Kitabı oku: «The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan», sayfa 19
CHAPTER VII
The Snare of the Fowler
Sweet was the secret joy of old Stoneman over the fate of Ben Cameron. His death sentence would strike terror to his party, and his prompt execution, on the morning of the election but two days off, would turn the tide, save the State, and rescue his daughter from a hated alliance.
He determined to bar the last way of escape. He knew the Klan would attempt a rescue, and stop at no means fair or foul short of civil war. Afraid of the loyalty of the white battalions quartered in Piedmont, he determined to leave immediately for Spartanburg, order an exchange of garrisons, and, when the death warrant was returned from headquarters, place its execution in the hands of a stranger, to whom appeal would be vain. He knew such an officer in the Spartanburg post, a man of fierce, vindictive nature, once court-martialed for cruelty, who hated every Southern white man with mortal venom. He would put him in command of the death watch.
He hired a fast team and drove across the county with all speed, doubly anxious to get out of town before Elsie discovered the tragedy and appealed to him for mercy. Her tears and agony would be more than he could endure. She would stay indoors on account of the crowds, and he would not be missed until evening, when safely beyond her reach.
When Phil arrived at Charlotte he found an immense crowd at the bulletin board in front of the Observer office reading the account of the Piedmont tragedy. To his horror he learned of the arrest, trial, and sentence of Ben for the deed which he had done.
He rushed to the office of the Division Superintendent of the Piedmont Air Line Railroad, revealed his identity, told him the true story of the tragedy, and begged for a special to carry him back. The Superintendent, who was a clansman, not only agreed, but within an hour had the special ready and two cars filled with stern-looking men to accompany him. Phil asked no questions. He knew what it meant. The train stopped at Gastonia and King’s Mountain and took on a hundred more men.
The special pulled into Piedmont at dusk. Phil ran to the Commandant and asked for an interview with Ben alone.
“For what purpose, sir?” the officer asked.
Phil resorted to a ruse, knowing the Commandant to be unaware of any difference of opinion between him and his father.
“I hold a commission to obtain a confession from the prisoner which may save his life by destroying the Ku Klux Klan.”
He was admitted at once and the guard ordered to withdraw until the interview ended.
Phil took Ben Cameron’s place, exchanging hat and coat, and wrote a note to his father, telling in detail the truth, and asked for his immediate interference.
“Deliver that, and I’ll be out of here in two hours,” he said, as he placed the note in Ben’s hand.
“I’ll go straight to the house,” was the quick reply.
The exchange of the Southerner’s slouch hat and Prince Albert for Phil’s derby and short coat completely fooled the guard in the dim light. The men were as much alike as twins except the shade of difference in the colour of their hair. He passed the sentinel without a challenge, and walked rapidly toward Stoneman’s house.
On the way he was astonished to meet five hundred soldiers just arrived on a special from Spartanburg. Amazed at the unexpected movement, he turned and followed them back to the jail.
They halted in front of the building he had just vacated, and their commander handed an official document to the officer in charge. The guard was changed and a cordon of soldiers encircled the prison.
The Piedmont garrison had received notice by wire to move to Spartanburg, and Ben heard the beat of their drums already marching to board the special.
He pressed forward and asked an interview with the Captain in command.
The answer came with a brutal oath:
“I have been warned against all the tricks and lies this town can hatch. The commander of the death watch will permit no interview, receive no visitors, hear no appeal, and allow no communication with the prisoner until after the execution. You can announce this to whom it may concern.”
“But you’ve got the wrong man. You have no right to execute him,” said Ben excitedly.
“I’ll risk it,” he answered, with a sneer.
“Great God!” Ben cried beneath his breath. “The old fool has entrapped his son in the net he spread for me!”
CHAPTER VIII
A Ride for a Life
When Ben Cameron failed to find either Elsie or her father at home, he hurried to the hotel, walking under the shadows of the trees to avoid recognition, though his resemblance to Phil would have enabled him to pass in his hat and coat unchallenged by any save the keenest observers.
He found his mother’s bedroom door ajar and saw Elsie within, sobbing in her arms. He paused, watched, and listened.
