Chapter: The Wellington riot began at three o'clock in the afternoon of a day as
fair as was ever selected for a deed of darkness. The sky was clear,
except for a few light clouds that floated, white and feathery, high in
air, like distant islands in a sapphire sea. A salt-laden breeze from
the ocean a few miles away lent a crisp sparkle to the air.

At three o'clock sharp the streets were filled, as if by magic, with
armed white men. The negroes, going about, had noted, with uneasy
curiosity, that the stores and places of business, many of which closed
at noon, were unduly late in opening for the afternoon, though no one
suspected the reason for the delay; but at three o'clock every passing
colored man was ordered, by the first white man he met, to throw up his
hands. If he complied, he was searched, more or less roughly, for
firearms, and then warned to get off the street. When he met another
group of white men the scene was repeated. The man thus summarily held
up seldom encountered more than two groups before disappearing across
lots to his own home or some convenient hiding-place. If he resisted any
demand of those who halted him--But the records of the day are
historical; they may be found in the newspapers of the following date,
but they are more firmly engraved upon the hearts and memories of the
people of Wellington. For many months there were negro families in the
town whose children screamed with fear and ran to their mothers for
protection at the mere sight of a white man.

Dr. Miller had received a call, about one o'clock, to attend a case at
the house of a well-to-do colored farmer, who lived some three or four
miles from the town, upon the very road, by the way, along which Miller
had driven so furiously a few weeks before, in the few hours that
intervened before Sandy Campbell would probably have been burned at the
stake. The drive to his patient's home, the necessary inquiries, the
filling of the prescription from his own medicine-case, which he carried
along with him, the little friendly conversation about the weather and
the crops, and, the farmer being an intelligent and thinking man, the
inevitable subject of the future of their race,--these, added to the
return journey, occupied at least two hours of Miller's time.

As he neared the town on his way back, he saw ahead of him half a dozen
men and women approaching, with fear written in their faces, in every
degree from apprehension to terror. Women were weeping and children
crying, and all were going as fast as seemingly lay in their power,
looking behind now and then as if pursued by some deadly enemy. At sight
of Miller's buggy they made a dash for cover, disappearing, like a covey
of frightened partridges, in the underbrush along the road.

Miller pulled up his horse and looked after them in startled wonder.

"What on earth can be the matter?" he muttered, struck with a vague
feeling of alarm. A psychologist, seeking to trace the effects of
slavery upon the human mind, might find in the South many a curious
illustration of this curse, abiding long after the actual physical
bondage had terminated. In the olden time the white South labored under
the constant fear of negro insurrections. Knowing that they themselves,
if in the negroes' place, would have risen in the effort to throw off
the yoke, all their reiterated theories of negro subordination and
inferiority could not remove that lurking fear, founded upon the obscure
consciousness that the slaves ought to have risen. Conscience, it has
been said, makes cowards of us all. There was never, on the continent of
America, a successful slave revolt, nor one which lasted more than a few
hours, or resulted in the loss of more than a few white lives; yet never
was the planter quite free from the fear that there might be one.

On the other hand, the slave had before his eyes always the fear of the
master. There were good men, according to their lights,--according to
their training and environment,--among the Southern slaveholders, who
treated their slaves kindly, as slaves, from principle, because they
recognized the claims of humanity, even under the dark skin of a human
chattel. There was many a one who protected or pampered his negroes, as
the case might be, just as a man fondles his dog,--because they were
his; they were a part of his estate, an integral part of the entity of
property and person which made up the aristocrat; but with all this
kindness, there was always present, in the consciousness of the lowest
slave, the knowledge that he was in his master's power, and that he
could make no effectual protest against the abuse of that authority.
There was also the knowledge, among those who could think at all, that
the best of masters was himself a slave to a system, which hampered his
movements but scarcely less than those of his bondmen.

