"People of the Saxon race, whom we have trusted so implicitly, this is your work, for which you must answer to God," and with his hand he brushed away a tear. Together we rode to the woods, my husband remaining home with the children. Far beyond "Jump and Run" we came upon quite a crowd of women and children, who had built a large fire, and were huddled about it. One woman, a tall creature, ran to meet us as we approached with outstretched hands and a maniacal stare in her eyes. "Where's my husband?" she shrieked. "Is it true he is killed? An' are you comin' to kill me?" "No, my dear," answered the minister, "we come to bring you comfort." "No! no! no!" she cried. "Tell me no more about God. Hagar's children have no God. They are forsaken! Lost! lost! lost!" Several women came up and took hold of the demented creature and led her away. "She's los' her mind," said one. "She sat here las' night an' saw her dear friend an' neighbor die in the agony of childbirth; and that, with the news of her husband's death has unbalanced her mind." "There lays the woman," said another, taking the minister by the hand and leading him to where—cold and lifeless—the body of the woman with that of the new-born babe by its side. The poor, demented creature had taken a seat upon a stump beside the corpse, and was moaning and wringing her hands. "Lord, be merciful!" exclaimed the minister, with clasped hands. "They are all about here," said another woman; "these are not all that have died during the night." We busied ourselves in giving such comfort as lay in our power. In our search among the bushes we came across several dead and others dying from the night's exposure. So thoroughly frightened were these people that we could not induce them to believe it safe to venture back to their own homes. The situation was indeed appalling. On our way into the city we met some humane whites going out to persuade the frightened refugees back.

The 10th day of November, 1898, can never be forgotten. I will not close this narrative without mentioning an act of bravery performed by a lone woman which stopped the vulgar and inhuman searching of women in our section of the city. The most atrocious and unpardonable act of the mob was the wanton disregard for womanhood. Lizzie Smith was the first woman to make a firm and stubborn stand against the proceeding in the southern section. It was near the noon hour when Lizzie, homeward bound, reached the corner of Orange and Third streets. A block away she saw a woman struggling to free herself from the grasp of several men who were, in turn, slapping her face and otherwise abusing her. The woman fought until her clothes were torn to shreds; then with a shove the men allowed her to proceed on her way. Lizzie could have saved herself by running away, but anger at such cowardice had chased away every vestige of fear. She leisurely walked up to where the fight was going on. "Halt," said one of the ruffians to Lizzie, "an' let's see how many razors you got under them duds. That tother wench was er walkin' arsennel. Come now!" roared the man, "none er your cussed impert'nence." Lizzie, instead of assaying to comply, akimbowed and looked defiantly at the crowd about her. "Oh, yo' po' white trash." "Shut up or we'll settle you an' have done with it," said the leader, making a motion toward his hip pocket. "Yo' will, eh!" answered the girl, "yo' kan't skeer me. But ef yo' wanter search me I'll take off ma clothes, so yo' won't have ter tear 'em," and Lizzie began to hurriedly unfasten her bodice. "Yo've got ter search me right," she continued, throwing off piece after piece; "yo'll fin' I am jes' like yo' sisters an' mammies, yo' po' tackies." "That'll do," growled one of the men, as Lizzie was unbuttoning the last piece. "Oh, no," returned the girl, "I'm goin' ter git naked; yer got ter see that I'm er woman." White women were looking on from their windows at this sight so shocking. One had the courage to shout "Shame! how dare you expose that woman in that manner?" "Them's the curnel's orders," replied the leader, raising his hat. "Who is the Colonel, and what right has he to give such orders?" shrieked the woman. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves for your own wives and daughters' sakes." The men skulked away and left Lizzie victor on the field. Yours for justice and right,

ADELAIDE PETERSON.



CHAPTER XIV.

The Flight of Reverend Selkirk.

There is a great deal said about the fatality of the wind of Boston Bay. Even the native Bostonian dreads its icy touch, and when winter comes to re-enforce its intensity, as many as can, seek warmer climes. A few winters ago, among the many tourists who sought accommodations on a train South-bound were Rev. Hiland Silkirk, wife and two children. Rev. Silkirk's many years of ministerial work in the old cradle of liberty had somewhat told upon his health, and he felt that a few months or years in a warmer clime would result in the recovery of lost vigor. He had purchased a ticket for Wilmington, N. C. The air there was mild, bracing and dry and made health giving and mellow by the sweet odor of the yellow pine. And then, again, a field was open for the continuance of his work while he recuperated, a certain Baptist church in the old city had called him to its pastorate. Being a man of exceptional ability, affable and of sunny temperament, Rev. Hiland Silkirk was just the man to win friends among Southern people, and he won them among both white and black citizens in that old town. This is the case in every Southern community. A Negro man of prominence can retain his popularity on certain lines among the whites if he keeps out of politics and in all race troubles remains neutral. But he cannot take this stand and be universally loved. His reward will inevitably be the contempt of his own race, which he cannot afford to engender. And no man who loves his people can hide his light under a bushel; can keep quiet when they are assailed. He must, he will raise hand and voice in their defense. Moses refused to dwell in the king's palace while his people suffered about him. No! he went forth, and in his zeal smote an uncircumcised Egyptian oppressor to death and fled into a strange land and there fitted himself for their deliverer. Rev. Hiland Silkirk counted his friends among some leading ministers and laymen of the opposite race. But Rev. Silkirk was true to his own, and when the time came to test that devotion, he arrayed himself with his own people and endangered his own life. When, in the early part of August, 1898, the fight between the editor of the Record and the editor of the Messenger waxed hot over the inflammatory letters on the race question from the pen of Mrs. Fells, of Georgia, which had its final result in the destruction of the Record's property and the banishment of its editor, Rev. Silkirk did not hesitate to join in the controversy. This caused many of his white friends to cool towards him, and it placed his name upon the list of dangerous(?) Negroes to be killed or banished. After the general raid which terrorized and put the city in a state of panic on the 10th of November, the mobs divided into squads, and, as deputy sheriffs, begun to arrest and drive from the city the objects of their spleen. The duly elected Mayor and other officials having been deposed, bandits were put in their places. A portion of the mob which destroyed the Record building on the morning of the 10th, started northward toward Walnut street, on which the hated Negro minister resided. But among the white ministers in Wilmington there was one at least who would not allow his prejudice to impair his devotion to a worthy friend. He, aware of the plot to murder the black divine, set out on that morning to warn him of his danger. The Rev. Silkirk, aroused and alarmed by the noise of guns coming from every direction in the city, had just mounted his bicycle and started in the direction of Dry Pond. As he turned into Seventh street he saw, more than two blocks away, another bicyclist breathlessly pedaling toward him. "Why, Dr. Sawyer, I was just starting to your house!" said the colored man, as the white one rode up and dismounted. "And I was just coming to your house to inform you that a ride in my direction is dangerous! Return! There is no time to be lost. Get into the woods! They are on the way to your house now to kill you. I must not be seen with you. Go! Make haste!" This was all said in one breath, and before the colored man could recover from his astonishment to ask a question the white one was gone. Down the street a cloud of dust rose before the colored minister's eyes. The bandits were only a few blocks away. There was not even time to return to his home. He hastened down Walnut street, crossed Red Cross into Campbell, and made for the woods. The bandits rode up to the minister's house, dismounted and surrounded it, but the quarry was gone. From the frightened wife and little ones they could glean no information as to the whereabouts of the minister. They were about to satisfy their vengeance by subjecting the helpless woman to revolting indignities, when a boy ran up to inform them of the direction in which the man had fled. The mob mounted their horses and made a dash for Oak Dale Cemetery. The colored people in the neighborhood, afraid to approach to offer protection to poor Mrs. Silkirk, now gathered about her. All were unanimous in the belief that the bandits would return should they fail to find the minister, and not only molest her, but shoot into the houses of others as well. So they decided to take her to the church, yea, gather the whole neighborhood in there. "Sho, dey won't shoot in de house er God," said an old lady. "Le'us git dar an' pray; we kin do nuth'n better. Le' us ask de Lawd wot it all means?"

When Rev. Silkirk reached a secluded spot in the woods he was wet, sore and exhausted from wading through marshes and being scratched by briars. Night had set in. He lay down beneath a clump of bushes to rest; but there was no rest for this poor innocent wretch, outlawed by ruffians and compelled to leave his wife and little ones, and be hunted as a wild beast in the forest. This is the fate of many a Negro who had committed no more offense against law and order. But this, to such characters as Rev. Silkirk, was no evidence of God's displeasure. Men more righteous than he had been compelled to flee for their lives; yea, suffer death for truth's sake; men of whom the world was not worthy. He pillowed his head upon a tuft of wire grass, and gazed upward towards the spangled skies. "Lord, we cannot tell why this, thy people, are so severely tried; yet we believe that all things work together for good to them that trust in Thee. Strengthen our faith, Lord. Save our wives and little ones from a fate worse than death at the hands of the wicked, who glory and take delight in shameful treatment of the defenseless." He heard the tramping of horses' feet among the bushes only a short distance away, and soon several men galloped past where he lay—so close that one of the horses brushed against the bush which sheltered him. The frightened minister lay perfectly still until the footsteps died away, then he arose and went cautiously back to the city to see, if possible, what had been the fate of his wife and children, left to the mercy of a disappointed and angry mob.

