What may be expected in our new islands.Former slave laws.Little religion or educaion and many superstitions.of the 18,000 dwellers of Santa Cruz only 200 are legal voters.
Written for The Evening Star by Louis McHenry Howe.
The obliging planter who shows the visitor through the town of Christiansted, in Santa Cruz, the largest of the Danish Islands, will willingly call attention to the ruins of many buildings, and inform him with great volubility how many people were killed in each one, with many other details of the damage done by the cyclone of 1808. But every now and then one will come across a ruin quite different from the others, whose blackened stones tell plainly that fire and not the hurricane was the cause of its destruction. If asked the cause of this destruction, the guide at once becomes evasive and non-committal. Without actually saying so, he will try to give the impression that it was the work of the storm; if, however, like the writer, one had seen these same dismantled warehouses thirteen years before, the guide, under persistent questioning, will murmur something about an insurrection many years ago and at once change the subject.his whole bearing that of a man, forced on the witness stand, to reveal the family skeleton.
And, indeed, these sharp points of smokestained walls that persist in towering above the wealth of glossy green which kindly nature has striven to throw over them are, after all, the unsightly ribs of disgrace your planter-friend would fain forget.
To the cheerful sound of lusty hammers and clinking trowels the storm-razed buildings are being restored to their former state again. But on these fire-crumbled stones a curse seems to have fallen. Like the mummy at the banquet, perpetually they bear witness to the terrible possibilities of evil that lurk in the dull brains of these same negro laborers who, care free, constantly pass by with coarse jest and idle laughter.
As the same negroes who wrought this ruin, with their descendants, form today nine-tenths of the population of our new Danish possessions, some account of this riot and its causes may be of value to us in studying what is, after all, the real problem concerning these islands, namely: What political rights are to be granted to their Inhabitants?
Little of Real Facts.
Accurate information on the subject is very difficult to obtain. The books published about the West Indies barely mention the insurrection, or ignore it entirely. The semi-official West Indian Almanac, published at St. Thomas, skips deftly over It with a brief sentence. The annexationists are afraid to mention it, lest it injure their cause, and it was only after much trouble that the writer found one who had lived through that exciting time and was willing to talk about It.
Amid the wreck of what once had been a fine dwelling, seated on crumbling steps that led up to nothing more substantial than the blue, tropic sky, his voice quivered with emotion as he talked.
The foundation of the trouble was really laid by a fatal error of the government, in 1848, a mistake which has never been forgotten by the negro, and may yet be bitterly regretted by our government. At that time it was announced that slavery would soon be abolished. As was the case in all the other islands, this news proved too much for the negro's mental equilibrium. As the appointed date drew near he refused to work and, taking first to drinking, quite naturally wound up the celebration by a bit of rioting. Had the disturbance been put down with a strong hand, no permanent harm would have been done. But, instead, against the protest of the cooler heads, the government, in a panic of unreasoning fear, proclaimed the liberation of the slaves at once, ahead of time.
The rioting Immediately ceased, but the negroes had tasted the sweets of power. Though they had been but yesterday a mass of whip-driven slaves, now they could rule their former masters with the awful scourge of the mob. Although, they waited thirty long years, they had not forgotten. Slavery had been suceeeded by the "labor law," under which every negro laborer was compelled to sign a contract with some planter on the 1st of each October, binding himself to work through the ensuing year for ten cents in cash and ten cents in food a day. Any found after the 2d of October who had not signed such a contract were punished.
Better Than Formerly.
Even this unsatisfactory arrangement was so much better than previous conditions that at first there were no complaints. Each October, however, dissatisfaction grew stronger until, in 1877. the mutterlngs of a gathering storm were heard, and the government announced a repeal of the law, to take effect three years from date.
Again they had triumphed. The leaders of the uprising of 1848 recalled the easy victory of the past. Three years was a long time to wait, but still they hesitated. As the 1st of October, 1878, drew near, however, it was noticed that a new spirit of insolence had appeared among the laborers. As they assembled in the towns where the contracts were to be renewed there was much disorder. On the morning of the first the planters were surprised to find a well-organized opposition to the renewal of the contracts. Arguments, threats, promises, all proved unavailing. Every hour fresh bands of negroes, armed with keen machetes, marched Into town, chanting fragments of wild African melodies. Toward dusk the merchants, fearing trouble, put up their heavy shutters, and the townsfolk retired to their homes. A swift sloop - there was no cable then - set sail for St. Thomas, bearing urgent appeals for help from the tiny Danish garrison there.