When, therefore, Miller saw these men and women scampering into the
bushes, he divined, with this slumbering race consciousness which years
of culture had not obliterated, that there was some race trouble on
foot. His intuition did not long remain unsupported. A black head was
cautiously protruded from the shrubbery, and a black voice--if such a
description be allowable--addressed him:--

"Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?"

"Yes. Who are you, and what's the trouble?"

"What's de trouble, suh? Why, all hell's broke loose in town yonduh. De
w'ite folks is riz 'gins' de niggers, an' say dey're gwine ter kill
eve'y nigger dey kin lay han's on."

Miller's heart leaped to his throat, as he thought of his wife and
child. This story was preposterous; it could not be true, and yet there
must be something in it. He tried to question his informant, but the man
was so overcome with excitement and fear that Miller saw clearly that he
must go farther for information. He had read in the Morning Chronicle, a
few days before, the obnoxious editorial quoted from the Afro-American
Banner, and had noted the comment upon it by the white editor. He had
felt, as at the time of its first publication, that the editorial was
ill-advised. It could do no good, and was calculated to arouse the
animosity of those whose friendship, whose tolerance, at least, was
necessary and almost indispensable to the colored people. They were
living, at the best, in a sort of armed neutrality with the whites; such
a publication, however serviceable elsewhere, could have no other
effect in Wellington than to endanger this truce and defeat the hope of
a possible future friendship. The right of free speech entitled Barber
to publish it; a larger measure of common-sense would have made him
withhold it. Whether it was the republication of this article that had
stirred up anew the sleeping dogs of race prejudice and whetted their
thirst for blood, he could not yet tell; but at any rate, there was
mischief on foot.

"Fer God's sake, doctuh, don' go no closeter ter dat town," pleaded his
informant, "er you'll be killt sho'. Come on wid us, suh, an' tek keer
er yo'se'f. We're gwine ter hide in de swamps till dis thing is over!"

"God, man!" exclaimed Miller, urging his horse forward, "my wife and
child are in the town!"

Fortunately, he reflected, there were no patients confined in the
hospital,--if there should be anything in this preposterous story. To
one unfamiliar with Southern life, it might have seemed impossible that
these good Christian people, who thronged the churches on Sunday, and
wept over the sufferings of the lowly Nazarene, and sent missionaries to
the heathen, could be hungering and thirsting for the blood of their
fellow men; but Miller cherished no such delusion. He knew the history
of his country; he had the threatened lynching of Sandy Campbell vividly
in mind; and he was fully persuaded that to race prejudice, once roused,
any horror was possible. That women or children would be molested of set
purpose he did not believe, but that they might suffer by accident was
more than likely.

As he neared the town, dashing forward at the top of his horse's speed,
he heard his voice called in a loud and agitated tone, and, glancing
around him, saw a familiar form standing by the roadside, gesticulating
vehemently.

He drew up the horse with a suddenness that threw the faithful and
obedient animal back upon its haunches. The colored lawyer, Watson, came
up to the buggy. That he was laboring under great and unusual excitement
was quite apparent from his pale face and frightened air.

"What's the matter, Watson?" demanded Miller, hoping now to obtain some
reliable information.

"Matter!" exclaimed the other. "Everything's the matter! The white
people are up in arms. They have disarmed the colored people, killing
half a dozen in the process, and wounding as many more. They have forced
the mayor and aldermen to resign, have formed a provisional city
government _a la Francaise_, and have ordered me and half a dozen other
fellows to leave town in forty-eight hours, under pain of sudden death.
As they seem to mean it, I shall not stay so long. Fortunately, my wife
and children are away. I knew you were out here, however, and I thought
I'd come out and wait for you, so that we might talk the matter over. I
don't imagine they mean you any harm, personally, because you tread on
nobody's toes; but you're too valuable a man for the race to lose, so I
thought I'd give you warning. I shall want to sell you my property,
too, at a bargain. For I'm worth too much to my family to dream of ever
attempting to live here again."

"Have you seen anything of my wife and child?" asked Miller, intent upon
the danger to which they might be exposed.

