Chapter II: Part 2

Then came the thrilling climax. Smoked out of his den, the desperate
fiend descended the stairs and entered the lower room. Some say he
dashed into the yard, glaring around vainly for some avenue of escape;
but, however that may be, he was soon a few moments later moving about
behind the lower windows. A dozen shots were sent through the wall in
the hope of reaching him, but he escaped unscathed. Then suddenly the
door on the right was flung open and he dashed out. With head lowered
and rifle raised ready to fire on the instant, Charles dashed straight
for the rear door of the front cottage. To reach it he had to traverse a
little walk shaded by a vineclad arbor. In the back room, with a cocked
revolver in his hand, was Dr. C.A. Noiret, a young medical student, who
was aiding the citizens' posse. As he sprang through the door Charles
fired a shot, and the bullet whizzed past the doctor's head. Before it
could be repeated Noiret's pistol cracked and the murderer reeled,
turned half around and fell on his back. The doctor sent another ball
into his body as he struck the floor, and half a dozen men, swarming
into the room from the front, riddled the corpse with bullets.

Private Adolph Anderson of the Connell Rifles was the first man to
announce the death of the wretch. He rushed to the street door, shouted
the news to the crowd, and a moment later the bleeding body was dragged
to the pavement and made the target of a score of pistols. It was shot,
kicked and beaten almost out of semblance to humanity....

The limp dead body was dropped at the edge of the sidewalk and from
there dragged to the muddy roadway by half a hundred hands. There in the
road more shots were fired into the body. Corporal Trenchard, a
brother-in-law of Porteus, led the shooting into the inanimate clay.
With each shot there was a cheer for the work that had been done and
curses and imprecations on the inanimate mass of riddled flesh that was
once Robert Charles.

Cries of "Burn him! Burn him!" were heard from Clio Street all the way
to Erato Street, and it was with difficulty that the crowd was
restrained from totally destroying the wretched dead body. Some of those
who agitated burning even secured a large vessel of kerosene, which had
previously been brought to the scene for the purpose of firing Charles's
refuge, and for a time it looked as though this vengeance might be
wreaked on the body. The officers, however, restrained this move,
although they were powerless to prevent the stamping and kicking of the
body by the enraged crowd.

After the infuriated citizens had vented their spleen on the body of the
dead Negro it was loaded into the patrol wagon. The police raised the
body of the heavy black from the ground and literally chucked it into
the space on the floor of the wagon between the seats. They threw it
with a curse hissed more than uttered and born of the bitterness which
was rankling in their breasts at the thought of Charles having taken so
wantonly the lives of four of the best of their fellow-officers.

When the murderer's body landed in the wagon it fell in such a position
that the hideously mutilated head, kicked, stamped and crushed, hung
over the end.

As the wagon moved off, the followers, who were protesting against its
being carried off, declaring that it should be burned, poked and struck
it with sticks, beating it into such a condition that it was utterly
impossible to tell what the man ever looked like.

As the patrol wagon rushed through the rough street, jerking and
swaying from one side of the thoroughfare to the other, the gory,
mud-smeared head swayed and swung and jerked about in a sickening
manner, the dark blood dripping on the steps and spattering the body of
the wagon and the trousers of the policemen standing on the step.

+MOB BRUTALITY+

The brutality of the mob was further shown by the unspeakable cruelty with which it beat, shot and stabbed to death an unoffending colored man, name unknown, who happened to be walking on the street with no thought that he would be set upon and killed simply because he was a colored man. The _Times-Democrat_'s description of the outrage is as follows:

While the fight between the Negro desperado and the citizens was in
progress yesterday afternoon at Clio and Saratoga Streets another
tragedy was being enacted downtown in the French quarter, but it was a
very one-sided affair. The object of the white man's wrath was, of
course, a Negro, but, unlike Charles, he showed no fight, but tried to
escape from the furious mob which was pursuing him, and which finally
put an end to his existence in a most cruel manner.

The Negro, whom no one seemed to know--at any rate no one could be found
in the vicinity of the killing who could tell who he was--was walking
along the levee, as near as could be learned, when he was attacked by a
number of white longshoremen or screwmen. For what reason, if there was
any reason other than the fact that he was a Negro, could not be
learned, and immediately they pounced upon him he broke ground and
started on a desperate run for his life.

The hunted Negro started off the levee toward the French Vegetable
Market, changed his course out the sidewalk toward Gallatin Street. The
angry, yelling mob was close at his heels, and increasing steadily as
each block was traversed. At Gallatin Street he turned up that
thoroughfare, doubled back into North Peters Street and ran into the
rear of No. 1216 of that street, which is occupied by Chris Reuter as a
commission store and residence.

He rushed frantically through the place and out on to the gallery on the
Gallatin Street side. From this gallery he jumped to the street and fell
flat on his back on the sidewalk. Springing to his feet as soon as
possible, with a leaden, hail fired by the angry mob whistling about
him, he turned to his merciless pursuers in an appealing way, and,
throwing up one hand, told them not to shoot any more, that they could
take him as he was.

