A KEOWEE OUTRAGE.

Press, Volume LVIII, Issue 10986, 8 June 1901, Page 3

A KEOWEE OUTRAGE.

The earth was going to sleep.. The negroes, the true earth children, felt it, and in their long-drawn swaying voioes was an unconscious cradle song. The mules felt it, and called with rasping titan sighing for stalls, and mangers with yellow corn therein. Even Middleton, the white man who stood by the crooked, rotting fence that skirted the edge of the broadest road, felt it, and breathed a full breath of relief, for Middleton's fight against the drought and the grass was over for this and Middleton was thankful. No one knew of Middleton's trials save Middleton himself, for he was a reticent

man. However, the iron might enter his soul, it was not in him to cry out or whine: Here on this old plantation liis father had lived and his grandfather, before him. Men of the soil they" were, and, although, better educated perhaps, in" other things like their farmer neighbours of the Keowee section, who directed the labour of their negroes, marketed their crops,' and feared only the drought and the teachings of the ; Republican party. Such a man, too, was Middleton. Had he been of another mind he might have turned his learning and his knowledge of men into account, and have achieved in some profession or in politics a success I larger in ©very way than that upon which I his heart was* set. But to Middleton the knowledge of this was as nothing. Hβ knew every curve of those old hills, every pool in the river yonder, ; and the broad open fields and the stretches of dusky forest, sometimes bright with the smele of the sun, sometimes gray with the tears of the rain, were to him as the faces of old and time-tried friends. Above all, back there where garden and orchard met, fenced in with-jTOUgh-fiewn stone, covered with roses and the tangled creepers of rioting vinos, lay those other Middletons from whom, generation to generation, the land had descended. A Middleton without the land—who did not live upon his land—was no Middleton. It was his; it had been "his father's; it would be his son's. This was Middle ton's creed, and he lived up to it. The prices of cotton went down and down, the negroes trained in.the old freehanded slavery school were unthrifty, and the droughty" now that the forests* were being cleared away came more and more frequently; yet Middleton, with a shrewd foresight, with a courage born of his faith, and a faith, always unshaken, in his land and in himself, strove on from year to year, winning sometimes hy narrow and precarious margins, but winning always. The one thing which stirred his deepest wrath was interference with his labourers, j The margin was so close that in little things dwelt the outcome of success or of failure. His tenants must be in good con- < trol, his orders obeyed promptly, and accurately, or else that which might have , borne a profit, would prove a loss, thereby I endangering the well-being of the whofe j of the little commonwealth known far vad I wide among the negroes as "de ole Middle- j ton place." A necro is not trained in a I month or a year. It takes many years of j tactful, patient handling— and Middleton did not want to begin over again. There- j fore when men came to entice Ma tenants , away Middleton objected—with a shotgun. But for this year the danger was over. It had been a typical year. In the early spring t an "emigration agent , from > t the "Mississippi bottoms* , tad put* in his ap- j pearance, and had but just begun to charm i the negroes with his imaginative tales of 1 this "land of promise," when a committee ; bad waited upon Mm, aiuLyith an unusoal . generosity, born of the fact that the daily | tram had already passed, had given him , twelve ; hours in which to conclude his j business and take his departure. The agent, being an obliging man—under some Bkommf new-had gone, aot, haw»v*r,

without some regretful glances' backward, and thus the spring planting had proceeded

without interruption. Then the summer had come, and with it the drought, blasting many a fair hope, but afterward the south wind had brought the rain, and Nature, as if in contrition for her hot displeasure, had laden the cotton with a "top crop" of bolls, and had filled the ears of the "bottom" corn with full, well nourished grain. Now in the mellow light of the autumn afternoon,. Middleton looked upon his work and saw that it was good. His closely packed bales of cotton stood in rows beneath his sheds ready to be hauled away to the Keowee market; his great barns Avere

