The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan

CHAPTER V
Forty Acres and a Mule

When Phil returned with Margaret, he drove at Mrs. Cameron’s request to find Ben, brought him with all speed to the hotel, took him to his room, and locked the door before he told him the news. After an hour’s blind rage, he agreed to obey his father’s positive orders to keep away from the Captain until his return, and to attempt no violence against the authorities.

Phil undertook to manage the case in Columbia, and spent three days collecting his evidence before leaving.

Swifter feet had anticipated him. Two days after the arrival of Dr. Cameron at the fort in Colombia, a dust-stained, tired negro was ushered into the presence of General Howle.

He looked about timidly and laughed loudly.

“Well, my man, what’s the trouble? You seem to have walked all the way, and laugh as if you were glad of it.”

“I ‘spec’ I is, sah,” said Jake, sidling up confidentially.

“Well?” said Howle good-humouredly.

Jake’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“I hears you got my ole marster, Dr. Cameron, in dis place.”

“Yes. What do you know against him?”

“Nuttin’, sah. I des hurry ’long down ter take his place, so’s you can sen’ him back home. He’s erbleeged ter go. Dey’s er pow’ful lot er sick folks up dar in de country cain’t git ’long widout him, an er pow’ful lot er well ones gwiner be raisin’ de debbel ’bout dis. You can hol’ me, sah. Des tell my ole marster when ter be yere, en he sho’ come.”

Jake paused and bowed low.

“Yessah, hit’s des lak I tell you. Fuddermo’, I ’spec’ I’se de man what done de damages. I ’spec’ I bus’ de Capt’n’s nose so ’tain gwine be no mo’ good to ’im.”

Howle questioned Jake as to the whole affair, asked him a hundred questions about the condition of the county, the position of Dr. Cameron, and the possible effect of this event on the temper of the people.

The affair had already given him a bad hour. The news of this shackling of one of the most prominent men in the State had spread like wildfire, and had caused the first deep growl of anger from the people. He saw that it was a senseless piece of stupidity. The election was rapidly approaching. He was master of the State, and the less friction the better. His mind was made up instantly. He released Dr. Cameron with an apology, and returned with him and Jake for a personal inspection of the affairs of Ulster county.

In a thirty-minutes’ interview with Captain Gilbert, Howle gave him more pain than his broken nose.

“And why did you nail up the doors of that Presbyterian church?” he asked suavely.

“Because McAlpin, the young cub who preaches there, dared come to this camp and insult me about the arrest of old Cameron.”

“I suppose you issued an order silencing him from the ministry?”

“I did, and told him I’d shackle him if he opened his mouth again.”

“Good. The throne of Russia needn’t worry about a worthy successor. Any further ecclesiastical orders?”

“None, except the oaths I’ve prescribed for them before they shall preach again.”

“Fine! These Scotch Covenanters will feel at home with you.”

“Well, I’ve made them bite the dust – and they know who’s runnin’ this town, and don’t you forget it.”

“No doubt. Yet we may have too much of even a good thing. The League is here to run this country. The business of the military is to keep still and back them when they need it.”

“We’ve the strongest council here to be found in any county in this section,” said Gilbert with pride.

“Just so. The League meets once a week. We have promised them the land of their masters and equal social and political rights. Their members go armed to these meetings and drill on Saturdays in the public square. The white man is afraid to interfere lest his house or barn take fire. A negro prisoner in the dock needs only to make the sign to be acquitted. Not a negro will dare to vote against us. Their women are formed into societies, sworn to leave their husbands and refuse to marry any man who dares our anger. The negro churches have pledged themselves to expel him from their membership. What more do you want?”

“There’s another side to it,” protested the Captain. “Since the League has taken in the negroes, every Union white man has dropped it like a hot iron, except the lone scallawag or carpet-bagger who expects an office. In the church, the social circle, in business or pleasure, these men are lepers. How can a human being stand it? I’ve tried to grind this hellish spirit in the dirt under my heel, and unless you can do it they’ll beat you in the long run! You’ve got to have some Southern white men or you’re lost.”

“I’ll risk it with a hundred thousand negro majority,” said Howle with a sneer. “The fun will just begin then. In the meantime, I’ll have you ease up on this county’s government. I’ve brought that man back who knocked you down. Let him alone. I’ve pardoned him. The less said about this affair, the better.”

As the day of the election under the new régime of Reconstruction drew near, the negroes were excited by rumours of the coming great events. Every man was to receive forty acres of land for his vote, and the enthusiastic speakers and teachers had made the dream a resistless one by declaring that the Government would throw in a mule with the forty acres. Some who had hesitated about the forty acres of land, remembering that it must be worked, couldn’t resist the idea of owning a mule.

The Freedman’s Bureau reaped a harvest in $2 marriage fees from negroes who were urged thus to make their children heirs of landed estates stocked with mules.

