John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“That would be a war.”

“This is ours ,” says Pharaoh, indicating the empty dance floor, but Jubal knows he means the whole of Brooklyn. “They want to block off the Fourth Street Bridge like they done today, keep us from crossin in, fine. But stay the fuck out of where we live , man. That aint nothin to ask. You may own the world,” says Pharaoh, pointing his finger toward the door, “but you don’t come in my house .”

Gus and Simon applaud, and there is no mockery on their faces.

“Can’t have a proper Election Day,” says Gus, “without a speech.”

The numbers make no sense. Even the big number — two years ago the Republicans outpolled the Democrats by five thousand, and now he’s supposed to set into the morning edition that the Democrats took this one by six thousand. Of course there should be a sizeable swing, everything they’ve printed in the last year has been pushing folks that way, to come back to responsible, white government, but if the colored were discouraged from the ballot how can they be showing up in the Democrat boxes? Milsap climbs down from his stool and goes looking for Mr. Clawson. The editor had just handed him the slip of paper with the election returns though the polls aren’t due to close for another hour. The big number is confusing enough, but these ward returns—

Mr. Clawson is in his office entertaining Mr. MacRae and the younger Taylor brother, pouring out liquor into the glasses he keeps in his bottom drawer. He raises his eyebrows at the interruption.

“Do we have a problem, Drew?”

“It’s these figures, Mr. Clawson,” says Milsap, holding up the slip of paper. “I think maybe somebody pulling your leg.”

Clawson smiles and winks to his guests. “And what makes you think that?”

“Every one of these precinct tallies is just way over — look here, the Third Ward, there’s not more than six hundred forty or fifty men registered to vote, but here just for the Democrats we got over eight hundred and—”

“I trust my source.”

“Yes, but—”

“Lots of new people been moving into the city,” says Mr. MacRae. “And this business with the colored editor got people motivated to come out and vote.”

“But I know the registration numbers,” says Milsap, frustrated. “It just doesn’t add up.”

“Got all those figures in your head?” asks Allen Taylor.

“Yes, sir, I make sure and bone up before Election Day, keep an eye on our reporters. We are the paper of record here in Wilmington.”

“Well I am impressed. City government could use a man with a head for figures and that kind of diligence.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Milsap, and now he realizes what this is, that the numbers are — what — sym bol ic of the will of the people, not actual counts. He feels like an idiot. “But I’m a newspaper man.”

“And an outstanding one,” adds Mr. Clawson. “Drew serves as my watchdog here — misspelling, grammatical infractions both grievous and minor, errors of punctuation. But facts ,” and here the editor’s eyes lose their twinkle and his voice takes on an edge, “facts he leaves to the men in the field. Isn’t that right, Drew?”

“Yes sir.”

“The numbers may be a tad ex treme , but these are extreme circumstances we are faced with, aren’t they Drew?”

“Yes sir.”

He indicates the paper in Milsap’s hand. “My source for these figures is unimpeachable.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I’m confident that you do. So you go ahead and set that front page. And this here—” he holds up another slip of paper, “goes in a box, bottom center. Bold.”

Milsap steps in to take the paper from him. “I get right on it.”

Milsap is not so far down the hallway to avoid hearing Mr. Clawson’s summation of the incident to his guests. “That is the most infuriatingly lit eral sumbitch,” says his employer, “that ever trod the earth.”

The other men laugh and Milsap feels his ears grow hot. He glances at the paper. It is an announcement not written in the editor’s hand, perhaps the work of one of his visitors. At the top, in thick capitals, it says

ATTENTION WHITE MEN!

The Judge understands why they’ve chosen to do it in the courtroom, but it makes him uneasy. There was no legality in the summons, an admonition on the front page of the Messenger for “every good white citizen” to meet here this evening, and though every man in the throng is white, he knows for a fact that several are not good. Merchants, lawyers, doctors, ministers, men of property — a large proportion of those who make the city function. No trial he ever judged here at a decent hour attracted as many spectators, the jury box filled, and the gallery, and men standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisles and on the floor watching MacRae and Sol Fishblate and the few others who, thankfully, have chosen to stand in front of the bench rather than rule behind it.

MacRae is holding some sort of document and Fishblate, who’s been mayor and clearly wants to be again, shouts for order.

“We’re going to make history here today,” he says, and calls up Colonel Waddell to read a statement.

There are cheers as the old man steps out of the crowd, looking pleased but puzzled. MacRae hands him the few typewritten pages and whispers something in his ear.

“I am as uninformed as the rest of you as to the purpose of this meeting, or the content of this document,” he says, holding the pages at arm’s length and cocking his head as if trying to make sense of a foreign script, “but I shall endeavor to do it justice.”

The Judge looks around the room. A handful of the men, all up by the bench, are clearly the impresarios here, standing with folded arms, confidently studying the faces of their public, while others seem either eager to be led or, like the Judge himself, annoyed to have been excluded from the decision-making.

“ The White Declaration of Independence ,” the Colonel intones, and there is wild cheering.

The election is not in question, the advantage gained will tip the scales and the city charter can be amended to negate the sway of pure numbers in local government. What they hope to gain with this display—

“ Believing ,” the Colonel sings out, “ that the Constitution of the United States contemplated a government to be carried on by an enlightened people; Believing that its framers did not anticipate the enfranchisement of an ignorant population of African origin, and believing that those men of the State of North Carolina, who joining in forming the Union, did not contemplate for their descendants’ subjection to an inferior race— ”

This is all true, no doubt, but legally insignificant given the Fifteenth Amendment, ratified in their own state legislature. The Judge recognizes the argument, has written statements not dissimilar, but that was when he was young and they were justifying the Secession. If this is indeed a declaration of independence they had better be damned clear about who they plan to be independent of—

“ We the undersigned citizens of the City of Wilmington and County of New Hanover ,” the Colonel continues, one hand holding the proclamation and the other held over his heart now like some touring Shakespearian, “ do hereby declare that we will no longer be ruled, and will never again be ruled, by men of African origin. ”

Cheers and stomping. The Judge is stirred, what white man would not be, but the arbitrator in him hovers above the clamor, awaiting the specifics—

“ While we recognize the authority of the United States, and will yield to it if exerted— ”