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

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"Why--why the idea!" she sputtered. "Why, Mr. Cresswell, how can you
conceive of anything else--no Northerner dreams--"

Mr. Cresswell sipped his wine slowly.

"No--no--I do not think you do _mean_ that--" He paused and the
Englishman bent forward.

"Really, now, you do not mean to say that there is a danger of--of
amalgamation, do you?" he sang.

Mr. Cresswell explained. No, of course there was no immediate danger;
but when people were suddenly thrust beyond their natural station,
filled with wild ideas and impossible ambitions, it meant terrible
danger to Southern white women.

"But you believe in some education?" asked Mary Taylor.

"I believe in the training of people to their highest capacity." The
Englishman here heartily seconded him.

"But," Cresswell added significantly, "capacity differs enormously
between races."

The Vanderpools were sure of this and the Englishman, instancing India,
became quite eloquent. Mrs. Grey was mystified, but hardly dared admit
it. The general trend of the conversation seemed to be that most
individuals needed to be submitted to the sharpest scrutiny before being
allowed much education, and as for the "lower races" it was simply
criminal to open such useless opportunities to them.

"Why, I had a colored servant-girl once," laughed Mrs. Vanderpool by way
of climax, "who spent half her wages in piano lessons."

Then Mary Taylor, whose conscience was uncomfortable, said:

"But, Mr. Cresswell, you surely believe in schools like Miss Smith's?"

"Decidedly," returned Mr. Cresswell, with enthusiasm, "it has done great
good."

Mrs. Grey was gratified and murmured something of Miss Smith's
"sacrifice."

"Positively heroic," added Cresswell, avoiding his sister's eyes.

"Of course," Mary Taylor hastened to encourage this turn of the
conversation, "there are many points on which Miss Smith and I disagree,
but I think everybody admires her work."

Mrs. Grey wanted particulars. "What did you disagree about?" she asked
bluntly.

"I may be responsible for some of the disagreement," interrupted Mr.
Cresswell, hesitatingly; "I'm afraid Miss Smith does not approve of us
white Southerners."

"But you mean to say you can't even advise her?"

"Oh, no; we can. But--we're not--er--exactly welcomed. In fact," said
Cresswell gravely, "the chief criticism I have against your Northerners'
schools for Negroes is, that they not only fail to enlist the sympathy
and aid of the _best_ Southerners, but even repel it."

"That is very wrong--very wrong," commented the Englishman warmly, a
sentiment in which Mrs. Grey hastened to agree.

"Of course," continued Cresswell, "I am free to confess that I have no
personal desire to dabble in philanthropy, or conduct schools of any
kind; my hands are full of other matters."

"But it's precisely the advice of such disinterested men that
philanthropic work needs," Mr. Vanderpool urged.

"Well, I volunteered advice once in this case and I sha'n't repeat the
experiment soon," said Cresswell laughing. Mrs. Grey wanted to hear the
incident, but the young man was politely reluctant. Mary Taylor,
however, related the tale of Zora to Mrs. Grey's private ear later.

"Fortunately," said Mr. Vanderpool, "Northerners and Southerners are
arriving at a better mutual understanding on most of these matters."

"Yes, indeed," Cresswell agreed. "After all, they never were far apart,
even in slavery days; both sides were honest and sincere."

All through the dinner Mr. Smith had been preoccupied and taciturn. Now
he abruptly shot a glance at Cresswell.

"I suppose that one was right and one was wrong."

"No," said Cresswell, "both were right."

"I thought the only excuse for fighting was a great Right; if Right is
on neither side or simultaneously on both, then War is not only Hell but
Damnation."

Mrs. Grey looked shocked and Mrs. Vanderpool smiled.

"How about fighting for exercise?" she suggested.

"At any rate," said Cresswell, "we can all agree on helping these poor
victims of our quarrel as far as their limited capacity will allow--and
no farther, for that is impossible."

Very soon after dinner Charles Smith excused himself. He was not yet
inured to the ways of high finance, and the programme of the cotton
barons, as unfolded that day, lay heavy on his mind, despite all his
philosophy.

"I have had a--full day," he explained to Mrs. Grey.

_Fourteen_

LOVE

The rain was sweeping down in great thick winding sheets. The wind
screamed in the ancient Cresswell oaks and swirled across the swamp in
loud, wild gusts. The waters roared and gurgled in the streams, and
along the roadside. Then, when the wind fell murmuring away, the clouds
grew blacker and blacker and rain in long slim columns fell straight
from Heaven to earth digging itself into the land and throwing back the
red mud in angry flashes.

