crime, for there were prosperous negroes and poverty-stricken whites. Until Carteret and his committee began their baleful campaign the people of the state were living in peace and harmony. The anti-negro legislation in more southern states, with large negro majorities, had awakened scarcely an echo in this state, with a population two thirds white. Even the triumph of the Fusion party had not been regarded as a race issue. It remained for Carteret and his friends to discover, with inspiration from whatever supernatural source the discriminating reader may elect, that the darker race, docile by instinct, humble by training, patiently waiting upon its as yet uncertain destiny, was an incubus, a corpse chained to the body politic, and that the negro vote was a source of danger to the state, no matter how cast or by whom directed.
To discuss means for counteracting this apathy, a meeting of the “Big Three,” as they had begun to designate themselves jocularly, was held at the office of the “Morning Chronicle,” on the next day but one after little Dodie’s fortunate escape from the knife.
“It seems,” said General Belmont, opening the discussion, “as though we had undertaken more than we can carry through. It is clear that we must reckon on opposition, both at home and abroad. If we are to hope for success, we must extend the lines of our campaign. The North, as well as our own people, must be convinced that we have right upon our side. We are conscious of the purity of our motives, but we should avoid even the appearance of evil.”
McBane was tapping the floor impatiently with his foot during this harangue.
“I don’t see the use,” he interrupted, “of so much beating about the bush. We may as well be honest about this thing. We are going to put the niggers down because we want to, and think we can; so why waste our time in mere pretense? I’m no hypocrite myself—if I want a thing I take it, provided I’m strong enough.”
“My dear captain,” resumed the general, with biting suavity, “your frankness does you credit—‘an honest man’s the noblest work of God,’—but we cannot carry on politics in these degenerate times without a certain amount of diplomacy. In the good old days when your father was alive, and perhaps nowadays in the discipline of convicts, direct and simple methods might be safely resorted to; but this is a modern age, and in dealing with so fundamental a right as the suffrage we must profess a decent regard for the opinions of even that misguided portion of mankind which may not agree with us. This is the age of crowds, and we must have the crowd with us.” The captain flushed at the allusion to his father’s calling, at which he took more offense than at the mention of his own. He knew perfectly well that these old aristocrats, while reaping the profits of slavery, had despised the instruments by which they were attained—the poor-white overseer only less than the black slave. McBane was rich; he lived in Wellington, but he had never been invited to the home of either General Belmont or Major Carteret, nor asked to join the club of which they were members. His face, therefore, wore a distinct scowl, and his single eye glowed ominously. He would help these fellows carry the state for white supremacy, and then he would have his innings—he would have more to say than they dreamed, as to who should fill the offices under the new deal. Men of no better birth or breeding than he had represented Southern states in Congress since the war. Why should he not run for governor, representative, whatever he chose? He had money enough to buy out half a dozen of these broken-down aristocrats, and money was all-powerful.
“You see, captain,” the general went on, looking McBane smilingly and unflinchingly in the eye, “we need white immigration—we need Northern capital. ‘A good name is better than great riches,’ and we must prove our cause a righteous one.”
“We must be armed at all points,” added Carteret, “and prepared for defense as well as for attack—we must make our campaign a national one.”
“For instance,” resumed the general, “you, Carteret, represent the Associated Press. Through your hands passes all the news of the state. What more powerful medium for the propagation of an idea? The man who would govern a nation by writing its songs was a blethering idiot beside the fellow who can edit its news dispatches. The negroes are playing into our hands—every crime that one of them commits is reported by us. With the latitude they have had in this state they are growing more impudent and self-assertive every day. A yellow demagogue in New York made a speech only a few days ago, in which he deliberately, and in cold blood, advised negroes to defend themselves to the death when attacked by white people! I remember well the time when it was death for a negro to strike a white man.”
“It’s death now, if he strikes the right one,” interjected McBane, restored to better humor by this mention of a congenial subject.
The general smiled a fine smile. He had heard the story of how McBane had lost his other eye.
“The local negro paper is quite outspoken, too,” continued the general, “if not impudent. We must keep track of that; it may furnish us some good campaign material.”
“Yes,” returned Carteret, “we must see to that. I threw a copy into the wastebasket this morning, without looking at it. Here it is now!”
IX
A White Man’s “Nigger”
Carteret fished from the depths of the wastebasket and handed
