_ CHAPTER IX. George Howe
From the fall of Fort Fisher and political upheavals of the Reconstruction period to the awful tragedy of 1898, with the exception of a few tragic scenes, Wilmington had been the theatre of one continuous comedy, performed by gifted players, whose names and faces will ever remain indelibly fixed in the memory. Phillis, "State Mary" Tinny, George Howe, Uncle Abram, Bill Dabney, "Uncle Billy" pass over the stage before me as I write. But of those who unwittingly struggled for the foremost rank in the line of fun-making, George Howe must be the acknowledged star.
Unlike others of the same school, whose minds had become unbalanced by overwork, worry or disease, George Howe was born a fool. Being a child of honorable and respectable parentage, the playmates with whom he associated in his early youth were of that class who regarded his imbecility as a terrible affliction, were charitable and kind, never allowing others to impose upon this simple fellow, who was incapable of taking his own part. But as George Howe advanced in years he gradually threw off his stupidity, and although he never outgrew the habit of keeping his mouth open, he ceased to slobber, and acquired the habit of looking respectable. He entered school and became quite proficient in one branch of study in particular--he was an excellent reader, with a wonderfully retentive memory. But he never outgrew his simple-mindedness, and appellation of "Fool" always justly clung to him, for, bright as he seemed to be upon many things, he was incapable of applying his knowledge to his own advantage. George Howe kept abreast with the doings of the times, especially in the political and religious world, and these two subjects he was always ready to discuss. Was there a public meeting called, religious, political or otherwise, George Howe would be there, often in some conspicuous place, with wide-open mouth and staring eyes, drinking in all that was said or done.
It mattered not how many were held in a single day or night, George Howe would spend sufficient time at all of them to tell something of what took place. For, with a jewsharp as his sole companion, George could cover more ground in a single day or night than any other inhabitant of Wilmington, keeping time to its discordant twanks. During political campaigns, before the press of the city could announce to its readers the result of the contest, George Howe could be heard howling the news through the streets of Wilmington. "Oh-o-o, look er here, every bod-e-e-e! New York, New Jerseee, Dilewar hev gone Dimocratic by big majoritees. Great Dimocratic gains throughout ther country." When, in 1884, the Democratic party astonished the country and itself by electing Grover Cleveland to the Presidency by a safe majority, it was George Howe who led that host of elated Democrats down Front street and toward the Custom House on the evening of election day to inform Republican officeholders that at length their time had come to give place for others. Being generally shunned by those of his own race, George Howe cherished quite a liking for colored people, and could be very frequently found among them in their religious meetings. There was something in the Negroes' mode of worship that seemed to fascinate him, especially the saints of color who worshipped in old Ebenezer Church, in South Seventh street. When that most eloquent of pulpit orators, the Rev. William H. Banks, led his hosts to Cape Fear River's brink, and drew three-fourths of the worshippers of other denominations with them, George Howe would be there, yea, marching with the converts themselves, joining as lustily as they in the singing of that familiar old marching song:
"I'm er goin' up ter join in the army of the Lord,
I'm er goin' up ter join in the army."
Upon the river's bank he'd stand and drink in every word that flowed from the mouth of that great divine. No Negro woman or man could lisp the name of "Brother Banks" with sweeter accent than George Howe, and no one could sing his praises more earnestly. Who can forget those early days of revivals and religious enthusiasm in Wilmington, and the three great divines who filled the three great pulpits from which the bread of life was given to hungry multitudes. There was Lavender in "Christian Chapel," Slubie in St. Stephen, and, more powerful and influential than either of these, was William H. Banks, the pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church. Even years after Slubie and Lavender had been called to other fields, it was George Howe's delight to stand upon the street corner opposite the residence of the Rev. Banks and sing the parody to that famous old song that electrified and filled with the spirit the revival meetings of the early seventies:
"Brother Lavender's got some liars,
Brother Slubie's got some, too;
Jus' carry 'em down to Cape Fear River,
An' Banks'll put 'em through."
Chorus: "Git on board, children," etc.
