The Clansman Page 9

  A feeling of uncertainty and horror crept over the city and the Nation, as rumours of the strange doings of the “Bureau of Military Justice,” with its secret factory of testimony and powers of tampering with verdicts, began to find their way in whispered stories among the people.

  Public opinion, however, had as yet no power of adjustment. It was an hour of lapse to tribal insanity. Things had gone wrong. The demand for a scapegoat, blind, savage, and unreasoning, had not spent itself. The Government could do anything as yet, and the people would applaud.

  Mrs. Cameron had tried in vain to gain a hearing before the President. Each time she was directed to apply to Mr. Stanton. She refused to attempt to see him, and again turned to Elsie for help. She had learned that the same witnesses who had testified against Mrs. Surratt were being used to convict Doctor Cameron, and her heart was sick with fear.

  “Ask your father,” she pleaded, “to write President Johnson a letter in my behalf. Whatever his politics, he can’t be your father and not be good at heart.”

  Elsie paled for a moment. It was the one request she had dreaded. She thought of her father and Stanton with dread. How far he was supporting the Secretary of War she could only vaguely guess. He rarely spoke of politics to her, much as he loved her.

  “I’ll try, Mrs. Cameron,” she faltered. “My father is in town to-day and takes dinner with us before he leaves for Pennsylvania to-night. I’ll go at once.”

  With fear, and yet boldly, she went straight home to present her request. She knew he was a man who never cherished small resentments, however cruel and implacable might be his public policies. And yet she dreaded to put it to the test.

  “Father, I’ve a very important request to make of you,” she said gravely.

  “Very well, my child, you need not be so solemn. What is it?”

  “I’ve some friends in great distress—Mrs. Cameron, of South Carolina, and her daughter Margaret.”

  “Friends of yours?” he asked with an incredulous smile. “Where on earth did you find them?”

  “In the hospital, of course. Mrs. Cameron is not allowed to see her husband, who has been here in jail for over two months. He cannot write to her, nor can he receive a letter from her. He is on trial for his life, is ill and helpless, and is not allowed to know the charges against him, while hired witnesses and detectives have broken open his house, searched his papers, and are ransacking heaven and earth to convict him of a crime of which he never dreamed. It’s a shame. You don’t approve of such things, I know?”

  “What’s the use of my expressing an opinion when you have already settled it?” he answered good-humouredly.

  “You don’t approve of such injustice?”

  “Certainly not, my child. Stanton’s frantic efforts to hang a lot of prominent Southern men for complicity in Booth’s crime is sheer insanity. Nobody who has any sense believes them guilty. As a politician I use popular clamour for my purposes, but I am not an idiot. When I go gunning, I never use a popgun or hunt small game.”

  “Then you will write the President a letter asking that they be allowed to see Doctor Cameron?”

  The old man frowned.

  “Think, father, if you were in jail and friendless, and I were trying to see you——”

  “Tut, tut, my dear, it’s not that I am unwilling—I was only thinking of the unconscious humour of my making a request of the man who at present accidentally occupies the White House. Of all the men on earth, this alien from the province of Tennessee! But I’ll do it for you. When did you ever know me to deny my help to a weak man or woman in distress?”

  “Never, father. I was sure you would do it,” she answered warmly.

  He wrote the letter at once and handed it to her.

  She bent and kissed him.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to know that you have no part in such injustice.”

  “You should not have believed me such a fool, but I’ll forgive you for the kiss. Run now with this letter to your rebel friends, you little traitor! Wait a minute——”

  He shuffled to his feet, placed his hand tenderly on her head, and stooped and kissed the shining hair.

  “I wonder if you know how I love you? How I’ve dreamed of your future? I may not see you every day as I wish; I’m absorbed in great affairs. But more and more I think of you and Phil. I’ll have a big surprise for you both some day.”

  “Your love is all I ask,” she answered simply.

  Within an hour, Mrs. Cameron found herself before the new President. The letter had opened the door as by magic. She poured out her story with impetuous eloquence while Mr. Johnson listened in uneasy silence. His ruddy face, his hesitating manner, and restless eyes were in striking contrast to the conscious power of the tall dark man who had listened so tenderly and sympathetically to her story of Ben but a few weeks before.

  The President asked:

  “Have you seen Mr. Stanton?”

  “I have seen him once,” she cried with sudden passion. “It is enough. If that man were God on His throne, I would swear allegiance to the devil and fight him!”

  The President lifted his eyebrows and his lips twitched with a smile:

  “I shouldn’t say that your spirits are exactly drooping! I’d like to be near and hear you make that remark to the distinguished Secretary of War.”

  “Will you grant my prayer?” she pleaded.

  “I will consider the matter,” he promised evasively.

  Mrs. Cameron’s heart sank.

  “Mr. President,” she cried bitterly, “I have felt sure that I had but to see you face to face and you could not deny me. Surely it is but justice that he have the right to see his loved ones, to consult with counsel, to know the charges against him, and defend his life when attacked in his poverty and ruin by all the power of a mighty government? He is feeble and broken in health and suffering from wounds received carrying the flag of the Union to victory in Mexico. Whatever his errors of judgment in this war, it is a shame that a Nation for which he once bared his breast in battle should treat him as an outlaw without a trial.”

