Orangeburg and all sections of Lexington County, by tradition, custom and every other habit-forming agency still clung to one rural institution. This was "Big Monday," the first Monday in every month. All matters were reckoned from this day. It was the day when bills were paid and contracts were renewed; when the farmers and planters went to town to sell their produce. It was also the day of horse trading.
(Sometimes night long journeys by those who lived distances away and whose means of travel were slow moving mules or oxen was the rule.) From all along the main roads leading into Orangeburg, however, according to the distances from the city, caravan after caravan, joined the procession to arrive by early morning. From every side road there streamed into the main artery teams of all descriptions city bound. Along the sides of the road as daylight approached, and the vicinity of the city was reached, could be seen various campers. Negroes and whites in their various groups, sometimes asleep, sometimes sitting by camp fires. The more wealthy of the farmers, who could afford faster vehicles, such as automobiles and fast stepping teams disdained to break their night's rest by such early starts. They all planned to be on hand during the day, however, and would never miss.
Stores made ready for a rushing business in all kinds of trade till late in the afternoon. Extra clerks were hired and counters were loaded with goods, of all descriptions. On this day the county Court House lost its staid solemnity as if conscious of the day, also its importance. About the wide open space which surrounded it were hitched the teams of the early arrivals when the sun greeted the city with its first red rays. Negro boys, whose fathers had allowed them to accompany the ménage on the trip, as well as hired hands of planters, busied themselves excitedly feeding their charges, the sleep of an hour or so before driven from their eyes with a dash of cold water from the pump in the court yard or after a hasty ablution in some stream on the way into town. Young white boys, likewise, who had come from the rural districts with their fathers also busied themselves with their teams and made ready for a day of jollity.
Among those who had driven in the previous night and were stopping at the Planters Hotel was Professor Armstrong, browned by the hot sun in which he had been living since departing from the North at the end of his college teaching career, ended so suddenly at the faculty meeting. Since arriving in the South he had disdained to stop in the hot close city but had gone to his plantation out on the Congaree River, leaving his town house in the charge of servants. Desiring companionship and knowing that the best of the country would be at the hotel he decided to stop there over night rather than at his house.
Having retired early the night before he was among the early risers. This Big Monday crowd always had a fascination for him, even when a boy and his father used to bring him to the city. He liked to circulate among the planters, discuss crop conditions and banter jokes. Despite his erudition and the fact that he had espoused the profession of teaching he was still at heart a southern planter, revelling in the ways of the planter, talking cotton and corn and wheat and "nigger farm hands."
It was anticipation of this enjoyment that Professor Armstrong awoke, looked out of his window upon the day, and was glad. He was happy to whistling when taking his bath, whistling softly, however, so as not to disturb other sleepers. His toilet ended he descended to the piazza which stretched before the front of the hotel, surveyed the rows of empty chairs and stepped across the street to the various groups of farmers.
By some he was known and greeted familiarly, by others he was unknown till he made some comment on the weather, their crops or their equipage. The southern planter never stands on ceremony. Everyone speaks to everyone else and when once conversation was begun all barriers between men were down, and Professor Armstrong was soon the center of a laughing, handshaking jolly group of farmers.
After an hour or more spent in making the rounds of the courthouse, Professor Armstrong realized it was breakfast time and turned to the hotel dining room. He entered the room and was about to seat himself when his glance was directed across the room to one of the side tables where the pose of a diner presented a certain familiarity to him. He gazed for a moment, then exclaimed, under his breath, "Dr. Tansey. Well, well!" With that he stepped briskly and hospitably across the table to where the visitor sat. Touching Dr. Tansey on the shoulder as he arrived at the table, Professor Armstrong reached out his hand hospitably, at the same time exclaiming, "Dr. Tansey, Hello—I'll be durned."
Dr. Tansey turned, quickly stood and grasped the outstretched hand enthusiastically.
"Professor Armstrong. This is indeed a delight.—I didn't know you were in town.—I thought you were miles away."
Professor Armstrong smiled gladly, still holding the hand offered him. "I see, you're white. You've forgotten the way we parted."
"Forgotten?—Oh—Yes, forgotten, Oh—yes—forgotten? Oh,—I remember" slapping Professor Armstrong heartily on the shoulder. "Why shouldn't I forget? Ha-ha-ha." Both men laughed boyishly as Dr. Tansey continued. "You had an awful peeve on that day after the faculty meeting. An awful peeve over nothing. I hope you've learned to see things rightly now.—Don't suppose you have, though?"
"Can't say I have. Come over to my table."
