The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan

As the doctor emerged from the stifling crowd with his friend, he drew a deep breath of fresh air, took from his pocket his conservative memorial, picked it into little bits, and scattered them along the street as he walked in silence back to his hotel.

CHAPTER IX
At Lover’s Leap

In spite of the pitiful collapse of old Stoneman under his stroke of paralysis, his children still saw the unconquered soul shining in his colourless eyes. They had both been on the point of confessing their love affairs to him and joining in the inevitable struggle when he was stricken. They knew only too well that he would not consent to a dual alliance with the Camerons under the conditions of fierce hatreds and violence into which the State had drifted. They were too high-minded to consider a violation of his wishes while thus helpless, with his strange eyes following them about in childlike eagerness. His weakness was mightier than his iron will.

So, for eighteen months, while he slowly groped out of mental twilight, each had waited – Elsie with a tender faith struggling with despair, and Phil in a torture of uncertainty and fear.

In the meantime, the young Northerner had become as radical in his sympathies with the Southern people as his father had ever been against them. This power of assimilation has always been a mark of Southern genius. The sight of the Black Hand on their throats now roused his righteous indignation. The patience with which they endured was to him amazing. The Southerner he had found to be the last man on earth to become a revolutionist. All his traits were against it. His genius for command, the deep sense of duty and honour, his hospitality, his deathless love of home, his supreme constancy and sense of civic unity, all combined to make him ultraconservative. He began now to see that it was reverence for authority as expressed in the Constitution under which slavery was established which made Secession inevitable.

Besides, the laziness and incapacity of the negro had been more than he could endure. With no ties of tradition or habits of life to bind him, he simply refused to tolerate them. In this feeling Elsie had grown early to sympathize. She discharged Aunt Cindy for feeding her children from the kitchen, and brought a cook and house girl from the North, while Phil would employ only white men in any capacity.

In the desolation of negro rule the Cameron farm had become worthless. The taxes had more than absorbed the income, and the place was only kept from execution by the indomitable energy of Mrs. Cameron, who made the hotel pay enough to carry the interest on a mortgage which was increasing from season to season.

The doctor’s practice was with him a divine calling. He never sent bills to his patients. They paid something if they had it. Now they had nothing.

Ben’s law practice was large for his age and experience, but his clients had no money.

While the Camerons were growing each day poorer, Phil was becoming rich. His genius, skill, and enterprise had been quick to see the possibilities of the waterpower. The old Eagle cotton mills had been burned during the war. Phil organized the Eagle & Phœnix Company, interested Northern capitalists, bought the falls, and erected two great mills, the dim hum of whose spindles added a new note to the river’s music. Eager, swift, modest, his head full of ideas, his heart full of faith, he had pressed forward to success.

As the old Commoner’s mind began to clear, and his recovery was sure, Phil determined to press his suit for Margaret’s hand to an issue.

Ben had dropped a hint of an interview of the Rev. Hugh McAlpin with Dr. Cameron, which had thrown Phil into a cold sweat.

He hurried to the hotel to ask Margaret to drive with him that afternoon. He would stop at Lover’s Leap and settle the question.

He met the preacher, just emerging from the door, calm, handsome, serious, and Margaret by his side. The dark-haired beauty seemed strangely serene. What could it mean? His heart was in his throat. Was he too late? Wreathed in smiles when the preacher had gone, the girl’s face was a riddle he could not solve.

To his joy, she consented to go.

As he left in his trim little buggy for the hotel, he stooped and kissed Elsie, whispering:

“Make an offering on the altar of love for me, Sis!”

“You’re too slow. The prayers of all the saints will not save you!” she replied with a laugh, throwing him a kiss as he disappeared in the dust.

As they drove through the great forest on the cliffs overlooking the river, the Southern world seemed lit with new splendours to-day for the Northerner. His heart beat with a strange courage. The odour of the pines, their sighing music, the subtone of the falls below, the subtle life-giving perfume of the fullness of summer, the splendour of the sun gleaming through the deep foliage, and the sweet sensuous air, all seemed incarnate in the calm, lovely face and gracious figure beside him.