  “You must remember, madam,” interrupted the President, “that these are extraordinary times, and that popular clamour, however unjust, will make itself felt and must be heeded by those in power. I am sorry for you, and I trust it may be possible for me to grant your request.”

  “But I wish it now,” she urged. “He sends me word I must go home. I can’t leave without seeing him. I will die first.”

  She drew closer and continued in throbbing tones:

  “Mr. President, you are a native Carolinian—you are of Scotch Covenanter blood. You are of my own people of the great past, whose tears and sufferings are our common glory and birthright. Come, you must hear me—I will take no denial. Give me now the order to see my husband!”

  The President hesitated, struggling with deep emotion, called his secretary, and gave the order.

  As she hurried away with Elsie, who insisted on accompanying her to the jail door, the girl said:

  “Mrs. Cameron, I fear you are without money. You must let me help you until you can return it.”

  “You are the dearest little heart I’ve met in all the world, I think sometimes,” said the older woman, looking at her tenderly. “I wonder how I can ever pay you for half you’ve done already.”

  “The doing of it has been its own reward,” was the soft reply. “May I help you?”

  “If I need it, yes. But I trust it will not be necessary. I still have a little store of gold Doctor Cameron was wise enough to hoard during the war. I brought half of it with me when I left home, and we buried the rest. I hope to find it on my return. And if we can save the twenty bales of cotton we have hidden we shall be relieved of want.”

  “I’m ashamed of my country when I think of such ignoble methods as have been used against Doctor Cameron. My father is indignant, too.”

  The last sentence Elsie spoke with eager girlish pride.

  “I am very grat
eful to your father for his letter. I am sorry he has left the city before I could meet and thank him personally. You must tell him for me.”

  At the jail the order of the President was not honoured for three hours, and Mrs. Cameron paced the street in angry impatience at first and then in dull despair.

  “Do you think that man Stanton would dare defy the President?” she asked anxiously.

  “No,” said Elsie, “but he is delaying as long as possible as an act of petty tyranny.”

  At last the messenger arrived from the War Department permitting an order of the Chief Magistrate of the nation, the Commander-in-Chief of its Army and Navy, to be executed.

  The grated door swung on its heavy hinges, and the wife and mother lay sobbing in the arms of the lover of her youth.

  For two hours they poured into each other’s hearts the story of their sorrows and struggles during the six fateful months that had passed. When she would return from every theme back to his danger, he would laugh her fears to scorn.

  “Nonsense, my dear, I’m as innocent as a babe. Mr. Davis was suffering from erysipelas, and I kept him in my house that night to relieve his pain. It will all blow over. I’m happy now that I have seen you. Ben will be up in a few days. You must return at once. You have no idea of the wild chaos at home. I left Jake in charge. I have implicit faith in him, but there’s no telling what may happen. I will not spend another moment in peace until you go.”

  The proud old man spoke of his own danger with easy assurance. He was absolutely certain, since the day of Mrs. Surratt’s execution, that he would be railroaded to the gallows by the same methods. He had long looked on the end with indifference, and had ceased to desire to live except to see his loved ones again.

  In vain she warned him of danger.

  “My peril is nothing, my love,” he answered quietly. “At home, the horrors of a servile reign of terror have become a reality. These prison walls do not interest me. My heart is with our stricken people. You must go home. Our neighbour, Mr. Lenoir, is slowly dying. His wife will always be a child. Little Marion is older and more self-reliant. I feel as if they are our own children. There are so many who need us. They have always looked to me for guidance and help. You can do more for them than any one else. My calling is to heal others. You have always helped me. Do now as I ask you.”

  At last she consented to leave for Piedmont on the following day, and he smiled.

  “Kiss Ben and Margaret for me and tell them that I’ll be with them soon,” he said cheerily. He meant in the spirit, not the flesh. Not the faintest hope of life even flickered in his mind.

  In the last farewell embrace a faint tremor of the soul, half sigh, half groan, escaped his lips, and he drew her again to his breast, whispering:

  “Always my sweetheart, good, beautiful, brave, and true!”

  * * *

  CHAPTER III

  The Joy of Living

  Within two weeks after the departure of Mrs. Cameron and Margaret, the wounded soldier had left the hospital with Elsie’s hand resting on his arm and her keen eyes watching his faltering steps. She had promised Margaret to take her place until he was strong again. She was afraid to ask herself the meaning of the songs that were welling up from the depth of her own soul. She told herself again and again that she was fulfilling her ideal of unselfish human service.

  Ben’s recovery was rapid, and he soon began to give evidence of his boundless joy in the mere fact of life.

  He utterly refused to believe his father in danger.

  “What, my dad a conspirator, an assassin!” he cried, with a laugh. “Why, he wouldn’t kill a flea without apologising to it. And as for plots and dark secrets, he never had a secret in his life and couldn’t keep one if he had it. My mother keeps all the family secrets. Crime couldn’t stick to him any more than dirty water to a duck’s back!”

  “But we must secure his release on parole, that he may defend himself.”

