The Forged Note: A Romance of the Darker Races

Title: The Forged Note: A Romance of the Darker Races

Author: Oscar Micheaux

Illustrator: C. W. Heller

Release date: April 27, 2012 [eBook #39548] Most recently updated: December 15, 2013

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39548

Credits: Produced by Cathy Maxam and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

NOTES FROM THE JACKET DUSTCOVER OF THE FORGED NOTE:

It is sometimes asked what inspires people to begin to write. Many reasons may be given, but in this particular instance, a brief statement of the author's experiences might be of interest.

At the age of twenty-one he was a homesteader on the Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, where he was about the only Negro settler. At twenty-six he was prosperous; and when another strip of the famous reservation was thrown open to settlement, he helped some of his relatives to secure land by furnishing money with which to purchase relinquishments on homesteads and other expenses. He also secured for a young lady another homestead, upon which she made filings. Six months later they were married and then went to live on her homestead.

She was the daughter of a minister in one of the leading Negro churches and was well educated, loved her husband devotedly—to all appearances—and they were happy.

Her father and husband represented beings with different points of view, and on this account an enmity grew up between them. The husband had often publicly criticised some of the leaders in his race as not being sincere, particularly many of the preachers. A year after the marriage, the preacher paid his second visit and when the husband was away, to indicate his dislike for the pioneer, he had his daughter, who was sick in bed, forge her husband's name to a check for a large sum, secured the money and took his daughter to his home in Chicago.

The homestead had been contested previous to this, and the minister had denounced the white man (a banker), who filed the contest, scathingly for trying to beat his daughter out of her homestead. Left alone after her departure, with only his ninety-year-old grandmother, who had raised a family in the days of slavery, for company, Mr. Micheaux wrote his first book. In the meantime, the case dragged through all the land courts at Washington, being finally settled by Secretary of the Interior Lane in her favor. About this time, the book appeared, and was called "THE CONQUEST".

In this was told anonymously the story of a base intrigue on the part of the preacher to vent his spite. The white banker, whose bank in the meantime had failed, read the book, and understood.... He went to Chicago and sent the preacher money to Cairo to come to Chicago, which the preacher did. Although unsuccessful in his effort before the government to beat Mr. Micheaux's wife out of her homestead, which had cost Mr. Micheaux thirty-five hundred dollars and which at that time was worth six thousand dollars, the banker succeeded in having the preacher persuade his daughter to sell him the homestead, giving her in consideration, only three hundred dollars.[A]

[A] Note—Until a homestead is commuted—proved up on—it may be relinquished by the holder without any person's or persons' consent. The woman, therefore, in this case could sell the homestead without her husband's consent.

"Nice,—Hell! How long do you figure those church people would kite you about, if I told them what you were back in—you know where?"

THE FORGED NOTE

They stood together now upon the walkway, and suddenly he gripped her hand.

They regarded the clock strangely, and uttered audibly, "Eighteen minutes left," and in the meantime it tick-tocked the fatal minutes away.

THE FORGED NOTE

A Romance of the Darker Races

BY

OSCAR MICHEAUX

Author of "The Conquest"

ILLUSTRATED BY C.W. HELLER

Lincoln, Nebraska WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY 1915

COPYRIGHT, 1915

BY

Woodruff Bank Note Co.

All rights reserved

"Has it occurred to you that you have told me nothing, absolutely nothing, about yourself?" The look she gave him was severe; but he only regarded her strangely.

Press of the Woodruff Bank Note Co. Lincoln, Nebr.

Murphy conducted a blind tiger in his loft; he also ran a crap game in connection; and it was his place that "Legs" visited frequently.

"I own the L. & N. Railroad."

