Speaker 1: Shadow, a Christmas story by Harry Stillwell Edwards. A Negro convict, awake,
lay on his back in the log barracks. Wearied forms
stretched out in slumber in long lines. To the right
and left of him, a chain ran from his shackles,
as from theirs, to a stout beam, holding him prisoner.
He was only a boy when the shackles were riveted
on his ankles. His crime an error born of ignorance
and lack of moral training. Six years had passed since,
Dazed and terrified, he had been led from the court house,
and at twenty he still owed the state of Alabama
fourteen years of servitude. Life for him had been fierce
and full of agony. Down in the black darkness of
coal mines, he had labored until accident made him useless
and gave him back to daylight and the great green
world above. Life then settled into the dull routine of
the camp and a hostler's duties. The darkness behind him
a nightmare, the days of his lost freedom a dream.
The freedom to come was too far away for his
imagination to compass. From the right and left of him
came the deep breathing of tired men sleep with the
convict is rest in the full and perfect significance of
the word, and he plunges into it after his coarse
evening meal, as into a tide. That which kept the
boy awake was necessarily something novel. It was not pain,
had he not felt the lash and the crush of
falling coal, nor sorrow. For behind him, among the far
away Georgia hills was a cabin about which, as a
child he had played as all children play, and the sad,
undying memory of it shut out all other sorrows. Nor
was it a mere yearning for freedom that had long
since given place to dull, unlifting despair. All these sorrow,
pain and despair had been the companions of his solitude
in many a night of gloom, keeping watch as he slept.
The strange new companion of his solitude, from whose divine
presence this night all others withdrew was hope. As he lay,
the darkness fell away beyond the radiance of his visitor,
and three faces shone out as clearly as the white
cloudlets in the blue of summer skies. Sunshine, moonbeam, and
starlight stood by his side. Sunshine, moonbeam, and starlight, when
all the branches and departments of the state government. Refugee
into the highlands, away from the fever and beyond the
vexations of quarantine. The convicts came to Watumpka, and on
days when the prison commissioner came to inspect the camp
with him were the three, each less than a dozen
years of age, and Sunshine was the youngest of them all.
Take care of them, shadow, he said to the hostler
convict and the black boy, with the memory of his
own white folks far away, filling his heart with joy,
took care of them proudly and gratefully. Six years had
passed since he had looked on childhood. Take care of them. Ay,
if necessary, he would lay down his life for them. Instead,
he rigged up swings of plow lines marked off hopscotch
diagrams for their little feet, and taught them how to
ride on the back of a superannuated mule. He filled
their hours with excitement and pleasure, and when they wearied
of exercise, lying in the shade of a great oak,
he touched their hearts with the story of his misfortunes.
He drew for them graphic pictures of his terrible life
in the coal mines, of the men who work where
eternal darkness reigns, and the accidents in which lives go
out like the light of snuffed gandals. And looking over
the hills, he told too, of that cabin where he
was born, of his mammy at the wash tub, singing
hymns that linger now as the voices of dead slaves
on old plantations, And of the little miss and her
child friends who came down to the big white house
in the summer, and thence to the gin house to
play in the heaped up cotton. Not a line of
it all was gone from his memory, not a picture
was blurred. And sunshine, moonbeam and starlight, touched by the
divine pity which is eloquent in the hearts of women
old and young, looked into the sad black face of
their friend. Good Bye, Shadow, they said, when the quarantine
was lifted and they had come for the last time.
Good Bye. We are going to get you out by Christmas.
Only you must promise to be good always, will you?
And Shadow, with tears on his cheeks from eyes long dry,
pledged himself before the Good God, looking down on them
his messengers, to be perfect forever and forever and the
memory of it all filled the darkness with a flood
of beauty, as though sunshine, moonbeam, and starlight were indeed
by his side. Not for a moment had he doubted them.
So Hope furled her wings above him on Christmas Eve,
and he lay waiting with wide opened eyes. Sunshine, moonbeam,
and starlight, where were they? The floor vibrated under the
convict's head, a lantern flashed, and a guard stood over him.
