CHAPTER SIX

_The Black Cavalry's Charge--"Onward Boys!"_

"Mildred, my Mildred, where are you, dear heart?" said Wilson Jacobs, as he hurried in the direction of his home, after he had overheard the words of the two men. He was in a turmoil of excitement. He had reached no decision as to what he would do, that is, as to how he would find her; but he was determined that he would search the city to the very doors, until he found and brought back that girl to his home.

"She is being persecuted, being hounded out of her life, as she has been out of the place she called her home--and by those brutes." And he trembled with anger, as he thought of the dastardly creatures who were pursuing her.

"I could corner that brute and make him confess what is behind this mystery; but then I have overheard him admit that she has eluded him; therefore, that would be useless. Until he ascertains her whereabouts, it would be foolish even to whip the cur for his villainy." One thing he decided on 'ere he had gone far in his reflections, and that was to keep it from his sister. It would only serve to upset her more, and she was worried enough already.

"My poor, dear little girl; my brave little girl; and you must bear this burden and sorrow all alone," he murmured in a strained voice, as he approached his abode. "Somewhere in this city she is in fear tonight, in fear of these dark creatures. I would give half my life to find her this very night. Oh, that I had some clue! She would not have me find her, but that is a matter that I would waive aside. Her happiness, even her very life, is in danger. And, whatever this evil may be, I will never believe, even from her own lips, that Mildred Latham is guilty of any act that would not become a lady. Somewhere in the past, she has, in some way, become involved, and this, in some manner, is the occasion of the mystery; but I have faith in her above all others." And so, with this thought, he entered the house and his room, where he walked for hours trying to form some plan of action.

"I will find her. I _must_ find her," he declared, with compressed lips, time and again; but, as to how, no way seemed clear. "I must leave Monday on the mission, and I must try to find her before then. I don't care what it is--has been, and might be in the future--I love you, Mildred, I love you--nothing else matters. I have faith in you; I believe in you above all others; with your presence, under my protection, I feel I could do the things you had faith I could do!" He almost raved at times, during the still hours that followed.

All the kind words she had said to him in the months gone by, came back to him as he trod the floor--thinking, thinking, thinking. "You will succeed; you will become, 'ere long, a leader of men," she had said once. "For it is you, courageous, with the strength of your convictions, this race needs; and it is you they will eventually find."

She had said this with all the fervor of her soul. And he had listened; he had hoped, and then he had worked. Yes, Wilson Jacobs had worked hard to raise those few thousands, that would revert back to the donors in four weeks, if a preponderous sum was not raised by midnight of December thirty-first. December thirty-first, midnight? God, how that sounded in his ears now. The fateful night! One minute after that hour, sixty-seven thousand dollars, waiting from other sources than the black people of this town, would be no longer available. Seventy-three thousand dollars for the future moral welfare of thousands of young men of this race would no longer be available, unless he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise twenty-seven thousand dollars in a day over three weeks.

That was his burden.

If he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise such an amount, innumerable black children yearly, and until the end of time, oh, how long.... _Until the end of time_, would be saved and have their chance, their great chance, to become _men_! How much they needed it, these black youth! Only to see any daily, _every_ daily paper, would answer this! And how much would they appreciate it? Yes, how much would they appreciate it?... And yet, what did that matter?... Yes, there were plenty who would say off-hand, "They would not know how to appreciate it; they are incapable of appreciating it." ... But that was from those who did not think deeply--and, yes, the majority, by far, of this race to which he belonged, did not think deeply. But Wilson Jacobs did. He had made it a part of his young life to think deeply, and in the interest of those who needed him.

And _now_ they needed him. Oh, _how_ much they needed him, and how _much_ strength he needed to raise twenty-seven thousand dollars before midnight of December thirty-first!

"Black people _do_ appreciate that which is for their good; but, _be merciful, dear God_, they know it not. But they _will_, and when they _do_ come to know it, how _much_ life, how _much_ feeling and enthusiasm they will exert! _And may we not say the same of all of us!_"

He had been a very young man when his country--yes, _his_ country--regardless of the fact that many of this race now said, with pent up anger, "This is not _our_ country, it's the _white man's_ country." How much bitterness they put into the words, he could not soon forget; but this _was his_ country, and he proclaimed it as such, and had enlisted and gone away to that little island to the southeast.

