University of Virginia Library

10. X.
REVENGE OF THE FRISBIE FACTION.

“What did I tell you?” says Gingerford, walking
familiarly arm in arm with his son James, not long after,
— a beautiful sight, to friendly village eyes, as perhaps he
is aware. (Does he not hear in fancy the whispers of
admiring elderly ladies? — “What a charming picture of
father and son! How fond and proud they are of each
other!” for the Judge, as we know, is human.) “Who
ridicules us now? Our good friend Frisbie could not do
us a real injury; we have transmuted his base coin into
gold. Look at these people”; and the elegant Gingerford
touches his hat, smilingly, to one and another. “They
are all on our side, James.”

But the sagacious man is for once mistaken. The
Frisbie faction is still strong in town; and, while many
have been won over from it by the Judge's admirable
behavior towards his colored neighbors, others of its adherents,
more violent than ever in their animosity towards
him and them since his neat retort upon Frisbie, are even
now meditating mischief.

Not directly against Gingerford, — they know too well
how the blows of malice recoil from that polished shield
of his. Their aim is lower; it is levelled at his black
friends over the way. Frisbie himself, sick enough of his
own sorry jest, and tired of his tenants, was still too
proud to molest them further, — and, let us believe, too
humane. The poor, stricken, humbled parent kept his
own counsel, and certainly gave no encouragement to the
leaders of the plot; perhaps he was not even aware of it.
But did not Stephen know his master's secret mind?

“Of course he won't do anything to get the niggers out
of his house, since he has moved them in it; but do you
think he 's such a fool that he won't be glad to have us do
the job, while he knows nothing about it?”

Stephen is animated particularly by his hatred of
Gentleman Bill; and he has for a confederate one who is
moved by a still stronger personal resentment, — the man
Dorson, Gingerford's late coachman, whose wrongs are
burning to be revenged on his successor; while pure and
unadulterated prejudice against color inspires the rest of
the whispering, skulking crew that surround the negro's
house this wild March night.

It is Saturday evening again, and late. The village
lights are out, or going out, all save one, — this which
shines through the dingy curtains of the negro's hut; for
these dark-skinned children of the Night are sadly inclined
to keep late hours. Within you see, seated, in his shirt-sleeves,
with his legs crossed and his foot resting upon the
wood-box, Gentleman Bill, taking his ease after his week's
work in the shop, and occasionally making a quiet observation.
At the other side of the stove is Joe, playing at
checkers with Fessenden's, who, feeble-minded in many
things, showed an aptitude for that game. Again the two
girls are putting away the supper dishes, their mother is
mending a garment, the old grandmother is nodding over
her knitting, and Mr. Williams, with spectacles on nose, is
turning the leaves of the old Bible.

“Seems to me the winders in this house rattle more 'n
they used to be accustomed to,” remarks the gentleman
of the family as the gusts of wind smite the sashes. “Antiquated
old shell, rather.”

“What 's ant-acquainted?” grins woolly-headed Joe,
looking up from his game of checkers. “Any relation to
uncle-acquainted?”

“O father!” says Bill, despairingly, “a'n't that child
ever going to have a suitable bringing up?”

“What about that child?” says the grandmother,
jealously, suddenly waking and plying her knitting-needles.

“I was speaking of the old house,” replies Bill. “Loose
in the jints, since it was moved; hardly a fit residence for
a respectable, growing family.”

“Now don't you say a word ag'inst the old house!”
retorts the grandmother. “I 'd as soon you 'd go to
'busin' me. It 's been a home to us ever sence afore you
was born, and it 's a good home yit. The Lord has presarved
it to us, and I trust he 'll presarve it still, —
anyways till I 'm ready to move to my long home. Then,
if you want a better house, I hope you 'll find it.”

“I did n't mean no disrespect to the venerable tenement,
granny. But you see it 's really gitting too small;
very much deficient in room, 'specially since I brought
home a permanent boarder on my back,” — with a glance
at Fessenden's.

“That 's a mos' ongrateful remark, William! We
should n't have the ole house at all, if 't wa'n't for him.
Ye brought good luck into it, when ye brought him
in, an' it 's stayed with us ever sence, bless the boy!
Don't ye go to pickin' no flaws in the Lord's blessin's; if
ye do they 'll be took away from us, sure!”

“You quite misapprehend the drift of my observation,”
says Bill, and gives a sudden start. “By George! that
wa'n't no winder rattling!”

“Sounded to me like a stone throwed agin the clab-boards,”
remarks Mr. Williams, mildly anxious, looking
up from his book.

The stalwart young black steps quietly to a window, on
the side of the house struck by the missile, and lifts a
corner of the curtain. “Jes' le' me ketch any feller up to

that sort o' thing, that 's all!” quoth he, with a menacing
laugh.

He sees darkness without, and nothing more. But unfortunately
his head, defined upon the background of the
lamp-lighted room, presents a tempting mark to his enemy,
Stephen, at that moment lurking behind a pile of the family
stove-wood, a stick of which is in his hand.