"No, thank you. Join me here. I'd enjoy it so much. I've started my meal and you're just about to order—Join me."
"I will."
At the indication of Dr. Tansey, a waiter drew a chair and seated Professor Armstrong. The latter reverted back to the faculty meeting.
"I still can't see why white men should fight over 'niggers.' We fought over them once. I don't think they're worth bothering with to that extent any more.'
"Same old Armstrong!" exclaimed Dr. Tansey. "Dear fellow it's not a question of fighting over them. It's fighting for the right. And we'll always fight for the right till the right triumphs. And right will never triumph until every man, woman and child in America, regardless of race, color or creed or circumstance has a fair and a square deal. The American conscience will never let the question lie still. Might does not make right any more than two and one make five. It is this instinct of America that makes her great. The desire for and the determination to be right. America will never be right till the wrong of color prejudice is eradicated and all men get justice."
"Why bother wich them. I can't see. They're a burden to the country. They're lazy and worthless, unreliable and shiftless."
"Who made them so, if all is as you say. Where's the blame? You know, as you make the statements, however, that they are false—as false as fool's gold. Where would your wealth be if you did not have them to work your fields? If you did not have them to cheat? How long can you or would you work in the hot sun of this land to till your fields.—About two hours. You call them shiftless yet they're amassing much property despite handicaps faced by no other group. I see lots of evidences of it right around me here. You call them unreliable, they were reliable enough to take care of your lands and families when your fathers went to war to keep them in slavery.—No, Armstrong, your statements are all false and misleading. These people are a vast asset to the South and some day the South will realize it. Perhaps too late.
"If the South could only see it," Dr. Tansey continued, "if you could only see it you would try to make the best citizens possible out of them; encourage them to become better citizens, make their living conditions better, their health conditions better and their moral conditions better."
"Moral conditions. Ha-ha-ha. That's a joke. They have no morals."
"Tut-tut-tut. The shoe's on the other foot. And suppose they had no morals, who has set them the example for centuries?"
"The southern white man is the most moral on this hemisphere. He is the preserver of civilization—of Anglo-Saxon purity of race."
"Don't talk rashness, Armstrong. Don't talk rashness. The very complexion of your town belies you. The complexion of every southern town or city belies that statement. Don't talk balderdash."
"We protect the purity of our women," boasted Professor Armstrong.
"Yes, at the expense of the purity of another race. That is not preserving race purity. The purity of your women needs no protection, it is the purity of southern manhood that needs protection and the purity of black women. When out of twleve million black persons in this land more than a third of them are of mixed blood, the white southern man ought to hang his head in shame. You've not an argument to support you and the best thing to do is to set about righting the wrongs done, then conscience will be free. First set your own house in order and all things will be added."
"You're talking a lot of theories," Professor Armstrong gestured. "We, down here, are faced with the practical workings out of life. If you want to see real conditions, you have the best chance in the world today. Today is court day. Come with me. Court will just be sitting when we will have finished."
"I'll be delighted. I have often wanted to get into the midst of this question."
"All right, you'll see."
Professor Armstrong was right. By the time they finished breakfast and prepared themselves for the street, those having business with the arm of South Carolina law, as administered in Orangeburg, were just assembling. A steady stream of persons were passing through the courtyard gates and assembling in the building. Armstrong and Dr. Tansey joined them. Once in the building they continued with the crowd seeking the municipal criminal session, held in an old-fashioned high vaulted room, unchanged since the structure was first built. In fact the courthouse looked back on a very respectable antiquity of slave trading.
Almost all the seats in the already stifling, stuffy court were taken. Over in the corner near the "pen" Professor Armstrong sighted two vacant seats and worked his way to them, aided by one of the sheriffs.
The day was sultry, with a stagnant, drowsy, sleepy air pervading the room despite the fact that the windows were wide open. Men and women of all colors and in various stages of undress, some exuding the odor of sweaty clothes, some of tobacco smoke, filled the place. The negroes huddled into one corner, some of them, torn straw hats in their hands, trousers suspended by one string, some barefoot and others with dilapidated shoes on, while here and there in the crowd was a rather better dressed, man or woman, mulatto or black, all puffing, fanning and panting with the excitement. Dr. Tansey noted in a corner near the judge's desk a block platform and above it shackles, reminding him of the auction block of slavery days.
About them bustled a colored court runner or a lawyer looking after a client. The better class colored person was defended by some white lawyer friend, the smaller cases being attended to by men of their own race. Dr. Tansey and Armstrong had just time enough to take in the scene when a tall lanky sheriff, arose, pounded his desk and droned, "The Co'te." All who were seated stood.
