Part 10

“That’s foolish, Andrews. You don’t know how long this thing may last.”

“Well, I’ve got a snug bit laid by, and if things don’t brighten in time, why, I’ll go somewhere else.”

“We’d be sorry to lose you, but I want you to do as you think best. This change may cause trouble, and if it does, we shall hope for your aid.”

“I am with you as long as you are in the right.”

The miner gave the young man’s hand a hearty grip and passed out.

“Steel,” said Crofton the younger.

“Gold,” replied his partner.

“Well, as true as one and as good as the other, and we are both right.”

As the young manager had said, so matters turned out. Within two days several car-loads of Negroes came in and began to build their huts. With the true racial instinct of colonisation, they all flocked to one part of the settlement. With a wisdom that was not entirely instinctive, though it may have had its origin in the Negro’s social inclination, they built one large eating-room a little way from their cabin and up the mountain-side. The back of the place was the bare wall of a sheer cliff. Here their breakfasts and suppers were to be taken, the midday meal being eaten in the mine.

The Negro who held Jason Andrews’ place as foreman of Shaft 11, the best yielding of all the mines, and the man who seemed to be the acknowledged leader of all the blacks, was known as big Sam Bowles. He was a great black fellow, with a hand like a sledge-hammer, but with an open, kindly face and a voice as musical as a lute.

On the first morning that they went in a body to work in the mines, they were assailed by the jeers and curses of the strikers, while now and then a rock from the hand of some ambushed foe fell among them. But they did not heed these things, for they were expected.

For several days nothing more serious than this happened, but ominous mutterings foretold the coming storm. So matters stood on the night that Jason Andrews left his cabin to find out what was “up.”

He went on down the road until he reached the outskirts of the crowd, which he saw to be gathered about a man who was haranguing them. The speaker proved to be “Red” Cleary, one of Daly’s first and most ardent converts. He had worked the men up to a high pitch of excitement, and there were cries of, “Go it, Red, you’re on the right track!” “What’s the matter with Cleary? He’s all right!” and, “Run the niggers out. That’s it!” On the edge of the throng, half in the shadow, Jason Andrews listened in silence, and his just anger grew.

The speaker was saying, “What are we white men goin’ to do? Set still an’ let niggers steal the bread out of our mouths? Ain’t it our duty to rise up like free Americans an’ drive ’em from the place? Who dares say no to that?” Cleary made the usual pause for dramatic effect and to let the incontrovertibility of his argument sink into the minds of his hearers. The pause was fatal. A voice broke the stillness that followed his question, “I do!” and Andrews pushed his way through the crowd to the front. “There ain’t anybody stealin’ the bread out of our mouths, niggers ner nobody else. If men throw away their bread, why, a dog has the right to pick it up.”

There were dissenting murmurs, and Cleary turned to his opponent with a sneer. “Humph, I’d be bound for you, Jason Andrews, first on the side of the bosses and then takin’ up for the niggers. Boys, I’ll bet he’s a Republican!” A laugh greeted this sally. The red mounted into the foreman’s face and made his tan seem darker.

“I’m as good a Democrat as any of you,” he said, looking around, “and you say that again, Red Cleary, and I’ll push the words down your throat with my fist.”

Cleary knew his man and turned the matter off. “We don’t care nothin’ about what party you vote with. We intend to stand up for our rights. Mebbe you’ve got something to say ag’in that.”

“I’ve got something to say, but not against any man’s rights. There’s men here that have known me and are honest, and they will say whether I’ve acted on the square or not since I’ve been among you. But there is right as well as rights. As for the niggers, I ain’t any friendlier to ’em than the rest of you. But I ain’t the man to throw up a job and then howl when somebody else gets it. If we don’t want our hoe-cake, there’s others that do.”

The plain sense of Andrews’ remarks calmed the men, and Cleary, seeing that his power was gone, moved away from the centre of the crowd, “I’ll settle with you later,” he muttered, as he passed Jason.

“There ain’t any better time than now,” replied the latter, seizing his arm and drawing him back.

“Here, here, don’t fight,” cried some one. “Go on, Cleary, there may be something better than a fellow-workman to try your muscle on before long.” The crowd came closer and pushed between the two men. With many signs of reluctance, but willingly withal, Cleary allowed himself to be hustled away. The crowd dispersed, but Jason Andrews knew that he had only temporarily quieted the turmoil in the breasts of the men. It would break out very soon again, he told himself. Musing thus, he took his homeward way. As he reached the open road on the rise that led to his cabin, he heard the report of a pistol, and a shot clipped a rock three or four paces in front of him.

“With the compliments of Red Cleary,” said Jason, with a hard laugh. “The coward!”