TO ONE WHOSE NAME DOES NOT APPEAR I am leaving you and Dixie land tomorrow. It is customary perhaps to say, "Dear Old Dixie" but, since I happen to be from that little place off in the northwest, of which I have fondly told you, the Rosebud Country, where I am returning at once, and which is the only place that is dear to me, I could not conscientiously use the other term. Still, I am grateful, and well I should be; for, had I not spent these eighteen months down here, I could never have written this story. No imagination, positively not mine, could have created "Slim", "T. Toddy", "Legs", "John Moore", et al. I really knew them. I haven't even changed their names, since what's the use? They, unless by chance, will never know, for, as I knew them, they never read. Only one of them I am sure ever owned a book. That one did, however, and that I know, for he stole my dictionary before I left the town. Whatever he expected to do with it, is a puzzle to me, but since it was leather-bound, I think he imagined it was a Bible. He was very fond of Bibles, and I recall

that was the only thing he read. He is in jail now, so I understand; which is no surprise, since he visited there quite often in the six months I knew him. As to "Legs", I have no word; but since summer time has come, I am sure "Slim" has either gone into "business" or is "preaching." "T. Toddy" was pretty shaky when I saw him last, and I wouldn't be surprised if he were not now in Heaven. And still, with what he threatened to do to me when he was informed that I had written of him in a book, he may be in the other place, who knows! I recall it with a tremor. We were in a restaurant some time after the first threat, but at that time, he appeared to understand that I had written nothing bad concerning him, and we were quite friendly. He told of himself and his travels, relating a trip abroad, to Liverpool and London. In the course of his remarks, he told that he used to run down from Liverpool to London every morning, since it was just over the hill a mile, and could be seen from Liverpool whenever the fog lifted. He advised me a

bit remonstratingly, that, since I had written of him in the book, if I had come to him in advance, he would have told me something of himself to put into it that would have interested the world. I suggested that it was not then too late, and that he should make a copy of it. He intimated that it would be worth something and I agreed with him, and told him I would give him fifty cents. He said that would be satisfactory, but he wanted it then in advance. I wouldn't agree to that, but told him that he would have to give me a brief of his life, where and when he was born, if he had been, also where and when he expected to die, etc. first. He got "mad" then and threatened to do something "awful". Took himself outside and opened a knife, the blade of which had been broken, and was then about a half inch long, and told me to come out, whereupon he would show me my heart. As he waited vainly for me, he took on an expression that made him appear the worst man in all the world. I did not, of course go out, and told him so—through the window.

That was the end of it—and of him, so far as I know. But you can understand by this how near I have been to death in your Dixie Land. When I come back it will not be for "color"; but—well, I guess you know. New Orleans, La., August 1, 1915. O.M.

He awakened from a strange dream. The Bible had fallen to the floor, and lay open at a chapter under which was written, "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL!"

"A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's up to the daughter—and I've failed!"

She had never felt that he would rebuke her, but now she turned her head away to shut out the scorn in the look he had given her.

"Wha's yo' man?" "I—I have no man," Mildred replied, turning her face away. "I am alone—alone in everything."

"That last woman I married" said Slim, "was such a devil she almost made me lose my religion."

THE FORGED NOTE

CHARACTERS

Sydney Wyeth, An Observer, Who had the Courage of His Convictions.

Mildred Latham, A Girl of Mystery, Whose Fortunes are What We Follow.

Furgeson and Thurman, Originals, Who Possessed some Wit and Humor.

B.J. Dickson, An Editor, and a Fighter of the Right Sort.

V.R. Coleman, (Slim) A Summertime Professor and "Business Man". (?)

"Legs", a "Crap Shooter", Who Reformed and Became a Hero.

John Moore, A Character, Who Read the Bible—and did Other Things.

Miss Palmer, Grasswidow and School Teacher, Who Desired to Remarry.

Dr. Randall, A Druggist, Who Knew Everybody's Business.

Wilson Jacobs, A Minister, Who Works for Uplift among Black People.

Constance Jacobs, His Sister, a Friend of the Girl of Mystery.

Stephen Myer, With a Heart, but a Sinner, Who Died and Went to——.

[Pg 15]

THE FORGED NOTE

BOOK I.

CHAPTER ONE

The Barrier

He sat at a desk in the small office he had taken. Before him were papers and bills—unpaid—and letters too, he had not opened, while to one side were others he had read, and had typed replies thereto. He had paused in his work, and was gazing stupidly at the litter before him.

His name was Sidney Wyeth, and his home was away off in the great northwest, in a strip of territory known as the Rosebud Country. As we meet him now, however, he is located on the fifth floor of an office building, slightly toward the outskirts of the business district of one of our great American cities. He is by profession an author, which might explain his presence at a desk. It happens, however, that he is not there this time as a weaver of dreams, but attending to matter in connection with the circulation of his work, for he is his own publisher.