Justice was speedy. Invariably, in the minor cases where whites, mostly young men, involved in brawls and small offenses, they were reprimanded, warned and freed. When all these except one or two were disposed of, the cases of the Negroes were called. Most of these were more trivial than the others, being accusations of loitering, vagrancy, pettit larceny and brawling. Invariably sentences of differing lengths to the chain gang were meted out to them. Appeals were useless. Usually after a woebegone look, a hopeless pleading with eyes for sympathy and leniency they were mercilessly sent to the chain gang, from where they were paroled to the various farms. Thus Dr. Tansey surmised, were the farm hands recruited.
Invariably they were allowed but a few words when asked to plead guilty or not.
"Boss, Yer Honoh," they would start, "I didn't do nothing.
"Thirty days in the gang," would be the interruption of the judge.
The court room was almost cleared of cases. In the rear of the restricted side of the room, huddled into a small group were four colored persons, one a young girl, who was weeping silently, two elderly persons, a man and a woman, and a young brown skinned youth, tall and rugged, manly and clean looking. In fact the group was in decided contrast to the prisoners making up court cases, disposition of which the two men had witnessed. At intervals the old woman would lean tenderly over the weeping girl to comfort her. The man sat grimly watching the judge, his face muscles as taut as graven images, his arms folded across his breast, a veritable Ethiopian sphinx.
The judge, a rather florid, puffing, medium sized person, wearing heavy spectacles and a scowl, eyed the group from time to time while disposing of the remaining cases. As they neared conclusion he seemed to become fidgety, seeing the two white men sitting after most of the spectators had departed. The face of Professor Armstrong was familiar but the judge was puzzled over his companion.
Professor Armstrong was waiting till court was over to introduce Dr. Tansey. The judge looked at the two men, hesitated, cleared his throat, still hesitated, then gave an order to the bailiff. This official stepped into an anteroom then returned immediately with a young white man about the same build as the young man with the girl. As this man stepped up to the bar, the judge's face cleared of its scowl and a smile played about the lips.
He looked the young man over peering at him over the rims of his glasses as he said:
"Jim Trafford, you're sowing wild oats, are you?"
The young man bowed his head and stirred sheepishly. "You are charged with assault on this girl.—Don't say you're not guilty.—I'll just fine you two dollars.—Don't get caught the next time."
He was about to hand the papers over to the clerk for the payment of the fine and the disposition of the case. The young Negro man with the girl uttered a groan, the girl herself began to cry loudly and the old woman with her to moan as she rocked back and forth. The old man's arms were still folded across his breast. He was biting his lips as the tears flowed down his cheeks. The moment was tense but the next was tense to the nerve breaking point.
The judge was about to rise from his chair when from the rear of the room a woman's voice rang out. "Just a minute, Your Honor." The judge sat erect with a snap as if jerked up by some rope. Dr. Tansey and Professor Armstrong turned quickly to note the speaker. The young woman, for such it was, was advancing toward the bar, her eyes blazing, her finger pointing menacingly at the judge. Several bailiffs started for her as if to protect the judge.
"Your Honor," she said, "do I understand that you are letting this man off with a fine on a charge of this kind. A crime against a woman of my race would be called rape. Is not this rape, also? I was in the adjoining room when this girl was attacked. I heard the threats he made and the struggle when he forced her to his will. I demand he be prosecuted as any other criminal.
"This is a court—supposedly a court of justice," she continued. "If there ever was an injustice—if there ever was a travesty—if there ever was a farce it is the way this case is disposed of."
"Are you an attorney?"
"No, I'm not. Would to God I were. I'm human, though, and I come from a section where human beings are treated like human beings and brutes like brutes regardless of color."
"Are you interested in this case?"
"Yes, I'm interested, and I'll see it through."
"Your name, please."
"Louise Comstock."
"Well, Louise, you say you're from a different neck of the woods. I presume from the North.—Well, here's a bit of advice. Go back North to your mother's kitchen and don't go meddling in affairs that don't concern you. Court's dismissed."
With that the judge gathered his books and papers and stepped from the bench toward his room. The girl's face was flushed to the color of a blush rose with confusion and indignation at the treatment accorded her. She stood, a blaze of anger, watching the judge retire, fierce imprecations in her soul.
"You shame the name of womanhood!" was all she could venture to say. Dr. Tansey was just stepping toward her to calm her anger and advise her that her indignation was carrying her too far, when Professor Armstrong noted the girl who had been wronged.