They took their seat on the old rustic built against the beech, which was the last tree on the brink of the cliff. A hundred feet below flowed the river, rippling softly along a narrow strip of sand which its current had thrown against the rocks. The ledge of towering granite formed a cave eighty feet in depth at the water’s edge. From this projecting wall, tradition said a young Indian princess once leaped with her lover, fleeing from the wrath of a cruel father who had separated them. The cave below was inaccessible from above, being reached by a narrow footpath along the river’s edge when entered a mile downstream.

The view from the seat, under the beech, was one of marvellous beauty. For miles the broad river rolled in calm, shining glory seaward, its banks fringed with cane and trees, while fields of corn and cotton spread in waving green toward the distant hills and blue mountains of the west.

Every tree on this cliff was cut with the initials of generations of lovers from Piedmont.

They sat in silence for awhile, Margaret idly playing with a flower she had picked by the pathway, and Phil watching her devoutly. The Southern sun had tinged her face the reddish warm hue of ripened fruit, doubly radiant by contrast with her wealth of dark-brown hair. The lustrous glance of her eyes, half veiled by their long lashes, and the graceful, careless pose of her stately figure held him enraptured. Her dress of airy, azure blue, so becoming to her dark beauty, gave Phil the impression of eiderdown feathers of some rare bird of the tropics. He felt that if he dared to touch her she might lift her wings and sail over the cliff into the sky and forget to light again at his side.

“I am going to ask a very bold and impertinent question, Miss Margaret,” Phil said with resolution. “May I?”

Margaret smiled incredulously.

“I’ll risk your impertinence, and decide as to its boldness.”

“Tell me, please, what that preacher said to you to-day.”

Margaret looked away, unable to suppress the merriment that played about her eyes and mouth.

“Will you never breathe it to a soul if I do?”

“Never.”

“Honest Injun, here on the sacred altar of the princess?”

“On my honour.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” she said, biting her lips to keep back a laugh. “Mr. McAlpin is very handsome and eloquent. I have always thought him the best preacher we have ever had in Piedmont – ”

“Yes, I know,” Phil interrupted with a frown. “He is very pious,” she went on evenly, “and seeks Divine guidance in prayer in everything he does. He called this morning to see me, and I was playing for him in the little music-room off the parlour, when he suddenly closed the door and said:

“‘Miss Margaret, I am going to take, this morning, the most important step of my life – ’

“Of course I hadn’t the remotest idea what he meant —

“‘Will you join me in a word of prayer?’ he asked, and knelt right down. I was accustomed, of course, to kneel with him in family worship at his pastoral calls, and so from habit I slipped to one knee by the piano stool, wondering what on earth he was about. When he prayed with fervour for the Lord to bless the great love with which he hoped to hallow my life – I giggled. It broke up the meeting. He rose and asked me to marry him. I told him the Lord hadn’t revealed it to me – ”

Phil seized her hand and held it firmly. The smile died from the girl’s face, her hand trembled, and the rose tint on her cheeks flamed to scarlet.

“Margaret, my own, I love you,” he cried with joy. “You could have told that story only to the one man whom you love – is it not true?”

“Yes. I’ve loved you always,” said the low, sweet voice.

“Always?” asked Phil through a tear.

“Before I saw you, when they told me you were as Ben’s twin brother, my heart began to sing at the sound of your name – ”

“Call it,” he whispered.

“Phil, my sweetheart!” she said with a laugh.

“How tender and homelike the music of your voice! The world has never seen the match of your gracious Southern womanhood! Snowbound in the North, I dreamed, as a child, of this world of eternal sunshine. And now every memory and dream I’ve found in you.”

“And you won’t be disappointed in my simple ideal that finds its all within a home?”

“No. I love the old-fashioned dream of the South. Maybe you have enchanted me, but I love these green hills and mountains, these rivers musical with cascade and fall, these solemn forests – but for the Black Curse, the South would be to-day the garden of the world!”

“And you will help our people lift this curse?” softly asked the girl, nestling closer to his side.