Every stranger who appeared in the village was regarded with awe as a possible surveyor sent from Washington to run the lines of these forty-acre plots.

And in due time the surveyors appeared. Uncle Aleck, who now devoted his entire time to organizing the League, and drinking whiskey which the dues he collected made easy, was walking back to Piedmont from a League meeting in the country, dreaming of this promised land.

He lifted his eyes from the dusty way and saw before him two surveyors with their arms full of line stakes painted red, white, and blue. They were well-dressed Yankees – he could not be mistaken. Not a doubt disturbed his mind. The kingdom of heaven was at hand!

He bowed low and cried:

“Praise de Lawd! De messengers is come! I’se waited long, but I sees ’em now wid my own eyes!”

“You can bet your life on that, old pard,” said the spokesman of the pair. “We go two and two, just as the apostles did in the olden times. We have only a few left. The boys are hurrying to get their homes. All you’ve got to do is to drive one of these red, white, and blue stakes down at each corner of the forty acres of land you want, and every rebel in the infernal regions can’t pull it up.”

“Hear dat now!”

“Just like I tell you. When this stake goes into the ground, it’s like planting a thousand cannon at each corner.”

“En will the Lawd’s messengers come wid me right now to de bend er de creek whar I done pick out my forty acres?”

“We will, if you have the needful for the ceremony. The fee for the surveyor is small – only two dollars for each stake. We have no time to linger with foolish virgins who have no oil in their lamps. The bridegroom has come. They who have no oil must remain in outer darkness.” The speaker had evidently been a preacher in the North, and his sacred accent sealed his authority with the old negro, who had been an exhorter himself.

Aleck felt in his pocket the jingle of twenty gold dollars, the initiation fees of the week’s harvest of the League. He drew them, counted out eight, and took his four stakes. The surveyors kindly showed him how to drive them down firmly to the first stripe of blue. When they had stepped off a square of about forty acres of the Lenoir farm, including the richest piece of bottom land on the creek, which Aleck’s children under his wife’s direction were working for Mrs. Lenoir, and the four stakes were planted, old Aleck shouted:

“Glory ter God!”

“Now,” said the foremost surveyor, “you want a deed – a deed in fee simple with the big seal of the Government on it, and you’re fixed for life. The deed you can take to the courthouse and make the clerk record it.”

The man drew from his pocket an official-looking paper, with a red circular seal pasted on its face.

Uncle Aleck’s eyes danced.

“Is dat de deed?”

“It will be if I write your name on it and describe the land.”

“En what’s de fee fer dat?”

“Only twelve dollars; you can take it now or wait until we come again. There’s no particular hurry about this. The wise man, though, leaves nothing for to-morrow that he can carry with him to-day.”

“I takes de deed right now, gemmen,” said Aleck, eagerly counting out the remaining twelve dollars. “Fix ’im up for me.”

The surveyor squatted in the field and carefully wrote the document.

They went on their way rejoicing, and old Aleck hurried into Piedmont with the consciousness of lordship of the soil. He held himself so proudly that it seemed to straighten some of the crook out of his bow legs.

He marched up to the hotel where Margaret sat reading and Marion was on the steps playing with a setter.

“Why, Uncle Aleck!” Marion exclaimed, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

Aleck drew himself to his full height – at least, as full as his bow legs would permit, and said gruffly:

“Miss Ma’ian, I axes you to stop callin’ me ‘uncle’; my name is Mr. Alexander Lenoir – ”

“Until Aunt Cindy gets after you,” laughed the girl. “Then it’s much shorter than that, Uncle Aleck.”

He shuffled his feet and looked out at the square unconcernedly.

“Yaas’m, dat’s what fetch me here now. I comes ter tell yer Ma ter tell dat ’oman Cindy ter take her chillun off my farm. I gwine ’low no mo’ rent-payin’ ter nobody off’n my lan’!”

“Your land, Uncle Aleck? When did you get it?” asked Marion, placing her cheek against the setter.

“De Gubment gim it ter me to-day,” he replied, fumbling in his pocket, and pulling out the document. “You kin read it all dar yo’sef.”

He handed Marion the paper, and Margaret hurried down and read it over her shoulder.

Both girls broke into screams of laughter.

Aleck looked up sharply.

“Do you know what’s written on this paper, Uncle Aleck?” Margaret asked.

“Cose I do. Dat’s de deed ter my farm er forty acres in de land er de creek, whar I done stuck off wid de red, white, an’ blue sticks de Gubment gimme.”

“I’ll read it to you,” said Margaret.

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Marion. “I want Aunt Cindy to hear it – she’s here to see Mamma in the kitchen now.”

She ran for Uncle Aleck’s spouse. Aunt Cindy walked around the house and stood by the steps, eying her erstwhile lord with contempt.