  “Of course. But we won’t cross any bridges till we come to them. I never saw things so bad they couldn’t be worse. Just think what I’ve been through. The war’s over. Don’t worry.”

  He looked at her tenderly.

  “Get that banjo and play ‘Get out of the Wilderness!’”

  His spirit was contagious and his good humour resistless. Elsie spent the days of his convalescence in an unconscious glow of pleasure in his companionship. His handsome boyish face, his bearing, his whole personality, invited frankness and intimacy. It was a divine gift, this magnetism, the subtle meeting of quick intelligence, tact, and sympathy. His voice was tender and penetrating, with soft caresses in its tones. His vision of life was large and generous, with a splendid carelessness about little things that didn’t count. Each day Elsie saw new and striking traits of his character which drew her.

  “What will we do if Stanton arrests you one of these fine days?” she asked him one day.

  “Afraid they’ll nab me for something?” he exclaimed. “Well, that is a joke. Don’t you worry. The Yankees know who to fool with. I licked ’em too many times for them to bother me any more.”

  “I was under the impression that you got licked,” Elsie observed.

  “Don’t you believe it. We wore ourselves out whipping the other fellows.”

  Elsie smiled, took up the banjo, and asked him to sing while she played.

  She had no idea that he could sing, yet to her surprise he sang his camp songs boldly, tenderly, and with deep, expressive feeling.

  As the girl listened, the memory of the horrible hours of suspense she had spent with his mother when his unconscious life hung on a thread came trooping back into her heart and a tear dimmed her eyes.

  And he began to look at her with a new wonder and joy slowly growing in his soul.

  * * *

  CHAPTER IV

  Hidden Treasure

  Ben had spent a month of vain effort to secure his father’s release. He had succeeded in obtaining for him a removal to more comfortable quarters, books to read, and the privilege of a daily walk under guard and parole. The doctor’s genial temper, the wide range of his knowledge, the charm of his personality, and his heroism in suffering had captivated the surgeons who attended him and made friends of every jailer and guard.

  Elsie was now using all her woman’s wit to secure a copy of the charges against him as formulated by the Judge Advocate General, who, in defiance of civil law, still claimed control of these cases.

  To the boy’s sanguine temperament the whole proceeding had been a huge farce from the beginning, and at the last interview with his father he had literally laughed him into good humour.

  “Look here, pa,” he cried. “I believe you’re trying to slip off and leave us in this mess. It’s not fair. It’s easy to die.”

  “Who said I was going to die?”

  “I heard you were trying to crawl out that way.”

  “Well, it’s a mistake. I’m going to live just for the fun of disappointing my enemies and to keep you company. But you’d better get hold of a copy of these charges against me—if you don’t want me to escape.”

  “It’s a funny world if a man can be condemned to death without any information on the subject.”

  “My son, we are now in the hands of the revolutionists, army sutlers, contractors, and adventurers. The Nation will touch the lowest tide-mud of its degradation within the next few years. No man can predict the end.”

  “Oh, go ’long!” said Ben. “You’ve got jail cobwebs in your eyes.”

  “I’m depending on you.”

  “I’ll pull you through if you don’t lie down on me and die to get out of trouble. You know you can die if you try hard enough.”

  “I promise you, my boy,” he said with a laugh.

  “Then I’ll let you read this letter from home,” Ben said, suddenly thrusting it before him.

  The doctor’s hand trembled a little as he put on his glasses and read:

  My Dear Boy: I cannot tell you how much good your brigh
t letters have done us. It’s like opening the window and letting in the sunlight while fresh breezes blow through one’s soul.

  Margaret and I have had stirring times. I send you enclosed an order for the last dollar of money we have left. You must hoard it. Make it last until your father is safe at home. I dare not leave it here. Nothing is safe. Every piece of silver and everything that could be carried has been stolen since we returned.

  Uncle Aleck betrayed the place Jake had hidden our twenty precious bales of cotton. The war is long since over, but the “Treasury Agent” declared them confiscated, and then offered to relieve us of his order if we gave him five bales, each worth three hundred dollars in gold. I agreed, and within a week another thief came and declared the other fifteen bales confiscated. They steal it, and the Government never gets a cent. We dared not try to sell it in open market, as every bale exposed for sale is “confiscated” at once.

  No crop was planted this summer. The negroes are all drawing rations at the Freedman’s Bureau.

  We have turned our house into a hotel, and our table has become famous. Margaret is a treasure. She has learned to do everything. We tried to raise a crop on the farm when we came home, but the negroes stopped work. The Agent of the Bureau came to us and said he could send them back for a fee of $50. We paid it, and they worked a week. We found it easier to run a hotel. We hope to start the farm next year.

  Our new minister at the Presbyterian Church is young, handsome, and eloquent—Rev. Hugh McAlpin.

  Mr. Lenoir died last week—but his end was so beautiful, our tears were half joy. He talked incessantly of your father and how the country missed him. He seemed much better the day before the end came, and we took him for a little drive to Lovers’ Leap. It was there, sixteen years ago, he made love to Jeannie. When we propped him up on the rustic seat, and he looked out over the cliff and the river below, I have never seen a face so transfigured with peace and joy.