"My God," he exclaimed. "Ione Felding!" Then he turned to Dr. Tansey. "Doctor, that's the daughter of my laundry woman. Judge—Judge—" he started for the door through which the judge had departed. "Judge," he shouted, "come back here." Then thinking of the young white man who had perpetrated the outrage, he turned to look for him. "Where's the young dog," he said. Where's the young dog?"
Louise Comstock went over to the group of colored people. She took the girl's hand. "Never mind," she comforted, though realizing how lame and hollow the words must sound in the girl's ears. "Never mind, I'll take you away from this land where you'll have protection." The girl was weeping freely now on her mother's shoulder. The father's tongue seemed to be freed and he was pronouncing bitter curses against the land. The scene was so distressing that Dr. Tansey felt an ungovernable desire to get away from it. Grabbing Professor Armstrong by the hand he almost pulled him to the door.
"Come on," he urged, "Let's get out of here!"
They were just in time to see the young man Trafford stepping from the gate at the end of the short walk to the sidewalk. He was smiling brightly at the successful termination of his episode. He had just reached the sidewalk, however, when there stepped from behind one of the teams hitched near, the young colored man who had been comforting the girl in the court room. Trafford looked up into the eyes of the young man with a triumphant smile and started to pass on. The young colored man stepped up to him, however, and without a word of warning struck Trafford a blow that sent him reeling against the picket fence, dazed for an instant by the surprise of the attack.
The assailant started after him again to continue the assault when a dozen men, who had been in a group nearby rushed to Trafford's aid. The young colored man saw them coming, however, and met the first to reach him with a blow that sent the rescuer also tottering away. Before the attack could be carried further, two police officers rushed in, fighting their way through the now gathering crowd and placed the colored man under arrest, rushing him through the yard of the courthouse, into the building and then into the nearby jail, by means of an underground passage by which prisoners were led back and forth to the court room.
By this time hundreds had gathered at the scene, curious, inquiring, wondering. Hotel corridors were emptied, stores lost their clerks and customers alike, and even some of the proprietors forsook their businesses to crowd over to the vicinity of the brief battle and arrest. In a few minutes the crowd had been augmented into hundreds.
Trafford was in the midst of them nursing a fast swelling jaw and accepting sympathy.
"What's the matter?—What's the matter?" was the question on every tongue of those who were too far on the outskirts of the crowd to know what had caused the excitement.
"Nigger assaulted a white man," answered one man to his neighbor. "They're too damned fresh. Did they kill him?" was the next question.
"No, got away—arrested," the first man spoken to answered.
"They're too durned fresh," commented another bystander.—"Gawd only knows what we're coming to. Getting so there's no living for them. They all ought to be run out of town."
"Who's the man assaulted?"
"Trafford—Jim Trafford."
"Aw—Buck Trafford's son?"
"Yes."
"Huh—Guess the boy must have been meddling 'round the nigger's girl. He's always doing that. Lot of the young hellions are doing that—sewing their wild oats. Guess we've all done it more or less. Pooh! That's nothin'. As long as there's a good looking nigger girl about there'll be white boys hunting for them. It's fair game too."
Such was the drift of the conversation heard by Armstrong and Dr. Tansey as they stood a little aside from the crowd studying the group.
"By God, I'll see that that thing stops," swore Professor Armstrong. "Tansey, I know that girl and her whole family. Good people too—law abiding, and bringing their children up right and according to law. Her mother's been my laundry woman and the laundry woman of my family for years.—Poor, of course, and simple—but law abiding and honest."
Dr. Tansey was tempted to say, "This is some of your southern justice and right," but remained silent.
The two men were still within the yard of the courthouse when a squad of police arrived and dispersed the crowd. There was some show of resistance for a brief time, here and there being heard mutterings of anger against the Negro, but soon the street was tranquil and the ordinary business of Big Monday resumed. Dr. Tansey and Armstrong walked across the street to the piazza of their hotel. As they neared the door they heard a group of men just leaving a store inquire of two standing at the edge of the curbing:
"What was the trouble over there?" indicating the spot across the street where the crowd had gathered.
"Don't know, exactly. Somebody said a nigger insulted a white woman."
"What d'you know about that!" exclaimed the first speaker. "Times are getting awful—Time to call a halt. They ought to be run out of town—Did they get the nigger?"
"Yes, he's in jail."
"Good time for a necktie party, eh—teach them a lesson."
"Hanging's too good for them. They're worthless, no good and a burden anyway. Thanks—See you later." The group separated.