He was with that cavalry; that cavalry of black men. And when thousands of aimless bullets poured upon America's greatest cavalry (commanded by the greatest American citizen since one immortal one, who met his death cruelly, but for _this_ country), and tumbled them from the saddles like so many playthings, he would never forget that battle cry, "Onward boys!" And from another direction, they came, _black men_. Up a hill that was forbidding in the abruptness of its ascent, they went. Under the heavy fire of the enemy, they did not flinch.

What they did on that memorable day in our modern history, the world knows. And if a part of our citizens _did_ not appreciate it at this date, one did. And he proved it in after-years. So, when he heard these poor men of his race now bemoan their fate, crying "This is a white man's country. We have none!" he sighed, and felt pity in his heart for them.

After the war, he had gone to Arizona, and spent one summer there at a ranch during his vacation. And this ranch was among the Navajo's. Dull, listless, inert creatures they were. They did nothing to make this country a better place in which to live, and they had _never_ done so, nor were they ever likely to. But, in spite of that, they are the primitive inhabitants and heroes; but not in the best sense, could anyone live among those people three months and conscientiously regard them as _men_. And yet they were given every consideration, while black men were thrust aside. And this was after three hundred years, out of which two hundred and fifty were spent in developing that which is called Dixie.

And, in spite of these conditions, Wilson Jacobs was the most optimistic of all men. He conscientiously believed that this was a black man's as well as a white man's country. Yes, he heard those others say: "This is a white man's country!" and they said it very loudly; but these same men were the scions of those who had tried, at the price of all their wealth and blood, to divide it. He never let his memory dwell upon this. Other black men did, though. So much so, that they made themselves unfit for this new generation. What has been done, he always considered could never be undone. If prejudice against his people was the custom here, prejudice against the Jew elsewhere, was usual also. "But it isn't right!" they would deplore. And, of course, he could only agree that it wasn't. To hate thy brother, is contrary to the laws of Christianity, under which we live.... But the prejudice remained after all that could be said. "It's growing worse!" they cried. "Yes, it appears to grow worse," he also agreed. "Then, what have you to say?" And he answered: "Nothing!" And then asked: "And you?" "Nothing!" "Then, what are we to do? Become examples of dull inertia by grieving over it, or shall we struggle to become _men_, and through the strength of our mind and bodies, make this a better place in which to live, if only for ourselves? For live, we must. Not since the beginning of the world have ten million souls sunk into oblivion." The pessimist always departed at this point.

After all, Jacobs felt sorry and pitied both--the ones who bemoaned their fate, and those who boasted. Both were in error. For, regardless of what was said, he loved America, his home and "_a man's country_"!

So, when college had given Wilson Jacobs his degree, he drifted about for a year among his people. He had never thought of the ministry as a vocation. And it was only when he had seen his people as they were--not altogether as they _ought_ to be, did he appreciate the fact that he might be able to help them. He had learned while at school, but more in actual life, that Jesus lived and died as a moral example. But his people saw only the individual.

So back to school he had gone, where he studied five long years, to fit himself for his present calling. His success was yet to come. Mildred Latham had said _it would come_. "Oh, Mildred! For you I would go through eternity," he declared feverishly. But only the silent walls answered him.

After many hours, he retired. The sun was shining, although it was December, when he heard Constance calling him to breakfast. How much he would have liked to have said: "Constance, Mildred is somewhere in this town, our Mildred! She is being persecuted, Constance, our Mildred is being persecuted--being hounded out of the sweet life we know she lived, and inspired in those about her!" And he knew that Constance would say: "Go forth, my brother, and find her; bring her back into our home, that we may love her and make her our sister, for it is as such she was, and more, these many months." That was the spirit of the Jacobs. But he kept his peace, and ate in silence.

Monday came, a cold, dreary day. Snow fell all over the country, and Dixie land, far south, was white mantled. Wilson Jacobs went to the depot, for he was leaving on a great mission. Would he succeed? He hoped so; others hoped so; and Constance hoped so, as well as Mildred Latham.

But he never knew.