The feeling that the church was the only place for safety filled the breasts of most of the frightened souls in the neighborhood of Seventh and Red Cross streets on the evening of the dreadful 10th of November, after the band of Red Shirts had terrorized the people in their blusterous hunt for the negro minister. "It seemed like the day of Judgment," said an eye witness. "There were no loud lamentations, as is usual when colored people are wrought up under excitement, but sobs, groans and whispered petitions. Bless our pastor, Lord, an' save him ef it be Thy will," came from many lips, followed by "Amens" and "Do, Lord." Suddenly the church was thrown into a spasm of excitement that could not be suppressed, for while they were breathing prayers for his deliverance, the pastor, wet, footsore and tired, entered and strode slowly up the aisle. "Why did you, oh, why did you come back?" exclaimed his wife, throwing her arms about the minister's neck, while others in their excitement gathered about them. The Rev. Silkirk gently led his wife, who had almost fainted in his arms, to a chair and raised his hand for silence. "Brethren and sisters," he began, "my escape from death to-day has been a narrow one. I knew that my attitude in the Manly-Fells controversy had caused some of my friends to cool toward me, but I did not believe that it would ripen into a desire to murder me, because of my opinions. Nevertheless, my attitude is the same. I do not retract a single word said in defense of my people. Twenty or more men were killed to-day—men who are innocent of any wrong. I may be numbered with them before morning; yet love for my wife and little ones and you caused me to tempt death by returning here to console and speak a word of comfort to you. These may be evidences of God's displeasure; we may have in our prosperity forgotten to give Him the glory due unto His name; yet by these afflictions we may know that we are beloved of God, for whom he loveth He chasteneth. We are too well schooled in affliction to be dismayed, and they who are responsible for this rioting may just as well try to stop the river in its flow as to try to triumph permanently over a people who by affliction have waxed so strong in faith. We are as firm as Mount Zion, which cannot be moved. You, all of you, deem it expedient that I go away; so to-night, by the help of the Lord, I shall try to get away from this place. I may see you again, I cannot tell; if not, there are twelve gates to the City, and, with God's help, we'll meet up there. Let us have a few moments of silent prayer." Every knee was bended on that terrible night; but so emotional is the colored American that silence in a meeting of this kind is maintained with difficulty. A silence of two minutes elapsed—followed by sobs and groans painful to listen to. Then a voice tremulous with emotion floated over the assemblage—a woman's voice:

"Father in heaven, we have evidence that thou didst hear thy children's cry in days past and gone, and we believe that Thou wilt hear us now. (Yes, Lord.) Thou didst hear the Hebrew children. (Yes.) Thou didst deliver Daniel. (Yes.) Thou didst hear Africa's groans, and didst break her chains. (Yes, Lord.) Oh Jesus, Master, hear us to-night. (Do, Jesus.) We cannot tell, Lord, why we are buffeted, beaten, murdered and driven from our homes, and made to seek refuge among strangers; but Thou knowest. Perhaps in our prosperity we have forgotten to give Thee the glory, blessed Lord, and these demons that have flocked to Wilmington from all quarters may be the scourgers that Thou art using to bring us closer to Thee. Hear, O Lord, the groans and cries of the widows and orphans of the slaughtered ones; men who gave up their lives in the feeble efforts to defend their homes and firesides. (Do, Lord.) Bless Brother Silkirk and his little family (Amen), who are about to start upon a perilous journey. The way is beset by demons thirsting for his blood. (Lord, help.) But he's in Thy hands, and Thou canst save him and save us from further persecution, if it be Thy will. Amen!"

Rev. Silkirk was visibly moved by this earnest and pathetic plea. He thanked the petitioner and the entire church for their solicitude. He was dissuaded from attempting to take his wife and little ones with him on his perilous journey, and they were left in care of friends until an opportune season presented itself. The parting between that good man and his wife and friends was indeed touching. A substantial bank note was hurriedly thrust into his hand, and, with two deacons, he stepped out into the darkness and disappeared.

* * * * *

When the North-bound passenger train leaving Wilmington at 12.01 slowed up at Castle Hayne on the morning of the 12th of November a wretched-looking Negro minister stepped aboard. The trains had for two days been leaving the city ladened with undesirable citizens, white and black, and the trainmen had been earnest abettors in the injury and insult offered them. From Wilmington to Weldon at every stop crowds waited to do injury, if possible, to "Nigger" and radical refugees. Thomas Miller, Aria Bryant and other citizens had been taken off and jailed at Goldsboro, and one man in trying to escape was shot to death.

The Rev. Silkirk did not feel very comfortable under the searching eye of the conductor who lifted his fare, and that individual's refusal to give satisfactory answers to inquiries concerning connections at Rocky Mount increased his feeling of uneasiness. He felt assured that failing to capture him in the woods, his would-be murderers had telegraphed his description, etc., along the road. At Dudley Station two men came into the smoker and took seats immediately in front of him, and continued the discussion of the topic which doubtless absorbed their minds before entering. "I was saying," said one, an elderly man, with quite a refined appearance, "that impertinent article by that Negro preacher was equally as spicy as the editorial, and as the editor took time by the forelock and made good his escape, the determination was to make sure of this preacher. But he was warned in time to get out, and the impression is that he was warned by a white man." "Shame," said the other, slapping his knee vigorously. "He got away, then." "Yes, but it's likely he'll sneak back before taking final leave, as he has a family there, and they are on the lookout for him; besides, the boys have been notified along the road to be on the lookout." "What's his name?" "Silkirk; he is er Boston darkey, an' doubtless is heading for that place, as Southern climate has got too hot for 'im."

"Goldsboro! Change cars for Newbern," shouted the porter. "Well, good-bye!" said the genteel man, rising and making a bolt for the door. As the train slowly clanged its way through the old town the remaining passenger settled himself back in the seat and went to sleep.

Several men passed through the train, the conductor in the lead. Each man slyly glanced at the minister, but said nothing. The train sped on its way through the town.

Now, Wilson is the place where through passengers change cars and board North-bound trains from the far South. Wilson for the past few days had been the rendezvous for a well-organized vigilance committee, who had vied with the ruffians at Goldsboro in offering violence to citizens driven out of Wilmington. The leader of this gang was a young farmer by the name of Bull. That afternoon Mr. Bull and quite a number of his fellow-committeemen sat on the steps of the railroad station whittling sticks when the station operator came up and handed him a telegram, which ran as follows: "Goldsboro—Man on train 78 answering description of Silkirk. Look out for him. Barnet."

"By Joe!" exclaimed Captain Bull, jumping to his feet. "Well, what's up?" asked three or four of his companions, gathering around the leader. "Nothing, only that Boston black Yankee is on train 78, an' he mustn't git any further 'an Wilson, that's all," returned Bull. "Go, Buxton," he said to a sallow-faced young man leaning against the wall, "an' tell the boys ter git ready for er feast ter night. That Nigger editor slipped through like grease, an' ef we let this Nigger do so we all uns ought ter be gibbited. We want er be ready ter mount the train time she stops. I've got no description of the man, but, then, its no hard tas' to pick out er preacher from the tother uns." With that Captain Bull started toward home to get his gun, and the crowd dispersed.

At Wilson trains usually pause at the water tank, a few yards below, for coal and water, before making the final stop at the station. Just as train 78 paused at this place, a colored man with a buggy whip under his arm got aboard. He walked briskly through the train, scanning the faces of the passengers as he went. "The' ain't but one colored man on here," he said, as he reached the door of the smoking car and looked in. Walking up and touching this man on the shoulder, he said: "Looker here, mister, you goin' North?" "I want to," returned the colored passenger. "Well, come with me an' get somethin' ter eat foe you go; you look like you hungry. I keep er resterant, put up thar jes' fer my people, bekase thar's no show fer 'em in the other place. Come on! No time ter be los', train don't stay up thar more 'an twenty minutes." With that he led the passenger from the train. "Git up in thar," he said, pointing to a small wagon. "Got er trunk?" "No, just this bag," returned the other. "Well, let's go. Git up, Nell," and the horse started off in a brisk trot. "Looker here, mister, I ain't got no more resterant then er dog. Ain't your name Silkirk?" "That's may name," returned the passenger in astonishment. "I knowed it," said the driver. "I got on that train ter save yer life ter night. Slower dar, Nell! This road's full er mud holes sence the big rain we had tother day. I jes' happen ter that depot ter day jes' in time ter see thet telegraph when hit cum an' was put inter Captain Bull's han'. Sence dem riots in Wilmin'ton he's bin er getin' telegraphs an' sarchin' trains, an' insultin' women an' killin' col'd mens. An' I jes' slied erroun' tell I hear what that telegraph say. Hit say, look out fer Silkirk. Thar's er gang of crackers waitin' ter kill you as sho es yo' er bo'n; but Bob Jones is goin' ter cheat um dis time. Go on thar!" "God moves in a mysterious way," murmured the minister, slowly. "You'll bet he does. Come, gal, pick um up an' put um down; thar's no time ter be los'. Gwine ter take yer cross de country here, an' put yer on er frate train, an' dat train gwine take yer to Norfolk, for yo' sholy ain't safe on dat coas' line road. Dis is what we call throwin' de houn's off de scent. Pure Nigger cunnin', here me? Git up, Nell."