The two checker-players give little heed to the disturbance;
and now suddenly Joe springs from his chair,
overturning it, and shrieking triumphantly, “King-row!
king-row! crown him!” performs a sort of wild war-dance
about the room, and sits down again, under his brother's
severe reproof.

“Keep quiet, can't ye? you young barbarian! Don't
you see I 'm reconnoitrin'? Hush!”

An instant of deep silence followed, then came a crash
at the window. At the same time fragments of glass
struck Gentleman Bill's face and shirt-bosom, and a club,
— a stick of green stove-wood, in short, — its force broken
by the sash, fell into the room at his feet.

Alarm and consternation entered with it: the checker-board
was overturned; the girls dropped a dish or two;
Bill, brandishing the club, rushed to the door, his father
calling to him and trying to hold him back.

“No, sir!” cries the athletic young fellow. “A head
gits cracked for this!”

He flings the door open, and leaps out, to be met by a
shower of small stove-wood, hurled by assailants shielded
from sight by the outer darkness, while the light streaming
from within exposes him to view. Perceiving the
odds against him, the young man hurls his club and
retreats into the room with blood trickling from a gash
in his cheek. One stick enters with him, whizzes past
the elder Williams's grizzled locks, and strikes the stove-pipe

with no small clatter, before the door is closed and
barred.

“Guess they thought I did n't bring in wood enough!”
says Fessenden's, laying the stick in the box. “But they
better take care!”

Mrs. Williams and the girls begin to sob and cry. The
old grandmother hastens to stanch Bill's wound, saying
to Joe by the way, “Under the bed, deary! You 'll git
hurted!” Bill pushes her off: “Never mind a little blood!
More 'll flow 'fore this little business is finished!” And
he snatches an axe from the corner.

“Be quiet! they 're knocking!” says mild Mr. Williams,
laying his hand on his son's arm.

“Let Bill fire the old axe at 'em!” gibbers Joe, peeping
affrighted from beneath the bed.

“Just open the door sudden for answer!” says Bill,
holding the weapon ready, his eyes gleaming wickedly.

“That won't do, William. — What do you want out
there?”

The knocking ceases, and a voice replies: “We 've come
to clean you out. Agree to quit this house and this town
within a week, and it 's all right; we give you that time.”

“I pay Mr. Frisbie rent for this house,” humbly suggests
Mr. Williams.

“Can't help that. We 've got tired of niggers in this
town, and we 're going to be rid of you.”

“But if we agree to stay?” Bill shouts back.

“You 'll have to go. If you stick, some of ye 'll get
hurt, and your house 'll come down,” roars the voice
outside.

“I know that man!” says Fessenden's, recognizing the
voice. “He would n't let your cows in Judge's yard.”

“Dorson!” remarks Bill. “Jest open, father, and he 'll
be a head shorter in no time!”

“Do it, pappy!” cries Mrs. Williams, with sudden fire
blazing through her tears.

“It is written, `Thou shalt not kill,'” replies the pious
Williams.

“Do you promise?” demands Dorson.

“No, I can't promise that,” says the negro. “We have
no other house to go to, and we shall try to stay here as
long as Mr. Frisbie allows us. We mean to be peaceable,
law-abiding people, and to merit no good man's ill-will;
and why should you persecute us in this way?”

“We have trusted the Lord so fur, and mean to trust
him still,” adds the quavering treble of the old woman's
earnest voice.

“See, then, if the Lord will keep your door from tumbling
in!” And there is a sound of retreating footsteps.

“Why did n't ye fire the axe, Bill? why did n't ye fire
the axe?” squeaks Joe, showing the whites of his eyes
under a corner of the bed-quilt.

“Trust the Lord! trust the Lord!” the old woman
kept saying, with exalted energy.

“Trust the Lord!” echoed Fessenden's, in a loud voice,
seized by one of his strange fits of inspiration. “You
won't lose your house; they say so!”

“Who says so?” demanded Bill.

“The angels!”

“Go to thunder with your angels!” exclaimed the
impatient young black, irreverently. “They 're coming
again! Now, father!”

As he spoke the door burst in with a great crash, followed
by the but-end of a stick of timber which had been
used as a battering-ram. As that was precipitately retiring,
axe-wielding Gentleman Bill rushed out after it, but
came to grief before he could strike a blow; the muffled
villains who carried it flung it down at sight of him, and

the heavy end, striking his shin, fell thence upon his foot.
The axe dropped from his hand, and he lay howling, when
Mr. Williams ran to his rescue.

“They 'll kill you, pappy!” shrieked Mrs. Williams,
trying to support the broken door.

“I won't let 'em; but they may kill me!” cried that
simple fellow, Fessenden's; and, running out, he placed
himself, resolute and erect, between the negroes and their
assailants. “Don't hit them, hit me!” he called out, in
perfect sincerity and earnest self-devotion.

I do not suppose that even the most depraved of the
rioters was bad enough to intend the poor innocent lad a
serious harm. But he was in their way; and in the
excitement of the moment a billet of hard wood was flung
at the negroes. Its pointed end struck his temple, and he
staggered back towards the house, following Mr. Williams,
who was helping Gentleman Bill across the threshold.