John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“But we outnumber them in your district.”

White smiled then. “The Black Second is that in name only. Our vote was our only weapon, our only tool. It has been taken from our hands.”

A trio of men, beefy and laughing, step out from the study. Mr. Cortelyou appears at his side, pushing his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose and speaking softly in his courteous manner.

“He’ll see you now.”

He is led, surprisingly, not to the study but to the office beside it.

“Mr. Lincoln used this room as his office,” says Cortelyou, opening the door. “The Cabinet have their meetings here now.”

The room is empty. The secretary indicates a chair at the end of a long table of polished dark wood. “If you’ll have a seat, he’ll be right in.”

To his right there is a huge globe mounted on a heavy metal floor stand, a glass-fronted case, a cherrywood rolltop desk. The walls hold a dozen smallish portraits in oil, many of them presidents. There is a brass chandelier overhead that has been converted to hold electric lights. The long table is divided by a dozen leather-bound books propped in a row in the middle. A large bouquet of fresh flowers sits just in front of his seat. He looks at the other chairs, imagining them occupied by the Secretaries of Navy and War, by Hay, Alger, Long, Griggs, and the feeling again percolates through him that he should not be here, followed by the smallest twinge of hope, of exhilaration that the quest for justice has penetrated so close to its duly elected guardians.

He nearly jumps to his feet as the President enters from the door to his study.

McKinley is shorter than he had imagined, though he is a fleshy, sturdy-looking man, clean-shaven, with the large head and noble profile of the newspaper illustrations. He holds out his hand.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

They shake hands. “Thank you for seeing me.”

The President sits in a wooden swivel armchair at the far end of the long table, surrounded by inkstand and pens, a wooden stationery holder, wearing a vague smile on his face.

“And how may I help you, Mr. Manly?”

He has rehearsed this over and over, Carrie serving as coach and audience, searching for the proper balance between his respect for the personage and his outrage over the offense.

“I imagine you have been informed of the events in Wilmington over the past election—”

The vague smile does not change. The President’s eyes, expressionless, seem empty of thought, of emotion—

“—voters intimidated, killings and expulsions, my own press burned—”

“You are a newspaper man.”

If he has in fact heard of the riot, the President is an excellent actor.

“I was, until my property was destroyed and my life threatened.”

“This sounds like an obvious legal complaint.”

“A futile one, I’m afraid, Mr. President, in the courts of North Carolina.”

“North Carolina.”

The President says the words as if they are the key to a room he does not wish to enter.

“I believe the outrages fall under the purview of the federal government. Constitutional rights have been violated, property illegally seized—”

“This was on Election Day?”

“On the following day. An armed mob, led by members of the political faction that has since gained power, fired indiscriminately into several neighborhoods, killing an untold number of citizens. Men were rounded up and forced to leave their homes and families without legal proceedings or even complaints, women and children forced to cower in the woods overnight during a rainstorm—”

A small frown creases the President’s forehead. The interview has veered into territory he has not been prepared for. “You saw these things with your own eyes?”

“Not personally, no—”

“Ah—”

“I was forced to flee just before the—”

“I see—” Losing him, fleshy hands on the arms of his swivel chair now, ready to rise, to bequeath him to the appropriate supernumerary—

“I only escaped because my skin is so light.”

Confusion on the President’s face.

“But I have the testimony of dozens of eye-witnesses, many who have suffered more than I. This was mob rule, highly organized and specifically targeted at bringing the Democrats, despite their numerical disadvantage on the voter rolls, back into power in Wilmington. As my people have been among your greatest supporters in the past, they naturally hope that you, as a last resort, could offer some sort of just response to this—”

“You’re a negro?”

He asked no subterfuge of Congressman White in setting up the audience, and assumed none had been necessary.

“Of course.”

The President flushes a deep pink, like a gulf shrimp suddenly boiled. His fingers tighten on the arms of the swivel chair.

“You’ll have to leave.”

He is angry, and what is worse, what is more disappointing, he is afraid. This white man at the far end of the long, polished table, is visibly shaking.

“I am an American citizen,” says Alex Manly, “a registered Republican, and, until recently, the editor of a—”

“You must leave this room!”

The voice much louder now, though not firm. On the other side of the door, leaning against the wall reading newspapers, were a pair of men who Manly had taken for Pinkertons, involved somehow with the President’s security. He stands slowly, hands spread slightly in a placating gesture.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

The President does not answer.

Mr. Cortelyou frowns at him as he steps out, and one of the security men flicks his eyes over the newspaper, suspicious. The floor beams seem to shift under his feet, he feels unsteady. The petitioners, nearly in unison, move up a seat. He passes an older colored man mopping the stairway on the way down.

“We will now enter the Public Audience Room, often referred to as the Banquet Room or East Room,” says the young man leading a dozen visitors along the Cross Hall past the foot of the stairs. “Mourners gathered here to view President Lincoln’s body after his assassination, and it has provided the setting for many a gala affair. This room, more than any other in the residence, belongs to you.”

Manly exits through the North Portico, perspiring now under his suit as he hurries past soldiers rigid on either side of the doorway, their eyes fixed on an invisible locus. He does not look back.

NOTICE

TO RESIDENTS OF ILLINOIS ONLY

If you live in any other State

you do not have to send the “Sample Letter.”

It seems Illinois is worried about minors buying firearms through the mail. But if you write the catalogue people a letter saying you are twenty-one or older, they will send whatever you order. It makes the Assassin wonder. Is there some way they can check to be sure? Do they bother? His name is on lists, he has had to change it more than once.

But outside of this one state, they make it so easy—

REVOLVERS

The following quotations do not include cartridges.

42033

Eclipse vest pocket single-shot pistol, Nickel-plated, wood stock, 2½ inch Barrel; weight 5 ounces; for BB and conical caps and.22 caliber short cartridge, safe and reliable, barrel swings to the right to load.

Each… $0.50

By mail, extra… .05

So easy to conceal, but only that one shot. You have to be close, close enough to put it to the temple. To look the man in the eye.

BIG BARGAINS,

AMERICAN BULL DOG REVOLVERS

This line of revolvers are strictly first-class in every respect. The quality of workmanship and material is best; all have rifled barrels and are good shooters. All 5 shot. These are not toys but good big guns. We can sell them at these prices because we buy them 5,000 at a time.