The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois

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"Don't throw the dirt too high there," she begged; "it'll bring my seat
too near the earth."

He looked up.

"Why, it's a throne," he laughed.

"It needs a roof," he whimsically told her when his day's work was done.
Deftly twisting and intertwining the branches of tree and bush, he wove
a canopy of living green that shadowed the curious nest and warded it
snugly from wind and water.

Early next morning Bles slipped down and improved the nest; adding
foot-rests to make the climbing easy, peep-holes east and west, a bit
of carpet over the bark, and on the rough main trunk, a little picture
in blue and gold of Bougereau's Madonna. Zora sat hidden and alone in
silent ecstasy. Bles peeped in--there was not room to enter: the girl
was staring silently at the Madonna. She seemed to feel rather than hear
his presence, and she inquired softly:

"Who's it, Bles?"

"The mother of God," he answered reverently.

"And why does she hold a lily?"

"It stands for purity--she was a good woman."

"With a baby," Zora added slowly.

"Yes--" said Bles, and then more quickly--"It is the Christ Child--God's
baby."

"God is the father of all the little babies, ain't He, Bles?"

"Why, yes--yes, of course; only this little baby didn't have any other
father."

"Yes, I know one like that," she said,--and then she added softly: "Poor
little Christ-baby."

Bles hesitated, and before he found words Zora was saying:

"How white she is; she's as white as the lily, Bles; but--I'm sorry
she's white--Bles, what's purity--just whiteness?"

Bles glanced at her awkwardly but she was still staring wide-eyed at the
picture, and her voice was earnest. She was now so old and again so much
a child, an eager questioning child, that there seemed about her
innocence something holy.

"It means," he stammered, groping for meanings--"it means being
good--just as good as a woman knows how."

She wheeled quickly toward him and asked him eagerly:

"Not better--not better than she knows, but just as good, in--lying and
stealing and--and everything?"

Bles smiled.

"No--not better than she knows, but just as good."

She trembled happily.

"I'm--pure," she said, with a strange little breaking voice and
gesture. A sob struggled in his throat.

"Of course you are," he whispered tenderly, hiding her little hands in
his.

"I--I was so afraid--sometimes--that I wasn't," she whispered, lifting
up to him her eyes streaming with tears. Silently he kissed her lips.

From that day on they walked together in a new world. No revealing word
was spoken; no vows were given, none asked for; but a new bond held
them. She grew older, quieter, taller, he humbler, more tender and
reverent, as they toiled together.

So the days passed. The sun burned in the heavens; but the silvered
glory of the moon grew fainter and fainter and each night it rose later
than the night before. Then one day Zora whispered:

"Tonight!"

Bles came to the cabin, and he and Zora and Elspeth sat silently around
the fire-place with its meagre embers. The night was balmy and still;
only occasionally a wandering breeze searching the hidden places of the
swamp, or the call and song of night birds, jarred the stillness. Long
they sat, until the silence crept into Bles's flesh, and stretching out
his hand, he touched Zora's, clasping it.

After a time the old woman rose and hobbled to a big black chest. Out of
it she brought an old bag of cotton seed--not the white-green seed which
Bles had always known, but small, smooth black seeds, which she handled
carefully, dipping her hands deep down and letting them drop through her
gnarled fingers. And so again they sat and waited and waited, saying no
word.

Not until the stars of midnight had swung to the zenith did they start
down through the swamp. Bles sought to guide the old woman, but he found
she knew the way better than he did. Her shadowy figure darting in and
out among the trunks till they crossed the tree bridge, moved ever
noiselessly ahead.

She motioned the boy and girl away to the thicket at the edge, and
stood still and black in the midst of the cleared island. Bles slipped
his arm protectingly around Zora, glancing fearfully about in the
darkness. Slowly a great cry rose and swept the island. It struck madly
and sharply, and then died away to uneasy murmuring. From afar there
seemed to come the echo or the answer to the call. The form of Elspeth
blurred the night dimly far off, almost disappearing, and then growing
blacker and larger. They heard the whispering "_swish-swish_" of falling
seed; they felt the heavy tread of a great coming body. The form of the
old woman suddenly loomed black above them, hovering a moment formless
and vast then fading again away, and the "_swish-swish_" of the falling
seed alone rose in the silence of the night.

At last all was still. A long silence. Then again the air seemed
suddenly filled with that great and awful cry; its echoing answer
screamed afar and they heard the raucous voice of Elspeth beating in
their ears:

_"De seed done sowed! De seed done sowed!"_

_Ten_

MR. TAYLOR CALLS

"Thinking the matter over," said Harry Cresswell to his father, "I'm
inclined to advise drawing this Taylor out a little further."

