The Clansman Read online

Aleck ignored his insolence, secure in his power.

  “You doan b’long ter no s’iety, what yer git in dat line ter vote for?”

  “Ain’t I er nigger?”

  “But yer ain’t de right kin’ er nigger. ‘Res’ dat man fer ‘sturbin’ de peace.”

  They put Jake in jail, persuaded his wife to leave him, and expelled him from the Baptist church, all within the week.

  As the troopers led Jake to prison, a young negro apparently about fifteen years old approached Aleck, holding in his hand one of the peddler’s rat labels, which had gotten well distributed among the crowd. A group of negro boys followed him with these rat labels in their hands, studying them intently.

  “Look at dis ticket, Uncle Aleck,” said the leader.

  “Mr. Alexander Lenoir, sah—is I yo’ uncle, nigger?”

  The youth walled his eyes angrily.

  “Den doan’ you call me er nigger!”

  “Who’ yer talkin to, sah? You kin fling yer sass at white folks, but, honey, yuse er projeckin’ wid death now!”

  “I ain’t er nigger—I’se er gemman, I is,” was the sullen answer.

  “How ole is you?” asked Aleck in milder tones.

  “Me mudder say sixteen—but de Buro man say I’se twenty-one yistiddy, de day ‘fo’ ’lection.”

  “Is you voted to-day?”

  “Yessah; vote in all de boxes ‘cept’n dis one. Look at dat ticket. Is dat de straight ticket?”

  Aleck, who couldn’t read the twelve-inch letters of his favourite bar-room sign, took the rat label and examined it critically.

  “What ail it?” he asked at length.

  The boy pointed at the picture of the rat.

  “What dat rat doin’, lyin’ dar on his back, wid his heels cocked up in de air—’pear ter me lak a rat otter be standin’ on his feet!”

  Aleck reëxamined it carefully, and then smiled benignly on the youth.

  “De ignance er dese folks. What ud yer do widout er man lak me enjued wid de sperit en de power ter splain tings?”

  “You sho’ got de sperits,” said the boy impudently, touching a canteen.

  Aleck ignored the remark and looked at the rat label smilingly.

  “Ain’t we er votin’, ter-day, on de Constertooshun what’s ter take de ballot away f’um de white folks en gib all de power ter de cullud gemmen—I axes yer dat?”

  The boy stuck his thumbs under his arms and walled his eyes.

  “Yessah!”

  “Den dat means de ratification ob de Constertooshun!”

  Phil laughed, followed, and watched them fold their tickets, get in line, and vote the rat labels.

  Ben turned toward a white man with gray beard, who stood watching the crowd.

  He was a pious member of the Presbyterian church but his face didn’t have a pious expression to-day. He had been refused the right to vote because he had aided the Confederacy by nursing one of his wounded boys.

  He touched his hat politely to Ben.

  “What do you think of it, Colonel Cameron?” he asked with a touch of scorn.

  “What’s your opinion, Mr. McAllister?”

  “Well, Colonel, I’ve been a member of the church for over forty years. I’m not a cussin’ man—but there’s a sight I never expected to live to see. I’ve been a faithful citizen of this State for fifty years. I can’t vote, and a nigger is to be elected to-day to represent me in the Legislature. Neither you, Colonel, nor your father are good enough to vote. Every nigger in this county sixteen years old and up voted to-day—I ain’t a cussing man, and I don’t say it as a cuss word, but all I’ve got to say is, IF there BE such a thing as a d—d shame—that’s it!”

  “Mr. McAllister, the recording angel wouldn’t have made a mark had you said it without the ‘IF.’”

  “God knows what this country’s coming to—I don’t,” said the old man bitterly. “I’m afraid to let my wife and daughter go out of the house, or stay in it, without somebody with them.”

  Ben leaned closer and whispered, as Phil approached:

  “Come to my office to-night at ten o’clock; I want to see you on some important business.”

  The old man seized his hand eagerly.

  “Shall I bring the boys?”

  Ben smiled.