“Got yer deed, is yer, ter stop me payin’ my missy her rent fum de lan’ my chillun wucks? Yu’se er smart boy, you is – let’s hear de deed!”

Aleck edged away a little, and said with a bow:

“Dar’s de paper wid de big mark er de Gubment.”

Aunt Cindy sniffed the air contemptuously.

“What is it, honey?” she asked of Margaret.

Margaret read in mock solemnity the mystic writing on the deed:

To Whom It May Concern:

As Moses lifted up the brazen serpent in the wilderness for the enlightenment of the people, even so have I lifted twenty shining plunks out of this benighted nigger! Selah!

As Uncle Aleck walked away with Aunt Cindy shouting in derision, “Dar, now! Dar, now!” the bow in his legs seemed to have sprung a sharper curve.

CHAPTER VI
A Whisper in the Crowd

The excitement which preceded the first Reconstruction election in the South paralyzed the industries of the country. When demagogues poured down from the North and began their raving before crowds of ignorant negroes, the plow stopped in the furrow, the hoe was dropped, and the millennium was at hand.

Negro tenants, working under contracts issued by the Freedman’s Bureau, stopped work, and rode their landlords’ mules and horses around the county, following these orators.

The loss to the cotton crop alone from the abandonment of the growing plant was estimated at over $60,000,000.

The one thing that saved the situation from despair was the large grain and forage crops of the previous season which thrifty farmers had stored in their barns. So important was the barn and its precious contents that Dr. Cameron hired Jake to sleep in his.

This immense barn, which was situated at the foot of the hill some two hundred yards behind the house, had become a favourite haunt of Marion and Hugh. She had made a pet of the beautiful thoroughbred mare which had belonged to Ben during the war. Marion went every day to give her an apple or lump of sugar, or carry her a bunch of clover. The mare would follow her about like a cat.

Another attraction at the barn for them was Becky Sharpe, Ben’s setter. She came to Marion one morning, wagging her tail, seized her dress and led her into an empty stall, where beneath the trough lay sleeping snugly ten little white-and-black spotted puppies.

The girl had never seen such a sight before and went into ecstasies. Becky wagged her tail with pride at her compliments. Every morning she would pull her gently into the stall just to hear her talk and laugh and pet her babies.

Whatever election day meant to the men, to Marion it was one of unalloyed happiness: she was to ride horseback alone and dance at her first ball. Ben had taught her to ride, and told her she could take Queen to Lover’s Leap and back alone. Trembling with joy, her beautiful face wreathed in smiles, she led the mare to the pond in the edge of the lot and watched her drink its pure spring water.

When he helped her to mount in front of the hotel under her mother’s gaze, and saw her ride out of the gate, with the exquisite lines of her little figure melting into the graceful lines of the mare’s glistening form, he exclaimed:

“I declare, I don’t know which is the prettier, Marion or Queen!”

“I know,” was the mother’s soft answer.

“They are both thoroughbreds,” said Ben, watching them admiringly.

“Wait till you see her to-night in her first ball dress,” whispered Mrs. Lenoir.

At noon Ben and Phil strolled to the polling-place to watch the progress of the first election under negro rule. The Square was jammed with shouting, jostling, perspiring negroes, men, women, and children. The day was warm, and the African odour was supreme even in the open air.

A crowd of two hundred were packed around a peddler’s box. There were two of them – one crying the wares, and the other wrapping and delivering the goods. They were selling a new patent poison for rats.

“I’ve only a few more bottles left now, gentlemen,” he shouted, “and the polls will close at sundown. A great day for our brother in black. Two years of army rations from the Freedman’s Bureau, with old army clothes thrown in, and now the ballot – the priceless glory of American citizenship. But better still the very land is to be taken from these proud aristocrats and given to the poor down-trodden black man. Forty acres and a mule – think of it! Provided, mind you – that you have a bottle of my wonder-worker to kill the rats and save your corn for the mule. No man can have the mule unless he has corn; and no man can have corn if he has rats – and only a few bottles left – ”

“Gimme one,” yelled a negro.

“Forty acres and a mule, your old masters to work your land and pay his rent in corn, while you sit back in the shade and see him sweat.”

“Gimme er bottle and two er dem pictures!” bawled another candidate for a mule.

The peddler handed him the bottle and the pictures and threw a handful of his labels among the crowd. These labels happened to be just the size of the ballots, having on them the picture of a dead rat lying on his back, and above, the emblem of death, the crossbones and skull.

“Forty acres and a mule for every black man – why was I ever born white? I never had no luck, nohow!”

Phil and Ben passed on nearer the polling-place, around which stood a cordon of soldiers with a line of negro voters two hundred yards in length extending back into the crowd.