All next day, an ominous calm brooded over the little mining settlement. The black workmen went to their labours unmolested, and the hope that their hardships were over sprang up in the hearts of some. But there were two men who, without being informed, knew better. These were Jason Andrews and big Sam, and chance threw the two together. It was as the black was returning alone from the mine after the day’s work was over.

“The strikers didn’t bother you any to-day, I noticed,” said Andrews.

Sam Bowles looked at him with suspicion, and then, being reassured by the honest face and friendly manner, he replied: “No, not to-day, but there ain’t no tellin’ what they’ll do to-night. I don’t like no sich sudden change.”

“You think something is brewing, eh?”

“It looks mighty like it, I tell you.”

“Well, I believe that you’re right, and you’ll do well to keep a sharp lookout all night.”

“I, for one, won’t sleep,” said the Negro.

“Can you shoot?” asked Jason.

The Negro chuckled, and, taking a revolver from the bosom of his blouse, aimed at the top of a pine-tree which had been grazed by lightning, and showed white through the fading light nearly a hundred yards away. There was a crack, and the small white space no larger than a man’s hand was splintered by the bullet.

“Well, there ain’t no doubt that you can shoot, and you may have to bring that gun of yours into action before you expect. In a case like this it’s your enemy’s life against yours.”

Andrews kept on his way, and the Negro turned up to the large supper-room. Most of them were already there and at the meal.

“Well, boys,” began big Sam, “you’d just as well get it out of your heads that our trouble is over here. It’s jest like I told you. I’ve been talkin’ to the fellow that used to have my place,—he ain’t in with the rest of the strikers,—an’ he thinks that they’re goin’ to try an’ run us out to-night. I’d advise you, as soon as it gets dark-like, to take what things you want out o’ yore cabins an’ bring ’em up here. It won’t do no harm to be careful until we find out what kind of a move they’re goin’ to make.”

The men had stopped eating, and they stared at the speaker with open mouths. There were some incredulous eyes among the gazers, too.

“I don’t believe they’d dare come right out an’ do anything,” said one.

“Stay in yore cabin, then,” retorted the leader angrily.

There was no more demur, and as soon as night had fallen, the Negroes did as they were bidden, though the rude, ill-furnished huts contained little or nothing of value. Another precaution taken by the blacks was to leave short candles burning in their dwellings so as to give the impression of occupancy. If nothing occurred during the night, the lights would go out of themselves and the enemy would be none the wiser as to their vigilance.

In the large assembly room the men waited in silence, some drowsing and some smoking. Only one candle threw its dim circle of light in the centre of the room, throwing the remainder into denser shadow. The flame flickered and guttered. Its wavering faintness brought out the dark strained faces in fantastic relief, and gave a weirdness to the rolling white eyeballs and expanded eyes. Two hours passed. Suddenly, from the window where big Sam and a colleague were stationed, came a warning “S-sh!” Sam had heard stealthy steps in the direction of the nearest cabin. The night was so black that he could see nothing, but he felt that developments were about to begin. He could hear more steps. Then the men heard a cry of triumph as the strikers threw themselves against the cabin doors, which yielded easily. This was succeeded from all parts by exclamations of rage and disappointment. In the assembly room the Negroes were chuckling to themselves. Mr. “Red” Cleary had planned well, but so had Sam Bowles.

After the second cry there was a pause, as if the men had drawn together for consultation. Then some one approached the citadel a little way and said: “If you niggers’ll promise to leave here to-morrow morning at daylight, we’ll let you off this time. If you don’t, there won’t be any of you to leave to-morrow.”

Some of the blacks were for promising, but their leader turned on them like a tiger. “You would promise, would you, and then give them a chance to whip you out of the section! Go, all of you that want to; but as for me, I’ll stay here an’ fight it out with the blackguards.”

The man who had spoken from without had evidently waited for an answer. None coming, his footsteps were heard retreating, and then, without warning, there was a rattling fusillade. Some of the shots crashed through the thin pine boarding, and several men were grazed. One struck the man who stood at big Sam’s side at the window. The blood splashed into the black leader’s face, and his companion sunk to the floor with a groan. Sam Bowles moved from the window a moment and wiped the blood drops from his cheek. He looked down upon the dead man as if the deed had dazed him. Then, with a few sharp commands, he turned again to the window.

Some over-zealous fool among the strikers had fired one of the huts, and the growing flames discovered their foes to the little garrison.

“Put out that light,” ordered big Sam. “All of you that can, get to the two front windows—you, Toliver, an’ you, Moten, here with me. All the rest of you lay flat on the floor. Now, as soon as that light gets bright, pick out yore man,—don’t waste a shot, now—fire!” Six pistols spat fire out into the night. There were cries of pain and the noise of scurrying feet as the strikers fled pell-mell out of range.