So it rained for one long week, and so for seven endless days Bles
watched it with leaden heart. He knew the Silver Fleece--his and
Zora's--must be ruined. It was the first great sorrow of his life; it
was not so much the loss of the cotton itself--but the fantasy, the
hopes, the dreams built around it. If it failed, would not they fail?
Was not this angry beating rain, this dull spiritless drizzle, this wild
war of air and earth, but foretaste and prophecy of ruin and
discouragement, of the utter futility of striving? But if his own
despair was great his pain at the plight of Zora made it almost
unbearable. He did not see her in these seven days. He pictured her
huddled there in the swamp in the cheerless leaky cabin with worse than
no companions. Ah! the swamp, the cruel swamp! It was a fearful place in
the rain. Its oozing mud and fetid vapors, its clinging slimy
draperies,--how they twined about the bones of its victims and chilled
their hearts. Yet here his Zora,--his poor disappointed child--was
imprisoned.

Child? He had always called her child--but now in the inward
illumination of these dark days he knew her as neither child nor sister
nor friend, but as the One Woman. The revelation of his love lighted and
brightened slowly till it flamed like a sunrise over him and left him in
burning wonder. He panted to know if she, too, knew, or knew and cared
not, or cared and knew not. She was so strange and human a creature. To
her all things meant something--nothing was aimless, nothing merely
happened. Was this rain beating down and back her love for him, or had
she never loved? He walked his room, gripping his hands, peering through
the misty windows toward the swamp--rain, rain, rain, nothing but rain.
The world was water veiled in mists.

Then of a sudden, at midday, the sun shot out, hot and still; no breath
of air stirred; the sky was like blue steel; the earth steamed. Bles
rushed to the edge of the swamp and stood there irresolute. Perhaps--if
the water had but drained from the cotton!--it was so strong and tall!
But, pshaw! Where was the use of imagining? The lagoon had been level
with the dykes a week ago; and now? He could almost see the beautiful
Silver Fleece, bedraggled, drowned, and rolling beneath the black lake
of slime. He went back to his work, but early in the morning the thought
of it lured him again. He must at least see the grave of his hope and
Zora's, and out of it resurrect new love and strength.

Perhaps she, too, might be there, waiting, weeping. He started at the
thought. He hurried forth sadly. The rain-drops were still dripping and
gleaming from the trees, flashing back the heavy yellow sunlight. He
splashed and stamped along, farther and farther onward until he neared
the rampart of the clearing, and put foot upon the tree-bridge. Then he
looked down. The lagoon was dry. He stood a moment bewildered, then
turned and rushed upon the island. A great sheet of dazzling sunlight
swept the place, and beneath lay a mighty mass of olive green, thick,
tall, wet, and willowy. The squares of cotton, sharp-edged, heavy, were
just about to burst to bolls! And underneath, the land lay carefully
drained and black! For one long moment he paused, stupid, agape with
utter amazement, then leaned dizzily against a tree.

The swamp, the eternal swamp, had been drained in its deepest fastness;
but, how?--how? He gazed about, perplexed, astonished. What a field of
cotton! what a marvellous field! But how had it been saved?

He skirted the island slowly, stopping near Zora's oak. Here lay the
reading of the riddle: with infinite work and pain, some one had dug a
canal from the lagoon to the creek, into which the former had drained by
a long and crooked way, thus allowing it to empty directly. The canal
went straight, a hundred yards through stubborn soil, and it was oozing
now with slimy waters.

He sat down weak, bewildered, and one thought was uppermost--Zora! And
with the thought came a low moan of pain. He wheeled and leapt toward
the dripping shelter in the tree. There she lay--wet, bedraggled,
motionless, gray-pallid beneath her dark-drawn skin, her burning eyes
searching restlessly for some lost thing, her lips a-moaning.

In dumb despair he dropped beside her and gathered her in his arms. The
earth staggered beneath him as he stumbled on; the mud splashed and
sunlight glistened; he saw long snakes slithering across his path and
fear-struck beasts fleeing before his coming. He paused for neither path
nor way but went straight for the school, running in mighty strides, yet
gently, listening to the moans that struck death upon his heart. Once he
fell headlong, but with a great wrench held her from harm, and minded
not the pain that shot through his ribs. The yellow sunshine beat
fiercely around and upon him, as he stumbled into the highway, lurched
across the mud-strewn road, and panted up the porch.

"Miss Smith--!" he gasped, and then--darkness.