But the hail of lead continued, and the unfortunate Negro finally
dropped to the sidewalk, mortally wounded. The mob then rushed upon him,
still continuing the fusillade, and upon reaching his body a number of
Italians, who had joined the howling mob, reached down and stabbed him
in the back and buttock with big knives. Others fired shots into his
head until his teeth were shot out, three shots having been fired into
his mouth. There were bullet wounds all over his body.

Others who witnessed the affair declared that the man was fired at as he
was running up the stairs leading to the living apartments above the
store, and that after jumping to the sidewalk and being knocked down by
a bullet he jumped up and ran across the street, then ran back and tried
to get back into the commission store. The Italians, it is said, were
all drunk, and had been shooting firecrackers. Tiring of this, they
began shooting at Negroes, and when the unfortunate man who was killed
ran by they joined in the chase.

No one was arrested for the shooting, the neighborhood having been
deserted by the police, who were sent up to the place where Charles was
fighting so desperately. No one could or would give the names of any of
those who had participated in the chase and the killing, nor could any
one be found who knew who the Negro was. The patrol wagon was called and
the terribly mutilated body sent to the morgue and the coroner notified.

The murdered Negro was copper colored, about 5 feet 11 inches in height,
about 35 years of age, and was dressed in blue overalls and a brown
slouch hat. At 10:30 o'clock the vicinity of the French Market was very
quiet. Squads of special officers were patrolling the neighborhood, and
there did not seem to be any prospects of disorder.

During the entire time the mob held the city in its hands and went about holding up street cars and searching them, taking from them colored men to assault, shoot and kill, chasing colored men upon the public square, through alleys and into houses of anybody who would take them in, breaking into the homes of defenseless colored men and women and beating aged and decrepit men and women to death, the police and the legally constituted authorities showed plainly where their sympathies were, for in no case reported through the daily papers does there appear the arrest, trial and conviction of one of the mob for any of the brutalities which occurred. The ringleaders of the mob were at no time disguised. Men were chased, beaten and killed by white brutes, who boasted of their crimes, and the murderers still walk the streets of New Orleans, well known and absolutely exempt from prosecution. Not only were they exempt from prosecution by the police while the town was in the hands of the mob, but even now that law and order is supposed to resume control, these men, well known, are not now, nor ever will be, called to account for the unspeakable brutalities of that terrible week. On the other hand, the colored men who were beaten by the police and dragged into the station for purposes of intimidation, were quickly called up before the courts and fined or sent to jail upon the statement of the police. Instances of Louisiana justice as it is dispensed in New Orleans are here quoted from the _Times-Democrat_ of July 26:

+Justice Dealt Out to Folk Who Talked Too Much+

All the Negroes and whites who were arrested in the vicinity of
Tuesday's tragedy had a hard time before Recorder Hughes yesterday. Lee
Jackson was the first prisoner, and the evidence established that he
made his way to the vicinity of the crime and told his Negro friends
that he thought a good many more policemen ought to be killed. Jackson
said he was drunk when he made the remark. He was fined $25 or thirty
days.

John Kennedy was found wandering about the street Tuesday night with an
open razor in his hand, and he was given $25 or thirty days.

Edward McCarthy, a white man, who arrived only four days since from New
York, went to the scene of the excitement at the corner of Third and
Rampart Streets, and told the Negroes that they were as good as any
white man. This remark was made by McCarthy, as another white man said
the Negroes should be lynched. McCarthy told the recorder that he
considered a Negro as good as a white in body and soul. He was fined $25
or thirty days.

James Martin, Simon Montegut, Eddie McCall, Alex Washington and Henry
Turner were up for failing to move on. Martin proved that he was at the
scene to assist the police and was discharged. Montegut, being a
cripple, was also released, but the others were fined $25 or thirty days
each.

Eddie Williams for refusing to move on was given $25 or thirty days.

Matilda Gamble was arrested by the police for saying that two officers
were killed and it was a pity more were not shot. She was given $25 or
thirty days.

+INSOLENT BLACKS+

"Recorder Hughes received Negroes in the first recorder's office yesterday morning in a way that they will remember for a long time, and all of them were before the magistrate for having caused trouble through incendiary remarks concerning the death of Captain Day and Patrolman Lamb."

"Lee Jackson was before the recorder and was fined $25 or thirty days. He was lippy around where the trouble happened Tuesday morning, and some white men punched him good and hard and the police took him. Then the recorder gave him a dose, and now he is in the parish prison."

"John Kennedy was another black who got into trouble. He said that the shooting of the police by Charles was a good thing, and for this he was pounded. Patrolman Lorenzo got him and saved him from being lynched, for the black had an open razor. He was fined $25 or thirty days."

"Edward McCarthy, a white man, mixed up with the crowd, and an expression of sympathy nearly cost him his head, for some whites about started for him, administering licks and blows with fists and umbrellas. The recorder fined him $25 or thirty days. He is from New York."

"Then James Martin, a white man, and Simon Montegut, Eddie Call, Henry Turner and Alex Washington were before the magistrate for having failed to move on when the police ordered them from the square where the bluecoats were Tuesday, waiting in the hope of catching Charles. All save Martin and Montegut were fined."