  “No. I’ve seen them some time ago.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER VII

  By the Light of a Torch

  On the night of the election Mrs. Lenoir gave a ball at the hotel in honour of Marion’s entrance into society. She was only in her sixteenth year, yet older than her mother when mistress of her own household. The only ambition the mother cherished was that she might win the love of an honest man and build for herself a beautiful home on the site of the cottage covered with trailing roses. In this home dream for Marion she found a great sustaining joy to which nothing in the life of man answers.

  The ball had its political significance which the military martinet who commanded the post understood. It was the way the people of Piedmont expressed to him and the world their contempt for the farce of an election he had conducted, and their indifference as to the result he would celebrate with many guns before midnight.

  The young people of the town were out in force. Marion was a universal favourite. The grace, charm, and tender beauty of the Southern girl of sixteen were combined in her with a gentle and unselfish disposition. Amid poverty that was pitiful, unconscious of its limitations, her thoughts were always of others, and she was the one human being everybody had agreed to love. In the village in which she lived wealth counted for naught. She belonged to the aristocracy of poetry, beauty, and intrinsic worth, and her people knew no other.

  As she stood in the long dining-room, dressed in her first ball costume of white organdy and lace, the little plump shoulders peeping through its meshes, she was the picture of happiness. A half-dozen boys hung on every word as the utterance of an oracle. She waved gently an old ivory fan with white down on its edges in a way the charm of which is the secret birthright of every Southern girl.

  Now and then she glanced at the door for some one who had not yet appeared.

  Phil paid his tribute to her with genuine feeling, and Marion repaid him by whispering:

  “Margaret’s dressed to kill—all in soft azure blue—her rosy cheeks, black hair, and eyes never shone as they do to-night. She doesn’t dance on account of her Sunday-school—it’s all for you.”

  Phil blushed and smiled.

  “The preacher won’t be here?”

  “Our rector will.”

  “He’s a nice old gentleman. I’m fond of him. Miss Marion, your mother is a genius. I hope she can plan these little affairs oftener.”

  It was half-past ten o’clock when Ben Cameron entered the room with Elsie a little ruffled at his delay over imaginary business at his office. Ben answered her criticisms with a strange elation. She had felt a secret between them and resented it.

  At Mrs. Lenoir’s special request, he had put on his full uniform of a Confederate Colonel in honour of Marion and the poem her father had written of one of his gallant charges. He had not worn it since he fell that day in Phil’s arms.

  No one in the room had ever seen him in this Colonel’s uniform. Its yellow sash with the gold fringe and tassels was faded and there were two bullet holes in the coat. A murmur of applause from the boys, sighs and exclamations from the girls swept the room as he took Marion’s hand, bowed and kissed it. Her blue eyes danced and smiled on him with frank admiration.

  “Ben, you’re the handsomest thing I’ve ever seen!” she said softly.

  “Thanks. I thought you had a mirror. I’ll send you one,” he answered, slipping his arm around her and gliding away to the strains of a waltz. The girl’s hand trembled as she placed it on his shoulder, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had a wistful dreamy look in their depths.

  When Ben rejoined Elsie and they strolled on the lawn, the military commandant suddenly confronted them with a squad of soldiers.<
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  “I’ll trouble you for those buttons and shoulder straps,” said the Captain.

  Elsie’s amber eyes began to spit fire. Ben stood still and smiled.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “That I will not be insulted by the wearing of this uniform to-day.”

  “I dare you to touch it, coward, poltroon!” cried the girl, her plump little figure bristling in front of her lover.

  Ben laid his hand on her arm and gently drew her back to his side: “He has the power to do this. It is a technical violation of law to wear them. I have surrendered. I am a gentleman and I have been a soldier. He can have his tribute. I’ve promised my father to offer no violence to the military authority of the United States.”

  He stepped forward, and the officer cut the buttons from his coat and ripped the straps from his shoulders.

  While the performance was going on, Ben quietly said:

  “General Grant at Appomattox, with the instincts of a great soldier, gave our men his spare horses and ordered that Confederate officers retain their side-arms. The General is evidently not in touch with this force.”