The years of the days of her dying were ten. The boy that entered the
darkness and the shadow of death emerged a man, a silent man and grave,
working furiously and haunting, day and night, the little window above
the door. At last, of one gray morning when the earth was stillest, they
came and told him, "She will live!" And he went out under the stars,
lifted his long arms and sobbed: "Curse me, O God, if I let me lose her
again!" And God remembered this in after years.

The hope and dream of harvest was upon the land. The cotton crop was
short and poor because of the great rain; but the sun had saved the
best, and the price had soared. So the world was happy, and the face of
the black-belt green and luxuriant with thickening flecks of the coming
foam of the cotton.

Up in the sick room Zora lay on the little white bed. The net and web of
endless things had been crawling and creeping around her; she had
struggled in dumb, speechless terror against some mighty grasping that
strove for her life, with gnarled and creeping fingers; but now at last,
weakly, she opened her eyes and questioned.

Bles, where was he? The Silver Fleece, how was it? The Sun, the Swamp?
Then finding all well, she closed her eyes and slept. After some days
they let her sit by the window, and she saw Bles pass, but drew back
timidly when he looked; and he saw only the flutter of her gown, and
waved.

At last there came a day when they let her walk down to the porch, and
she felt the flickering of her strength again. Yet she looked different;
her buxom comeliness was spiritualized; her face looked smaller, and her
masses of hair, brought low about her ears, heightened her ghostly
beauty; her skin was darkly transparent, and her eyes looked out from
velvet veils of gloom. For a while she lay in her chair, in happy,
dreamy pleasure at sun and bird and tree. Bles did not know yet that she
was down; but soon he would come searching, for he came each hour, and
she pressed her little hands against her breast to still the beating of
her heart and the bursting wonder of her love.

Then suddenly a panic seized her. He must not find her here--not here;
there was but one place in all the earth for them to meet, and that was
yonder in the Silver Fleece. She rose with a fleeting glance, gathered
the shawl round her, then gliding forward, wavering, tremulous, slipped
across the road and into the swamp. The dark mystery of the Swamp swept
over her; the place was hers. She had been born within its borders;
within its borders she had lived and grown, and within its borders she
had met her love. On she hurried until, sweeping down to the lagoon and
the island, lo! the cotton lay before her! A great white foam was spread
upon its brown and green; the whole field was waving and shivering in
the sunlight. A low cry of pleasure burst from her lips; she forgot her
weakness, and picking her way across the bridge, stood still amid the
cotton that nestled about her shoulders, clasping it lovingly in her
hands.

He heard that she was down-stairs and ran to meet her with beating
heart. The chair was empty; but he knew. There was but one place then
for these two souls to meet. Yet it was far, and he feared, and ran with
startled eyes.

She stood on the island, ethereal, splendid, like some tall, dark, and
gorgeous flower of the storied East. The green and white of the cotton
billowed and foamed about her breasts; the red scarf burned upon her
neck; the dark brown velvet of her skin pulsed warm and tremulous with
the uprushing blood, and in the midnight depths of her great eyes flamed
the mighty fires of long-concealed and new-born love.

He darted through the trees and paused, a tall man strongly but slimly
made. He threw up his hands in the old way and hallooed; happily she
crooned back a low mother-melody, and waited. He came down to her
slowly, with fixed, hungry eyes, threading his way amid the Fleece. She
did not move, but lifted both her dark hands, white with cotton; and
then, as he came, casting it suddenly to the winds, in tears and
laughter she swayed and dropped quivering in his arms. And all the world
was sunshine and peace.

_Fifteen_

REVELATION

Harry Cresswell was scowling over his breakfast. It was not because his
apartment in the New York hotel was not satisfactory, or his breakfast
unpalatable; possibly a rather bewildering night in Broadway was
expressing its influence; but he was satisfied that his ill-temper was
due to a paragraph in the morning paper:

"It is stated on good authority that the widow of the late
multimillionaire, Job Grey, will announce a large and carefully planned
scheme of Negro education in the South, and will richly endow schools in
South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, and Texas."

Cresswell finally thrust his food away. He knew that Mrs. Grey helped
Miss Smith's school, and supposed she would continue to do so; with that
in mind he had striven to impress her, hoping that she might trust his
judgment in later years. He had no idea, however, that she meant to
endow the school, or entertained wholesale plans for Negro education.
The knowledge made him suspicious. Why had neither Mary nor John Taylor
mentioned this? Was there, after all, some "nigger-loving" conspiracy
back of the cotton combine? He took his hat and started down-town.

Once in John Taylor's Broadway office, he opened the subject
abruptly--the more so perhaps because he felt a resentment against
Taylor for certain unnamed or partially voiced assumptions. Here was a
place, however, for speech, and he spoke almost roughly.