“Yes, dearest, thy people shall be mine! Had I a thousand wrongs to cherish, I’d forgive them all for your sake. I’ll help you build here a new South on all that’s good and noble in the old, until its dead fields blossom again, its harbours bristle with ships, and the hum of a thousand industries make music in every valley. I’d sing to you in burning verse if I could, but it is not my way. I have been awkward and slow in love, perhaps – but I’ll be swift in your service. I dream to make dead stones and wood live and breathe for you, of victories wrung from Nature that are yours. My poems will be deeds, my flowers the hard-earned wealth that has a soul, which I shall lay at your feet.”

“Who said my lover was dumb?” she sighed, with a twinkle in her shining eyes. “You must introduce me to your father soon. He must like me as my father does you, or our dream can never come true.”

A pain gripped Phil’s heart, but he answered bravely:

“I will. He can’t help loving you.”

They stood on the rustic seat to carve their initials within a circle, high on the old beechwood book of love.

“May I write it out in full – Margaret Cameron – Philip Stoneman?” he asked.

“No – only the initials now – the full names when you’ve seen my father and I’ve seen yours. Jeannie Campbell and Henry Lenoir were once written thus in full, and many a lover has looked at that circle and prayed for happiness like theirs. You can see there a new one cut over the old, the bark has filled, and written on the fresh page is ‘Marion Lenoir’ with the blank below for her lover’s name.”

Phil looked at the freshly cut circle and laughed:

“I wonder if Marion or her mother did that?”

“Her mother, of course.”

“I wonder whose will be the lucky name some day within it?” said Phil musingly as he finished his own.

CHAPTER X
A Night Hawk

When the old Commoner’s private physician had gone and his mind had fully cleared, he would sit for hours in the sunshine of the vine-clad porch, asking Elsie of the village, its life, and its people. He smiled good-naturedly at her eager sympathy for their sufferings as at the enthusiasm of a child who could not understand. He had come possessed by a great idea – events must submit to it. Her assurance that the poverty and losses of the people were far in excess of the worst they had known during the war was too absurd even to secure his attention.

He had refused to know any of the people, ignoring the existence of Elsie’s callers. But he had fallen in love with Marion from the moment he had seen her. The cold eye of the old fox hunter kindled with the fire of his forgotten youth at the sight of this beautiful girl seated on the glistening back of the mare she had saved from death.

As she rode through the village every boy lifted his hat as to passing royalty, and no one, old or young, could allow her to pass without a cry of admiration. Her exquisite figure had developed into the full tropic splendour of Southern girlhood.

She had rejected three proposals from ardent lovers, on one of whom her mother had quite set her heart. A great fear had grown in Mrs. Lenoir’s mind lest she were in love with Ben Cameron. She slipped her arm around her one day and timidly asked her.

A faint flush tinged Marion’s face up to the roots of her delicate blonde hair, and she answered with a quick laugh:

“Mamma, how silly you are! You know I’ve always been in love with Ben – since I can first remember. I know he is in love with Elsie Stoneman. I am too young, the world too beautiful, and life too sweet to grieve over my first baby love. I expect to dance with him at his wedding, then meet my fate and build my own nest.”

Old Stoneman begged that she come every day to see him. He never tired praising her to Elsie. As she walked gracefully up to the house one afternoon, holding Hugh by the hand, he said to Elsie:

“Next to you, my dear, she is the most charming creature I ever saw. Her tenderness for everything that needs help touches the heart of an old lame man in a very soft spot.”

“I’ve never seen any one who could resist her,” Elsie answered. “Her gloves may be worn, her feet clad in old shoes, yet she is always neat, graceful, dainty, and serene. No wonder her mother worships her.”

Sam Ross, her simple friend, had stopped at the gate, and looked over into the lawn as if afraid to come in.

When Marion saw Sam, she turned back to the gate to invite him in. The keeper of the poor, a vicious-looking negro, suddenly confronted him, and he shrank in terror close to the girl’s side.

“What you doin’ here, sah?” the black keeper railed. “Ain’t I done tole you ’bout runnin’ away?”

“You let him alone,” Marion cried.

The negro pushed her roughly from his side and knocked Sam down. The girl screamed for help, and old Stoneman hobbled down the steps, following Elsie.

When they reached the gate, Marion was bending over the prostrate form.

“Oh, my, my, I believe he’s killed him!” she wailed.