"Eddie Williams, a little Negro who was extremely fresh with the police, was fined $10 or ten days."

+SHOCKING BRUTALITY+

The whole city was at the mercy of the mob and the display of brutality was a disgrace to civilization. One instance is described in the _Picayune_ as follows:

A smaller party detached itself from the mob at Washington and Rampart
Streets, and started down the latter thoroughfare. One of the foremost
spied a Negro, and immediately there was a rush for the unfortunate
black man. With the sticks they had torn from fences on the line of
march the young outlaws attacked the black and clubbed him unmercifully,
acting more like demons than human beings. After being severely beaten
over the head, the Negro started to run with the whole gang at his
heels. Several revolvers were brought into play and pumped their lead at
the refugee. The Negro made rapid progress and took refuge behind the
blinds of a little cottage in Rampart Street, but he had been seen, and
the mob hauled him from his hiding place and again commenced beating
him. There were more this time, some twenty or thirty, all armed with
sticks and heavy clubs, and under their incessant blows the Negro could
not last long. He begged for mercy, and his cries were most pitiful, but
a mob has no heart, and his cries were only answered with more blows.

"For God's sake, boss, I ain't done nothin'. Don't kill me. I swear I
ain't done nothin'."

The white brutes turned

+ A DEAF EAR TO THE PITYING CRIES+

of the black wretch and the drubbing continued. The cries subsided into
moans, and soon the black swooned away into unconsciousness. Still not
content with their heartless work, they pulled the Negro out and kicked
him into the gutter. For the time those who had beaten the black seemed
satisfied and left him groaning in the gutter, but others came up, and,
regretting that they had not had a hand in the affair, they determined
to evidence their bravery to their fellows and beat the man while he was
in the gutter, hurling rocks and stones at his black form. One
thoughtless white brute, worse even than the black slayer of the police
officers, thought to make himself a hero in the eyes of his fellows and
fired his revolver repeatedly into the helpless wretch. It was dark and
the fellow probably aimed carelessly. After firing three or four shots
he also left without knowing what extent of injury he inflicted on the
black wretch who was left lying in the gutter.

+MURDER ON THE LEVEE+

One part of the crowd made a raid on the tenderloin district, hoping to find there some belated Negro for a sacrifice. They were urged on by the white prostitutes, who applauded their murderous mission. Says an account:

The red light district was all excitement. Women--that is, the white
women--were out on their stoops and peeping over their galleries and
through their windows and doors, shouting to the crowd to go on with
their work, and kill Negroes for them.

"Our best wishes, boys," they encouraged; and the mob answered with
shouts, and whenever a Negro house was sighted a bombardment was started
on the doors and windows.

No colored men were found on the streets until the mob reached Custom House Place and Villiers Streets. Here a victim was found and brutally put to death. The _Picayune_ description is as follows:

Some stragglers had run a Negro into a car at the corner of Bienville
and Villere Streets. He was seeking refuge in the conveyance, and he
believed that the car would not be stopped and could speed along. But
the mob determined to stop the car, and ordered the motorman to halt. He
put on his brake. Some white men were in the car.

"Get out, fellows," shouted several of the mob.

"All whites fall out," was the second cry, and the poor Negro understood
that it was meant that he should stay in the car.

He wanted to save his life. The poor fellow crawled under the seats. But
some one in the crowd saw him and yelled that he was hiding. Two or
three men climbed through the windows with their pistols; others jumped
over the motorman's board, and dozens tumbled into the rear of the car.
Big, strong hands got the Negro by the shirt. He was dragged out of the
conveyance, and was pushed to the street. Some fellow ran up and struck
him with a club. The blow was heavy, but it did not fell him, and the
Negro ran toward Canal Street, stealing along the wall of the Tulane
Medical Building. Fifty men ran after him, caught the poor fellow and
hurried him back into the crowd. Fists were aimed at him, then clubs
went upon his shoulders, and finally the black plunged into the gutter.

A gun was fired, and the Negro, who had just gotten to his feet, dropped
again. He tried to get up, but a volley was sent after him, and in a
little while he was dead.

The crowd looked on at the terrible work. Then the lights in the houses
of ill-fame began to light up again, and women peeped out of the blinds.
The motorman was given the order to go on. The gong clanged and the
conveyance sped out of the way. For half an hour the crowd held their
place at the corner, then the patrol wagon came and the body was picked
up and hurried to the morgue.

Coroner Richard held an autopsy on the body of the Negro who was forced
out of car 98 of the Villere line and shot down. It was found that he
was wounded four times, the most serious wound being that which struck
him in the right side, passing through the lungs, and causing
hemorrhages, which brought about death.

Nobody tried to identify the poor fellow and his name is unknown.

+A VICTIM IN THE MARKET+

Soon after the murder of the man on the street car many of the same mob marched down to the market place. There they found a colored market man named Louis Taylor, who had gone to begin his early morning's work. He was at once set upon by the mob and killed. The _Picayune_ account says:

Between 1 and 2 o'clock this morning a mob of several hundred men and
boys, made up of participants in many of the earlier affairs, marched on
the French Market. Louis Taylor, a Negro vegetable carrier, who is about
thirty years of age, was sitting at the soda water stand. As soon as the
mob saw him fire was opened and the Negro took to his heels. He ran
directly into another section of the mob and any number of shots were
fired at him. He fell, face down, on the floor of the market.