It was near the midnight hour when the horse, panting for breath, paused at a lonely rickety old station. The men alighted. "Hit's jes' twenty minutes pas' eleven," said Bob Jones glancing at his watch. "Now that train's comin' long here in er few minutes. Jes' git er board an' treat de Cap'n right, an' he'll put yer through." "God bless you and all of yours," said the minister, gratefully. "My people in Wilmington and Boston must know of you and what you have done for me to-night." "Dat's all right, parson, keep de change. Ise jes' doin' my duty, that's all. We should feel each other's keer, an' bear each other's cross, says de good word. Dar's de train now!" The old freight train panted slowly up and stopped to look for freight. The Rev. Hiland Silkirk, with tears of gratitude in his eyes, got aboard, and the triumphant Jehu turned his horse and started homeward.

"Well done, good and faithful servant, forasmuch as you have done good unto one of the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me."



CHAPTER XV.

Captain Nicholas McDuffy.

Before the introduction of the improved method of fire fighting in Southern cities—before the steam engine, the hook and ladder and water tower companies supplanted the old hand pump and bucket companies, the Negro was the chief fire fighter, and there was nothing that tended more to make fire fighting a pleasant pastime than those old volunteer organizations. For many years after the war Wilmington was supplied with water for the putting out of fires by means of cisterns which were built in the centre of streets. When the old bell in the market house tower sounded the alarm of fire, the volunteers left their work and hastened to headquarters to drag forth the old hand pump and make for the cistern nearest the scene of the fire, where, keeping time to the tune of some lively song, they pumped the fire out. There was peculiar sweetness in those old songs which made fire fighting a fascinating pastime in those old days. While a few men spannered the hose, directed the stream and did the work of rescuing and saving furniture, etc., the majority were required to man the pumps. Thirty or forty men in brilliant uniform lined up on either side of the huge engine, tugging away at the great horizontal handles, presented a spectacle which no one even in these days of advancement would despise. And the singing!

"O Lindy, Lindy my dear honey, Lindy, gal, I'm boun' to go; O Lindy, Lindy my dear honey, O Lindy, gal, I'm boun' to go," etc.

A few lines of another:

"The cows in de ole field, don't yo' hear de bell? Let her go, let her go. The cows in de ole field, don't yo' hear de bell? Let her go, let her go," etc.

But the things that will make those old organizations live longest in the memory are their frolics, excursions and picnics, full of all that appealed to the appetite for pleasure and excitement. There the dancer, the fighter, the runner, the wrestler, could indulge freely in his favorite pastime; there old scores could be settled and new ones made. The most noteworthy and serviceable of those old volunteer organizations was the old "Brooklyn No. 4," which guarded that portion of the city known by that name. No. 2, in the middle section, and the "Old No. 3 Double Deck," in the southern part of the city. These old-fashioned machines have given place to the modern fire fighter, the steam engine. But of all of these banished organizations, No. 3 will be the longest remembered. Upon her roll were the names of some of Wilmington's best citizens. In the year 1873 this company, too serviceable to be disbanded, was reorganized under the name of "Cape Fear Engine Company," and presented by the city with a handsome steam engine of that name. And although the Germans had replaced their hand pump by costly steamer, and a company had been organized among the aristocracy, this colored company kept and maintained the reputation of being the best fire fighters in the city, and second to none in the entire State. Upon the walls of their engine house hung trophies for superior firemanship won in nearly every city in the State. The insurance companies of the city recognized their value as savers of property, and upon more than one occasion made them valuable presents. Only men of good repute who could "stand the gaze of an honest eye" were eligible to membership in the Cape Fear Fire Company, and he who aspired to leadership must be efficient both in character and experience as a fire fighter. I write the above that the reader may know what manner of man this was who was compelled to leave his home, his wife and little ones and flee for his life. Captain Nicholas McDuffy was at one time foreman of the Cape Fear Engine Company. McDuffy came to Wilmington a rough country lad, secured employment, went to work, saved his money, bought property and became a citizen of note and respectability. He joined the engine company and rose like a meteor to its foremost rank. The relations between the races in the South have always been such that it requires a Negro of Spartan courage to face a white man and return blow for blow, it matters not how righteous may be his cause. Captain Nicholas McDuffy was a man without fear. Two or three years ago, while a member of the police force of Wilmington, it became his duty to arrest some white roughs for disorderly conduct. It was a hazardous undertaking, but McDuffy waded in and landed his men, but it cost him dear. His body was so hacked by knife thrusts that he was compelled to go to the hospital for repairs. Generally policemen are commended and rewarded for such heroic deeds, but this placed the name of Nicholas McDuffy upon the death list. A Negro officer must not presume to arrest a white man. There were, however, white men who admired McDuffy for his frankness and courage, and when the riotous excitement was at its height and the assassins were seeking here and there for victims, one of these true men warned McDuffy just in time to get into the swamp before a mob surrounded his house. They pursued him, however, but by swimming a creek not far from the city's limit he escaped their bullets, and without coat or hat made his way to New Berne. His poor wife and children were left to the mercy of the mob, who drove them forth and burned the house behind them.



CHAPTER XVI.

Tempting Negroes to Return.

Wilmington Officials Scouring the Woods for Refugees—Want Them to Return and Go to Work.

Special to The World.

Wilmington, N. C., Nov. 13.—Affairs are settling down to their normal condition here. Chief of Police Edgar G. Parmle and several representatives of the new city government drove out ten miles on the various roads leading from the city to-day, to induce the refugee Negroes to come back.

City officials also attended the colored churches and urged the pastors and their people to go into the woods to induce the frightened Negroes to return and resume their work.

The pastors of the white churches referred to the riot in their sermons to-day. The burden of the discourses was that the struggle at the polls Tuesday was for liberty, decency, honesty and right; that it was not so much the drawing of the color line as a contest for the supremacy of intelligence and competence over ignorance, incompetence and debauchery.

Dr. Hoge, pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, who recently preached in the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, New York, and was mentioned as Dr. Hall's successor, took as his text: "He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city."

"We have done both," he said. "We have taken a city. That is much, but it is more because it is our own city that we have taken."

Dr. Hoge justified the movement which led to the change of government.



CHAPTER XVII.

At Mrs. McLane's.

It was Thanksgiving Day. The political storm increased tenfold in velocity and destructiveness by race hatred that had swept through the old city of Wilmington, devastating homes, leaving orphans, widows and ruined fortunes in its wake, was slowly abating. A city in a state of siege could not have presented a more distressing appearance. Soldiers and armed white men and boys stood in groups on every street ready to pounce upon and disperse any assemblage of black citizens upon the streets. The ringing of church bells, the call to praise only served to intensify the fear of colored worshippers whose meetings had been previously broken up by armed mobs. These dusky worshippers, devout as they were, had not the faith sufficient to enable them to discern the smiling face of God through the clouds which hung over them. Demoralized, dejected, disconsolate, they dodged about here and there like sheep having no shepherd. Just as the bell in the tall steeple of the old Baptist Church on Market street was making its last long and measured peals there crept out from behind the old Marine Hospital a woman leading a little child by the hand. Both were wretchedly clad. Thrown about the woman's shoulders was an old quilt. Her shoes were tied with strings, which were wrapped around the soles to keep from leaving her feet. Her skirt, tattered and torn, hung dejectedly about her scant form. The child, barefooted and with only one piece to hide its nakedness, dodged behind its mother as it walked to keep the wind from striking with its full force its emaciated body. The woman, though young in years, was old and haggard in face. Her woolly hair, unkempt and sprinkled with gray, the result of just three weeks of privation, apprehension and dread, bulged out from beneath the old shawl which covered her head. At the northwest corner of the hospital fence she paused, looked cheerfully toward her own cottage, but a few blocks away, then slowly walked on in that direction, the child toddling at her side. "What is the bells ringin' for, mamma?" asked the little one. "It ain't Sunday." "It's Thanksgiving Day, and we usually go to church on that day," answered the mother, slowly. "What is Thanksgiving Day?" "It is a day set apart by the President for the people to assemble and give thanks for—for—blessings—received during the year, my child." This last answer tore that disconsolate mother's heart till it bled. She had reached the gate of her cottage, from which she had fled on the night of November 10th to escape insult and murder. A white woman sat upon the steps knitting, her children playing about the yard. The colored woman stood and momentarily gazed in amazement at the intruder upon her premises. "Well, whart du you wannt?" said the white one, looking up from her work and then down again. "What do I want?" returned the colored one. "That's the question for me to ask. What are you doing in my house?" "Your house?" "Yes, my house!" "Niggers don't own houses in dis here town no mo'; white uns air rulin' now," was the saucy response. "We uns air in these houses, an' we air goin' ter stay in um. An' mo'n thet; them's ther Mair's orders." "You poor white trash; I worked hard for this house, and hold the deed for it, so you get out!" So saying, she caught hold of the latch. The white woman rushed to the corner of the fence and screamed "Police!" at the top of her voice.

"Well, what's ther mater here?" asked one of the four men who came running up in response to the woman's call. "This nigger cums here ter purt me out er this house." "This is my house!" broke in the other. "My house," repeated the man, with a sneer. "Pocession is nine-tents er th' law. She's in, you air out, so git." Several colored people had responded to the call, most of them women. "Come, Eliza," said one, putting her arms affectionately about the wretched and angry woman's waist, while another took the little one in her arms. "It's no use to waste words; we all have suffered at the hands of these superior (?) people. But God will give the wrong-doer his reward in due season. Come with us, my dear, and wait patiently." "All my nice furniture being ruined by this dirty cracker, and I can do nothing to prevent it," sobbed Eliza, struggling to free herself that she might fly at the throat of the intruder, who stood glaring at her in triumph.