These great men are gone into the spirit world, but George Howe still lives. Banks was the last to go, and when that coffined clay was being borne from old Ebenezer, where for sixteen years he had labored, George Howe was one of that multitude of bleeding hearts who followed his precious bones to the burying ground. He stood and looked on until the last spadeful of earth was thrown upon the coffin and the mound shaped above it. After the death of the Rev. Banks George Howe became very much attached to his eldest daughter, Mary Elizabeth, and he could often be seen leisurely strolling down Seventh street in the direction of Banks' residence, playing his jewsharp and singing the praises of "Sister Mary Lizzie" between the twanks.
"I'm er goin' down to Sister Mary Lizzie Banksies;
Sister Mary Lizzie is the daughter of Brother Banks,
An' I think er great 'eal of Sister Mary Lizzie;
Sister Lizzie, I've got ter tell you-u-u."
Pausing in front of the door, he would roll up his sleeves, stretch his mouth, roll his eyes and make all kinds of comical expressions. "Sister Mary Lizzie, I'm jus' out er jail-l-l, I'm full er lice-e-e; but jus' as soon as I take er bath I'm comin' back to see you-u-u, for I have news-s-s-s to tell you-u-u." The young lady would often have to run in and lock her doors when she'd see this harmless nuisance approaching.
George Howe was one of the few that listened to the Colonel and Teck Pervis in the Wigwam on this particular night in October. Even when the ghastly plans of the murderous clan were being discussed, no one thought of excluding the town fool, who stood gaping around taking it all in. Schults, the German, was arranging things in and about his well-filled and well-patronized grocery store on Castle street on the following morning, when George Howe entered. Grabbing a handful of dried apples from a tray which sat upon the counter, he stuffed them into his mouth, threw his long legs across a flour barrel and momentarily watched the German as he busied himself about the store. "You didn't git out las' night, Schults," said he to the German, gulping the apples down to clear his throat for conversation.
"Oudt! oudt weer?" asked Schults, pausing with a tray of onions in his hands. "To the meetin' in the Wigwam," answered George. "They done er powerful lot er plannin' there las' night. The Dimocrats mean business this time. They say they'll carry the election this time or kill every Nigger in the district. An' white men who are lukewarm, who don't come out an' take er stan' with white men will share Niggers' fate. They got the names of the lukewarm in this affair. I don't want ter skeer you, Schults, but you are on the black list." Schults had laid down the tray of onions and was eyeing George from behind the showcase. "What did you say boudt black lisdt, Gheorge?" "I say they read your name on the black list last night, an' that means they are goin' ter kill yer, for their air determin' ter kill everything in the way of white supremacy. I don't want ter skeer you, Schults; I jes' wan' ter warn you. You hain't tended eny of their meetings, and they conclude you air agin them. An' then you wouldn't discharge your Nigger." Schults' eyes flashed. He locked his hands and brought them down upon the show case hard enough to break it. "What I keers fer der black lisdt, eh? I dondt keers whadt dey duse mid Schults. Before I vould hep dem ter harm dese kullod peeples py dams I suffers ter be kilt. Who ish mine frients? Who buys mine groceries? Kullud peeples. When Schults cum ster Wilmiton sick mit der rhumatiz, mit no moneys, mit no frients, who helbs Schults ter git on his feets? Dese rich bocra? No; dey kicks Schults off de sidewalks, cowhide Schults on der sthreets. Who helbs Schults den? Kullud peeples! An' befoe I rais' mine hand 'gin dem I suffer det. Let dem kum, kum an' git Schults when dey chuse. Don't let dem t'ink fur er moment I no prepare fer dem. Dem Ghermans who 'lows dem down bhroke ristocrats persuade dem gintz deir kullud frients who thrade mit dem an' keeps dem from starvin' when dese rich bocra thry ter dhrive dem frum des country deserbe de cuss ov Almighty Got! An' you damn po bocras dat allows yo'uselfs ter be make fools mit you'selfs fer broke down risterchrats ter dhrive kullud peeples frum dey homes deserfs efry one eff you' ter be kilt." George Howe's under jaw dropped. He stared at Schults in astonishment, for he did not expect to witness such a show of bravery on the part of this quiet German grocer. "I didn't mean to insult you, Schults," said he, reaching over and helping