“It’s an elegant specimen of journalism, isn’t it?” laughed the general, airily. “Listen to this ’ad’:—
“ ‘Kinky, curly hair made straight by one application of our specific. Our face bleach will turn the skin of a black or brown person four or five shades lighter, and of a mulatto perfectly white. When you get the color you wish, stop using the preparation.’
“Just look at those heads!—‘Before using’ and ‘After using.’ We’d better hurry, or there’ll be no negroes to disfranchise! If they don’t stop till they get the color they desire, and the stuff works according to contract, they’ll all be white. Ah! what have we here? This looks as though it might be serious.” Opening the sheet the general read aloud an editorial article, to which Carteret listened intently, his indignation increasing in strength from the first word to the last, while McBane’s face grew darkly purple with anger.
The article was a frank and somewhat bold discussion of lynching and its causes. It denied that most lynchings were for the offense most generally charged as their justification, and declared that, even of those seemingly traced to this cause, many were not for crimes at all, but for voluntary acts which might naturally be expected to follow from the miscegenation laws by which it was sought, in all the Southern States, to destroy liberty of contract, and, for the purpose of maintaining a fanciful purity of race, to make crimes of marriages to which neither nature nor religion nor the laws of other states interposed any insurmountable barrier. Such an article in a Northern newspaper would have attracted no special attention, and might merely have furnished food to an occasional reader for serious thought upon a subject not exactly agreeable; but coming from a colored man, in a Southern city, it was an indictment of the laws and social system of the South that could not fail of creating a profound sensation.
“Infamous—infamous!” exclaimed Carteret, his voice trembling with emotion. “The paper should be suppressed immediately.”
“The impudent nigger ought to be horsewhipped and run out of town,” growled McBane.
“Gentlemen,” said the general soothingly, after the first burst of indignation had subsided, “I believe we can find a more effective use for this article, which, by the way, will not bear too close analysis—there’s some truth in it, at least there’s an argument.”
“That is not the point,” interrupted Carteret.
“No,” interjected McBane with an oath, “that ain’t at all the point. Truth or not, no damn nigger has any right to say it.”
“This article,” said Carteret, “violates an unwritten law of the South. If we are to tolerate this race of weaklings among us, until they are eliminated by the stress of competition, it must be upon terms which we lay down. One of our conditions is violated by this article, in which our wisdom is assailed, and our women made the subject of offensive comment. We must make known our disapproval.”
“I say lynch the nigger, break up the press, and burn down the newspaper office,” McBane responded promptly.
“Gentlemen,” interposed the general, “would you mind suspending the discussion for a moment, while I mind Jerry across the street? I think I can then suggest a better plan.”
Carteret rang the bell for Jerry, who answered promptly. He had been expecting such a call ever since the gentlemen had gone in.
“Jerry,” said the general, “step across to Brown’s and tell him to send me three Calhoun cocktails. Wait for them—here’s the money.”
“Yas, suh,” replied Jerry, taking the proffered coin.
“And make has’e, charcoal,” added McBane, “for we’re gettin’ damn dry.”
A momentary cloud of annoyance darkened Carteret’s brow. McBane had always grated upon his aristocratic susceptibilities. The captain was an upstart, a product of the democratic idea operating upon the poor white man, the descendant of the indentured bondservant and the socially unfit. He had wealth and energy, however, and it was necessary to make use of him; but the example of such men was a strong incentive to Carteret in his campaign against the negro. It was distasteful enough to rub elbows with an illiterate and vulgar white man of no ancestry—the risk of similar contact with negroes was to be avoided at any cost. He could hardly expect McBane to be a gentleman, but when among men of that class he might at least try to imitate their manners. A gentleman did not order his own servants around offensively, to say nothing of another’s.
The general had observed Carteret’s annoyance, and remarked pleasantly while they waited for the servant’s return:—
“Jerry, now, is a very good negro. He’s not one of your new negroes, who think themselves as good as white men, and want to run the government. Jerry knows his place—he is respectful, humble, obedient, and content with the face and place assigned to him by nature.”
“Yes, he’s one of the best of ’em,” sneered McBane. “He’ll call any man ‘master’ for a quarter, or ‘God’ for half a dollar; for a dollar he’ll grovel at your feet, and for a cast-off coat you can buy an option on his immortal soul—if he has one! I’ve handled niggers for ten years, and I know ’em from the ground up. They’re all alike—they’re a scrub race, an affliction to the country, and the quicker we’re rid of ’em all the better.”
Carteret had nothing to say by way of dissent. McBane’s sentiments, in their last analysis, were much the