"Take her er long," said the white bully, "Or I'll lock her up. The time fer Niggers ter sass white fo'ks is past in Wilmington."

"Come, Eliza; that's a good woman." The woman walked reluctantly away, to be cared for by her neighbors.

* * * * *

That evening at about dusk Mrs. McLane, an old and wealthy white citizen, stood at the window of her palatial dwelling on Third street watching the twilight fade—watching the Thanksgiving Day of 1898 slowly die. Mrs. McLane had not attended church; she felt more like hiding away from the world to be alone with God. In her devotions that morning she had cried out with all the fervency of her soul that God would turn away his anger from a people with whom He was justly displeased.

"My people are to-day imbued with the feeling of boastfulness in their own strength rather than thankfulness to God. For can any of us feel that God has countenanced the murder, pillage and intimidation which the whites of Wilmington have resorted to? And for what?" Thus she soliloquized as she watched the day die. The clock in the old Presbyterian Church slowly chimed the hour of six. A long jingle of the doorbell awoke Mrs. McLane from her reverie. "Mrs. Hill, Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Engel, missis," said a servant, slightly pulling the door ajar and pushing her head in. "All right, Margaret, I'll be right down," answered the lady. "Tell Aunt Susan that the guests I expected to tea are here." "Yes m'm." The servant disappeared, and Mrs. McLane slowly descended to the parlor. "Why, Marjorie!" exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, as the hostess glided into the parlor, where the three women sat chatting. "How could you stay at home from church on such a lovely day! You missed a treat, you—" "Tea's ready, missis," said Margaret, appearing suddenly in the parlor door. "Now, ladies, we must retire to the dining room and let conversation aid digestion; remember that my tea has waited until half an hour past the usual time for you. So, without further delay, let me lead the way to tea," and Mrs. McLane proceeded to the dining room, followed by her three visitors. "Well, from Mrs. Bruce's exclamation when I entered a while ago I must infer that you all enjoyed church service immensely." "Well, I should say so," promptly answered Mrs. Bruce. "I don't see how any one could have remained at home on such a day as this. And, you know, we have so much to be thankful for. Dr. Jose quoted for his text, 'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that controlleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.' 'We have taken a city,' said he, 'our city; freed it from ignorance and misrule.' I, for one, am grateful to see our men have so nobly shown to the women of Wilmington that they are worthy of our loyalty and devotion. I said to my husband, after reading that infamous and slanderous article in the Record, that our men were too pigeon-livered to take that Nigger out and give him what he deserves; and I think it was just such talk from our women in the households that brought about this revolution. Such as the white people of Wilmington have been compelled to resort to would never have happened had the good-for-nothing Yankee left the black where he belonged, instead of wrenching him from his master and then educating him into the belief that he is as good as he who owned him. This Manly is a new Nigger—a product of Yankee schools and colleges. Freedom and education have worked only harm to the Negro by putting high notions into his head. Blacks of Wilmington have had more sway than was for their good, and they need checking, and it has come at last. We will have no more black lawyers, doctors, editors and so forth, taking the support from our own professional men. And no more such disgraceful scenes as we have been compelled to endure—well-dressed Negro women flaunting about our streets in finery, when they ought to be in their places. Why, we can't order a gown or bonnet, but what, before we can get into the street with it on our backs, some Nigger woman flirts by with the very same thing on, style, material and all. It is preposterous! How I have burned in desire to jump upon them and tear the things off and flog them, as they deserve. And to go to Seventh street on a Sunday or on a week-day, for that matter, the sight is heart sickening! There Sambo and his woman, dressed to death, strut along with heads erect, looking as important as though they owned the city, or, astride their bicycles, they'll ride plumb over you. But we have put a stop to Nigger high-stepping for a while at least, thanks to our true and patriotic men, blue-blooded Southern gentlemen." "And our boys, who did so nobly!" chimed in Mrs. Engel. "Yes! yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, with a triumphant laugh. "How full of zeal and love for home and country they are! It was indeed charming to see them hold up big, burly blacks and make them stand until bidden to pass on. One of the most amusing and gratifying sights was the holding up of a big Nigger woman, right in front of my gate. She reared and charged, but to no purpose; those boys made her shake her duds. They pulled her clothes almost off her back trying to make her stand until searched." "And you didn't protest against such ungallant treatment of a woman, and by mere lads?" asked Mrs. McLane. "Protest! Why, Marjorie McLane! You must not, my dear, allow yourself to think of such creatures as women entitled to such consideration as is due white women. How did I know but what that creature had set out to burn some lady's dwelling. Protest? No! decidedly no! I just stood there and enjoyed the fun. I am afraid you are too full of Yankeeism, Marjorie. You should be thankful that our enemies are vanquished. When Colonel Moss reached Dry Pond, instead of showing fight and standing by their editor, whom they upheld in slandering white women, they scampered to the woods." "And the poor frightened creatures are still there. They cannot be induced to return, and the suffering among them is intense. Mothers have given birth out there, and they and their offspring have died from exposure." "Poor creatures!" exclaimed Mrs. Engel. "God pity them and us!" continued Mrs. McLane. "If what has been done in Wilmington within the last few days is the work of gentlemen, then in the name of God let us have a few men in Wilmington, if such can be found." "But, my dear—" "Don't interrupt me, Mrs. Bruce! Hear me through," said Mrs. McLane, raising her voice. "May the groans of these suffering women and children ever ring in the ears of Colonels Moss and Wade, and may the spirits of their murdered victims unrelentingly pursue them through the regions of hell." "Marjorie McLane!" exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, in astonishment. "Such language from a Southern lady!" said Mrs. Hill. "Yes, a Southern lady clothed in her right mind," returned the hostess. "These men in their blind zeal to restore white supremacy, and to defend women, have unmistakably demonstrated their weakness. White supremacy cannot be maintained by resorting to brute force, neither can the women of one race be protected and defended while the defender of virtue looks upon the destruction of the other race as only an indiscretion.

'Thou must be true thyself If thou the truth wouldst teach. Thy soul must overflow If thou another's soul would reach.'

"Enduring supremacy, the supremacy that will be acknowledged is supremacy of character, supremacy of deportment, supremacy in justice and fair play. We have irreparably lost our hold upon the Negro because we lack these attributes. We must not allow ourselves to feel that the Negro in this enlightened age is incapable of knowing and appreciating true manhood and true gallantry. To shoot men after they have been totally disarmed, and after they have surrendered everything as a peace offering is cowardice without parallel.

"What would Lee and Jackson have said should their departed spirits return to gaze upon men who so bravely followed them through the wilderness, in perilous times, leading in such dastardly work as was done in Wilmington on the 10th of November? 'Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.' It is not in future fires that men are to get the reward for their doings, but here in this life. Our fathers have sowed the seeds that are sprung up now in race troubles and discord. The North was first to see the danger, and gave the warning; but we blindly plunged into four years of bitter strife, to maintain what we thought was our right. The troubles through which we are passing are the reaping of the fruits of the sowing of our fathers. The conduct of our people on the 10th of November shows plainly to my mind that we are making the same mistakes. We are foolish enough to sow that which will cause the harvester to curse us in his misery. Here were boys not over twelve years of age armed and licensed to insult women, tear their clothes from them and humiliate them." "Humiliate them!" echoed Mrs. Bruce, with a sneer, "as though such creatures could be humiliated. They are entitled to no respect from white men." "And we should not allow ourselves to think of them as women with the same feelings and propensities that we have," said Mrs. Engel. "I say," continued Mrs. McLane, "that the Negro woman should be considered a woman in the fullest sense of the term, and those men and boys who in their zeal to protect white women humiliated and disgraced black ones, insulted and humbled their own mothers, sisters and sweethearts; for what disgraces one woman disgraces another, be she white, black, red or brown. We, the white people of the South, have acknowledged the black woman's right to all the sympathy that we ourselves may expect. She has carried us in her arms and suckled us at her breast, and in thousands of instances her word has been the only law among our children in our nurseries. She heard and faithfully kept the secrets of our lives. We sought her advice, and believed in the efficacy of her prayers." "Now, Marjorie, you know," said Mrs. Bruce, "that such Negro women are still dear to us; these old mammies and uncles who know and keep in their places are never troubled in the South. The Yankee did us a great injury by lifting the Negro out of his place, and making him feel that he is as good as we are. It is this new Nigger that is causing all the trouble. The black woman, allowed to dress and flaunt about illures, tempts and often robs our domestic life of its sweetness, while the black man, with the wrong conception of freedom, often makes it impossible for our men to leave their homes unguarded." "Bah! away with such nonsensical babbling! You are saying, Mrs. Bruce, that which down in your innermost soul you do not believe. Such talk as that has given Southern women undesirable notoriety, and is making the world believe that to keep us pure it costs yearly hundreds of ignominious human sacrifices, a thing that we should rise up and brand as a lie! Who is to guard the home of the Negro man? Can we look around Wilmington and believe that his home does not need a stronger arsenal than ours? While we are boiling over with sympathy for Mrs. Hartright, do we think for a moment of the humble home of that Negro father made unhappy by Mr. Hartright? Do we feel pity for Dan Hawes, John Maxim, Charlotte Jones? The Negro no longer feels that the appearance of a white illegitimate among his honestly begotten piccaninnies is an honor bestowed upon his household. Charlotte's case was indeed a sad one. No one knows better than I what a heavy heart she carried after her favorite child, the one she had taken such pains to educate, and from whom she expected so much, fell a victim to the flatteries of a Jew." "Well, must white women stop to lament over such things?" asked Mrs. Hill. "Are we to blame for the shortcomings of these people?" "Yes," answered the hostess. "We have looked on unmoved and beheld our sister in black shorn of all protection by the laws upon the State books of every Southern State, that she may be humiliated with impunity, and we have gloried in her shame."