"Taylor, what does this mean?" He thrust the clipping at him.

"Mean? That Mrs. Grey is going to get rid of some of her surplus
cash--is going to endow some nigger schools," Taylor drily retorted.

"It must be stopped," declared Cresswell.

The other's brows drew up.

"Why?" in a surprised tone.

"Why? Why? Do you think the plantation system can be maintained without
laborers? Do you think there's the slightest chance of cornering cotton
and buying the Black Belt if the niggers are unwilling to work under
present conditions? Do you know the man that stands ready to gobble up
every inch of cotton land in this country at a price which no trust can
hope to rival?"

John Taylor's interest quickened.

"Why, no," he returned sharply. "Who?"

"The Black Man, whose woolly head is filled with ideas of rising. We're
striving by main force to prevent this, and here come your damned
Northern philanthropists to plant schools. Why, Taylor, it'll knock the
cotton trust to hell."

"Don't get excited," said Taylor, judicially. "We've got things in our
hands; it's the Grey money, you know, that is back of us."

"That's just what confounds me," declared the perplexed young man. "Are
you men fools, or rascals? Don't you see the two schemes can't mix?
They're dead opposite, mutually contradictory, absolutely--" Taylor
checked him; it was odd to behold Harry Cresswell so disturbed.

"Well, wait a moment. Let's see. Sit down. Wish I had a cigar for you,
but I don't smoke."

"Do you happen to have any whiskey handy?"

"No, I don't drink."

"Well, what the devil--Oh, well, fire away."

"Now, see here. We control the Grey millions. Of course, we've got to
let her play with her income, and that's considerable. Her favorite game
just now is Negro education, and she's planning to go in heavy. Her
adviser in this line, however, is Smith, and he belongs to us."

"What Smith?"

"Why, the man who's going to be Senator from New Jersey. He has a sister
teaching in the South--you know, of course; it's at your home where my
sister Mary taught."

"Great Scott! Is that woman's brother going to spend this money? Why,
are you daft? See here! American cotton-spinning supremacy is built on
cheap cotton; cheap cotton is built on cheap niggers. Educating, or
rather _trying_ to educate niggers, will make them restless and
discontented--that is, scarce and dear as workers. Don't you see you're
planning to cut off your noses? This Smith School, particularly, has
nearly ruined our plantation. It's stuck almost in our front yard; _you_
are planning to put our plough-hands all to studying Greek, and at the
same time to corner the cotton crop--rot!"

John Taylor caressed his lean jaw.

"New point of view to me; I sort of thought education would improve
things in the South," he commented, unmoved.

"It would if we ran it."

"We?"

"Yes--we Southerners."

"Um!--I see--there's light. See here, let's talk to Easterly about
this." They went into the next office, and after a while got audience
with the trust magnate. Mr. Easterly heard the matter carefully and
waved it aside.

"Oh, that doesn't concern us, Taylor; let Cresswell take care of the
whole thing. We'll see that Smith does what Cresswell wants."

But Taylor shook his head.

"Smith would kick. Mrs. Grey would get suspicious, and the devil be to
pay. This is better. Form a big committee of Northern business men like
yourself--philanthropists like Vanderpool, and Southerners like
Cresswell; let them be a sort of Negro Education steering-committee.
We'll see that on such committee you Southerners get what you
want--control of Negro education."

"That sounds fair. But how about the Smith School? My father writes me
that they are showing signs of expecting money right off--is that true?
If it is, I want it stopped; it will ruin our campaign for the Farmers'
League."

John Taylor looked at Cresswell. He thought he saw something more than
general policy, or even racial prejudice--something personal--in his
vehemence. The Smith School was evidently a severe thorn in the flesh of
this man. All the more reason for mollifying him. Then, too, there was
something in his argument. It was not wise to start educating these
Negroes and getting them discontented just now. Ignorant labor was not
ideal, but it was worth too much to employers to lose it now. Educated
Negro labor might be worth more to Negroes, but not to the cotton
combine. "H'm--well, then--" and John Taylor went into a brown study,
while Cresswell puffed impatiently at a cigarette.

"I have it," said Taylor. Cresswell sat up. "First, let Mr. Easterly get
Smith." Easterly turned to the telephone.

"Is that you, Smith?"