One word broke the silence, one word, his own name. Shadow.
It was the day before Christmas, and nothing had been accomplished.
For Shadow. Freeing a convict was not the trivial matter imagined.
The commissioner besieged and wearied, out of discretion, after many
laughing refusals, referred the little petitioners to the governor. They
knew the governor almost daily. They saw him pass on
their block, and sometimes he laid a hand on a
curly head in passing. But he never transacted business outside
his office, he said, never, And always he smiled and
passed along. They must come and see him, he said,
But the governor was never in when they called timidly,
at least he was never in sight. Then their last
day of grace arrived, and they charged Capital Hill once more.
Terrace and Portico fell quickly before their assault. The historic
spot where Jefferson Davis delivered his inaugural over the cradle
of the Great Confederacy and launched the war which was
to end in freedom for all the Black people, was
simply space to be crossed, and they crossed it. They
carried their advance into the Governor's room. They came without ceremony,
and with the red of their country's flag on their cheeks,
its blue within their eager eyes, and within their parted lips,
its gleaming white. They stormed his great chair, planted their
victorious arms about him, and demanded an unconditional surrender. The
seemed to yield. They made a transient summer in the
still cold room, and awoke a youth that long had
slept within his heart, a youth full of romance and
of love. Romance, love are not these born? Ever? Under
the sunshine and moonbeams and starlight. The governor seemed to yield.
He stroked each curly head and learned each name. He
remembered when their respective parents were married. He knew more
about them than did the little ones. Themselves. Then the
crash came. Pardon a convict. No, the man had not surrendered.
The smiling face faded into a grave, cold face. The
governor they knew, had vanished, and a new governor, grave,
courteous and firm, but not nearly so nice, had taken
his place. But in the sunshine the ice is melted
at last, and in the moonbeams and the light of
the stars, love finds a way. Reason was powerless, refusal impotent.
The illogical trinity sat on his knees and the arms
of his chair and admitted all that he urged to
be true. They agreed with him in his conception of
a governor's duty. They even recognized the claims of good
public policy to be against them. And when he had finished,
they put their arms about him and asked mercy for
their friend Shadow. It would not be so bad, said Sunshine,
if we hadn't promised, And the governor laughed. How potent
is innocence, How weak at times is wisdom? Driven from
his positions. One by one, the beleaguered governor took refuge
behind the judicial Ermine. Shadow had been placed in prison
by the judge. The judge was really the man to
be seen. It would never do for the governor arbitrarily
to reverse the action of the judge. And then he
sighed a great sigh of relief. Why had he not
thought of that before? Give us a letter to the judge, then,
said Sunshine sturdily, and she handed him his pen point
reversed good, said the governor. Yes, he is the man
you should see. Do you know the judge? Yes? They
knew the judge Almost daily they saw him pass on
their block, and sometimes he too laid a hand on
their heads in passing. But they had never thought of
asking his help and getting Shadow out. If the judge says,
you may let him go, said Sunshine, with a tremulous
little note in her voice. Will you do it? Aha,
exclaimed the governor, with apparent irrelevancy, And yet it was
pertinent and relevant. It meant this little Aha spoken to
himself and the thoughts within him that the logic of
the situation had hemmed him in. He must say yes,
or admit that he had been insincere. Then he remembered
that a great murder trial was on and approaching its clothes,
and that even a telephone message could hardly make its
way into the court house. So dense was the crowd. Yes,
he answered guardedly. If the judge says I may, I
shall have to do something foreshadow But he added, pitying
their situation. You cannot see the judge to day. He
is engaged in trying a man for his life and
hopes to get through before Christmas. The three answered not serenely.
They went forth. A friendly iron wishman in a police
uniform was at the foot of the steps, dreaming day dreams,
perhaps of the childer at home. His smiling face was
an invitation, and they asked him the way to the
court house. Cout house, he said, cout house. And why
should the likes ye babies that ye air be huntin
for the court house? They are trying a man for
his life, said Sunshine, getting her logic mixed. And we
have a message to the judge from the governor. The
Irishman glanced at the official envelope and whistled, and is
it departen? He said. It may get a man out
of prison, said Sunshine, if we can get there in time.