  “No: I’m in command in this county,” said the Captain.

  “Evidently.”

  When he had gone, Elsie’s eyes were dim. They strolled under the shadow of the great oak and stood in silence, listening to the music within and the distant murmur of the falls.

  “Why is it, sweetheart, that a girl will persist in admiring brass buttons?” Ben asked softly.

  She raised her lips to his for a kiss and answered:

  “Because a soldier’s business is to die for his country.”

  As Ben led her back into the ballroom and surrendered her to a friend for a dance, the first gun pealed its note of victory from the square in the celebration of the triumph of the African slave over his white master.

  Ben strolled out in the street to hear the news.

  The Constitution had been ratified by an enormous majority, and a Legislature elected composed of 101 negroes and 23 white men. Silas Lynch had been elected Lieutenant-Governor, a negro Secretary of State, a negro Treasurer, and a negro Justice of the Supreme Court.

  When Bizzel, the wizzen-faced agent of the Freedman’s Bureau, made this announcement from the courthouse steps, pandemonium broke lose. An incessant rattle of musketry began in which ball cartridges were used, the missiles whistling over the town in every direction. Yet within half an hour the square was deserted and a strange quiet followed the storm.

  Old Aleck staggered by the hotel, his drunkenness having reached the religious stage.

  “Behold, a curiosity, gentlemen,” cried Ben to a group of boys who had gathered, “a voter is come among us—in fact, he is the people, the king, our representative elect, the Honourable Alexander Lenoir, of the county of Ulster!”

  “Gemmens, de Lawd’s bin good ter me,” said Aleck, weeping copiously.

  “They say the rat labels were in a majority in this precinct—how was that?” asked Ben.

  “Yessah—dat what de scornful say—dem dat sets in de seat o’ de scornful, but de Lawd er Hosts He fetch ’em low. Mistah Bissel de Buro man count all dem rat votes right, sah—dey couldn’t fool him—he know what dey mean—he count ’em all for me an’ de ratification.”

  “Sure-pop!” said Ben; “if you can’t ratify with a rat, I’d like to know why?”

  “Dat’s what I tells ’em, sah.”

  “Of course,” said Ben good-humouredly. “The voice of the people is the voice of God—rats or no rats—if you know how to count.”

  As old Aleck staggered away, the sudden crash of a volley of musketry echoed in the distance.

  “What’s that?” asked Ben, listening intently. The sound was unmistakable to a soldier’s ear—that volley from a hundred rifles at a single word of command. It was followed by a shot on a hill in the distance, and then by a faint echo, farther still. Ben listened a few moments and turned into the lawn of the hotel. The music suddenly stopped, the tramp of feet echoed on the porch, a woman screamed, and from the rear of the house came the cry:

  “Fire! Fire!”

  Almost at the same moment an immense sheet of flame shot skyward from the big barn.

  “My God!” groaned Ben. “Jake’s in jail to-night, and they’ve set the barn on fire. It’s worth more than the house.”

  The crowd rushed down the hill to the blazing building, Marion’s fleet figure in its flying white dress leading the crowd.

  The lowing of the cows and the wild neighing of the horses rang above the roar of the flames.

  Before Ben could reach the spot Marion had opened every stall. Two cows leaped out to safety, but not a horse would move from its stall, and each moment wilder and more pitiful grew their death cries.

  Marion rushed to Ben, her eyes dilated, her face as white as the dress she wore.

  “Oh, Ben, Queen won’t come out! What shall I do?”

  “You can do nothing, child. A horse won’t come out of a burning stable unless he’s blindfolded. They’ll all be burned to death.”

  “Oh! no!” the girl cried in agony.

  “They’d trample you to death if you tried to get them out. It can’t be helped. It’s too late.”

  As Ben looked back at the gathering crowd, Marion suddenly snatched a horse blanket, lying at the door, ran with the speed of a deer to the pond, plunged in, sprang out, and sped back to the open door of Queen’s stall, through which her shrill cry could be heard above the others.