himself from a barrel of apples which stood close by. "I jes thought I'd warn you." "Now, dere's dat Gheorge Bohn," continued Schults, with apparent inattention to what George had said. "I see his nhame in der bapers as one uv der leaders in dis supremacy humbug. Who makes Bohn whadt he is on Dry Pon'? Who makes Gheorge Bohn whad he is in dis counthry? Dem very peeples who he is now thrin' ter kill. Dem broke down ristercrats, sich as Moss an' odders, cares no more fer sich as him den dey do fur de grass neat der feets. When dey gits demselfs in office dem Dutchmen kin go, po bocras kin go, dey cares noddings fur yo when dey wus rich. Now dey air po as Job's turkey, dey wants us Dutchmans an po bocras to dhrive oud our meat an' bread so dey kin demselfs git fat at de public crib. But I tells you dis: Schults will haft nodding to do mit dem. I stays in mine house, mine house is mine castle, and ef dey wants me let dem cum to mine house, by dams I fills dem full uv lead; yo kin put dat in yo pipe and shmoke id." George Howe arose, yawned, then slowly walked to the door, turned, dropped his under jaw and stared again at Schults, who had resumed his work about the store. "Didn't mean ter hurt yer feelings, Schults, but ter put yer on yer giard, that unless you jine em dey air goin' ter do yo." George stepped out upon the walk, drew forth his jewsharp and sauntered up the street, twanking upon it as he went.
The German to the Southern Negro has been and is what the Jew is to the Russian peasant--the storekeeper, the barterer. The German citizen has never been a manufacturer or a farmer; he is in no business that gives extensive employment to wage earners. But, as a corner grocer, he lays for the Negro as he goes to and from his toil, and, with cheap wares and bad whisky, he grows fat upon his unwary customer. The German usually comes to this country poor, enters small towns, and, by the aid of other older residents of his nation who have already grown prosperous, he goes into business on a small scale--grocery business as a rule. He begins in a one-story structure, one-half devoted to business, while in the other he lives. These little stores were never without their indispensable liquor departments, where the trader was invited to refresh himself after paying his weekly grocery bill.
Before the war the South's best people had no use for the German emigrant, and did everything in their power to discourage his living among them. If the slave returned home to his master under the influence of liquor, the master in many instances went and cowhided the seller. The flogging of the Negro did not keep him from returning to the German to trade, and the German prospered, and to-day is among the foremost property owners in the South. I do not exaggerate when I say that the German's wealth has come to him solely through Negro patronage; not even to-day does the people known as the best people trade with Germans.
The Bohns--Joseph, Charles, George and William--coming into Wilmington in the seventies, had lived principally and conducted business in that section of the old city known as Dry Pond, and, like the most of their kind, have accumulated their wealth from the patronage of the colored people, among whom they had ever lived. This makes the crime of George Bohn appear the more atrocious and cowardly. George joined the White Supremacy League during the uprising in Wilmington, and was one of its most active members. There was a certain colored citizen who knew of Bohn's secret relations to the movement which disgraced the city. This man gave the information to the people of his race who were patronizing Bohn, and entreated them not to support such an ingrate. When the excitement was at its height, when Red Shirts and Rough Riders were terrorizing the city, a band of poor whites, headed by George Bohn, sought this colored man's residence, battered down the door, fired several bullets into the bed where the man and his wife lay, the latter in a precarious condition. The house was riddled with shots; they were compelled to get out and leave their own home, to which they have not as yet been permitted to return. Bohn, after the deed was done, sneaked back to his home, and when the horrible crime was reported, tried to prove an alibi. But George Bohn is the guilty man, and George Bohn shall not escape! The hand of Justice shall point him out. His name shall go down to posterity on the list of cowards who, on the 10th of November, 1898, brought into disrepute the fair name of one of the best little cities on the American continent. _