It's get there in time, ye will, said the Irishman.
If I have to carry the last darlin of ye
in the arms and ammiade, come along with me. Every corridor,
every foot of court room space was occupied with excited men,
and the way was blocked over. The murmur of their
voices rang the voice of the defendant's attorney as he
pleaded for his client's life. A whisper ran through the crowd.
The irishman started it. They looked with wonder on the
three dainty messengers and opened a path for them. Message
from the Governor. What could it mean? The tension was
at its highest pitch. The sheriff, lifting his hand at
the entrance to the bar, waited until the judge's gavel fell,
and repeated the whisper aloud, A message from the Governor,
your honor, And up the aisle trudged the children, while
a strange silence settled over the great throng, and in
open contempt of court, they climbed up to the judge
and presented their credentials, all talking while the bewildered official
read the message. A smile dawned on his stern face,
which echoed in silence from the crowd. If so such
things can be? While he wiped his glasses, suspend for
five minutes, he said to the lawyer who had been speaking.
The lawyer suspended willingly, and his unchanging gaze fixed on
the children kept the eyes of every juror riveted there
with the children by his side. The judge examined a
record handed up by the clerk. And did the governor
send you to me with the note? He asked as
he turned the pages. Yes, sir, said sunshine. And he
laughed too. Oh he laughed, did he? The judge laughed too,
I see, m I see. And then he read from
the record twenty years for robbery. And he was a
boy when it occurred. He shook his head. Yes, the
sentence was too severe, too severe when his youth is considered.
His pen swept across the governor's note a few times.
He smiled grimly. A path opened up through the throng,
and sunshine, moonbeam and starlight fading from the scene left
justice at work in the chill and gloom. The state
lost its case when the Council for the Defense resumed
with the words, children like those my friends await their
father's homecoming this Christmas eve, But they knew nothing of this.
Thirty minutes after leaving the Governor's room, they entered stormily, gleefully,
and planted their victorious scholars over the citadel and its
vanquished custodian. He learned their story in amazement and looked
with comic gravity on their flushed faces. The Republican form
of government is a failure, he said at length. The
infantry has usurped the executive and suspended the judiciary. And
may we tell Shadow he is free? Asked Sunshine, Yes,
let freedom be his Christmas present. The child's eyes swam
in softer light. Write it down for me, please again.
She handed him the pen, this time point foremost, the
little hand trembling with excitement, and taking his pen, the
Chief Executive wrote this the strangest, sweetest, gentlest public document
that ever issued from Alabama's capital. Dear Sunshine, I have
looked into the case of your friend Shadow from Crinshaw
County and am inclined to think that his sentence is
too severe. His term is twenty years from September twenty three,
eighteen ninety three. I have about made up my mind
to cut his sentence to less than one third. You
can let Shadow know this and save this letter to
show if needed. He had three mighty nice girls to
beg for him, and you see, I am giving him
off more than four years for each girl, your friend,
the governor. Late that night, Sunshine's father succeeded in getting
connection by telephone with Wetumka, and Shadow was brought into
the Superintendent's office. Do you know who this is? Shadow?
The child's voice annihilated space as it annihilated opposition. Miss Sunshine, Well, Shadow,
The Governor says, you will be free in the morning,
and I am so glad. Back over the wires came
a great voice shouting. It was the wordless expression of
a soul whose chains had been broken asunder, and to
whom the whole beautiful world came back as a Christmas gift?
Was there ever such a gift? One other sound came
to the listening child, the sound of a falling telephone receiver.
Sunshine turned away with her eyes full of tears. The
city clock rang out clearly through the night upon the
first stroke of twelve. Clapping her hands, she cried aloud,
it is Christmas. Shadow is free. End of Shadow, a
Christmas story by Harry Stillwell Edwards