Refreshment Necessary.
At first the mob was contented with marching up and down the deserted streets, howling the rallying cry: "No more 10 cents a day." Shouting was a thirst-producing exercise; a rum-shop door might, perhaps, be broken in. Yes, It was quite easy, there was refreshment for all at no expense. The flambeaus of resinous wood began to wave unsteadily in the hands of their bearers. How easy it would be merely to lay one of the torches against the huge wooden doors of the sugar warehouse! Yes, dry with age, it caught fire quickly. Like children terrified at their own wickedness, they paused a moment: the red fire leaped through the building; in a twinkling the soft blue-black of the midnight tropic sky was hidden by a lurid veil of crimson smoke, shot through and through with dazzling streaks; with the strong rum seething in their veins, they danced the wild jungle dances of their forefathers to its light. With brains awhirl. they staggered from one building to another. The red glare crept in through the closed blinds behind which the frightened townsfolk crouched, shuddering with terror. Woe to those traders whose dealings had been harsh or unfair! Only at the imminent peril of their lives might they steal from their burning homes to safety. Brighter grew the glare, back on the hillsides an answering glare appeared. Long tongues of flame crept up the hills from the burning fields of cane. The sites of the planters' homes were marked by brighter, higher flames. Wilder and madder grew the chantirg. merely hoarse howls of savage joy now, all semblance of articulate words lost.
A Horrible Scene.
The black forms dancing around the burning buildings stood silhouetted like fiends around the mouth of hell. The whole island was wrapped in flames. Still, strange as it seems, no lives were lost. The morning came unseen save for the lighting up of the dense blue smoke that filled the streets. A planter rode bravely into town, forgetting that these former slaves had tasted freedom and power. Maddened at the ruin of his estate, he rode straight into the mob, lashing right and left with his heavy riding whip. For an instant the crowd fell back, the old instinct still strong. For an instant it seemed that daring would succeed. Then a huge negro, his face bleeding from a cut of the lash, and working with brute passion, leaped forward and siezed a stirrup. In an instant it was all over. A swirl of half-naked black forms, the piercing neigh of a dying horse, the awful cry, half scream, half curse, of a human being in the throes of a fearful death, and it was done. Seized by a strange panic, the mob turned and fled. A bundle of red-stained, muddied clothes lay in a sickening heap, very quiet on the cobble stones.
Of the deeds done that dreadful day there remains no record. Gaunt chimneys, towering like seared, ungainly monuments above the smoldering ashes of the factories around them, mile after mile of black, unsightly fields veiled in a sickening deep blue smoke - these alone could tell the_tale. Strangely enough, that red stain, slowly thickening on the cobble stones, marked the only human victim of the mob. Satiated with their wild orgy, there was a lull, and then - the prayed-for troops arrived. Only 200 of them; what could they do against 6,000 savages? Yesterday they had been torn to pieces in an instant, but now reaction had set in. Frightened at their own daring, the negroes lied before the soldiers. Swiftly, relentlessly, the rioters were hunted down. There is no record of the number that satisfied the thirst for vengeance with their lives, but tales are of black forms lying huddled on burned, cane heaps that were burled with scant ceremony, and presently, under the sanction of the Inw, 600 figures writhed helplessly in the air, suspended from rude gibbets, outlined against the splendor of the sunset sky.
A Lurid Tale.
Such was the story told me by the old man sitting on the flre-scarred stairway that led upward, most absurdly, to nothing but the blue sky.
Yet, even in its hour of triumph, the government repeated its mistake. The labor law was declared abolished again ahead of time. Can one wonder that the negro still feels that the triumph was his. after all?
"There Is no danger of riots now," the annexationists will tell you. "for this happened twenty years ago." Yet one remembers that there were thirty years between 1848 and 1878 and the conditions and surroundings of plantation life are practically the same.