"Harriet Beecher Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is no exaggeration. Simon Legree stalks abroad unrebuked in the South, and Cassies with sad stories of betrayal and humiliation are plentiful." "I do not think it possible to better the black woman morally," said Mrs. Hill. "The germs of high and lofty thought are not in her, that is certain." "Have you ever tried to put that theory to a test?" asked Mrs. McLane sharply. "I cant say that I have," returned Mrs. Hill slowly. "If the Negro is morally low, we are ourselves responsible, and God will call us to account for it. In our greed for gain we stifled every good impulse, fostered and encouraged immorality and unholy living among our slaves by disregarding the sacredness of the marriage relation. 'That which God hath joined together let no man put asunder!' We have done that. We have made a discord in the sweetest music that ever thrilled the human heart—the music of love. I believe that there is that pathos, that true poetry in Negro love-making that no other race possesses. When a child I used to love to listen to the simple and yet pathetic pleading of the Negro boy for the hand of the girl, whom to protect and defend he owned not himself. My very heart would weep when I pictured those fond hearts torn asunder by the slave trader. I could see the boy far away, in some lonely cornfield in Georgia, pause, lean upon his plow and sigh for his lost love as he listened to the cooing of the dove, while she, far away in Tennessee or in some Virginia cornfield mournfully sang as she dropped the yellow corn.

'Ebry time the sun goes down I hangs ma head an' cries.'

Have we not done enough to a forgiving race? The case of Richard Holmes is a strong proof of the Negroes' high and lofty conception of purity and virtue, and had he been a white man, his actions would have been applauded to the echo. My opinion is that just so long as the safeguards around Negro women are so weak, so long as the laws upon the statute books of Southern States brand her as a harlot, pure or impure, and keep her outside the pale of pity and consideration, just so long will our representatives have to resort to murder and intimidation to get to Congress. The strength of any race rests in the purity of its women, and when the womanhood is degraded, the life blood of a race is sapped. Should we be disappointed under this showing because the Negro does not vote with us? You know as well as I that the Negro's vote was at the bottom of all this trouble. And we will always have trouble as long as the destruction of Negro womanhood is only an indiscretion. Mrs. Fells of Georgia shows the narrowness of her soul when she cries aloud for the protection of white women in isolated sections of Georgia against lustful Negroes, when she knows perfectly well that Negro girls in Georgia need the same protection against lustful whites. A woman who is not desirous of protecting the innocent of any race is insincere, and should be branded as a hypocrite." "Mrs. Fells should not be blamed for ignoring Negro women. They are all fallen creatures," said Mrs. Engle. "That's a broad assertion for any woman to make, and there's no white woman that believes it in her innermost soul," returned Mrs. McLane. "The best white blood of the South flows through the veins of Negroes, and this reveals the unmistakable weakness of a superior race." * * * "The weakness of the men of a superior race! Be careful and make that distinction, Marjorie," said Mrs. Bruce. "Southern white women are the most virtuous women in the world." "That's the general boast," returned Mrs. McLane. "And a boast that cannot be gainsaid," said Mrs. Hill. "Visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation," quoted Mrs. McLane slowly. "Do you believe in the truthfulness of God's word?" There was no answer. "You all are willing to admit that the fathers have eaten sour grapes, that the sin of unlawful inter-mixture with the alien is the fault of the men. But can we prove that the taint of lust in the blood of the fathers has come down through the generations to effect the male child only, and leave the female uncontaminated? God has not so ordained it. Our men sin and boast in it. Consorting with the women of the alien race to them is only an indiscretion. While even to acknowledge that in the Negro man are the elements of genuine manhood would make a Southern white women a social exile, and make her the butt of ridicule. Does not this account for the human sacrifices that have shocked the nation? If the Negro's life is cheap and a frank acknowledgement of preference for him means so much to her, and knowing that her word is judge and jury, is it not likely that she would pursue the easiest course? The passing of laws since the war prohibiting the intermarriage of the races is proof that the men do not trust us as implicitly as they pretend. The lynchings and burnings that are daily occurring in the South are intended as warnings to white women as well as checks to Negro men. Men who constitute these mobs care no more for virtue than so many beasts; and saying that they are composed of best citizens does not alter my opinion. Instead of going about as Mrs. Fells is doing, crying for more of the blood of the black men, and vilifying defenseless black women as Mrs. Harris of that same State is doing, we the Southern white women better be doing a little missionary work among the men of our own race. It is time for us to rise up and let our voices be heard against the making of our protection an excuse for crime. Women like Mrs. Harris have done nothing, and would do nothing to better the condition of the woman whom they vilify. Nathan said unto David: 'Thou art the man.' This poor wretch will rise up in the judgment and cry aloud against us as her unnatural sisters who stood upon her and trampled her in the mud and mire. As inferior and morally low as we may deem her, it may be more tolerable for her in the judgment than for us. I wonder sometimes how the black woman could even look with favor upon the man who to her has been and is a sneaking coward, as well as a hypocrite in conduct toward the women of his own race. To us he abuses the Negro women, makes her the subject of ridiculous cartoons, shows her up before the world as a beast with his lips wet with kisses from her mouth, and she suckles at her breast the child of his begetting." "We can't afford to be too plain on that subject, Marjorie," interrupted Mrs. Bruce. "Southern women, not being independent and self-supporting, like our Northern sisters, cannot afford to call the men to account, though we, some of us, see the situation just as you have presented it." "But I for one will speak plainly," said Mrs. McLane. "Officer Bunts, instead of being driven from the city and hung in effigy, should have been treated differently, because in publicly acknowledging that he preferred a Negro woman as a companion he showed that he was more of a man than those who, like the Pharisees, rose up against him. If we as parents should refuse to give our daughters in marriage to men who have not clandestinely consorted with women of the alien race, how many could hold up clean hands?"

"She who comes through environments of temptation unprotected from the assaults of the devil to glory and immortality will have a more exceeding and eternal weight of glory than she who has been shut in, as it were, by the walls of a nunnery." "If we could have kept the Negro from the Bible, kept the religion of Jesus Christ out of his heart, the massacre of November 10th might have the effect that those who planned it desired. But such demonstrations of barbarism will never be the means of vanquishing a trusting people. There's my cook, Susan. Her faith is simply astonishing. That young Negro man who was shot to death trying to escape from the Naval Reserves who were taking him from his home and family was her son. When my son read the news to her, she said no word, there was no sign of distress in her face, but I could see that her heart was deeply moved. She arose after a few minutes' silent meditation, then went on with her work. That evening I stole up to her room to speak a comforting word to her. I found her reading her Bible. She took off her glasses and wiped the water from her eyes as I entered." "I'm jes' layin' hold of God's promises," she said with a smile. "God is our refuge an' strength in all kinds er trouble, Honey." She threw her arms about my neck and drew me down beside her, and pointing to a verse in the prayer of Habakkuk said: "Read it loud, Honey. That's whar I stan'. 'Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labor of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat.' 'The flock shall be cut off from the fold and there shall be no herd in the stalls. Yet will I rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.' These are her sentiments." "This demonstrates the strength of her faith. She will not believe that her child was killed. In some miraculous way he must have escaped, and will some day come to her. For the faith of the simple Negro woman I would give a world." It was near the midnight hour when Mrs. McLane's visitors departed, wiser women by that Thanksgiving Day visit, we hope.



CHAPTER XVIII.

The Colonel's Repentance.

The riotous excitement was slowly abating in the old city. The woods were full of panic-stricken, starving colored people, and trains were leaving the city laden with those who had means to get away. The leading whites, feeling both alarmed at and ashamed of the havoc and misery their ambition had wrought, had begun to send men into the woods to carry food to the starving, and induce them to return to the city. But so thoroughly frightened were these poor refugees that the sight of white faces made them run away from the very food offered them. The ambassadors came back to the city disgusted, and dispatched colored men, who were more successful. It was the evening of the 15th of November. Mr. Julius Kahn, Eastern North Carolina's representative of the Life Insurance Company of Virginia, sat at his desk in his office on Front street. This company, which had been giving, for a small weekly payment, quite a substantial and satisfactory death benefit, and consequently doing quite an enormous business among the poorer classes of the colored people, were among the heaviest sufferers from the massacre, for some of the collectors had been pressed into the service of the rioters to shoot down, and intimidate their very means of support. As Mr. Kahn sat there, he saw nothing but absolute ruin staring him in the face. "Well, what news?" he asked a man who stalked in, and sank heavily into a chair. The man threw his book upon the desk before him, shrugged his shoulders and sighed wearily. "It's useless," he answered finally. "I give it up. I haven't succeeded in getting within ten yards of a nigger woman to-day. If I went in at the front door, every occupant in a house would bolt out at the back one, and run for dear life. They will listen to no overtures of friendship. Our very faces fill them with abject terror. We had just as well throw up the insurance business and quit, as far as Wilmington is concerned. God's curse on the men who are responsible for this blight upon the good name of this city. One woman opened her door, cursed me, threw her book at me, and slammed the door in my face; and I can't blame her, for she saw and recognized me among the mob who shot her husband down right in her gate. And God knows I did not want to be among them, but was compelled to. And they say that old devil, after usurping the Mayoralty of the city, and killing and driving from their homes so many colored people, has softened, and has sent out to induce the wretches to return," said Mr. Kahn after a long pause. "Yes," returned the agent, "but that won't help us. They say they've lost their confidence in white people. Why, you have no idea what a wretched state of things I've come across. The last five days' experience has made raving maniacs out of some of the niggers. The papers have announced the giving out of rations at the City Hall to-morrow, but I doubt if many will go to get them." Mr. Kahn leaned over, rested his elbows upon the desk, and slowly ran his fingers through his hair. "Some of our men left the city before they would be mixed up in this affair, and I wish now that I had done the same. But," he continued slowly, "we may just as well wait until all excitement is at an end before we pull up stakes. Other blacks will doubtless pour in to fill the places of those that are going, and we may be enabled to build up business." "You can remain and wait, Mr. Kahn," answered the agent rising. "This accursed town can no longer hold me. I leave to-night for Richmond, for I can no longer look into the faces of the people whom I have had a hand in killing and terrorizing. Good bye, Mr. Kahn," and the collector was gone.