“Run for the doctor, sonny, quick,” Stoneman said to Hugh. The boy darted away and brought Dr. Cameron.

“How dare you strike that man, you devil?” thundered the old statesman.

“’Case I tole ’im ter stay home en do de wuk I put ’im at, en he all de time runnin’ off here ter git somfin’ ter eat. I gwine frail de life outen ’im, ef he doan min’ me.”

“Well, you make tracks back to the Poorhouse. I’ll attend to this man, and I’ll have you arrested for this before night,” said Stoneman, with a scowl.

The black keeper laughed as he left.

“Not ’less you’se er bigger man dan Gubner Silas Lynch, you won’t!”

When Dr. Cameron had restored Sam, and dressed the wound on his head where he had struck a stone in falling, Stoneman insisted that the boy be put to bed.

Turning to Dr. Cameron, he asked:

“Why should they put a brute like this in charge of the poor?”

“That’s a large question, sir, at this time,” said the doctor politely, “and now that you have asked it, I have some things I’ve been longing for an opportunity to say to you.”

“Be seated, sir,” the old Commoner answered, “I shall be glad to hear them.”

Elsie’s heart leaped with joy over the possible outcome of this appeal, and she left the room with a smile for the doctor.

“First, allow me,” said the Southerner pleasantly, “to express my sorrow at your long illness, and my pleasure at seeing you so well. Your children have won the love of all our people and have had our deepest sympathy in your illness.”

Stoneman muttered an inaudible reply, and the doctor went on:

“Your question brings up, at once, the problem of the misery and degradation into which our country has sunk under negro rule – ”

Stoneman smiled coldly and interrupted:

“Of course, you understand my position in politics, Doctor Cameron – I am a Radical Republican.”

“So much the better,” was the response. “I have been longing for months to get your ear. Your word will be all the more powerful if raised in our behalf. The negro is the master of our State, county, city, and town governments. Every school, college, hospital, asylum, and poorhouse is his prey. What you have seen is but a sample. Negro insolence grows beyond endurance. Their women are taught to insult their old mistresses and mock their poverty as they pass in their old, faded dresses. Yesterday a black driver struck a white child of six with his whip, and when the mother protested, she was arrested by a negro policeman, taken before a negro magistrate, and fined $10 for ‘insulting a freedman.’”

Stoneman frowned: “Such things must be very exceptional.”

“They are everyday occurrences and cease to excite comment. Lynch, the Lieutenant-Governor, who has bought a summer home here, is urging this campaign of insult with deliberate purpose – ”

The old man shook his head. “I can’t think the Lieutenant-Governor guilty of such petty villainy.”

“Our school commissioner,” the doctor continued, “is a negro who can neither read nor write. The black grand jury last week discharged a negro for stealing cattle and indicted the owner for false imprisonment. No such rate of taxation was ever imposed on a civilized people. A tithe of it cost Great Britain her colonies. There are 5,000 homes in this county – 2,900 of them are advertised for sale by the sheriff to meet his tax bills. This house will be sold next court day – ”

Stoneman looked up sharply. “Sold for taxes?”

“Yes; with the farm which has always been Mrs. Lenoir’s support. In part her loss came from the cotton tax. Congress, in addition to the desolation of war, and the ruin of black rule, has wrung from the cotton farmers of the South a tax of $67,000,000. Every dollar of this money bears the stain of the blood of starving people. They are ready to give up, or to spring some desperate scheme of resistance – ”

The old man lifted his massive head and his great jaws came together with a snap:

“Resistance to the authority of the National Government?”

“No; resistance to the travesty of government and the mockery of civilization under which we are being throttled! The bayonet is now in the hands of a brutal negro militia. The tyranny of military martinets was child’s play to this. As I answered your call this morning I was stopped and turned back in the street by the drill of a company of negroes under the command of a vicious scoundrel named Gus who was my former slave. He is the captain of this company. Eighty thousand armed negro troops, answerable to no authority save the savage instincts of their officers, terrorize the State. Every white company has been disarmed and disbanded by our scallawag Governor. I tell you, sir, we are walking on the crust of a volcano – ”

Old Stoneman scowled as the doctor rose and walked nervously to the window and back.