The negro child from six to thirteen years of age is compelled, theoretically, to attend the public school; practically, he escapes much of it, as every year the family moves into a new district in search of work, and it must all be begun over again. Luring this time he has learned, what? To stumble through the first reader, the most elementary geography, arithmetic only as far as fractions, and a few words of banish. learned by rote and almost Instantly forgotten. After that he must take up his machete and begin the dreary hunt for work. There is practically no place open to him save the cane fields and, in these dark days with the slender profits of the sugar crop dropping, fraction by fraction, it is none too easy a matter to find work even there. Hundreds have left in me past few years, and other islands have sent notices, conspicuously posted on the custom house doors, stating that further emigration is useless, as they are no better oif themselves. In this competition for work wages have naturally dropped, and twenty cents a day is not an uncommon rate anywhere.
The Planter's Complaint.
The planters complain bitterly that the negro will work only when he pleases. About five days a week is his average. A little thought will show that this is not surprising. As a slave he worked only when he had to; as a freedman he works only long enough to satisfy his cheaply supplied wants. It is not a pleasant task, this laboring In the cane fields. White men have tried it. and died miserably, quickly in the effort. In planting time the fierce sun beats remorselessly on his bended back. Ice coId showers sweep down, without warning, from the mountains and drench him through and through. At hardest he must take his place in the long line and swing the heavy machete hour after hour, cutting the thick stalks. With the precision of an army, the long line of black figures, naked to the waist, sweep over the vast fields, the overseers, like officers, following with watchful eyes to detect a straggler or shirker. From a distance they look Iike a procession of huge black ants gnawing their way through a field og tender grass.
Soon a deep, mellow voice begins to hum a familiar air; quickly it is taken up by the others until, swelling into a weird chant, it sweeps down the line, the flashing steel rising and falling in unison with its strange barbaric rhythm. The dry dust rises beneath their tread and settles in their, postrils; no breeze penetrates the dense cane growth, it is hot with the stifling heat that sometimes swells the death roll in our northern cities. With the perspiration streaming from everv black pore, they move, on, on, all through the weary day. Perhaps five days a week of this would satisfy the best of us.
When our negro, fresh from' the schools, find labor such as this, he straightway settles down and takes unto himself a wife with or without the formality of a wedding, as may seem most convenient. A wretched hut of palms and cane is built - well named a "trash" house, and his life work has begun. Small wonder if the rum shop, where the strong native liquor that rings such delightful forgetfulness at 2 cents per glass may be obtained, attracts him in his leisure hours. Still smaller wonder that the little knowledge he has gained feeles utterly from his brain.
As for his religion, well, the church is very far, but the "obeah" man verv near, indeed. The Pariah Priest, the Lutheran minister, they are by all means to be respected and even, on occasion, heeded, but they live in their neat houses near the churches. Well, the "obeah" man. with his white hair and awful charms, he lives but two huts away, and is to be very greatly feared, indeed. A close friend of that terrible devil you hear so much about in the churches, he can make your hair fall out and your flesh rot with a few muttered words. He can even, if occasion required and you have sufficient money, give you certain curious herbs which, properly mixed with a rival's food, will end all trouble from that quarter.
The "Obeah" Man.
So his life runs, work, drink and constant dread of the "obeah" man, while curious tourists from passing steamers write down notes, placing him a little lower than the beasts.
Whose fault is this?
What we may do for this negro of Santa Cruz let those skilled in such matters answer. This is a simple statement of facts pointing a plain moral. As he was thirty years ago, so is this negro today. Do not think his long peacefulness means no danger in the future. A few weeks ago. when the false news was receiveel that the sale of the islands had been abandoned, a Danish warship was dispatched post haste to the island, as another insurrection was feared. The existing law, requiring a property qualification, bars the negro from the ballot. There are but 200 legal voters among the 18.000 inhabitants of Santa Cruz. This law, for the present at least, must be left alone! and, what is more important for future peace and progress, no promises of changes should be made.
Let a few northern agitators go among them prating of equal rights and universal suffrage and the tale of the old man sitting on the ruined stairway will repeat itself once more.
(Evening star (Washington, D.C.), 15. marts 1902)
Louis McHenry Howe (1871-1936) var journalist for New York Herald og politisk rådgiver 1909-1936 for den kommende præsident Franklin D. Roosevelt. Han kom fra en velstående familie, og arbejdede ved en avis hans far havde købt. Han rejste bl. a. til Cuba i 1898 for at dække den spansk-amerikanske krig for New York Herald, men nåede for sent frem. I de sidste år af sit liv var han syg af hjerte- og lungeproblemer. Han fik en statsbegravelse.
Ingen kommentarer:
Send en kommentar