“Now, down on the floor!” commanded Sam.

The order came not a moment too soon, for an answering volley of shots penetrated the walls and passed harmlessly over the heads of those within. Meanwhile, some one seeing the mistake of the burning cabin had ordered it extinguished; but this could not be done without the workmen being exposed to the fire from the blacks’ citadel. So there was nothing to do save to wait until the shanty had burned down. The dry pine was flaming brightly now, and lit up the scene with a crimson glare. The great rocks and the rugged mountain-side, with patches of light here and there contrasting with the deeper shadows, loomed up threatening and terrible, and the fact that behind those boulders lay armed men thirsty for blood made the scene no less horrible.

In his cabin, farther up the mountain side, Jason Andrews had heard the shouts and firing, seen the glare of the burning cabin through his window, and interpreted it aright. He rose and threw on his coat.

“Jason,” said his wife, “don’t go down there. It’s none of your business.”

“I’m not going down there, Kate,” he said; “but I know my duty and have got to do it.”

The nearest telegraph office was a mile away from his cabin. Thither Jason hurried. He entered, and, seizing a blank, began to write rapidly, when he was interrupted by the voice of the operator, “It’s no use, Andrews, the wires are cut.” The foreman stopped as if he had been struck; then, wheeling around, he started for the door just as Crofton came rushing in.

“Ah, Andrews, it’s you, is it?—and before me. Have you telegraphed for troops?”

“It’s no use, Mr. Crofton, the wires are cut.”

“My God!” exclaimed the young man, “what is to be done? I did not think they would go to this length.”

“We must reach the next station and wire from there.”

“But it’s fifteen miles away on a road where a man is liable to break his neck at any minute.”

“I’ll risk it, but I must have a horse.”

“Take mine. He’s at the door,—God speed you.” With the word, Jason was in the saddle and away like the wind.

“He can’t keep that pace on the bad ground,” said young Crofton, as he turned homeward.

At the centre of strife all was still quiet. The fire had burned low, and what remained of it cast only a dull light around. The assailants began to prepare again for action.

“Here, some one take my place at the window,” said Sam. He left his post, crept to the door and opened it stealthily, and, dropping on his hands and knees, crawled out into the darkness. In less than five minutes he was back and had resumed his station. His face was expressionless. No one knew what he had done until a new flame shot athwart the darkness, and at sight of it the strikers burst into a roar of rage. Another cabin was burning, and the space about for a hundred yards was as bright as day. In the added light, two or three bodies were distinguishable upon the ground, showing that the shots of the blacks had told. With deep chagrin the strikers saw that they could do nothing while the light lasted. It was now nearly midnight, and the men were tired and cramped in their places. They dared not move about much, for every appearance of an arm or a leg brought a shot from the besieged. Oh for the darkness, that they might advance and storm the stronghold! Then they could either overpower the blacks by force of numbers, or set fire to the place that held them and shoot them down as they tried to escape. Oh for darkness!

As if the Powers above were conspiring against the unfortunates, the clouds, which had been gathering dark and heavy, now loosed a downpour of rain which grew fiercer and fiercer as the thunder crashed down from the mountains echoing and re-echoing back and forth in the valley. The lightning tore vivid, zigzag gashes in the inky sky. The fury of the storm burst suddenly, and before the blacks could realise what was happening, the torrent had beaten the fire down, and the way between them and their enemies lay in darkness. The strikers gave a cheer that rose even over the thunder.

* * * * *

As the young manager had said, the road over which Jason had to travel was a terrible one. It was rough, uneven, and treacherous to the step even in the light of day. But the brave man urged his horse on at the best possible speed. When he was half-way to his destination, a sudden drop in the road threw the horse and he went over the animal’s head. He felt a sharp pain in his arm, and he turned sick and dizzy, but, scrambling to his feet, he mounted, seized the reins in one hand, and was away again. It was half-past twelve when he staggered into the telegraph office. “Wire—quick!” he gasped. The operator who had been awakened from a nap by the clatter of the horse’s hoofs, rubbed his eyes and seized a pencil and blank.

“Troops at once—for God’s sake—troops at once—Crofton’s mine riot—murder being done!” and then, his mission being over, nature refused longer to resist the strain and Jason Andrews swooned.

His telegram had been received at Wheeling, and another ordering the instant despatch of the nearest militia, who had been commanded to sleep in their armories in anticipation of some such trouble, before a physician had been secured for Andrews. His arm was set and he was put to bed. But, loaded on flat-cars and whatever else came handy, the troops were on their way to the scene of action.