The police in the neighborhood rallied hurriedly and found the victim of
mob violence seemingly lifeless. Before they arrived the Negro had been
beaten severely about the head and body. The ambulance was summoned and
Taylor was carried to the charity hospital, where it was found that he
had been shot through the abdomen and arm. The examination was a hurried
one, but it sufficed to show that Taylor was mortally wounded.

After shooting Taylor the members of the mob were pluming themselves on
their exploit. "The Nigger was at the soda water stand and we commenced
shooting him," said one of the rioters. "He put his hands up and ran,
and we shot until he fell. I understand that he is still alive. If he
is, he is a wonder. He was certainly shot enough to be killed."

The members of the mob readily admitted that they had taken part in the
assaults which marked the earlier part of the evening.

"We were up on Jackson Avenue and killed a Nigger on Villere Street. We
came down here, saw a nigger and killed him, too." This was the way they
told the story.

"Boys, we are out of ammunition," said someone.

"Well, we will keep on like we are, and if we can't get some before
morning, we will take it. We have got to keep this thing up, now we have
started."

This declaration was greeted by a chorus of applauding yells, and the
crowd started up the levee. Half of the men in the crowd, and they were
all of them young, were drunk.

Taylor, when seen at the charity hospital, was suffering greatly, and
presented a pitiable spectacle. His clothing was covered with blood, and
his face was beaten almost into a pulp. He said that he had gone to the
market to work and was quietly sitting down when the mob came and began
to fire on him. He was not aware at first that the crowd was after him.
When he saw its purpose he tried to run, but fell. He didn't know any of
the men in the crowd. There is hardly a chance that Taylor will recover.

The police told the crowd to move on, but no attempt was made to arrest
anyone.

+A GRAY-HAIRED VICTIM+

The bloodthirsty barbarians, having tasted blood, continued their hunt and soon ran across an old man of seventy-five years. His life had been spent in hard work about the French market, and he was well known as an unoffending, peaceable and industrious old man.

But that made no difference to the mob. He was a Negro, and with a fiendishness that was worse than that of cannibals they beat his life out. The report says:

There was another gang of men parading the streets in the lower part of
the city, looking for any stray Negro who might be on the streets. As
they neared the corner of Dauphine and Kerlerec, a square below
Esplanade Avenue, they came upon Baptiste Thilo, an aged Negro, who
works in the French Market.

Thilo for years has been employed by the butchers and fish merchants to
carry baskets from the stalls to the wagons, and unload the wagons as
they arrive in the morning. He was on his way to the market, when the
mob came upon him. One of the gang struck the old Negro, and as he fell,
another in the crowd, supposed to be a young fellow, fired a shot. The
bullet entered the body just below the right nipple.

As the Negro fell the crowd looked into his face and they discovered
then that the victim was very old. The young man who did the shooting
said: "Oh, he is an old Negro. I'm sorry that I shot him."

This is all the old Negro received in the way of consolation.

He was left where he fell, but later staggered to his feet and made his
way to the third precinct station. There the police summoned the
ambulance and the students pronounced the wound very dangerous. He was
carried to the hospital as rapidly as possible.

There was no arrest.

Just before daybreak the mob found another victim. He, too, was on his way to market, driving a meat wagon. But little is told of his treatment, nothing more than the following brief statement:

At nearly 3 o'clock this morning a report was sent to the Third Precinct
station that a Negro was lying on the sidewalk at the corner of Decatur
and St. Philip. The man had been pulled off of a meat wagon and riddled
with bullets.

When the police arrived he was insensible and apparently dying. The
ambulance students attended the Negro and pronounced the wounds fatal.

There was nothing found which would lead to the discovery of his
identity.

+FUN IN GRETNA+

If there are any persons so deluded as to think that human life in the South is valued any more than the life of a brute, he will be speedily undeceived by reading the accounts of unspeakable barbarism committed by the mob in and around New Orleans. In no other civilized country in the world, nay, more, in no land of barbarians would it be possible to duplicate the scenes of brutality that are reported from New Orleans. In the heat of blind fury one might conceive how a mad mob might beat and kill a man taken red-handed in a brutal murder. But it is almost past belief to read that civilized white people, men who boast of their chivalry and blue blood, actually had fun in beating, chasing and shooting men who had no possible connection with any crime.

But this actually happened in Gretna, a few miles from New Orleans. In its description of the scenes of Tuesday night, the _Picayune_ mentions the brutal chase of several colored men whom the mob sought to kill. In the instances mentioned, the paper said:

Gretna had its full share of excitement between 8 and 11 o'clock last
night, in connection with a report that spread through the town that a
Negro resembling the slayer of Police Captain Day, of New Orleans, had
been seen on the outskirts of the place.