* * * * *

"Everybody git in line an' pass one ba one before ther Mair an' git yer permits; fer yer can't git rations thoughten 'um," shouted a policeman to a crowd of hungry citizens who stood upon the steps of the City Hall. "Git in thur ole Aunty an' wait yer turn!" to an old lady, who started to leisurely climb the steps. The Mayor sat at his desk, which had been placed just behind the railing in the court room, and mildly lectured each applicant as he or she came up. "This state of affairs is terrible, but it's your own fault. White people were born to rule, and you to obey. We liberated you and we can re-enslave you. Freedom and Yankee advice have ruined a good many of you. What's your name, old Aunty?" he asked an old woman who came limping up. "Maria Tapp'n, marster," answered the old woman courtesing. "That's right, you haven't lost your manners," said the Mayor with a smile, writing out for her an order for a double portion. "Emulate these old mammies and uncles, who know their places, and you will have no trouble. Next!" "Ef ther's eny who needs er double po'tion hits ther widders an' orphans," said a policeman gently, pushing a little woman in black before the Mayor's desk. "Whose widow are you?" asked the Mayor. "Was your husband killed in the riots?—resisting arrest, I suppose." "This is ther widder of Dan Wright," answered the policeman; "an' ef Wilmin'ton had er had a hundred niggers like that, we uns would er had er diff'ant tale ter tell. He was ded game." "Dan Wright," repeated the Mayor slowly. "He's ther darkey that drawed er bead on an' defied we uns ter the las'," said the policeman pushing the woman away, and pushing another up to the desk. But the Mayor neither answered nor looked up. One by one they continued to come up to receive their orders and pass out; but the executive looked them no more in the face, nor essayed to speak. The crowd slowly dwindled away until the last applicant had passed out. The Mayor laid his pen upon the desk before him, leaned back in his chair, raised his feet upon the desk, and fell into a reverie. The doings of the past few days came back to his mind in all their shocking significance. The curses, the groans, the agonizing cries of the bereaved and the dying sounded a hundred-fold more voluminous and heart-rending. Then the bloody form of Dan Wright appeared with hands uplifted, eyes staring at his murderers, the blood streaming from a hundred wounds.

The Mayor had seen hard service in war, was one of the immortal few who, under the leadership of Pickett, made that gallant but futile charge at Gettysburg, to be driven back for a third time, crushed, mangled and defeated. He doubtless assisted in digging the trenches into which those ghastly remnants that told of the cannon's awful work were thrown. That was war, and such sights had never so affected the veteran as the vision now before him.

"Avaunt! avaunt! Quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation In those eyes that thou dost glare with!"

The Mayor started up, opened his eyes. Uncle Guy stood before him. "I jes' taut I'd drap in, Kurnel, but didn't speck ter fin' yer sleep," said he, wincing under the Mayor's abstracted gaze. "Oh, I don' want nut'n; don' make er scratch on dat paper. I ain't beggin'," he exclaimed, as the Mayor, recovering, reached for his pen. "That's so Guy; you needn't be a beggar as long as the white people own a crust," he answered, settling back in his chair again. "Well, what are Negroes saying about the uprising, Guy?" The old man shrugged his shoulders, and shook his index finger at the Mayor. "Le' me tell yo', Kurnel, you na Wilmin'ton rich bocra, dun throw yo' number an' los'; hear me? Ef enybody gone tell me dat dese people I bin raise wid, who bin called de bes' bocra in de worl' would go an' kick up all dis ere devil, I'd er tole um No." The old man straightened up, pointed skyward. "Lowd deliver yunna bocra when yer call befo' de bar. Dese niggers ain't su'prise at po' white trash; dey do enyting. But yunna fus class white fo'ks—"

"Well, Guy," broke in the Mayor, "it was hard for us to resort to such, but it was in self-defense." "Self-defense! self-defense!" repeated the old man. "When po' nigger han bin tie, an' yunna bocra got eberyt'ing—gun, cannon an' all de am-nition, an' beside dat, de town full wid strange trash frum all ober de country to crush dem? Some er dese men I sees shootin' an' killin', dars men an' umen livin' er my race dat nussed an' tuk keer er dem w'en dey bin little. God er mighty gwinter pay yunna well fer yer work, Kurnel, an' de gost er dem po' murdered creeters gwine ter haunt yo' in yer sleep. God don' lub ugly, an' yunna can't prosper." The old man concluded with a low bow, strode out, and left the Mayor alone with his thoughts.



CHAPTER XIX.

Teck Pervis, the Leader.

"Come, stan' back, men! I led you uns this fer, an' kin lead you through. I'm goin' ter lead the way ter ther Mare's office. Foller me!" A crowd of disappointed poor whites, who had assisted in restoring white supremacy and who had not been treated fairly in the distribution of the spoils, had gathered upon the City Hall steps in Wilmington to state their grievances and have them adjusted. Teck Pervis, the chairman of White Supremacy League of Dry Pond and leader of the raiders on the 10th of November, pushed his way through the crowd and faced the Mayor, who, seeing them approaching, had sent forward a platoon of police to intercept them, but without effect. "I say, Mr. Mare," said the leader, fumbling with his hat, "we uns heard that you sont orders fer us ter turn in our guns." "I did give such orders," returned the Mayor calmly. "Le' me tell yer, Mr. Mare, you uns ain't filled yer contract wid we po' uns, an' ther hain't er goin' ter be eny turnin' in guns tell yer do." "State your grievance," commanded the Mayor, in a tone that betrayed the ugliness of his temper. "You hain't carried out yer promus by a jug full," said Teck. "We uns have ter have ther pintin' er half er ther new officers in ther city. We uns war ter be giv'n these big-bug niggers' houses, churches an' so on. Niggers places in ther sto'es an' every whar was ter be giv' ter we uns. Now, drot my hides, ef these things air takin' shape zactly ter suit we uns. Now, we want satisfaction." "Well," said the Mayor, "we thank you gentlemen for your zeal in helping us to rid Wilmington of radical rule, but we are sorry that you misunderstood us in regard to spoils and so forth. We can't take from the Negro his property and give it to you, but in cases where he has been timid enough to give it up (and we have had instances of the kind) we have sustained the white man. As many of the merchants as could consistently do so have discharged their black help and put on whites. But complaints are coming in to me that you can't do their work; that it often takes two white men to perform one Negro's task. Good and reliable colored help are leaving the city in alarming numbers, and we must call a halt. Mr. Skidmore tells me that he tried a few whites at his mill a few days ago and the result was most unsatisfactory. They couldn't count and pile the lumber and run the saws, and the scheme is a dead loss. What are we to do? We have given you the street work, and the police force is full. You men are not sufficiently educated to fill clerical positions, and even if you were, we must reserve them for the first families," concluded the Mayor, with a haughty lift of his head. "Now, Mr. Mare, yo' speech is all right 'nough, but it don't suit we uns ernough ter give up ther guns. We went back on our colored frends ter giv' yo' 'ristocrats ther gov'ment, and we uns'll combine wi' ther colored men an' take hit from yer, see?"

Teck Pervis turned and faced the men who stood like a wall at his back. "Gentermen, go home an' keep yer guns an' yer powder dry, for yo'll need 'em! Good day, Mr. Mare!" He followed and addressed his men from the steps of the City Hall.

"Gentermen, we pu' down nigger rule on the tenth, the nex' move mus' be ter let ther 'ristocrats know thet the one gullus boys air indowed by God wi' ther same rites as they air. We po' uns'll have er show, er break up the whole thing. Go home, boys, and be ready to rally when ther order's giv'!"



CHAPTER XX.

Rev. Jonas Melvin, Resigns.