The Colonel puffed his cigar and one eye twinkled, the lid of the other
being at the moment suggestively lowered.

"Was she pretty?" he asked; but his son ignored the remark, and the
father continued:

"I had a telegram from Taylor this morning, after you left. He'll be
passing through Montgomery the first of next month, and proposes
calling."

"I'll wire him to come," said Harry, promptly.

At this juncture the door opened and a young lady entered. Helen
Cresswell was twenty, small and pretty, with a slightly languid air.
Outside herself there was little in which she took very great interest,
and her interest in herself was not absorbing. Yet she had a curiously
sweet way. Her servants liked her and the tenants could count on her
spasmodic attentions in time of sickness and trouble.

"Good-morning," she said, with a soft drawl. She sauntered over to her
father, kissed him, and hung over the back of his chair.

"Did you get that novel for me, Harry?"--expectantly regarding her
brother.

"I forgot it, Sis. But I'll be going to town again soon."

The young lady showed that she was annoyed.

"By the bye, Sis, there's a young lady over at the Negro school whom I
think you'd like."

"Black or white?"

"A young lady, I said. Don't be sarcastic."

"I heard you. I did not know whether you were using our language or
others'."

"She's really unusual, and seems to understand things. She's planning to
call some day--shall you be at home?"

"Certainly not, Harry; you're crazy." And she strolled out to the porch,
exchanged some remarks with a passing servant, and then nestled
comfortably into a hammock. She helped herself to a chocolate and called
out musically:

"Pa, are you going to town today?"

"Yes, honey."

"Can I go?"

"I'm going in an hour or so, and business at the bank will keep me until
after lunch."

"I don't care, I just must go. I'm clean out of anything to read. And I
want to shop and call on Dolly's friend--she's going soon."

"All right. Can you be ready by eleven?"

She considered.

"Yes--I reckon," she drawled, prettily swinging her foot and watching
the tree-tops above the distant swamp.

Harry Cresswell, left alone, rang the bell for the butler.

"Still thinking of going, are you, Sam?" asked Cresswell, carelessly,
when the servant appeared. He was a young, light-brown boy, his manner
obsequious.

"Why, yes, sir--if you can spare me."

"Spare you, you black rascal! You're going anyhow. Well, you'll repent
it; the North is no place for niggers. See here, I want lunch for two at
one o'clock." The directions that followed were explicit and given with
a particularity that made Sam wonder. "Order my trap," he finally
directed.

Cresswell went out on the high-pillared porch until the trap appeared.

"Oh, Harry! I wanted to go in the trap--take me?" coaxed his sister.

"Sorry, Sis, but I'm going the other way."

"I don't believe it," said Miss Cresswell, easily, as she settled down
to another chocolate. Cresswell did not take the trouble to reply.

Miss Taylor was on her morning walk when she saw him spinning down the
road, and both expressed surprise and pleasure at the meeting.

"What a delightful morning!" said the school-teacher, and the glow on
her face said even more.

"I'm driving round through the old plantation," he explained; "won't you
join me?"

"The invitation is tempting," she hesitated; "but I've got just oodles
of work."

"What! on Saturday?"

"Saturday is my really busy day, don't you know. I guess I could get
off; really, though, I suspect I ought to tell Miss Smith."

He looked a little perplexed; but the direction in which her
inclinations lay was quite clear to him.

"It--it would be decidedly the proper thing," he murmured, "and we
could, of course, invite Miss--"

She saw the difficulty and interrupted him:

"It's quite unnecessary; she'll think I have simply gone for a long
walk." And soon they were speeding down the silent road, breathing the
perfume of the pines.

Now a ride of an early spring morning, in Alabama, over a leisurely old
plantation road and behind a spirited horse, is an event to be enjoyed.
Add to this a man bred to be agreeable and outdoing his training, and a
pretty girl gay with new-found companionship--all this is apt to make a
morning worth remembering.

They turned off the highway and passed through long stretches of
ploughed and tumbled fields, and other fields brown with the dead ghosts
of past years' cotton standing straggling and weather-worn. Long,
straight, or curling rows of ploughers passed by with steaming,
struggling mules, with whips snapping and the yodle of workers or the
sharp guttural growl of overseers as a constant accompaniment.

"They're beginning to plough up the land for the cotton-crop," he
explained.

"What a wonderful crop it is!" Mary had fallen pensive.