At that moment, however, he was nothing, for he was sick. For days he had felt a strange illness. Obviously it had almost reached an acute stage; for, apparently unable to maintain an upright position at the desk, he presently stretched himself face downward.

He might have been in this position an hour, or it might have been only a few minutes; but of a sudden he was brought to a position again erect, with ears alert, since he was sure he had heard a sound without. He strained his ears in silence.

Outside, a soft rain was falling. As he continued to listen, his gaze wandered out over the city below, with its medley of buildings that rose to various heights, and sparkled with electric lights. His gaze, in drifting, presently surveyed the main street of the city, an[Pg 16] unusually wide thoroughfare, filled with the accustomed traffic. Beyond lay the harbor, for the city is a great port, and the same was then filled with innumerable vessels from far and near. A huge man-o-war arrested his attention for a while, and then his gaze wandered further. A wind had risen, from the way the water was dashed to spray against the windows. The sound of a clock striking five resounded through the damp air, and echoed in stentorian tones. It was late-winter, but, due perhaps to the overcast skies, twilight was rapidly fading into darkness.

Failing to hear any further sound, he presently resumed his tired position, and a few minutes later was lost in a sickly slumber.

There could be no mistake now! A step sounded in the hallway. It was a light step, but firm and brisk and forward. It was unmistakably that of a young woman. Onward it came in the direction of his small office. There was a brief pause when the footsteps reached the door, and then a knock, but without response from within. Presently the door was pushed open, and the intruder entered the room lightly. Still, Sidney Wyeth, unconscious of the presence of his visitor, did not move or speak.

The stranger paused hesitatingly, when once inside, and observed him closely, where he sat with his face buried in his arms.

She was an attractive colored girl, trimly dressed in a striking, dark-blue tailored suit, cut in the latest fashion. A small hat reposed jauntily upon her head, while a wealth of dark hair was gathered in a heavy mass over her ears. Her delicately molded face, set off by a figure seemingly designed by an artist, were sufficient to captivate the most discriminating critic.

A thin dark strap extended over one shoulder, at the ends of which a small case was attached. Presently she drew a book from this same case, and crossed the room to where the man sat.

"Good evening," she ventured, pausing at his side, and fumbling the book she had taken from the case, in[Pg 17] evident embarrassment. He mumbled something inaudible, but remained silent. His outwardly indifferent reception had not a discouraging effect upon his visitor, however, for no sooner had she caught the sound of his voice, than she fell into a concentrated explanation of the book.

Soft and low, in spite of the rapid flow of words, her voice fell upon his ears, and served to arouse him at last from his apparent lethargy; but it was not that alone which made him rise to a half sitting posture, and strain his ears. It was a peculiar familiarity in the tone. As he continued to listen, he became convinced that somewhere, in the months gone by, he had heard that voice before. "Where was it?" he whispered, but, in his sluggish thoughts, he could not then recall. There was one thing of which there was no doubt, however, and which added strangely to the mystery. She was explaining his own book, The Tempest.

At last, in his morbid thoughts, he gave up trying to connect the voice with a person he had once known, and, with a tired, long drawn sigh, raised his hand wearily to his head, and grasped it as if in pain. The flow of words ceased at once, and the voice now cried, with a note of pain, and plainly embarrassed:

"You are ill and I have disturbed you! Oh, I'm so sorry! Can you overlook—pardon such an awkward blunder?" She clasped her hands helplessly, and was plainly distressed. And then, as if seized with a sudden inspiration, she cried, in a low, subdued voice: "I'll make a light and bathe your forehead! You seem to have fever!"

Turning nimbly, and before he could object, had he wished to, she crossed quickly to where a small basin hung from the wall; above this was an electric button, which could be seen in the semi-darkness. Touching this, whereupon the room became aglow with light, she caught up a towel; and, dampening one end, she recrossed to where he sat, strangely stupid, and, without hesitation, placed the wet end over his burning forehead, and held it there for possibly a minute.[Pg 18]

"Now," she inquired softly, in a tone of solicitous relief, "do you feel better?"