It is true that a suspicious-looking Negro was observed by the residents
of Madison and Amelia Streets lurking about the fences of that
neighborhood just after dark, and shortly before 8 o'clock John Fist, a
young white man, saw the Negro on Fourth Street. He followed the darkey
a short distance, and, coming upon Robert Moore, who is known about town
as the "black detective," Fist pointed the Negro out and Moore at once
made a move toward the stranger. The latter observed Moore making in his
direction, and, without a word, he sped in the direction of the Brooklyn
pasture, Moore following and firing several shots at him. In a few
minutes a half hundred white men, including Chief of Police Miller,
Constable Dannenhauer, Patrolman Keegan and several special officers,
all well-armed, joined in the chase, but in the darkness the Negro
escaped.

Just as the pursuing party reached town again, two of the residents of
Lafayette Avenue, Peter Leson and Robert Henning, reported that they had
just chased and shot at a Negro, who had been seen in the yard of the
former's house. They were positive the Negro had not escaped from the
square. Their report was enough to set the appetite of the crowd on
edge, and the square was quickly surrounded, while several dozens of
men, armed with lanterns and revolvers, made a search of every yard and
under every house in the square. No Negro was found.

The crowd of armed men was constantly swelling, and at 10 o'clock it had
reached the proportions of a small army. At 10:30 o'clock an outbound
freight train is due to pass through Gretna on the Texas and Pacific
Road, and the crowd, believing that Captain Day's slayer might be aboard
one of the cars attempting to leave the scene of his crime, resolved to
inspect the train. As the train stopped at the Madison Street crossing
the engineer was requested to pull very slowly through the town, in
order that the trucks of the cars might be examined. There was a string
of armed men on each side of the railroad track and in a few moments a
Negro was espied riding between two cars. A half dozen weapons were
pointed at him and he was ordered to come out. He sprang out with
alacrity and was pounced upon almost before he reached the ground.
Robert Moore grabbed him and pushed an ugly-looking Derringer under his
nose and the Negro threw up both hands. Constable Dannenhauer and
Patrolman Keegan took charge of him and hustled him off to jail, where
he was locked up. The Negro does not at all resemble Robert Charles, but
it was best for his sake that he was placed under lock and key. The
crowd was not in a humor to let any Negro pass muster last night. The
prisoner gave his name as Luke Wallace.

But now came the real excitement. The train had slowed down almost to a
standstill, in the very heart of town. Somebody shouted: "There he goes,
on top of the train!" And sure enough, somebody was going. It was a
Negro, too, and he was making a bee-line for the front end of the train.
A veritable shower of bullets, shot and rifle balls greeted the flying
form, but on it sped. The locomotive had stopped in the middle of the
square between La voisier and Newton Streets, and the Negro, flying with
the speed of the wind along the top of the cars, reached the first car
of the train and jumped to the tender and then into the cab. As he did
several white men standing at the locomotive made a rush into the cab.
The Negro sprang swiftly out of the other side, on to the sidewalk. But
there were several more men, and as he realized that he was rushing
right into their arms he made a spring to leap over the fence of Mrs.
Linden's home, on the wood side of the track. Before the Negro got to
the top one white man had hold of his legs, while another rushed up,
pistol in hand. The man who was holding the darkey's legs was jostled
out of the way and the man with the pistol, standing directly beneath
the Negro, sent two bullets at him.

There was a wild scramble, and the vision of a fleeing form in the
Linden yard, but that was the last seen of the black man. The yard was
entered and searched, and neighboring yards were also searched, but not
even the trace of blood was found. It is almost impossible to believe
that the Negro was not wounded, for the man who fired at him held the
pistol almost against the Negro's body.

The shots brought out almost everybody--white--in town, and though there
was nothing to show for the exciting work, except the arrest of the
Negro, who doesn't answer the description of the man wanted, Gretna's
male population had its little fan and felt amply repaid for all the
trouble it was put to, and all the ammunition it wasted.

+BRUTALITY IN NEW ORLEANS+

Mob rule reigned supreme Wednesday, and the scenes that were enacted challenge belief. How many colored men and women were abused and injured is not known, for those who escaped were glad to make a place of refuge and took no time to publish their troubles. The mob made no attempt to find Charles; its only purpose was to pursue, beat and kill any colored man or woman who happened to come in sight. Speaking editorially, the _Picayune_ of Thursday, the twenty-sixth of July, said:

+ESCAPED WITH THEIR LIVES+

At the Charity Hospital Wednesday night more than a score of people were treated for wounds received at the hands of the mob. Some were able to tell of their mistreatment, and their recitals are briefly given in the _Picayune_ as follows:

Alex. Ruffin, who is quite seriously injured, is a Pullman car porter, a
native of Chicago. He reached New Orleans at 9:20 o'clock last night,
and after finishing his work, boarded a Henry Clay Avenue car to go to
Delachaise Street, where he has a sick son.

"I hadn't ridden any way," said he, "when I saw a lot of white folks.
They were shouting to 'Get the Niggers.' I didn't know they were after
every colored man they saw, and sat still. Two or three men jumped on
the car and started at me. One of them hit me over the head with a
slungshot, and they started to shooting at me. I jumped out of the car
and ran, although I had done nothing. They shot me in the arm and in the
leg. I would certainly have been killed had not some gentleman taken my
part. If I had known New Orleans was so excited I would never have left
my car."