"Well, this is Easterly.... Yes--how about Mrs. Grey's education
schemes?... Yes.... h'm--well,--see here Smith, we must go a little easy
there.... Oh, no, no,--but to advertise just now a big scheme of Negro
Education would drive the Cresswells, the Farmers' League, and the whole
business South dead against us.... Yes, yes indeed; they believe in
education all right, but they ain't in for training lawyers and
professors just yet.... No, I don't suppose her school is.... Well,
then; see here. She'll be reasonable, won't she, and placate the
Cresswells?... No, I mean run the school to suit their ideas.... No, no,
but in general along the lines which they could approve.... Yes, I
thought so ... of course ... good-bye."

"Inclined to be a little nasty?" asked Taylor.

"A little sharp--but tractable. Now, Mr. Cresswell, the thing is in your
hands. We'll get this committee which Taylor suggests appointed, and
send it on a junket to Alabama; you do the rest--see?"

"Who'll be the committee?" asked Cresswell.

"Name it."

Mr. Cresswell smiled and left.

The winter started in severely, and it was easy to fill two private cars
with members of the new Negro Education Board right after Thanksgiving.
Cresswell had worked carefully and with caution. There was Mrs. Grey,
comfortable and beaming, Mr. Easterly, who thought this a good business
opportunity, and his family. Mrs. Vanderpool liked the South and was
amused at the trip, and had induced Mr. Vanderpool to come by stories of
shooting.

"Ah!" said Mr. Vanderpool.

Mr. Charles Smith and John Taylor were both too busy to go, but
bronchial trouble induced the Rev. Dr. Boldish of St. Faith's rich
parish to be one of the party, and at the last moment Temple Bocombe,
the sociologist, consented to join.

"Awfully busy," he said, "but I've been reading up on the Negro problem
since you mentioned the matter to me last week, Mr. Cresswell, and I
think I understand it thoroughly. I may be able to help out."

The necessary spice of young womanhood was added to the party by Miss
Taylor and Miss Cresswell, together with the silent Miss Boldish. They
were a comfortable and sometimes merry party. Dr. Boldish pointed out
the loafers at the stations, especially the black ones; Mr. Bocombe
counted them and estimated the number of hours of work lost at ten cents
an hour.

"Do they get that--ten cents an hour?" asked Miss Taylor.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Mr. Bocombe; "but suppose they do, for
instance. That is an average wage today."

"They look lazy," said Mrs. Grey.

"They are lazy," said Mr. Cresswell.

"So am I," added Mrs. Vanderpool, suppressing a yawn.

"It is uninteresting," murmured her husband, preparing for a nap.

On the whole the members of the party enjoyed themselves from the moment
they drew out of Jersey City to the afternoon when, in four carriages,
they rolled beneath the curious eyes of all Toomsville and swept under
the shadowed rampart of the swamp.

"The Christmas" was coming and all the Southern world was busy. Few
people were busier than Bles and Zora. Slowly, wonderfully for them,
heaven bent in these dying days of the year and kissed the earth, and
the tremor thrilled all lands and seas. Everything was good, all things
were happy, and these two were happiest of all. Out of the shadows and
hesitations of childhood they had stepped suddenly into manhood and
womanhood, with firm feet and uplifted heads. All the day that was
theirs they worked, picking the Silver Fleece--picking it tenderly and
lovingly from off the brown and spent bodies which had so utterly
yielded life and beauty to the full fruition of this long and silken
tendril, this white beauty of the cotton. November came and flew, and
still the unexhausted field yielded its frothing fruit.

Today seemed doubly glorious, for Bles had spoken of their marriage;
with twined hands and arms, and lips ever and again seeking their mates,
they walked the leafy way.

Unconscious, rapt, they stepped out into the Big Road skirting the edge
of the swamp. Why not? Was it not the King's Highway? And Love was King.
So they talked on, unknowing that far up the road the Cresswell coaches
were wheeling along with precious burdens. In the first carriage were
Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr. Cresswell and Miss Taylor. Mrs.
Vanderpool was lolling luxuriously, but Mrs. Grey was a little stiff
from long travel and sat upright. Mr. Cresswell looked clean-cut and
handsome, and Miss Taylor seemed complacent and responsible. The dying
of the day soothed them all insensibly. Groups of dark little children
passed them as they neared the school, staring with wide eyes and
greeting timidly.

"There seems to be marrying and giving in marriage," laughed Mrs.
Vanderpool.

"Not very much," said Mr. Cresswell drily.

"Well, at least plenty of children."

"Plenty."

"But where are the houses?" asked Mrs. Grey.

"Perhaps in the swamp," said Mrs. Vanderpool lightly, looking up at the
sombre trees that lined the left.

"They live where they please and do as they please," Cresswell
explained; to which Mrs. Vanderpool added: "Like other animals."

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