"Yes, indeed--if only we could get decent returns for it."

"Why, I thought it was a most valuable crop." She turned to him
inquiringly.

"It is--to Negroes and manufacturers, but not to planters."

"But why don't the planters do something?"

"What can be done with Negroes?" His tone was bitter. "We tried to
combine against manufacturers in the Farmers' League of last winter. My
father was president. The pastime cost him fifty thousand dollars."

Miss Taylor was perplexed, but eager. "You must correspond with my
brother, Mr. Cresswell," she gravely observed. "I'm sure he--" Before
she could finish, an overseer rode up. He began talking abruptly, with a
quick side-glance at Mary, in which she might have caught a gleam of
surprised curiosity.

"That old nigger, Jim Sykes, over on the lower place, sir, ain't showed
up again this morning."

Cresswell nodded. "I'll drive by and see," he said carelessly.

The old man was discovered sitting before his cabin with his head in
his hands. He was tall, black, and gaunt, partly bald, with tufted hair.
One leg was swathed in rags, and his eyes, as he raised them, wore a
cowed and furtive look.

"Well, Uncle Jim, why aren't you at work?" called Cresswell from the
roadside. The old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed against the
cabin, and clutched off his cap.

"It's my leg again, Master Harry--the leg what I hurt in the gin last
fall," he answered, uneasily.

Cresswell frowned. "It's probably whiskey," he assured his companion, in
an undertone; then to the man:

"You must get to the field to-morrow,"--his habitually calm, unfeeling
positiveness left no ground for objection; "I cannot support you in
idleness, you know."

"Yes, Master Harry," the other returned, with conciliatory eagerness; "I
knows that--I knows it and I ain't shirking. But, Master Harry, they
ain't doing me right 'bout my cabin--I just wants to show you." He got
out some dirty papers, and started to hobble forward, wincing with pain.
Mary Taylor stirred in her seat under an involuntary impulse to help,
but Cresswell touched the horse.

"All right, Uncle Jim," he said; "we'll look it over to-morrow."

They turned presently to where they could see the Cresswell oaks waving
lazily in the sunlight and the white gleam of the pillared "Big House."

A pause at the Cresswell store, where Mr. Cresswell entered, afforded
Mary Taylor an opportunity further to extend her fund of information.

"Do you go to school?" she inquired of the black boy who held the horse,
her mien sympathetic and interested.

"No, ma'am," he mumbled.

"What's your name?"

"Buddy--I'se one of Aunt Rachel's chilluns."

"And where do you live, Buddy?"

"I lives with granny, on de upper place."

"Well, I'll see Aunt Rachel and ask her to send you to school."

"Won't do no good--she done ast, and Mr. Cresswell, he say he ain't
going to have no more of his niggers--"

But Mr. Cresswell came out just then, and with him a big, fat, and
greasy black man, with little eyes and soft wheedling voice. He was
following Cresswell at the side but just a little behind, hat in hand,
head aslant, and talking deferentially. Cresswell strode carelessly on,
answering him with good-natured tolerance.

The black man stopped with humility before the trap and swept a profound
obeisance. Cresswell glanced up quizzically at Miss Taylor.

"This," he announced, "is Jones, the Baptist preacher--begging."

"Ah, lady,"--in mellow, unctuous tones--"I don't know what we poor black
folks would do without Mr. Cresswell--the Lord bless him," said the
minister, shoving his hand far down into his pocket.

Shortly afterward they were approaching the Cresswell Mansion, when the
young man reined in the horse.

"If you wouldn't mind," he suggested, "I could introduce my sister to
you."

"I should be delighted," answered Miss Taylor, readily.

When they rolled up to the homestead under its famous oaks the hour was
past one. The house was a white oblong building of two stories. In front
was the high pillared porch, semi-circular, extending to the roof with a
balcony in the second story. On the right was a broad verandah looking
toward a wide lawn, with the main road and the red swamp in the
distance.

The butler met them, all obeisance.

"Ask Miss Helen to come down," said Mr. Cresswell.

Sam glanced at him.

"Miss Helen will be dreadful sorry, but she and the Colonel have just
gone to town--I believe her Aunty ain't well."

Mr. Cresswell looked annoyed.

"Well, well! that's too bad," he said. "But at any rate, have a seat a
moment out here on the verandah, Miss Taylor. And, Sam, can't you find
us a sandwich and something cool? I could not be so inhospitable as to
send you away hungry at this time of day."