"I've bin er readin' ther Scripter an' rastlin' wi' ther Lord in prayer fer lo these meny ye'rs, an' hain't never seed er time when I tho't thet er preacher of ther word was jestified in j'inin' in with sinners in devilment. Thar's no use in talkin', Brother Melvin mus' wine up his kareer in Free Will Church." Mrs. Aamanda Pervis was addressing the above to Deacon Littleton, as arm in arm they proceeded toward the church a few evenings after Thanksgiving Day. Ever since the massacre she had been busily trying to awaken sentiment in the church against the pastor, who on that fatal day had stood with Dr. Jose upon the firing line to shoot down his fellow citizens of color. The deacons had waited upon Jonas Melvin and informed him of what was being done, and had advised him to tender his resignation and get out; but he preferred coming before the church and "quitting honorably," as he termed it. Mrs. Pervis had worked so earnestly that the church was crowded to the doors on that evening. It was Deacon Littleton who called the meeting to order and stated its purpose. "Brethren an' sisters," he began, "the 10th of November was to the people of this community a tryin' time. It was a war which many of us felt justifiable in enterin', but there was no justification in it; it was the work of the devil. If we had got on our knees an' kept our eyes fixed upon the things of God, such a deed as has disgraced this community would not have happened. I wonder what the Negro thinks of us now? Does he think we air the banner carriers of Christian civilization? Orphans are cryin', widows are moanin', a paradise has been turned into hell by a people calling themselves a superior people. Christians and sinners have gone hand and hand into this evil. We don't know whether any other church has felt in duty boun' to sift its membership, an' reprimanded the guilty, but Free Will Baptist Church feels it her indispensable duty to do so, an' we are sorry to say that the first case we are pained to try is that of our pastor, Rev. Jonas Melvin, who, on the 10th of November, 1898, stood with gun in hand, assisting the devil in his work." Turning to the minister, who sat all the while with head bowed, the deacon concluded: "Brother Jonas Melvin, have you anything to say to this charge, why it should not be sustained, and you be dismissed from this church?"

Rev. Jonas Melvin arose. "Brethren," he began, "this work began in the church; church people laid the plans and led in the execution of those plans. Those men who waited upon the Governor to persuade him to keep the troops away that the mob might execute its work unmolested, were leading church men and ministers of the gospel." "They were no Christians!" cried a feminine voice. "I thought I was doing my duty as a Christian in assisting in restoring good government to the people of this town, and if I have done wrong, the Lord is my judge." Mr. Melvin sat down. "The state of things as they existed in Wilmington did not justify the taking of a single life," said a brother, rising, "and many a man has been made to stumble by the deeds of professing Christians in this riot; and while I'm on my feet, I move that the resignation of Rev. Jonas Melvin from the pastorate of this church be demanded." "Secon' ther motion!" exclaimed Mrs. Pervis, jumping to her feet. "An' I wish ter say jes' here that Teck Pervis, who perfessed religion las' year, has jes' gone back to ther deval bekase, ses he, the preachers war in this thing. Preachers whose han's air full er blood air not fit ter handle ther word er God."

The motion was carried with but few opposers. Mrs. Pervis felt light enough to fly away that night as she walked homeward, for she had carried the church with her for God and the right. She hugged the arm of Deacon Littleton with painful tenacity as they both strode homeward together. "Think of them po' creeters drove frum ther homes ter suffer an' die by men claimin' ter hev religion. Jonas Melvin mus' go back ter Georgy whar the people air in leeg wid ther deval."



CHAPTER XXI.

Bill Sikes.

Bill Sikes was a man who always looked ahead and wisely prepared for declining years. Bill was a carpenter by trade, and by thrift and industry saved money, bought land and built houses upon it, so that he might leave comfortable homes for his many children. When the calamity came which incapacitated him for further usefulness he had come into possession of a whole block in the portion of the city known as "New Town." His prosperity did not, however, lessen his activity; he forgot that he was getting old, for his limbs were yet supple and his eyes perfectly clear. He measured off his lumber and drove nails with the strength and accuracy of a young man; yet, as death lurks in every passing breeze, feeling well is no evidence of sound health or assurance of long life. Bill Sikes seldom complained. Steady habits had made him vigorous and confident; but one morning his fond wife stood in the door and watched him as with head erect and firm step he strode away to his work, only to be borne back to her at noon a helpless paralytic. "What's the matter, William?" she asked tenderly, as loving hands lay him upon the lounge before her. But the tongue which had bid her good-bye so fondly that morning could not utter a word, and the eyes that had gazed so sweetly into hers bespoke the bitter anguish of his soul as they stared vacantly at her. "He's done fer," said one of the men, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. "The doctors seen him and says he ain't fer long." "Speak to me, William," cried Mrs. Sikes, bending low and pressing her cheeks against her husband's. He raised his arm to caress her, but it fell again to his side.

But Bill Sikes did not die; he rallied; the lost strength gradually came back to his palsied limbs sufficiently to enable him to hobble around, and his tongue became light enough to utter words that could be understood with difficulty. Full and complete recovery was impossible, however; he was a child, helplessly clinging to his wife, whose burden was increased tenfold with the larger children all away and management of everything—the looking after their little store and other property upon her shoulders; she felt that God had tried her as no other soul had been tried. The property of Bill Sikes had for a long time been coveted by his white neighbors, but even extortionate offers had been refused. But the 10th of November offered a favorable opportunity for the covetous to bulldoze black men who owned valuable real estate into selling it at any price, and Mrs. Sikes was one of that number whose experience had turned their love for the dear old home into hate. She had witnessed the killing of a poor wretch right in front of her door, within a stone's throw of his home; had heard the agonizing wails of his wife and children—a sight which she had never expected to witness in Wilmington. The roar of cannon and musketry, the yells of frightened women and children kept her poor, helpless husband in constant terror, hanging on to her skirts like a babe. And now, although weeks had passed since that fatal day, the native white, emboldened by re-enforcement and the demoralization of colored men, kept up the reign of terror. Colored women of respectability who had not fled the city were compelled to remain prisoners in their homes to escape ignominious treatment upon the highways.

It was a few mornings after Thanksgiving Day when Mrs. West left her cottage on Campbell street and ventured over to pay a visit to Mrs. Sikes. "Well, Henrietta, how have you managed to live through it all?" she asked, throwing her arms about the waist of Mrs. Sikes, who saw her approaching, and had gone out upon the porch to greet her. "And poor William! I've thought of you oh! so many times, Henrietta, knowing of just how much you were in need of his protection during these days of trial." "Yes," answered Mrs. Sikes, leading the visitor in and bolting the door. "The burden upon his poor wife's shoulders is indeed heavy; but, then, our men are unable to protect us, anyway, so great are the odds against them." "Oh, Wilmington! Wilmington! who would have thought that thou wouldst be the theatre for the tragedy enacted within thy borders!" interrupted Mrs. West. "Some of us, at least, are too well bred, have too much self-respect and pride to stand and endure this state of things that exists now in our home. We could go to church and worship unmolested in the days of slavery; now we have not been permitted for weeks to hold public worship. They are determined to place and keep North Carolina on a level with States further South. Would you believe it? one of our white ladies sent her servant down to the bandit Mayor to be whipped the other day." "Yes," said Mrs. Sikes, "another went down to have a Negro woman driven out of her own house because she lived in a white neighborhood and the children had had a little trouble among themselves. And the poor black woman, to remain in her house, was compelled to get down on her knees and beg the white one's pardon." "Well," said Mrs. West, "we held a meeting the other night, and I told the few who had the courage to venture out that I was going. Give me liberty or give me death! I would rather be a beggar in a land of liberty than a Croesus where my wealth will not purchase toleration. The colored citizens who own property are the very ones who have been forced to leave the city." "I have also made up my mind to do the same," answered Mrs. Sikes. "William is so disgusted that he wants to go even if he has to sell our property for half its value. Then he thinks that in New York he can go under treatment in one of the many great hospitals there. He has improved so much that he believes final recovery possible. To tell you the truth, I did not believe that I could become so disgusted with my own home, in which I was born and loved so well." "It may all be for the best," said Mrs. West. "Some one hath sinned—there is an Achan in the camp, and when the sin is punished innocent and guilty suffer alike. In our prosperity we have strayed away from Him who hath redeemed us, and these broken down aristocrats and poor white indentured slaves are the Philistines sent to scourge us. And, then, we have been slaves to the idea that there is no place on earth for us to live but here in our home. The eagle hath stirred up her nest that her young may scatter abroad. Old as I am, I will leave Wilmington, trusting in God and feeling that the world is mine, and if I can't live in peace in one place I can go to another. But the most important thing is, Molly has consented to go." "Brave girl!" said Mrs. Sikes. "I heard of her wonderful deeds during the massacre; I didn't believe it was in her. In her new surroundings, away from old associate, she will keep straight. I have made up my mind to go finally to Cleveland, Ohio, my old home. Colored women are not so much annoyed by white men in the North and West as in the South, and Molly may there be enabled to quit her old habits. We will see each other before we start away, as I shall take a steamer, for we may stay a while in New York," concluded Mrs. West, rising to go. "It matters not where on earth we may roam, there are twelve gates to the City up there. There is no more parting, no more persecution, no more separation, no tears. So long, till I see you again."