“An appeal from you to the conscience of the North might save us,” he went on eagerly. “Black hordes of former slaves, with the intelligence of children and the instincts of savages, armed with modern rifles, parade daily in front of their unarmed former masters. A white man has no right a negro need respect. The children of the breed of men who speak the tongue of Burns and Shakespeare, Drake and Raleigh, have been disarmed and made subject to the black spawn of an African jungle! Can human flesh endure it? When Goth and Vandal barbarians overran Rome, the negro was the slave of the Roman Empire. The savages of the North blew out the light of Ancient Civilization, but in all the dark ages which followed they never dreamed the leprous infamy of raising a black slave to rule over his former master! No people in the history of the world have ever before been so basely betrayed, so wantonly humiliated and degraded!”

Stoneman lifted his head in amazement at the burst of passionate intensity with which the Southerner poured out his protest.

“For a Russian to rule a Pole,” he went on, “a Turk to rule a Greek, or an Austrian to dominate an Italian is hard enough, but for a thick-lipped, flat-nosed, spindle-shanked negro, exuding his nauseating animal odour, to shout in derision over the hearths and homes of white men and women is an atrocity too monstrous for belief. Our people are yet dazed by its horror. My God! when they realize its meaning, whose arm will be strong enough to hold them?”

“I should think the South was sufficiently amused with resistance to authority,” interrupted Stoneman.

“Even so. Yet there is a moral force at the bottom of every living race of men. The sense of right, the feeling of racial destiny – these are unconquered and unconquerable forces. Every man in South Carolina to-day is glad that slavery is dead. The war was not too great a price for us to pay for the lifting of its curse. And now to ask a Southerner to be the slave of a slave – ”

“And yet, Doctor,” said Stoneman coolly, “manhood suffrage is the one eternal thing fixed in the nature of Democracy. It is inevitable.”

“At the price of racial life? Never!” said the Southerner, with fiery emphasis. “This Republic is great, not by reason of the amount of dirt we possess, the size of our census roll, or our voting register – we are great because of the genius of the race of pioneer white freemen who settled this continent, dared the might of kings, and made a wilderness the home of Freedom. Our future depends on the purity of this racial stock. The grant of the ballot to these millions of semi-savages and the riot of debauchery which has followed are crimes against human progress.”

“Yet may we not train him?” asked Stoneman.

“To a point, yes, and then sink to his level if you walk as his equal in physical contact with him. His race is not an infant; it is a degenerate – older than yours in time. At last we are face to face with the man whom slavery concealed with its rags. Suffrage is but the new paper cloak with which the Demagogue has sought to hide the issue. Can we assimilate the negro? The very question is pollution. In Hayti no white man can own land. Black dukes and marquises drive over them and swear at them for getting under their wheels. Is civilization a patent cloak with which law-tinkers can wrap an animal and make him a king?”

“But the negro must be protected by the ballot,” protested the statesman. “The humblest man must have the opportunity to rise. The real issue is Democracy.”

“The issue, sir, is Civilization! Not whether a negro shall be protected, but whether Society is worth saving from barbarism.”

“The statesman can educate,” put in the Commoner.

The doctor cleared his throat with a quick little nervous cough he was in the habit of giving when deeply moved.

“Education, sir, is the development of that which is. Since the dawn of history the negro has owned the continent of Africa – rich beyond the dream of poet’s fancy, crunching acres of diamonds beneath his bare black feet. Yet he never picked one up from the dust until a white man showed to him its glittering light. His land swarmed with powerful and docile animals, yet he never dreamed a harness, cart, or sled. A hunter by necessity, he never made an axe, spear, or arrowhead worth preserving beyond the moment of its use. He lived as an ox, content to graze for an hour. In a land of stone and timber he never sawed a foot of lumber, carved a block, or built a house save of broken sticks and mud. With league on league of ocean strand and miles of inland seas, for four thousand years he watched their surface ripple under the wind, heard the thunder of the surf on his beach, the howl of the storm over his head, gazed on the dim blue horizon calling him to worlds that lie beyond, and yet he never dreamed a sail! He lived as his fathers lived – stole his food, worked his wife, sold his children, ate his brother, content to drink, sing, dance, and sport as the ape!

