John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

She has a sense of purpose that neither of his boys possess, Sally, able to chart a course and stay true to it. Harry leaps from one fascination to the next, while Niles — the less he thinks about Niles the better. Sally has her mother’s soft-spoken perseverance, plus an intellect that if not restrained within the limited purview of her sex would be formidable. She is no suffragist, though, feigning no interest in what she condescendingly refers to as “men’s business.” He was surprised that she asked to come with him, until the display of maidens was revealed, and she has asked no questions about the gathering that might not pertain to a country fair. The girls have their parasols up, as it has begun to sprinkle again, and look a picture. One of the White Government boys, transfixed by them as he walks alongside, steps into a lamppost and is heartily mocked by his companions.

Cannons boom across the fairgrounds as they enter, the Cornet Band greeting them with Dixie . The judges’ stand on the racetrack infield is serving for the speakers’ platform, and dozens of benches have been set up on the turf to accommodate those who cannot fit in the grandstand. Tom Mason, a fine academic speaker from up by the Virginia border, is already holding forth when they find seats, Bridgewater having brought a blanket to cover the damp pine. The crowd is only half paying attention, the fairgrounds no venue for fine points and historical flourishes, but all rise to applaud when he introduces the Senator from South Carolina.

The approbation continues for some time. Here is the stalwart of the backcountry farmer in his struggle with robber barons and tidewater Bourbons, the Free Silver man who offered to stick a pitchfork in Grover Cleveland, his own party’s candidate, if he continued to acquiesce to combinations and goldbugs, who lost an eye in the War and proudly claimed to have instigated the Hamburg Massacre. That he lost the eye to disease and saw no battle does not dampen the enthusiasm of the gathering, nor does the fact that his role in the historic first blow of Redemption is greatly exaggerated. He is the people’s man, though never an avowed Populist, blunt-spoken and unapologetic. The Judge’s Charleston acquaintances, of notably bluer blood, complain that Tillman’s accomplishments as governor have been limited to outlawing Greek letter fraternities and denying citizens the right to buy liquor by the glass, but that was ignoring the larger picture. The man has stemmed the tide of defeat.

“They call me Pitchfork Ben,” he opens and there is another cheer, punctuated by rebel yells throughout the gathering.

“Out on the farm we employ a pitchfork to handle manure. And I can tell that you want a long-handled one to deal with the recent political shenanigans in your state.”

The Wilmington contingent, mostly around them on the grandstand, are particularly amused by this.

“As a United States senator, I am asked to consider matters which at first might seem to have little to do with one another. But during my tenure there I have discovered that a great number of the things which affect us here in the South adversely — are all of a piece. Our former candidate, Mr. Cleveland—” booing here, though rather good-natured, “—has been revealed as not only a mono-metalist and a tool of Wall Street, but an accomplice to the international thieves who doom the poor farmer and the honest white working man to patches in his clothes and slim pickings on his table! He so damaged our economy he was forced to bring in Rothschild and his American agents—” more boos now, with an edge of anger, “—to maintain the gold standard. The richest and most powerful nation brought so low as to allow a London Jew receiver to its treasury!”

The Judge looks over to his daughter, the smile never leaving her face, as if she might be at a garden party back home.

“With such men in power, we here in the South are doomed to economic servitude. New York shall ever be the center of manufacture and usury, and we here in the heartland of America shall never be more than drawers of water and hewers of wood, toilers on another man’s plantation.”

The Judge understands that this is the root of Tillman’s popularity, that it brings the bulk of the populace to the fold, but class hatred is a dangerous brew to stir. Easy resentment, simplified solutions—

“Let me talk about numbers for a minute here. There are three negroes in our state to every two white men. Let that sink in for a minute. With a free vote and a fair count, how you gonna beat those numbers? The Federals come down and handcuffed us and threw away the key, propped up their carpetbagging negro government with bayonets—” he looks around at them, indignant, “—and ever since they left we’ve had the damn Republicans trying to put white necks under black heels!”

Applause now, murmurs of outrage and agreement.

“But we took the government away from them in ’76. We took it. We have had no organized Republican party in our state since 1884, and we have fewer negro voters than a hen’s got teeth!”

Handclapping, some stomping on the footboards of the grandstand.

“My people,” he says with humility, “were but simple farmers. They never owned negroes. And I wish to God the last one of them was in Africa and that none had ever been brought to our shores. But that is not the case. So when we began our great movement we scratched our heads to figure out how we could eliminate the last one of them from the election process in our state. How? We stuffed ballot boxes. We threatened them. We shot them. We are not ashamed of it.”

Many are standing to cheer now. The Judge looks around uneasily at his confraternity. It is one thing to gain power and change laws — another to openly break those that exist. It should be possible, he believes, to challenge unjust institutions without fostering contempt for the law itself. He is beginning to understand more fully his Charleston friends’ aversion to the Senator.

Tillman turns to address the Red Shirts, dismounted now and standing in rough formation at the base of the judges’ stand. “It stirs my heart to see the demonstration of patriotism, the show of backbone, that these men have offered us today. When the Redemption got going in South Carolina I recall seeing more than five thousand Red Shirts in one gathering, and when they mounted up and rode together through the precincts of our adversary, believe me, those people ran back into their holes like rabbits.”

Laughter again, and a cheer for the Red Shirts, who raise their right fists into the air as one.

“We did not disenfranchise our negroes till 1895,” Tillman continues, easing back a little. “Then we had a constitutional convention which took the matter up, calmly, deliberately, with the avowed purpose of disenfranchising as many of them as possible under the 14th and 15th Amendments.”

Serious booing of the Amendments in question ensue. The Judge has taken them apart in front of a law class, revealed their basic incompatibility with the Founders’ intentions. A federal law must be truly iniquitous, he thinks, for the common man to know of its existence.

“We adopted the educational qualification as the only means left to us,” Tillman explains. “Now, I hear you got a few overeducated niggers up here in North Carolina—” laughter, applause, “—but if they so smart, they’ll learn to stay clear of the polling places soon enough! Our negro is as contented and well protected as in any state of the Union south of the Potomac. He is not meddling with politics, for he has found the more he meddles in them the worse off he gets. And as to his ‘right’—” Tillman pauses masterfully, seeming to look into the eyes of each man present, letting the last charged word hang in the air, “—we of the South have never recognized the right of the negro to govern white men and we never will !” He pounds the podium with a fist as he shouts. “And we will not submit to his gratifying his lust on our wives and daughters without lynching him!”