The usurping Mayor of Wilmington had just disposed of the last case upon docket, dismissed the court and had settled back in his chair to enjoy the morning paper, when Bill Sikes entered, and, with his hat in his hand, humbly approached the railing behind which the Mayor sat. He rested his palsied hand upon the rail and saluted. The Mayor arose, came forward and extended his hand. "Well, Bill, how are you?" "Mornin', Colonel," answered he. "I come down to tell yer I'm goin'." "Going? Where?" "I think I'll try the North, Colonel." The Mayor's face relaxed. "Why, Bill, you are all right; no one's troubled you. If all the Negroes were like you we would have had no trouble." "Yes, I know I'm all right," answered Bill, "but I can't stan' seein' men who was playmates of mine shot down on the streets like dogs by their ol' 'sociates an' neighbors. You know, Colonel, I'm one who b'lieved in the white people of this town, an' was ready at any time to stake ma life on that belief; but what has took place in Wilmington an' what is still goin' on has converted me." "Now, Bill," said the Mayor, somewhat moved, "the white people of Wilmington had to resort to this to restore the government to those to whom it rightfully belonged. White people must rule, Bill." "I ain't got no objection to your rulin', but drivin' out black citizens who have stood by yer an' been always faithful to yer is er grave mistake. The deal yer made with these po-bocra is goin' ter give yer trouble, Colonel, mark ma words. You ain't got no more use fer po' whites than I have, an' I know it." "But they were the means to the end, Bill," answered the Mayor, with a smile. "A kingdom divided agin itself is er goin' ter fall, Colonel." "Don't be a fool and leave your home because of unpleasantness; remember you are getting old; the North is no place for you; you are comfortably fixed here." "Yes, Colonel, I know that, but I'm not goin' ter stay in er place where a d—n scoundrel can insult ma wife an' I can't pertect her, an' you know there's been a time when I could. Good-bye, Colonel." "Good-bye, Bill; you'll regret it I'm afraid."

Bill Sikes went back home to prepare for his journey northward.



CHAPTER XXII.

A Ship Sails.

When on the evening of December 1, 1898, the old Clyde steamer drifted out from her docks into mid stream in the harbor of Wilmington, among the host of passengers that stood upon her deck, with tear-dimmed eyes, to bid adieu to the dear old town was Molly Pierrepont. Leaning upon the shoulder of her foster mother, whose heart was too full to speak, she frantically waved her handkerchief and cried "Farewell, old home! Dear as thou hast been to me, I must leave thee for ever; for thou art in the possession of the wicked. The spoiler is in thy borders. The blood of innocents has flowed freely in thy highways, and the murderer and the assassin stalk abroad in thy streets. But it matters not where I go, thy days of equity, when every citizen, it mattered not how humble, was free, shall ever live with me. Days of childhood innocence, the shouts of the children, the clang of the school bell, the rippling of the rills, the hum of bees will be the means of helping me to forget thy latter days of turmoil and strife. Good-bye, old home! Good-bye!"



CHAPTER XXIII.

Bill Sikes in New York.

It was near the Christmas holidays, a genuine Northern winter day, cold and piercing, going to the marrow in spite of heavy clothing. Francis Lewis, contractor and builder, sat in his comfortable office in West Forty-seventh street, New York city, when the door was pushed open and a light-skinned colored man entered. His face was thin and pinched, his hair and beard slightly mixed with gray, and he dragged one foot as he walked.

"Well, what can I do for you, my good man?" said Mr. Lewis, rising. "Take a seat; you don't look as though you are very well," pointing to a chair near by. "I'm jes' lookin' aroun'," answered the man, lowering himself into the chair with difficulty. "I'm er carp'nter maself." "Yes? Where are you from?" asked Mr. Lewis. "From the South—Wilmington," was the reply. "Oh, that's the scene of recent riots. What's the matter with those people down there—crazy?" "No, but that was the only way they could git er hol' er the gov-nment," answered the colored man. "The colored people bein' in the majority of course had controlin' power, but they were always willin' fer the whites ter rule, an' they did rule. But there wasn't offices ernough to go 'round to all the bankrup' whites who wanted political jobs, and give the Negro er repersentation too, so they concluded ter wipe the Negro off the earth." "Shame! shame!" exclaimed Mr. Lewis. "Then the colored people were gittin' er lon too well; they had considerable property, and was well up in the trades an' professions. I owned er whole block maself, an' was perpared to spen' ther balance of ma days at ease, but had ter sell ma house an' git out." "You say you are a carpenter—house builder?" "Yes, sir." "You mean to say that you took contracts, planned and built houses?" "Oh, yes," replied the colored man. "I never saw a colored architect. Say, George!" to a man who had just entered, "here's a colored architect and house-builder from the South." "Architect and builder?" queried the other, drawing nigh. "Well, Mr.—what is your name?" "William—William Sikes." "Mr. Sikes, are you looking for work at your trade in the North? The Trades Union and so forth make it pretty hard for a colored man to get in here; and then you can't work, you are lame." "I am a little lame," replied Bill, looking down at his palsied arm. "I had a paralytic stroke some time er go. I am goin' in for treatment, an' if I git well, I won't ask Trade Union an' labor unions no boot. Where there's er will there's er way." "But I am afraid you will never recover sufficient strength to work again at your trade, my man," answered Mr. Lewis, tenderly; "but you can try." "Good day," said Bill, rising to go. "Good day," said Mr. Lewis.

But Mrs. Sikes, still vigorous and strong, found in New York abundant opportunities for women to be useful. There was day's work, general house work, chamber work and cooking situations to be had without very much effort on the part of the seeker. Mrs. Sikes, whose work had chiefly been dressmaking and plain sewing, found the new field of labor quite irksome. The money realized from the sale of her property she must not let dwindle away too swiftly; her husband was helpless, and she must work, and the children must work. She found the North a place where a day's work meant a day's work in full; there was no let up; the pound of flesh was exacted. So she often tugged home to her apartments very tired and discouraged.

They had been in New York quite a year, and Mrs. Sikes had quite gotten used to Northern ways (everything seeming easier accomplished), when one evening at the dinner table she noticed that her husband watched her more than usual. "What's the matter, William?" she asked, tenderly. "I'm awful discouraged," he said. "I—I don't get any better, an' hate ter see you an' children strugglin' so hard an' I can't help." "Now, don't worry about that, William; it will do no good." "I was thinkin'," he went on, "that we might try it again in Wil—" "Now, don't mention Wilmington to me again, William!" broke in Mrs Sikes, sharply. "If you wish to go back to that hell, I'll put you on the train and you can go; but I, never! Life is not so easy here, but I can walk the streets as a lady, and my children are free to play and romp without fear of being killed for accidentally or purposely treading upon the toe of a white child. I have been free too long to endure slavery for one moment. Wilmington is not what it used to be, and I fear it never will be. I have just received a letter from Mrs. Cole saying that the situation has not changed. On Castle street about a month ago a black child's body was found full of bruises. It is supposed he was killed by white boys in sport. A young man was called to his door a few nights ago and shot down because he had driven his horse over a gentleman's (?) dog. She says to appeal to the law is useless. She says further that the poor whites are preparing for another raid. Now, I would rather live here free in poverty than to live there a slave in comfort. The children are all away, the property is sold, and there is nothing to be gained by going." Bill said no more to his wife upon the subject; he knew her too well to misunderstand her words.



Molly's Final Step.

It was Sunday evening in New York. Bethel Church was crowded to the doors. The sermon had been concluded, and the choir and congregation had solemnly chanted the Lord's Prayer. "As I looked over this audience to-night," said Dr. Henderson, descending from the pulpit, "I think of the words of the blessed Saviour, 'The fields are white and ready to harvest,' so I'm going to open the doors of the church. Who here is ready to make a start for heaven to-night? Come, sinner! God's not calling the righteous, but you. There is a prodigal child here to-night who has wandered from home. Come home; there is bread and to spare, and a warm welcome there. Here comes one, thank God!" A young man went forward and took the minister's hand, followed by two others. "Who else will come? There is some one that is almost persuaded. Remember that to be almost persuaded is to be lost. Come, sinner.

"'Will you scorn the message Sent in mercy from above? Every sentence, oh how tender! Every line is full of love.'

"Listen to it: 'Every line is full of love.' God requires no preparation; come just as you are. Just surrender yourself, yourself to—" "I surrender, Lord." This exclamation startled the audience, and all eyes were turned upon a tall and stately woman, who suddenly arose in the centre of the church and started forward. This was Molly Pierrepont, making the final step. "Poor Magdalene," she whispered as she took Dr. Henderson's hand. "But God is gracious, my child," returned the minister.

A month went by. It was Sunday evening, and again Bethel was filled to overflowing; but, large as that audience was, a serene stillness prevailed, for out from the choir loft a rich soprano voice, pathetic and appealing in its tone, fell serenely upon listening ears.

"Just as I am thou wilt receive, Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve; Because thy promise I believe Oh Lamb of God, I come.

"Just as I am, thy love unknown, Hath broken every barrier down, Now to be Thine, yea Thine alone, Oh Lamb of God, I come."

Molly has done her part nobly and well, so I close the story with Molly.



* * * * *



Transcriber's note:

The following changes have been made to the text:

Page 4: "Whose there" changed to "Who's there".

Page 13: "State from mountian" changed to "State from mountain".

Page 21: "Good da , Gideon" changed to "Good day, Gideon".

Page 25: "Georgia and Florida its" changed to "Georgia and Florida it's".

Page 29: "Kidder s Hill" changed to "Kidder's Hill".

Page 35: "anti-bellum liking" changed to "ante-bellum liking".

Page 44: "the main thorougfare" changed to "the main thoroughfare".

Page 44: "by offering to puschase" changed to "by offering to purchase".

Page 59: "it is writeen" changed to "it is written".

Page 63: "great' eal" changed to "great 'eal".

Page 92: "Wilmington Record" was italicized.

Page 93: "Dr. Pond" changed to "Dry Pond".

Page 111: "Misses," said a servant" changed to "missis," said a servant".

Page 113: "Such langauge" changed to "Such language".

Page 134: "make it prety hard" changed to "make it pretty hard".

THE END