“Den w’at we gwine ter do?” demanded Josh indignantly; “jes’ set here an’ let ’em hang Sandy, er bu’n ’im?”
“God knows!” exclaimed Miller. “The outlook is dark, but we should at least try to do something. There must be some white men in the town who would stand for law and order—there’s no possible chance for Sandy to escape hanging by due process of law, if he is guilty. We might at least try half a dozen gentlemen.”
“We’d better leave Josh here,” said Watson. “He’s too truculent. If he went on the street he’d make trouble, and if he accompanied us he’d do more harm than good. Wait for us here, Josh, until we’ve seen what we can do. We’ll be back in half an hour.”
In half an hour they had both returned.
“It’s no use,” reported Watson gloomily. “I called at the mayor’s office and found it locked. He is doubtless afraid on his own account, and would not dream of asserting his authority. I then looked up Judge Everton, who has always seemed to be fair. My reception was cold. He admitted that lynching was, as a rule, unjustifiable, but maintained that there were exceptions to all rules—that laws were made, after all, to express the will of the people in regard to the ordinary administration of justice, but that in an emergency the sovereign people might assert itself and take the law into its own hands—the creature was not greater than the creator. He laughed at my suggestion that Sandy was innocent. ‘If he is innocent,’ he said, ‘then produce the real criminal. You negroes are standing in your own light when you try to protect such dastardly scoundrels as this Campbell, who is an enemy of society and not fit to live. I shall not move in the matter. If a negro wants the protection of the law, let him obey the law.’ A wise judge—a second Daniel come to judgment! If this were the law, there would be no need of judges or juries.”
“I called on Dr. Price,” said Miller, “my good friend Dr. Price, who would rather lie than hurt my feelings. ‘Miller,’ he declared, ‘this is no affair of mine, or yours. I have too much respect for myself and my profession to interfere in such a matter, and you will accomplish nothing, and only lessen your own influence, by having anything to say.’ ‘But the man may be innocent,’ I replied; ‘there is every reason to believe that he is.’ He shook his head pityingly. ‘You are self-deceived, Miller; your prejudice has warped your judgment. The proof is overwhelming that he robbed this old lady, laid violent hands upon her, and left her dead. If he did no more, he has violated the written and unwritten law of the Southern States. I could not save him if I would, Miller, and frankly, I would not if I could. If he is innocent, his people can console themselves with the reflection that Mrs. Ochiltree was also innocent, and balance one crime against the other, the white against the black. Of course I shall take no part in whatever may be done—but it is not my affair, nor yours. Take my advice, Miller, and keep out of it.’
“That is the situation,” added Miller, summing up. “Their friendship for us, a slender stream at the best, dries up entirely when it strikes their prejudices. There is seemingly not one white man in Wellington who will speak a word for law, order, decency, or humanity. Those who do not participate will stand idly by and see an untried man deliberately and brutally murdered. Race prejudice is the devil unchained.”
“Well, den, suh,” said Josh, “where does we stan’ now? W’at is we gwine ter do? I wouldn’ min’ fightin’, fer my time ain’t come yit—I feels dat in my bones. W’at we gwine ter do, dat’s w’at I wanter know.”
“What does old Mr. Delamere have to say about the matter?” asked Miller suddenly. “Why haven’t we thought of him before? Has he been seen?”
“No,” replied Watson gloomily, “and for a good reason—he is not in town. I came by the house just now, and learned that he went out to his country place yesterday afternoon, to remain a week. Sandy was to have followed him out there this morning—it’s a pity he didn’t go yesterday. The old gentleman has probably heard nothing about the matter.”
“How about young Delamere?”
“He went away early this morning, down the river, to fish. He’ll probably not hear of it before night, and he’s only a boy anyway, and could very likely do nothing,” said Watson.
Miller looked at his watch.
“Belleview is ten miles away,” he said. “It is now eleven o’clock. I can drive out there in an hour and a half at the farthest. I’ll go and see Mr. Delamere—he can do more than any living man, if he is able to do anything at all. There’s never been a lynching here, and one good white man, if he choose, may stem the flood long enough to give justice a chance. Keep track of the white people while I’m gone, Watson; and you, Josh, learn what the colored folks are saying, and do nothing rash until I return. In the meantime, do all that you can to find out who did commit this most atrocious murder.”
XXIII
Belleview
Miller did not reach his destination without interruption. At one point a considerable stretch of the road was under repair, which made it necessary for him to travel slowly. His horse cast a shoe, and threatened to go lame; but in the course of time he arrived at the entrance gate