George Morris is the name of a Negro who was badly injured by a mob
which went through the Poydras Market. Morris is employed as watchman
there. He heard the noise of the passing crowd and looked out to see
what the matter was. As soon as the mob saw him its members started
after him.

"One man hit me over the head with a club," said George, after his
wounds had been dressed, "and somebody cut me in the back. I didn't
hardly think what was the matter at first, but when I saw they were
after me I ran for my life. I ran to the coffee stand, where I work, for
protection, but they were right after me, and somebody shot me in the
back. At last the police got me away from the crowd. Just before I was
hit a friend of mine, who was in the crowd, said, 'You had better go
home, Nigger; they're after your kind.' I didn't know then what he
meant. I found out pretty quick."

Morris is at the hospital. He is a perfect wreck, and while he will
probably get well, he will have had a close call.

Esther Fields is a Negro washerwoman who lives at South Claiborne and
Toledano Streets. She was at home when she heard a big noise and went
out to investigate. She ran into the arms of the mob, and was beaten
into insensibility in less time than it takes to tell it. Esther is
being treated at the charity hospital, and should be able to get about
in a few days. The majority of her bruises are about the head.

T.P. Sanders fell at the hands of the Jackson Avenue mob. He lives at
1927 Jackson Avenue, and was sitting in front of his home when he saw
the crowd marching out the street. He stayed to see what the excitement
was all about, and was shot in the knee and thorax and horribly beaten
about the head before the mob came to the conclusion that he had been
done for, and passed on. The ambulance was called and he was picked up
and carried to the charity hospital, where his wounds were dressed and
pronounced serious.

Oswald McMahon is nothing more than a boy. He was shot in the leg and
afterward carried to the hospital. His injuries are very slight.

Dan White is another charity hospital patient. He is a Negro roustabout
and was sitting in the bar room at Poydras and Franklin Streets when a
mob passed along and espied him. He was shot in the hand, and would have
been roughly dealt with had some policeman not been luckily near and
rescued him.

In addition to the Negroes who suffered from the violence of the mob
there were several patients treated at the hospital during the night who
had been with the rioters and had been struck by stray bullets or
injured in scuffles. None of this class were hurt to any extent. They
got their wounds dressed and went out again.

+WAS CHARLES A DESPERADO?+

The press of the country has united in declaring that Robert Charles was a desperado. As usual, when dealing with a negro, he is assumed to be guilty because he is charged. Even the most conservative of journals refuse to ask evidence to prove that the dead man was a criminal, and that his life had been given over to lawbreaking. The minute that the news was flashed across the country that he had shot a white man it was at once declared that he was a fiend incarnate, and that when he was killed the community would be ridden of a black-hearted desperado. The reporters of the New Orleans papers, who were in the best position to trace the record of this man's life, made every possible effort to find evidence to prove that he was a villain unhung. With all the resources at their command, and inspired by intense interest to paint him as black a villain as possible, these reporters signally failed to disclose a single indictment which charged Robert Charles with a crime. Because they failed to find any legal evidence that Charles was a lawbreaker and desperado his accusers gave full license to their imagination and distorted the facts that they had obtained, in every way possible, to prove a course of criminality, which the records absolutely refuse to show.

Charles had his first encounter with the police Monday night, in which he was shot in the street duel which was begun by the police after Officer Mora had beaten Charles three or four times over the head with his billy in an attempt to make an illegal arrest. In defending himself against the combined attack of two officers with a billy and their guns upon him, Charles shot Officer Mora and escaped.

Early Tuesday morning Charles was traced to Dryades Street by officers who were instructed to kill him on sight. There, again defending himself, he shot and killed two officers. This, of course, in the eyes of the American press, made him a desperado. The New Orleans press, in substantiating the charges that he was a desperado, make statements which will be interesting to examine.

In the first place the _New Orleans Times-Democrat_, of July 25, calls Charles a "ravisher and a daredevil." It says that from all sources that could be searched "the testimony was cumulative that the character of the murderer, Robert Charles, is that of a daredevil and a fiend in human form." Then in the same article it says:

The belongings of Robert Charles which were found in his room were a
complete index to the character of the man. Although the room and its
contents were in a state of chaos on account of the frenzied search for
clews by officers and citizens, an examination of his personal effects
revealed the mental state of the murderer and the rancor in his heart
toward the Caucasian race. Never was the adage, "A little learning is a
dangerous thing," better exemplified than in the case of the negro who
shot to death the two officers.

His room was searched, and the evidence upon which the charge that he was a desperado consisted of pamphlets in support of Negro emigration to Liberia. On his mantel-piece there was found a bullet mold and an outfit for reloading cartridges. There were also two pistol scabbards and a bottle of cocaine. The other evidences that Charles was a desperado the writer described as follows:

In his room were found negro periodicals and other "race" propaganda,
most of which was in the interest of the negro's emigration to Liberia.
There were Police Gazettes strewn about his room and other papers of a
similar character. Well-worn textbooks, bearing his name written in his
own scrawling handwriting, and well-filled copybooks found in his trunk
showed that he had burnt the midnight oil, and was desirous of improving
himself intellectually in order that he might conquer the hated white
race. Much of the literature found among his chattels was of a
superlatively vituperative character, and attacked the white race in
unstinted language and asserted the equal rights of the Negro.