As she concluded, she stepped where she could see his face more easily, and sought his eyes anxiously. The next moment, both recoiled in sudden recognition, as he cried:

"You!"

She was likewise astonished, and, after only a fraction of a moment, but in which she regarded him with an expression that was akin to an appeal, she likewise exclaimed:

"And you!" Quickly she became composed; and, catching up the book, as though discovered in some misdemeanor, with a hurried, parting glance, without another word, she abruptly left the room.

She was gone, but his brain was in a tumult.

And then the illness, that had been hovering over him for some time, like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later, with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick.

It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of advertising his book, The Tempest in that city. It was just preceding an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it was then he became acquainted with Jackson.

Now, being of an observant turn of mind, Wyeth took an interest in the state of affairs. He found the city very much worked up on his arrival. He had not yet secured accommodation, but, while standing on a corner after checking his luggage in a nearby drug-store, he was gazing up and down the street taking in the sights.

"Gentlemen," said someone, and turning, Wyeth and his companion looked upon a man. He was a large mulatto with curly hair, small eyes, a sharp nose, a firm chin, and an unusually small mouth for a Negro. He was dressed in a dark suit, the worse for wear, while his shoes appeared never to have been shined—in fact, his appearance was not altogether inviting. And yet, there was[Pg 19] something about the man that drew Wyeth's attention, and he listened carefully to what he said. "You seem to be strangers in the city, and of co'se will requiah lodgin'. He'ah is my ca'd," he said, extending the bit of paste board upon which Sidney read at a glance

THE JACKSON HOUSE

FIRST CLASS ROOMS, TRANSIENT OR REGULAR

OPEN DAY AND NIGHT

"I'm the proprietor and the place is at yo' disposal. Supposin' you stop with me while youah in the city. I'll sho treat y' right."

Sidney believed him, but his appearance made him hesitant. He looked questioningly at his companion. The other's expression was unfavorable to Jackson. So, after a pause and a perfunctory nod, they dismissed him and proceeded to look further in quest of accommodation.

An hour or more was thus lost, and, being unable to find a room that satisfied them, they at last, with some reluctance, found their way to The Jackson House.

Inspection still left them dissatisfied, but it was getting late, so they decided to spend the night. Jackson showed them to what he termed his "best room." Wyeth looked with evident disfavor about the walls that were heavy with cob webs, while the windowsill was as heavy with dust. Jackson, following his gaze, hastily offered apology and excuse.

"Eve'thing needs a little dusting up, and the reason you happen to find things as you do, is because I've been so busy with politics of late, that I have jes' nach'elly neglected my business".

Ah! That was it, thought Sidney. He had felt this man was in some way out of the ordinary. "So you're a politician?" he queried, observing him carefully now.

"You hit it, son," he chuckled. "Yeh; that's my line, sho." Turning now, with his face wreathed in smiles, he continued: "Big 'lection on in a few days, too."

"So I understand," said Sidney. "I shall be glad to talk with you regarding the same at your convenience later," and, paying him for the room, they betook themselves to the street.[Pg 20]

Election day was on, and Jackson was the busiest man in town. He was what may be called a "good mixer," to say the least, and Sidney and he had become good friends. So said Jackson that morning.

"Got a big job on t'day, kid; yeh, a big job."

"So...."

"Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo'ty nigga's, 'n', 'f youah 'quainted wi' ouh fo'kes, you c'n 'preciate what I'm up ag'inst."

"Indeed...."

"Yeh; nigga's o'nry y' know; and lie lak dogs; but I'm 'n' ole han' at the bus'ness, cause that's my line. Yeh. Been votin' nigga's in this precinct now fo' mor'n thi'ty yeahs, so you'n see I autta know what I'm 'bout."

"I'd bet on that."

Jackson chuckled again. "The fust and wo'st difficulty is the dinge's ig'nance". Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and explained it at some length. "Now we gotta pu'ty faih line up on this ticket this trip—'co'se the's a lotta suckers on it that I'd lak t' see scratched; but we cain' affo'd to take the risk, 'cause it's lak this. Nigga's so ig'nant 'n' pig headed they'd sho spile it all 'f we tried to have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them t' vote straight. Get me, Steve?"