full of provender for flock and herd and patient mule; and slowly, his stout cribs, solidly built of hewn oak logs, were filling with long round ears of white and red and yellow corn. His tenants would be well clad and well fed next year—he felt a peculiar pride as he thought of this—and each would have a little money for the Christmas frolic" so dear to the heart jf the negro. They were almost like his children, thes9 tenants; to him they looked for everything, and for them he must think, the plan, acd execute. And yet how like children indeed, they were, ready always to listen to the flattering tales of any comer, and to go away after him to their own detriment, and that of the man whom in their hearts they loved and honoured. That agent last spring had in one short week filled his whole plantation with a vague unrest, and, but for the prompt action of his neighbours—for he himself was away at the time —half the wondering crowd would probably have been entrained and shipped:.away like cattle to that western . land of levee and stagnant swamp, there to be bound to the soil by the debt incurred for transportation, to shake with chills and to bum with fever, to eat their hearts out with longing for. the trickling streams, the bare red hills and the white- ; washed cabins of the "quarter."' He had seen such things before, and even now had a letter in his pocket from one, Ephraim, : an old ex-slave of his father's, who, having fone thither, was.begging for money to get ack home again. ' Thus Middleton mused and marvelled as he leaned an arm on the rails of the rickety fence, and drew down the brim of his so/fc felt hat to shade his eyes from the long, . low rays of the evening sun. , Presently from the kitchen chimney of the farm-house on the hill tihe smoke" began to rise in pale blue spirals, and someI where beyond the fringe of trees that mark- _ ed the edge'of the woodland the old milki woman with loud, insistent voice called to the lazy cattle. It was feeding time, and Middletin had turned to go when the sound ' of hoofs beating the red dust of the road arrested his attention. I "Evenin' cap'n," said the rider, reining , up his horse. , ! "Evenin , , Jim," he answered, with a careless nod. '•What's up now?" he added, as the other , waited expectantly. i "Why,-ain't you heerd? That blamed emigrant agent's back!" ejaculated the other vigorously, as he looked down and spat accurately upon the c.nd of a projecting rail. Middleton's brow puckered into a frown and it. hard look came into his eves. > "So?" he asked, curtly. . " "Yas. come in yestiddy hi er freight box —playin'~tTMnp:' but. Lord!"—he turned his tobacco in his cheek and spat again for emphasis—"we knowed him as<soon ez he hit the town." I . . "My boys'ketched him this mornin' in a cabin on the Dan'lv place,"-he added, after .a littfcg i pause, iliddleton's brow cleared a little. "Did eh?" he remarked, approvingly. "Yas, ketched him right at it Seen another 'wag and. daxtca* you never heerd.

The boys looked in, an' thar he wius with his legs spraddled out, a-talldn" away, an* ths niggers a-swarmin' like flies roun' er n_?rlasses jug." * . "Yes, I know the game," said Middleton, disgustedly. "He's there yet, I reckon.*'« "Oh, he's thar all right! - Half er dozen men is er watchhi. the house from the woods close by, an' the rest is a-gatherin' in tho oY fiei' just book o* the pines. They'll jest about fix him this time. Comin' over ter help?" He asked, this carelessly as. if the whole purpose. of his ride.- had not been to summon Middleton. Middleton considered a moment. Then he shoved his hat back and spoke wrathfullv.

'"Yes, I will," he said, 'Tm sick and tired of being eternally bedevilled with this thing. These fellows have got to let the Keowee section alone."

j It was night when MiddSeton reached the Danelly place. Already the men had abandoned their horses, and formed a cordon around the little group of cabins that marked the site of a vanished "big house," once tlie shelter of a proud and prosperous race. Prosperous still, they were in their comfortable city offices, but hardly proud, thought Middleton, as he noticed that the mighty oaks, once a landmark for the country round, Avere slowly and neglectedlv. dying. Why were these men not her*.' standing by the land thai had made them. Why—but his thoughts ivere checked, for something clicked sharply in the thicket befors him, and a gleaming spot, like the nickel-plated lock of a sun, moved quickly in the moonlight. With an automatic jerk Middleton's own gun came up to a' "ready," as he peered into the dimness ahmd. "Hello!" he called, softly. "Hello! Hello! Hello!" came the ansAA'er thrice, repeated in a loav but quick and insistent tone. Then a red beard appeared aboA'e the bushes, and a gruff voice queried: "That you. Middieton?" "Sure. * Got him vet?"

'"Nope. Just closiu' hi.'" Then, as Middleton dismounted, he saAv Avhat the tops of ilu bushes hac'. hidden— tho long, d.irk line of AS'c'l-armed imn slowly circling the cabins, the group:-, of horses gathered in the shadows of the fences, with h':i'H and there a timid negro slipping awuy {o the woods b_foi-e the dreaded human net should close him in. Out under one of tli_ trees stood a group of sp.ctator.—two or threo merchants, a few clerks, and a luca! neiA'spaper man —attracted thither from the naighbouring town.

As the cordon drew up close there was a momentary pause. _om2 one must the housss, and the man might shoot. Of course the -crowd--would-riddle him aiter-A\-ard, but 'that-would-be but a posthumous vengeance for the one who led the way.-So they hesitated.

Th_n Midd-cton shrugged his shoulders, and. setting his gun—a useless encumbrance in this A-enture — against a.tree, walked up to the nearest cabin. A few followed him from very: shame,''and'they knocked on the door. . There was. no one there except an old black Avoman, ?o tlisy passed, on, to the next- and ths n.xt. ' In (he fourth cabin a Avhite man Avas Availing. "I guess you are hunting mc," he said, quietly, as they opened the door. Taa'o of the men ran back, but others folloAred Middleton into tha room. One .of these held a torch high üboA-e his head, and peered forward into the: speaker's face. "Yefe, you're the man !" he said, decidedly, as he cast the flaming "light wood" into the open fireplace.