Charles was evidently the local agent of the _Voice of Missions_, a
"religious" paper, published at Atlanta, as great bundles of that sheet
were found. It is edited by one Bishop Turner, and seems to be the
official organ of all haters of the white race. Its editorials are
anarchistic in the extreme, and urge upon the negro that the sooner he
realizes that he is as good as the white man the better it will be for
him. The following verses were clipped from the journal; they were
marked "till forbidden," and appeared in several successive numbers:

OUR SENTIMENTS

H.M.T.

My country, 'tis of thee,
Dear land of Africa,
Of thee we sing.
Land where our fathers died,
Land of the Negro's pride,
God's truth shall ring.

My native country, thee,
Land of the black and free,
Thy name I love;
To see thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and matchless hills,
Like that above.

When all thy slanderous ghouls,
In the bosom of sheol,
Forgotten lie,
Thy monumental name shall live,
And suns thy royal brow shall gild,
Upheaved to heaven high,
O'ertopping thrones.

There were no valuables in his room, and if he was a professional thief
he had his headquarters for storing his plunder at some other place than
his room on Fourth Street. Nothing was found in his room that could lead
to the belief that he was a thief, except fifty or more small bits of
soap. The inference was that every place he visited he took all of the
soap lying around, as all of the bits were well worn and had seen long
service on the washstand.

His wearing apparel was little more than rags, and financially he was
evidently not in a flourishing condition. He was in no sense a skilled
workman, and his room showed, in fact, that he was nothing more than a
laborer.

The "philosopher in the garret" was a dirty wretch, and his room, his
bedding and his clothing were nasty and filthy beyond belief. His object
in life seemed to have been the discomfiture of the white race, and to
this purpose he devoted himself with zeal. He declared himself to be a
"patriot," and wished to be the Moses of his race.

Under the title of "The Making of a Monster," the reporter attempts to give "something of the personality of the archfiend, Charles." Giving his imagination full vent the writer says:

It is only natural that the deepest interest should attach to the
personality of Robert Charles. What manner of man was this fiend
incarnate? What conditions developed him? Who were his preceptors? From
what ancestral strain, if any, did he derive his ferocious hatred of the
whites, his cunning, his brute courage, the apostolic zeal which he
displayed in spreading the propaganda of African equality? These are
questions involving one of the most remarkable psychological problems of
modern times.

In answer to the questions which he propounds, the reporter proceeds to admit that he did not learn anything of a very desperate nature connected with Charles. He says:

Although Charles was a familiar figure to scores of Negroes in New
Orleans, and they had been more or less intimately acquainted with him
for over two years, curiously little can be learned of his habits or
mode of life. Since the perpetration of his terrible series of crimes it
goes without saying that his former friends are inclined to be reticent,
but it is reasonably certain that they have very little to tell. In
regard to himself, Charles was singularly reticent for a Negro. He did
not even indulge in the usual lying about his prowess and his
adventures. This was possibly due to the knowledge that he was wanted
for a couple of murders. The man had sense enough to know that it would
be highly unwise to excite any curiosity about his past.

When Charles first came to New Orleans he worked here and there as a day
laborer. He was employed at different times in a sawmill, on the street
gangs, as a roustabout on the levee, as a helper at the sugar works and
as a coal shoveler in the engine room of the St. Charles Hotel. At each
of the places where he worked he was known as a quiet, rather surly
fellow, who had little to say to anybody, and generally performed his
tasks in morose silence. He managed to convey the impression, however,
of being a man of more than ordinary intelligence.

A Negro named William Butts, who drives a team on the levee and lives on
Washington Street, near Baronne, told a _Times-Democrat_ reporter
yesterday that Charles got a job about a year ago as agent for a
Liberian Immigration Society, which has headquarters at Birmingham, and
was much elated at the prospect of making a living without hard labor.

According to the further investigations of this reporter, Charles was also agent for Bishop Turner's _Voice of Missions_, the colored missionary organ of the African Methodist Church, edited by H.M. Turner, of Atlanta, Georgia. Concerning his service as agent for the _Voice of Missions_, the reporter says:

He secured a number of subscribers and visited them once a month to
collect the installments. In order to insure regular payments it was
necessary to keep up enthusiasm, which was prone to wane, and Charles
consequently became an active and continual preacher of the propaganda
of hatred. Whatever may have been his private sentiments at the outset,
this constant harping on one string must eventually have had a powerful
effect upon his own mind.

Exactly how he received his remuneration is uncertain, but he told
several of his friends that he got a "big commission." Incidentally he
solicited subscribers for a Negro paper called the _Voice of the
Missions_, and when he struck a Negro who did not want to go to Africa
himself, he begged contributions for the "good of the cause."

In the course of time Charles developed into a fanatic on the subject of
the Negro oppression and neglected business to indulge in wild tirades
whenever he could find a listener. He became more anxious to make
converts than to obtain subscribers, and the more conservative darkies
began to get afraid of him. Meanwhile he got into touch with certain
agitators in the North and made himself a distributing agent for their
literature, a great deal of which he gave away. Making money was a
secondary consideration to "the cause."