  As the girl ran toward the burning building, her thin white dress clinging close to her exquisite form, she looked like the marble figure of a sylph by the hand of some great master into which God had suddenly breathed the breath of life.

  As they saw her purpose, a cry of horror rose from the crowd, her mother’s scream loud above the rest.

  Ben rushed to catch her, shouting:

  “Marion! Marion! She’ll trample you to death!”

  He was too late. She leaped into the stall. The crowd held their breath. There was a moment of awful suspense, and the mare sprang through the open door with the little white figure clinging to her mane and holding the blanket over her head.

  A cheer rang above the roar of the flames. The girl did not loose her hold until her beautiful pet was led to a place of safety, while she clung to her neck and laughed and cried for joy. First her mother, then Margaret, Mrs. Cameron, and Elsie took her in their arms.

  As Ben approached the group, Elsie whispered to him: “Kiss her!”

  Ben took her hand, his eyes full of unshed tears, and said:

  “The bravest deed a woman ever did—you’re a heroine, Marion!”

  Before she knew it he stooped and kissed her.

  She was very still for a moment, smiled, trembled from head to foot, blushed scarlet, took her mother by the hand, and without a word hurried to the house.

  Poor Becky was whining among the excited crowd and sought in vain for Marion. At last she got Margaret’s attention, caught her dress in her teeth and led her to a corner of the lot, where she had laid side by side her puppies, smothered to death. She stood and looked at them with her tail drooping, the picture of despair. Margaret burst into tears and called Ben.

  He bent and put his arm around the setter’s neck and stroked her head with his hand. Looking at up his sister, he said:

  “Don’t tell Marion of this. She can’t stand any more to-night.”

  The crowd had all dispersed, and the flames had died down for want of fuel. The odour of roasting flesh, pungent and acrid, still lingered a sharp reminder of the tragedy.

  Ben stood on the back porch, talking in low tones to his father.

  “Will you join us now, sir? We need the name and influence of men of your standing.”

  “My boy, two wrongs never made a right. It’s better to endure awhile. The sober commonsense of the Nation will yet save us. We must appeal to it.”

  “Eight more fires were seen from town to-night.”
/>   “You only guess their origin.”

  “I know their origin. It was done by the League at a signal as a celebration of the election and a threat of terror to the county. One of our men concealed a faithful negro under the floor of the school-house and heard the plot hatched. We expected it a month ago—but hoped they had given it up.”

  “Even so, my boy, a secret society such as you have planned means a conspiracy that may bring exile or death. I hate lawlessness and disorder. We have had enough of it. Your clan means ultimately martial law. At least we will get rid of these soldiers by this election. They have done their worst to me, but we may save others by patience.”

  “It’s the only way, sir. The next step will be a black hand on a white woman’s throat!”

  The doctor frowned. “Let us hope for the best. Your clan is the last act of desperation.”

  “But if everything else fail, and this creeping horror becomes a fact—then what?”

  “My boy, we will pray that God may never let us live to see the day!”

  THE BLACK MASTERS OF THE SOUTH DURING RECONSTRUCTION.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Riot in the Master’s Hall

  Alarmed at the possible growth of the secret clan into which Ben had urged him to enter, Dr. Cameron determined to press for relief from oppression by an open appeal to the conscience of the Nation.

  He called a meeting of conservative leaders in a Taxpayers’ Convention at Columbia. His position as leader had been made supreme by the indignities he had suffered, and he felt sure of his ability to accomplish results. Every county in the State was represented by its best men in this gathering at the Capitol.

  The day he undertook to present his memorial to the Legislature was one he never forgot. The streets were crowded with negroes who had come to town to hear Lynch, the Lieutenant-Governor, speak in a mass-meeting. Negro policemen swung their clubs in his face as he pressed through the insolent throng up the street to the stately marble Capitol. At the door a black, greasy trooper stopped him to parley. Every decently dressed white man was regarded a spy.