"No; I didn't go to the house. I inquired at the drugstore and found
out where you had gone. You needn't fear for them,--it is not a war on
women and children."

"War of any kind is always hardest on the women and children," returned
Miller; "I must hurry on and see that mine are safe."

"They'll not carry the war so far into Africa as that," returned
Watson; "but I never saw anything like it. Yesterday I had a hundred
white friends in the town, or thought I had,--men who spoke pleasantly
to me on the street, and sometimes gave me their hands to shake. Not one
of them said to me today: 'Watson, stay at home this afternoon.' I might
have been killed, like any one of half a dozen others who have bit the
dust, for any word that one of my 'friends' had said to warn me. When
the race cry is started in this neck of the woods, friendship, religion,
humanity, reason, all shrivel up like dry leaves in a raging furnace."

The buggy, into which Watson had climbed, was meanwhile rapidly nearing
the town.

"I think I'll leave you here, Miller," said Watson, as they approached
the outskirts, "and make my way home by a roundabout path, as I should
like to get there unmolested. Home!--a beautiful word that, isn't it,
for an exiled wanderer? It might not be well, either, for us to be seen
together. If you put the hood of your buggy down, and sit well back in
the shadow, you may be able to reach home without interruption; but
avoid the main streets. I'll see you again this evening, if we're both
alive, and I can reach you; for my time is short. A committee are to
call in the morning to escort me to the train. I am to be dismissed from
the community with public honors." Watson was climbing down from the
buggy, when a small party of men were seen approaching, and big Josh
Green, followed by several other resolute-looking colored men, came up
and addressed them.

"Dr. Miller," cried Green, "Mr. Watson,--we're lookin' fer a leader. De
w'ite folks are killin' de niggers, an' we ain' gwine ter stan' up an'
be shot down like dogs. We're gwine ter defen' ou' lives, an' we ain'
gwine ter run away f'm no place where we 'we got a right ter be; an' woe
be ter de w'ite man w'at lays ban's on us! Dere's two niggers in dis
town ter eve'y w'ite man, an' ef we 'we got ter be killt, we'll take
some w'ite folks 'long wid us, ez sho' ez dere's a God in heaven,--ez I
s'pose dere is, dough He mus' be 'sleep, er busy somewhar e'se ter-day.
Will you-all come an' lead us?"

"Gentlemen," said Watson, "what is the use? The negroes will not back
you up. They haven't the arms, nor the moral courage, nor the
leadership."

"We'll git de arms, an' we'll git de courage, ef you'll come an' lead
us! We wants leaders,--dat's w'y we come ter you!"

"What's the use?" returned Watson despairingly. "The odds are too heavy.
I've been ordered out of town; if I stayed, I'd be shot on sight,
unless I had a body-guard around me."

"We'll be yo' body-guard!" shouted half a dozen voices.

"And when my body-guard was shot, what then? I have a wife and children.
It is my duty to live for them. If I died, I should get no glory and no
reward, and my family would be reduced to beggary,--to which they'll
soon be near enough as it is. This affair will blow over in a day or
two. The white people will be ashamed of themselves to-morrow, and
apprehensive of the consequences for some time to come. Keep quiet,
boys, and trust in God. You won't gain anything by resistance."

"'God he'ps dem dat he'ps demselves,'" returned Josh stoutly. "Ef Mr.
Watson won't lead us, will you, Dr. Miller?" said the spokesman, turning
to the doctor.

For Miller it was an agonizing moment. He was no coward, morally or
physically. Every manly instinct urged him to go forward and take up the
cause of these leaderless people, and, if need be, to defend their lives
and their rights with his own,--but to what end?