The negro Leagues came in armed battalions and voted in droves, carrying their muskets in their hands. Less than a dozen white men were to be seen about the place.

The negroes, under the drill of the League and the Freedman’s Bureau, protected by the bayonet, were voting to enfranchise themselves, disfranchise their former masters, ratify a new constitution, and elect a legislature to do their will. Old Aleck was a candidate for the House, chief poll-holder, and seemed to be in charge of the movements of the voters outside the booth as well as inside. He appeared to be omnipresent, and his self-importance was a sight Phil had never dreamed. He could not keep his eyes off him.

“By George, Cameron, he’s a wonder!” he laughed.

Aleck had suppressed as far as possible the story of the painted stakes and the deed, after sending out warnings to the brethren to beware of two enticing strangers. The surveyors had reaped a rich harvest and passed on. Aleck made up his mind to go to Columbia, make the laws himself, and never again trust a white man from the North or South. The agent of the Freedman’s Bureau at Piedmont tried to choke him off the ticket. The League backed him to a man. He could neither read nor write, but before he took to whiskey he had made a specialty of revival exhortation, and his mouth was the most effective thing about him. In this campaign he was an orator of no mean powers. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what his people wanted, and he put the thing in words so plain that a wayfaring man, though a fool, couldn’t make any mistake about it.

As he bustled past, forming a battalion of his brethren in line to march to the polls, Phil followed his every movement with amused interest.

Besides being so bow-legged that his walk was a moving joke he was so striking a negro in his personal appearance, he seemed to the young Northerner almost a distinct type of man.

His head was small and seemed mashed on the sides until it bulged into a double lobe behind. Even his ears, which he had pierced and hung with red earbobs, seemed to have been crushed flat to the side of his head. His kinked hair was wrapped in little hard rolls close to the skull and bound tightly with dirty thread. His receding forehead was high and indicated a cunning intelligence. His nose was broad and crushed flat against his face. His jaws were strong and angular, mouth wide, and lips thick, curling back from rows of solid teeth set obliquely in their blue gums. The one perfect thing about him was the size and setting of his mouth – he was a born African orator, undoubtedly descended from a long line of savage spell-binders, whose eloquence in the palaver houses of the jungle had made them native leaders. His thin spindle-shanks supported an oblong, protruding stomach, resembling an elderly monkey’s, which seemed so heavy it swayed his back to carry it.

The animal vivacity of his small eyes and the flexibility of his eyebrows, which he worked up and down rapidly with every change of countenance, expressed his eager desires.

He had laid aside his new shoes, which hurt him, and went barefooted to facilitate his movements on the great occasion. His heels projected and his foot was so flat that what should have been the hollow of it made a hole in the dirt where he left his track.

He was already mellow with liquor, and was dressed in an old army uniform and cap, with two horse pistols buckled around his waist. On a strap hanging from his shoulder were strung a half-dozen tin canteens filled with whiskey.

A disturbance in the line of voters caused the young men to move forward to see what it meant.

Two negro troopers had pulled Jake out of the line, and were dragging him toward old Aleck.

The election judge straightened himself up with great dignity:

“What wuz de rapscallion doin’?”

“In de line, tryin’ ter vote.”

“Fetch ’im befo’ de judgment bar,” said Aleck, taking a drink from one of his canteens.

The troopers brought Jake before the judge.

“Tryin’ ter vote, is yer?”

“’Lowed I would.”

“You hear ’bout de great sassieties de Gubment’s fomentin’ in dis country?”

“Yas, I hear erbout ’em.”

“Is yer er member er de Union League?”

“Na-sah. I’d rudder steal by myself. I doan’ lak too many in de party!”

“En yer ain’t er No’f Ca’liny gemmen, is yer – yer ain’t er member er de ‘Red Strings?’”

“Na-sah, I come when I’se called – dey doan’ hatter put er string on me – ner er block, ner er collar, ner er chain, ner er muzzle – ”

“Will yer ’splain ter dis cote – ” railed Aleck.

“What cote? Dat ole army cote?” Jake laughed in loud peals that rang over the square.

Aleck recovered his dignity and demanded angrily:

“Does yer belong ter de Heroes ob Americky?”

“Na-sah. I ain’t burnt nobody’s house ner barn yet, ner hamstrung no stock, ner waylaid nobody atter night – honey, I ain’t fit ter jine. Heroes ob Americky! Is you er hero?”

“Ef yer doan’ b’long ter no s’iety,” said Aleck with judicial deliberation, “what is you?”

“Des er ole-fashun all-wool-en-er-yard-wide nigger dat stan’s by his ole marster ’cause he’s his bes’ frien’, stays at home, en tends ter his own business.”

“En yer pay no ’tenshun ter de orders I sent yer ter jine de League?”

“Na-sah. I ain’t er takin’ orders f’um er skeer-crow.”

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.”