“And this creature, half child, half animal, the sport of impulse, whim, and conceit, ‘pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw,’ a being who, left to his will, roams at night and sleeps in the day, whose speech knows no word of love, whose passions, once aroused, are as the fury of the tiger – they have set this thing to rule over the Southern people – ”

The doctor sprang to his feet, his face livid, his eyes blazing with emotion. “Merciful God – it surpasses human belief!”

He sank exhausted in his chair, and, extending his hand in an eloquent gesture, continued:

“Surely, surely, sir, the people of the North are not mad? We can yet appeal to the conscience and the brain of our brethren of a common race?”

Stoneman was silent as if stunned. Deep down in his strange soul he was drunk with the joy of a triumphant vengeance he had carried locked in the depths of his being, yet the intensity of this man’s suffering for a people’s cause surprised and distressed him as all individual pain hurt him.

Dr. Cameron rose, stung by his silence and the consciousness of the hostility with which Stoneman had wrapped himself.

“Pardon my apparent rudeness, Doctor,” he said at length, extending his hand. “The violence of your feeling stunned me for the moment. I’m obliged to you for speaking. I like a plain-spoken man. I am sorry to learn of the stupidity of the former military commandant in this town – ”

“My personal wrongs, sir,” the doctor broke in, “are nothing!”

“I am sorry, too, about these individual cases of suffering. They are the necessary incidents of a great upheaval. But may it not all come out right in the end? After the Dark Ages, day broke at last. We have the printing press, railroad, and telegraph – a revolution in human affairs. We may do in years what it took ages to do in the past. May not the black man speedily emerge? Who knows? An appeal to the North will be a waste of breath. This experiment is going to be made. It is written in the book of Fate. But I like you. Come to see me again.”

Dr. Cameron left with a heavy heart. He had grown a great hope in this long-wished-for appeal to Stoneman. It had come to his ears that the old man, who had dwelt as one dead in their village, was a power.

It was ten o’clock before the doctor walked slowly back to the hotel. As he passed the armoury of the black militia, they were still drilling under the command of Gus. The windows were open, through which came the steady tramp of heavy feet and the cry of “Hep! Hep! Hep!” from the Captain’s thick cracked lips. The full-dress officer’s uniform, with its gold epaulets, yellow stripes, and glistening sword, only accentuated the coarse bestiality of Gus. His huge jaws seemed to hide completely the gold braid on his collar.

The doctor watched, with a shudder, his black bloated face covered with perspiration and the huge hand gripping his sword.

They suddenly halted in double ranks and Gus yelled:

“Odah, arms!”

The butts of their rifles crashed to the floor with precision, and they were allowed to break ranks for a brief rest.

They sang “John Brown’s Body,” and as its echoes died away a big negro swung his rifle in a circle over his head, shouting:

“Here’s your regulator for white trash! En dey’s nine hundred ob ’em in dis county!”

“Yas, Lawd!” howled another.

“We got ’em down now en we keep ’em dar, chile!” bawled another.

The doctor passed on slowly to the hotel. The night was dark, the streets were without lights under their present rulers, and the stars were hidden with swift-flying clouds which threatened a storm. As he passed under the boughs of an oak in front of his house, a voice above him whispered:

“A message for you, sir.”

Had the wings of a spirit suddenly brushed his cheek, he would not have been more startled.

“Who are you?” he asked, with a slight tremor.

“A Night Hawk of the Invisible Empire, with a message from the Grand Dragon of the Realm,” was the low answer, as he thrust a note in the doctor’s hand. “I will wait for your answer.”

The doctor fumbled to his office on the corner of the lawn, struck a match, and read:

“A great Scotch-Irish leader of the South from Memphis is here to-night and wishes to see you. If you will meet General Forrest, I will bring him to the hotel in fifteen minutes. Burn this. Ben.”

The doctor walked quickly back to the spot where he had heard the voice, and said:

“I’ll see him with pleasure.”

The invisible messenger wheeled his horse, and in a moment the echo of his muffled hoofs had died away in the distance.