The croAvd offered no violence to their prisoner. Although, in many respects, men of elemental passions, they had their own rude ideas of justice and of right. Had he resisted they would have shot him to pieces without compunction. As he did not, they would fix his punishment and administer that—no more, no less. Therefore, Avith judicial solemnity, tliey led him. to the brusliAY-ood fire, and began to discuss his fate.

The leaping flames cast grotesque, dancing shadoAvs upon the dark fronts of the cabins, and the. pale moon and the tiny winking stars looked down quietly, sadly, perhaps, upon the unusual scene. Beyond the fences the tethered horses snorted and stamped impatiently; far out in the deep recess of the wood a screech owl voiced its eerie cry; and in the tops of the great old dying oaks the western breeze moaned softly, as if telling ot the old days when such things were not.

But those around the fire heard ngthing of all this. Their interest was concentrated on the scene before them, and they were listening intently fo Moses, the little Jewish clothier from Keowee, who had no interest at stake, but whose Oriental blood was boiling with the excitement of the moment. He was demanding the death penalty volubly. Middleton smiled as be contrasted the round, excited features of the speaker with the stern, reticent faces of the lean, tough muscled farmers 'who surrounded him. He knew Moses, and he knaAv these; and it was with these silent men that the prisoner had to reckon. They had endured much, and this man had had his chance. Of course, they would not kill him, but they would punish him

terribly; Middleton thought it Avas just. He knew his oavh influence—kneAv that ha could save the man if he Avould, but he said not- a word. "The way.of the transgressor is hard." he thought to himself. In the meantime the prisoner -sat listlessly. He' did not seem a dangerous man. His white hands looked pitifully, thin, and his sallow face was worn and haggard. He was not afraid; he Avas not even listening to the heated words that they bandied about him.

Suddenly he began to speak,

"Men," he said, Avith that subtle intona--1 tion of voice, which tells of thoughts that are far from the matter in hand. "I hardly reckon you'll kill mc, but, honest to God, I wish you would. I was born right back there about tiw'enty miles—born and raised there. I knoAV how you, feel. I felt that way, too—once. Well, we started life there, my wife and I, but I got this western fever,and—she begged mc not to do it—but I sold out and went. It wasn't like I thought it would be, and I got homesick, kind of lost my grip like; and things went from bad to worse, until at last we had nothin' but the two little ones and ourselves. I wouldn't have cared for myself. I would rather have given up and died right there. But they were there, and I couldn't give up. Then some one, the devil I reckon, told mc to try getfcin' up hands—out here —for the big plantations. It's not a popular business, but a man can always get the" job—if he wants it. Commission, you knoW; no niggers, no money. We 7 ?, J came, and you fellows sent mc off. I> didn't mean to come back; I meant to staY I away as I'd promised. So I went back I there, and went to work for a man—shard orop-'-one horse. It was down in a swamp;' chills all the time—and fever. Then the I drought came and there wasn't any crop to ■ share. I was too sick to try again, even ' if I'd had the chance, and we'd nothing to eat or to wear." He paused. "Them little felloAvs are barefoot right now," he added reflectively, The crowd had grown silent, and were | listening. Middleton had children himself, j No one spoke and the man went on. \

"Well, I knew they'd give nic money to get.here on if I'd trvaeain for the negroes, so I offered to try. When I got the money I gave it to my wife and tramped here. I can see her now in that old shack down hy the bayou -era/pin' and pinchin', and savin, trying to make that money last till I get home again, and the little ones at sundown ooman' on a piece to meet mc, an' then when the stars cc-me out I can see 'em t_rn slowly back again tryin' hard to. wait with patience for the chance of another day." The ciwvd kept silent, and the prisoner continue-:

"Pi*- two dollars here," he said, "and an old watch. I want ..me of you to take 'em and send 'em back to her. Tell her I'm dead; you needn't mention this";—he waved comprehensively at the crowd— "but tell 'em I'm dead, her and tlie children, whether I am or not; and tell 'em" —be hesitated, -stared fixedly at the fire, and his voice choked a little—"tell 'em I said good-bye." For a moment all was silent. Then the man sprang to his feet and turned to Middleton fiercely.

"Do you reckon, now, that I care what you do?...Do'you reckon I care if you kill •mc?" he asked desperately. But Middlelton wasn't thinking of that, He was thinking of the corn in his cribe and the cotton in his sheds and of the little

children who were hungry. He turned suddenly and thrust something into tho agent's hand. __. • "You take that," he said, sharply, "and go back to those folks!"—" New York Independent."