Miss Taylor sat down in a comfortable low chair facing the refreshing
breeze, and feasted her eyes on the scene. Oh, this was life: a smooth
green lawn, and beds of flowers, a vista of brown fields, and the dark
line of wood beyond. The deft, quiet butler brought out a little table,
spread with the whitest of cloths and laid with the brightest of silver,
and "found" a dainty lunch. There was a bit of fried chicken breast,
some crisp bacon, browned potatoes, little round beaten biscuit, and
rose-colored sherbet with a whiff of wine in it. Miss Taylor wondered a
little at the bounty of Southern hospitality; but she was hungry, and
she ate heartily, then leaned back dreamily and listened to Mr.
Cresswell's smooth Southern _r_'s, adding a word here and there that
kept the conversation going and brought a grave smile to his pale lips.
At last with a sigh she arose to her feet.

"I must go! What shall I tell Miss Smith! No, no--no carriage; I must
walk." Of course, however, she could not refuse to let him go at least
half-way, ostensibly to tell her of the coming of her brother. He
expressed again his disappointment at his sister's absence.

Somewhat to Miss Taylor's surprise Miss Smith said nothing until they
were parting for the night, then she asked:

"Was Miss Cresswell at home?"

Mary reddened.

"She had been called suddenly to town."

"Well, my dear, I wouldn't do it again."

The girl was angry.

"I'm not a school-girl, but a grown woman, and capable of caring for
myself. Moreover, in matter of propriety I do not think you have usually
found my ideas too lax--rather the opposite."

"There, there, dear; don't be angry. Only I think if your brother
knew--"

"He will know in a very few weeks; he is coming to visit the
Cresswells." And Miss Taylor sailed triumphantly up the stairs.

But John Taylor was not the man to wait weeks when a purpose could be
accomplished in days or hours. No sooner was Harry Cresswell's telegram
at hand than he hastened back from Savannah, struck across country, and
the week after his sister's ride found him striding up the carriage-way
of the Cresswell home.

John Taylor had prospered since summer. The cotton manufacturers'
combine was all but a fact; Mr. Easterly had discovered that his chief
clerk's sense and executive ability were invaluable, and John Taylor was
slated for a salary in five figures when things should be finally
settled, not to mention a generous slice of stock--watery at present,
but warranted to ripen early.

While Mr. Easterly still regarded Taylor's larger trust as chimerical,
some occurrences of the fall made him take a respectful attitude toward
it. Just as the final clauses of the combine agreement were to be
signed, there appeared a shortage in the cotton-crop, and prices began
to soar. The cause was obviously the unexpected success of the new
Farmers' League among the cotton-growers. Mr. Easterly found it
comparatively easy to overthrow the corner, but the flurry made some of
the manufacturers timid, and the trust agreement was postponed until a
year later. This experience and the persistence of Mr. Taylor induced
Mr. Easterly to take a step toward the larger project: he let in some
eager outside capital to the safer manufacturing scheme, and withdrew a
corresponding amount of Mrs. Grey's money. This he put into John
Taylor's hands to invest in the South in bank stock and industries with
the idea of playing a part in the financial situation there.

"It's a risk, Taylor, of course, and we'll let the old lady take the
risk. At the worst it's safer than the damned foolishness she has in
mind."

So it happened that John Taylor went South to look after large
investments and, as Mr. Easterly expressed it, "to bring back facts,
not dreams." His investment matters went quickly and well, and now he
turned to his wider and bigger scheme. He wrote the Cresswells
tentatively, expecting no reply, or an evasive one; planning to circle
around them, drawing his nets closer, and trying them again later. To
his surprise they responded quickly.

"Humph! Hard pressed," he decided, and hurried to them.

So it was the week after Mary Taylor's ride that found him at
Cresswell's front door, thin, eagle-eyed, fairly well dressed and
radiating confidence.

"John Taylor," he announced to Sam, jerkily, thrusting out a card. "Want
to see Mr. Cresswell; soon as possible."

Sam made him wait a half-hour, for the sake of discipline, and then
brought father and son.

"Good-morning, Mr. Cresswell, and Mr. Cresswell again," said Mr. Taylor,
helping himself to a straight-backed chair. "Hope you'll pardon this
unexpected visit. Found myself called through Montgomery, just after I
got your wire; thought I'd better drop over."

At Harry's suggestion they moved to the verandah and sat down over
whiskey and soda, which Taylor refused, and plunged into the subject
without preliminaries.

"I'm assuming that you gentlemen are in the cotton business for making
money. So am I. I see a way in which you and your friends can help me
and mine, and clear up more millions than all of us can spend; for this
reason I've hunted you up. This is my scheme.