While this was going on, the Negroes had grown disheartened. The light which had disclosed to them their enemy had been extinguished, and under cover of the darkness and storm they knew their assailants would again advance. Every flash of lightning showed them the men standing boldly out from their shelter.

Big Sam turned to his comrades. “Never say die, boys,” he said. “We’ve got jest one more chance to scatter ’em. If we can’t do it, it’s hand to hand with twice our number. Some of you lay down on the floor here with your faces jest as clost to the door as you can. Now some more of you kneel jest above. Now above them some of you bend, while the rest stand up. Pack that door full of gun muzzles while I watch things outside.” The men did as he directed, and he was silent for a while. Then he spoke again softly: “Now they’re comin’. When I say ‘Ready!’ open the door, and as soon as a flash of lightning shows you where they are, let them have it.”

They waited breathlessly.

“Now, ready!”

The door was opened, and a moment thereafter the glare of the lightning was followed by another flash from the doorway. Groans, shrieks, and curses rang out as the assailants scampered helter-skelter back to their friendly rocks, leaving more of their dead upon the ground behind them.

“That was it,” said Sam. “That will keep them in check for a while. If we can hold ’em off until daybreak, we are safe.”

The strikers were now angry and sore and wet through. Some of them were wounded. “Red” Cleary himself had a bullet through his shoulder. But his spirits were not daunted, although six of his men lay dead upon the ground. A long consultation followed the last unsuccessful assault. At last Cleary said: “Well, it won’t do any good to stand here talkin’. It’s gettin’ late, an’ if we don’t drive ’em out to-night, it’s all up with us an’ we’d jest as well be lookin’ out fur other diggin’s. We’ve got to crawl up as near as we can an’ then rush ’em. It’s the only way, an’ what we ought to done at first. Get down on your knees. Never mind the mud—better have it under you than over you.” The men sank down, and went creeping forward like a swarm of great ponderous vermin. They had not gone ten paces when some one said, “Tsch! what is that?” They stopped where they were. A sound came to their ears. It was the laboured puffing of a locomotive as it tugged up the incline that led to the settlement. Then it stopped. Within the room they had heard it, too, and there was as great suspense as without.

With his ear close to the ground, “Red” Cleary heard the tramp of marching men, and he shook with fear. His fright was communicated to the others, and with one accord they began creeping back to their hiding-places. Then, with a note that was like the voice of God to the besieged, through the thunder and rain, a fife took up the strains of “Yankee Doodle” accompanied by the tum-tum of a sodden drum. This time a cheer went up from within the room,—a cheer that directed the steps of the oncoming militia.

“It’s all up!” cried Cleary, and, emptying his pistol at the wood fort, he turned and fled. His comrades followed suit. A bullet pierced Sam Bowles’s wrist. But he did not mind it. He was delirious with joy. The militia advanced and the siege was lifted. Out into the storm rushed the happy blacks to welcome and help quarter their saviours. Some of the Negroes were wounded, and one dead, killed at the first fire. Tired as the men were, they could not sleep, and morning found them still about their fires talking over the night’s events. It found also many of the strikers missing besides those who lay stark on the hillside.

For the next few days the militia took charge of affairs. Some of the strikers availed themselves of the Croftons’ clemency, and went back to work along with the blacks; others moved away.

When Jason Andrews was well enough to be moved, he came back. The Croftons had already told of his heroism, and he was the admiration of white and black alike. He has general charge now of all the Crofton mines, and his assistant and stanch friend is big Sam.

THE DELIBERATION OF MR. DUNKIN

THE DELIBERATION OF MR. DUNKIN

Miltonville had just risen to the dignity of being a school town. Now, to the uninitiated and unconcerned reader this may appear to be the most unimportant statement in the world; but one who knows Miltonville, and realises all the facts in the case, will see that the simple remark is really fraught with mighty import.

When for two years a growing village has had to crush its municipal pride and send its knowledge-seeking youth to a rival town two miles away, when that rival has boasted and vaunted its superiority, when a listless school-board has been unsuccessfully prodded, month after month, then the final decision in favour of the institution and the renting of a room in which to establish it is no small matter. And now Fox Run, with its most plebeian name but arrogantly aristocratic community, could no longer look down upon Miltonville.

The coloured population of this town was sufficiently large and influential to merit their having a member on the school-board. But Mr. Dunkin, the incumbent, had found no employment for his energies until within the last two months, when he had suddenly entered the school fight with unwonted zest. Now it was an assured thing, and on Monday Miss Callena Johnson was to start the fountain of knowledge a-going. This in itself was enough to set the community in a commotion.