John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“They see you on the porch of this house,” says Yolanda, “owning it, not doing the yard work, and it makes their blood boil. You know that.”

During his visits to Brooklyn the previous morning the people were tight-lipped and grim, near whispering when they spoke of the election. The positions at risk on the state level are not so vital in themselves, and this is not South Carolina, or Mississippi, God forbid — but every new day there has been another warning. In the evening yesterday he and a handful of the others prominent in the colored community were escorted with an undertone of menace out onto the water, that huge gun bolted on the foredeck, the white men smirking as they neared Eagle Island and the deadly machine demonstrated. A simple cranking motion, like operating a meat grinder, then the hammering of bullets, all of them covering their ears as they watched thick wood reduced to flying chips on shore in an angry hailstorm of destruction. All this followed by a quiet but pointed lecture on civics and security. His companions were duly impressed.

There is a crackle of gunfire, not too distant, and Yolanda puts her hand on his arm.

“They say they’ll be watching the polls tomorrow. Carrying weapons.”

“We’ve petitioned the governor,” says Dr. Lunceford. “He doesn’t want to know about it.”

More gunfire, and a distant, drunken cheer. “Do you suppose Jessie is safe?”

“They’re mostly down by the river.”

“But tomorrow—”

“She’ll have her husband with her.”

He knows this comforts his wife no more than it does him. They ran into the procession on the way back from Magnolia, a lot of white trash from Dry Pond strutting about, displaying their banners and their ignorance. But they are only the hounds, set loose to yowl and slather. The ones behind the hunt are the cigar-puffers in the Cape Fear Club, the planters and pressers of cotton, the lawyers and land-speculators and ambitious sons of the men who lost their city to the Union and now want it back. The ones who are listening to that old Confederate wind-bag in the gilded embrace of Thalian Hall, not those scorching pig and swilling whiskey behind the post office.

“Will you go out tomorrow?”

Yolanda asks in as neutral a tone as she can produce, neither a challenge nor an admonition.

“I am an Assemblyman, elected by the people,” says Dr. Lunceford. “I am responsible for more than my own personal safety. I am going to vote.”

It is very quiet in the parlor. This is the time of day Jessie would play. Not practice, just play a whole piece, Brahms perhaps, something slow and sweet while they all waited for Alma to call dinner.

“They say they’re out to hang the Manly boys,” says Yolanda. It is her attempt to caution him, to remind him of the atmosphere on the streets.

“They’re safe out of town,” says Dr. Lunceford. “Rode out this afternoon.”

Yolanda looks to him. “You had something to do with it?”

“Several people came together,” he says. “White and black. They’re long gone now.”

“There’s one thing we can be thankful for.”

Someone is walking up their street, singing loudly. As he moves closer the words become distinct—

The Paddy has his attributes

His love of drink and song

He’ll serenade the stars the whole night long

The Dutchman is a stolid chap

Beneath his heavy brow

But I don’t like a nigger — nohow!

Yolanda puts her other hand on her husband’s arm and leans into him.

“If I could go,” she says, “if I was allowed to vote, I would not allow anyone, any one, to steal the ballot from my hand.”

The Judge moves through the men standing at the back as the old Colonel begins his aria.

“We have seen our institutions destroyed,” says Waddell, standing wraithlike on the Thalian stage, “our ideals trampled upon, our women dis-honored.”

Most of them are up there behind him, basking in the reflected glory of the moment, MacRae and Parsley and Rountree and the Taylor brothers. The hall is packed with men and not a few women, emotion running high.

“But the time for smooth words has gone by, the extremest limit of forbearance has been reached,” Colonel Waddell’s voice trembles with righteousness as he exclaims, pounding the podium before him for emphasis, “and the blood of warriors rises in our veins!”

The Judge reaches Turpin, smiling as he leans against the center-aisle doorway, gazing out over the cheering throng.

“You know what’s going on outside?” calls the Judge over the shouts of the audience.

“Some of our brother Redeemers having themselves a barbecue,” says Turpin, not taking his eyes off the stage.

“We are Anglo-Saxons,” Waddell sings out, spreading his arms to include every person in the gathering, raising his eyes to the balcony—

“They’re a bunch of hooligans staggering around in the streets. I almost ran over two of them coming here, weaving straight up the middle of Princess passing a bottle between them.” The Judge is listed on the Businessmen’s Committee that has sponsored the evening’s oration, and he is a part of what is brewing, for better or worse.

“We are the sons and daughters of those who won the first victory of the revolution at Moore’s Creek Bridge, who stained with bleeding feet the snows of Valley Forge,” cries the old man on the stage, “and only left the service of our country when its independent sovereignty was secured.”

“It’s like the old coot been born again,” Turpin chuckles. “Just what you worried about, Judge?”

“If this whole deal is going to work we must operate within the law, we must be beyond reproach. We can’t have the rough element taking over and blackening the name of our city.”

“Our city got a pretty black name in the world as it is,” says Turpin. “That’s the whole problem right there.”

“We are the brothers of the men who wrote with their swords from Bull Run to Bentonville the most heroic chapter in American annals, and we ourselves are men who intend to preserve, at the cost of our lives if necessary, the heritage that is ours!”

Ben Tillman might hold an audience with his plainspoken grit, concedes the Judge, surveying the eager faces in the Hall, but this old Confederate has the gift, the voice—

“We maintained that heritage against overwhelming armies of men of our own race — shall we surrender it to a ragged rabble of negroes led by a handful of white cowards who at the first sound of conflict will seek to hide themselves from the righteous vengeance which they will not escape? No!” he thunders, the audience joining his shout. “A thousand times no! You are armed and prepared,” he says, and looks among the aisles with piercing gaze, “and you will do your duty. Go to the polls tomorrow,” Colonel Waddell commands, “and if you find the negro out voting, tell him to leave. If he refuses, kill him.”

A massive cheer erupts in the Hall, men and women standing, shaking their fists and applauding, many with tears in their eyes.

“Negro domination shall henceforth be only a shameful memory to us and an everlasting warning to those who shall seek to revive it!”

The Judge takes a step down the aisle toward the Colonel. The old man looks forty again, reanimated, a spirit back from the grave. And yes, sometimes the only course is to let the dogs loose and have at it. Order can be restored later. They are only dogs, after all, and tire even of blood.

Turpin claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Judge,” he winks. “Every move been planned out. Gonna be like clockwork.”

“We shall prevail in this election,” cries the old rebel, “even if we have to choke the Cape Fear River with carcasses!”