"See here; there are a thousand cotton-mills in this country, half of
them in the South, one-fourth in New England, and one-fourth in the
Middle States. They are capitalized at six hundred million dollars. Now
let me tell you: we control three hundred and fifty millions of that
capitalization. The trust is going through capitalization at a billion.
The only thing that threatens it is child-labor legislation in the
South, the tariff, and the control of the supply of cotton. Pretty big
hindrances, you say. That's so, but look here: we've got the stock so
placed that nothing short of a popular upheaval can send any Child Labor
bill through Congress in six years. See? After that we don't care. Same
thing applies to the tariff. The last bill ran ten years. The present
bill will last longer, or I lose my guess--'specially if Smith is in the
Senate.

"Well, then, there remains raw cotton. The connection of cotton-raising
and its raw material is too close to risk a manufacturing trust that
does not include practical control of the raw material. For that reason
we're planning a trust to include the raising and manufacturing of
cotton in America. Then, too, cornering the cotton market here means the
whip-hand of the industrial world. Gentlemen, it's the biggest idea of
the century. It beats steel."

Colonel Cresswell chuckled.

"How do you spell that?" he asked.

But John Taylor was not to be diverted; his thin face was pale, but his
gray eyes burned with the fire of a zealot. Harry Cresswell only smiled
dimly and looked interested.

"Now, again," continued John Taylor. "There are a million cotton farms
in the South, half run by colored people and half by whites. Leave the
colored out of account as long as they are disfranchised. The half
million white farms are owned or controlled by five thousand wholesale
merchants and three thousand big landowners, of whom you, Colonel
Cresswell, are among the biggest with your fifty thousand acres. Ten
banks control these eight thousand people--one of these is the Jefferson
National of Montgomery, of which you are a silent director."

Colonel Cresswell started; this man evidently had inside information.
Did he know of the mortgage, too?

"Don't be alarmed. I'm safe," Taylor assured him. "Now, then, if we can
get the banks, wholesale merchants, and biggest planters into line we
can control the cotton crop."

"But," objected Harry Cresswell, "while the banks and the large
merchants may be possibilities, do you know what it means to try to get
planters into line?"

"Yes, I do. And what I don't know you and your father do. Colonel
Cresswell is president of the Farmers' League. That's the reason I'm
here. Your success last year made you indispensable to our plans."

"Our success?" laughed Colonel Cresswell, ruefully, thinking of the
fifty thousand dollars lost and the mortgage to cover it.

"Yes, sir--success! You didn't know it; we were too careful to allow
that; and I say frankly you wouldn't know it now if we weren't convinced
you were too far involved and the League too discouraged to repeat the
dose."

"Now, look here, sir," began Colonel Cresswell, flushing and drawing
himself erect.

"There, there, Colonel Cresswell, don't misunderstand me. I'm a plain
man. I'm playing a big game--a tremendous one. I need you, and I know
you need me. I find out about you, and my sources of knowledge are wide
and unerring. But the knowledge is safe, sir; it's buried. Last year
when you people curtailed cotton acreage and warehoused a big chunk of
the crop you gave the mill men the scare of their lives. We had a hasty
conference and the result was that the bottom fell out of your credit."

Colonel Cresswell grew pale. There was a disquieting, relentless element
in this unimpassioned man's tone.

"You failed," pursued John Taylor, "because you couldn't get the banks
and the big merchants behind you. We've got 'em behind us--with big
chunks of stock and a signed iron-clad agreement. You can wheel the
planters into line--will you do it?" John Taylor bent forward tense but
cool and steel-like. Harry Cresswell laid his hand on his father's arm
and said quietly:

"And where do we come in?"

"That's business," affirmed John Taylor. "You and two hundred and fifty
of the biggest planters come in on the ground-floor of the
two-billion-dollar All-Cotton combine. It can easily mean two million
to you in five years."

"And the other planters?"

"They come in for high-priced cotton until we get our grip."

"And then?"

The quiet question seemed to invoke a vision for John Taylor; the gray
eyes took on the faraway look of a seer; the thin, bloodless lips formed
a smile in which there was nothing pleasant.

"They keep their mouths shut or we squeeze 'em and buy the land. We
propose to own the cotton belt of the South."

Colonel Cresswell started indignantly from his seat.

"Do you think--by God, sir!--that I'd betray Southern gentlemen to--"

But Harry's hand and impassive manner restrained him; he cooled as
suddenly as he had flared up.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Taylor," he concluded; "we'll consider this
matter carefully. You'll spend the night, of course."

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