One of the most enthusiastic advocates of the Liberian scheme is the
colored Bishop H.M. Turner, of Atlanta. Turner is a man of unusual
ability, has been over to Africa personally several times, and has made
himself conspicuous by denouncing laws which he claimed discriminated
against the blacks. Charles was one of the bishop's disciples and
evidence has been found that seems to indicate they were in
correspondence.

This was all that the _Times-Democrat_'s reporters could find after the most diligent search to prove that Charles was the fiend incarnate which the press of New Orleans and elsewhere declared him to be.

The reporters of the _New Orleans Picayune_ were no more successful than their brethren of the _Times-Democrat_. They, too, were compelled to substitute fiction for facts in their attempt to prove Charles a desperado. In the issue of the twenty-sixth of July it was said that Charles was well known in Vicksburg, and was there a consort of thieves. They mentioned that a man named Benson Blake was killed in 1894 or 1895, and that four Negroes were captured, and two escaped. Of the two escaped they claim that Charles was one. The four negroes who were captured were put in jail, and as usual, in the high state of civilization which characterizes Mississippi, the right of the person accused of crime to an indictment by legal process and a legal trial by jury was considered an useless formality if the accused happened to be black. A mob went to the jail that night, the four colored men were delivered to the mob, and all four were hanged in the court-house yard. The reporters evidently assumed that Charles was guilty, if, in fact, he was ever there, because the other four men were lynched. They did not consider it was a fact of any importance that Charles was never indicted. They called him a murderer on general principles.

+DIED IN SELF-DEFENSE+

The life, character and death of Robert Charles challenges the thoughtful consideration of all fair-minded people. In the frenzy of the moment, when nearly a dozen men lay dead, the victims of his unerring and death-dealing aim, it was natural for a prejudiced press and for citizens in private life to denounce him as a desperado and a murderer. But sea depths are not measured when the ocean rages, nor can absolute justice be determined while public opinion is lashed into fury. There must be calmness to insure correctness of judgment. The fury of the hour must abate before we can deal justly with any man or any cause.

That Charles was not a desperado is amply shown by the discussion in the preceding chapter. The darkest pictures which the reporters could paint of Charles were quoted freely, so that the public might find upon what grounds the press declared him to be a lawbreaker. Unquestionably the grounds are wholly insufficient. Not a line of evidence has been presented to prove that Charles was the fiend which the first reports of the New Orleans charge him to be.

Nothing more should be required to establish his good reputation, for the rule is universal that a reputation must be assumed to be good until it is proved bad. But that rule does not apply to the Negro, for as soon as he is suspected the public judgment immediately determines that he is guilty of whatever crime he stands charged. For this reason, as a matter of duty to the race, and the simple justice to the memory of Charles, an investigation has been made of the life and character of Charles before the fatal affray which led to his death.

Robert Charles was not an educated man. He was a student who faithfully investigated all the phases of oppression from which his race has suffered. That he was a student is amply shown by the _Times-Democrat_ report of the twenty-fifth, which says:

"Well-worn textbooks, bearing his name written in his own scrawling handwriting, and well-filled copy-books found in his trunk, showed that he had burned the midnight oil, and desired to improve himself intellectually in order that he might conquer the hated white race." From this quotation it will be seen that he spent the hours after days of hard toil in trying to improve himself, both in the study of textbooks and in writing.

He knew that he was a student of a problem which required all the intelligence that a man could command, and he was burning his midnight oil gathering knowledge that he might better be able to come to an intelligent solution. To his aid in the study of this problem he sought the aid of a Christian newspaper, the _Voice of Missions_, the organ of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. He was in communication with its editor, who is a bishop, and is known all over this country as a man of learning, a lover of justice and the defender of law and order. Charles could receive from Bishop Turner not a word of encouragement to be other than an earnest, tireless and God-fearing student of the complex problems which affected the race.

For further help and assistance in his studies, Charles turned to an organization which has existed and flourished for many years, at all times managed by men of high Christian standing and absolute integrity. These men believe and preach a doctrine that the best interests of the Negro will be subserved by an emigration from America back to the Fatherland, and they do all they can to spread the doctrine of emigration and to give material assistance to those who desire to leave America and make their future homes in Africa. This organization is known as "The International Migration Society." It has its headquarters in Birmingham, Alabama. From this place it issues pamphlets, some of which were found, in the home of Robert Charles, and which pamphlets the reporters of the New Orleans papers declare to be incendiary and dangerous in their doctrine and teaching.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Copies of any and all of them may be secured by writing to D.J. Flummer, who is President and in charge of the home office in Birmingham, Alabama. Three of the pamphlets found in Charles's room are named respectively:

First, _Prospectus of the Liberian Colonization Society_; which pamphlet in a few brief pages tells of the work of the society, plans, prices and terms of transportation of colored people who choose to go to Africa. These pages are followed by a short, conservative discussion of the Negro question, and close with an argument that Africa furnishes the best asylum for the oppressed Negroes in this country.