"Listen, men," he said. "We would only be throwing our lives away.
Suppose we made a determined stand and won a temporary victory. By
morning every train, every boat, every road leading into Wellington,
would be crowded with white men,--as they probably will be any
way,--with arms in their hands, curses on their lips, and vengeance in
their hearts. In the minds of those who make and administer the laws, we
have no standing in the court of conscience. They would kill us in the
fight, or they would hang us afterwards,--one way or another, we should
be doomed. I should like to lead you; I should like to arm every colored
man in this town, and have them stand firmly in line, not for attack,
but for defense; but if I attempted it, and they should stand by me,
which is questionable,--for I have met them fleeing from the town,--my
life would pay the forfeit. Alive, I may be of some use to you, and you
are welcome to my life in that way,--I am giving it freely. Dead, I
should be a mere lump of carrion. Who remembers even the names of those
who have been done to death in the Southern States for the past twenty
years?"

"I 'members de name er one of 'em," said Josh, "an' I 'members de name
er de man dat killt 'im, an' I s'pec' his time is mighty nigh come."

"My advice is not heroic, but I think it is wise. In this riot we are
placed as we should be in a war: we have no territory, no base of
supplies, no organization, no outside sympathy,--we stand in the
position of a race, in a case like this, without money and without
friends. Our time will come,--the time when we can command respect for
our rights; but it is not yet in sight. Give it up, boys, and wait. Good
may come of this, after all."

Several of the men wavered, and looked irresolute.

"I reckon that's all so, doctuh," returned Josh, "an', de way you put
it, I don' blame you ner Mr. Watson; but all dem reasons ain' got no
weight wid me. I'm gwine in dat town, an' ef any w'ite man 'sturbs me,
dere'll be trouble,--dere'll be double trouble,--I feels it in my
bones!"

"Remember your old mother, Josh," said Miller.

"Yas, sub, I'll 'member her; dat's all I kin do now. I don' need ter
wait fer her no mo', fer she died dis mo'nin'. I'd lack ter see her
buried, suh, but I may not have de chance. Ef I gits killt, will you do
me a favor?"

"Yes, Josh; what is it?"

"Ef I should git laid out in dis commotion dat's gwine on, will you
collec' my wages f'm yo' brother, and see dat de ole 'oman is put away
right?"

"Yes, of course."

"Wid a nice coffin, an' a nice fune'al, an' a head-bo'd an' a
foot-bo'd?"

"Yes."

"All right, suh! Ef I don' live ter do it, I'll know it'll be 'tended
ter right. Now we're gwine out ter de cotton compress, an' git a lot er
colored men tergether, an' ef de w'ite folks 'sturbs me, I shouldn't be
s'prise' ef dere'd be a mix-up;--an' ef dere is, me an _one_ w'ite man
'll stan' befo' de jedgment th'one er God dis day; an' it won't be me
w'at'll be 'feared er de jedgment. Come along, boys! Dese gentlemen may
have somethin' ter live fer; but ez fer my pa't, I'd ruther be a dead
nigger any day dan a live dog!"

 The Wellington riot begins at three o'clock in the afternoon. Armed white men come into the street "as if by magic" and begin to search and hold up any black man, woman, or child that they see. If he disagrees with the request, there is violence. Dr. Miller is out on a call and as he comes back into town, he sees groups of people with fear on their faces. Miller knows, with his "slumbering race consciousness which years of culture had not obliterated," that there is racial trouble in town. A man tells him that the white people have risen up and are going to kill all the blacks. The man begs Dr. Miller not to go into town, but Miller fears for his wife and child and so he races back. On the road back into town, Miller meets Watson on the road. Watson tells him that the white people have "formed a provisional city government a la francaise" and have ordered many of the more prominent black men to leave town. Watson exclaims that the day before, he had had "a hundred white friends in the town" but that today not one of them even looked at him. As they are talking, Josh Green and a group of men come down the road. Green tells Miller and Watson that their uprising is looking for a leader. Watson and Miller tell them that it is no use and that if they rise up, all will die. Josh tells that "God he'ps dem dat he'ps demselves. Miller tells Green that he would like to lead them, but that this useless exercise would only result in their deaths. Josh tells Miller that his mother died this morning and asks that, if he should die, if Miller will bury her. Miller and agrees and Josh leads the band of rebels, telling them that "I'd ruther be a dead nigger any day dan a live dog