Never had he seen his mother so beautiful – her face calm, intelligent, and vital, crowned with a halo of gray. She stood, flushed and dignified, softly smoothing the golden hair of the sobbing girl whom she had learned to love as her daughter. Her whole being reflected the years of homage she had inspired in husband, children, and neighbours. What a woman! She had made war inevitable, fought it to the bitter end; and in the despair of a negro reign of terror, still the prophetess and high priestess of a people, serene, undismayed, and defiant, she had fitted the uniform of a Grand Dragon on her last son, and sewed in secret day and night to equip his men. And through it all she was without affectation, her sweet motherly ways, gentle manner and bearing always resistless to those who came within her influence.
“If he dies,” cried the tearful voice, “I shall never forgive myself for not surrendering without reserve and fighting his battles with him!”
“He is not dead yet,” was the mother’s firm answer. “Doctor Cameron is on Queen’s back. Your lover’s men will be riding to-night – these young dare-devil Knights of the South, with their life in their hands, a song on their lips, and the scorn of death in their souls!”
“Then I’ll ride with them,” cried the girl, suddenly lifting her head.
Ben stepped into the room, and with a cry of joy Elsie sprang into his arms. The mother stood silent until their lips met in the long tender kiss of the last surrender of perfect love.
“How did you escape so soon?” she asked quietly, while Elsie’s head still lay on his breast.
“Phil shot the brute, and I rushed him out of town. He heard the news, returned on the special, took my place, and sent me for his father. The guard has been changed and it’s impossible to see him, or communicate with the new Commandant – ”
Elsie started and turned pale.
“And father has hidden to avoid me – merciful God – if Phil is executed – ”
“He isn’t dead yet, either,” said Ben, slipping his arm around her. “But we must save him without a clash or a drop of bloodshed, if possible. The fate of our people may hang on this. A battle with United States troops now might mean ruin for the South – ”
“But you will save him?” Elsie pleaded, looking into his face.
“Yes – or I’ll go down with him,” was the steady answer.
“Where is Margaret?” he asked.
“Gone to McAllister’s with a message from your father,” Mrs. Cameron replied,
“Tell her when she returns to keep a steady nerve. I’ll save Phil. Send her to find her father. Tell him to hold five hundred men ready for action in the woods by the river and the rest in reserve two miles out of town – ”
“May I go with her?” Elsie asked eagerly.
“No. I may need you,” he said. “I am going to find the old statesman now, if I have to drag the bottomless pit. Wait here until I return.”
Ben reached the telegraph office unobserved, called the operator at Columbia, and got the Grand Giant of the county into the office. Within an hour he learned that the death warrant had been received and approved. It would be returned by a messenger to Piedmont on the morning train. He learned also that any appeal for a stay must be made through the Honourable Austin Stoneman, the secret representative of the Government clothed with this special power. The execution had been ordered the day of the election, to prevent the concentration of any large force bent on rescue.
“The old fox!” Ben muttered.
From the Grand Giant at Spartanburg he learned, after a delay of three hours, that Stoneman had left with a boy in a buggy, which he had hired for three days, and refused to tell his destination. He promised to follow and locate him as quickly as possible.
It was the afternoon on the day following, during the progress of the election, before Ben received the message from Spartanburg that Stoneman had been found at the Old Red Tavern where the roads crossed from Piedmont to Hambright. It was only twelve miles away, just over the line on the North Carolina side.
He walked with Margaret to the block where Queen stood saddled, watching with pride the quiet air of self-control with which she bore herself.
“Now, my sister, you know the way to the tavern. Ride for your sweetheart’s life. Bring the old man here by five o’clock, and we’ll save Phil without a fight. Keep your nerve. The Commandant knows a regiment of mine is lying in the woods, and he’s trying to slip out of town with his prisoner. I’ll stand by my men ready for a battle at a moment’s notice, but for God’s sake get here in time to prevent it.”
She stooped from the saddle, pressed her brother’s hand, kissed him, and galloped swiftly over the old Way of Romance she knew so well.
On reaching the tavern, the landlord rudely denied that any such man was there, and left her standing dazed and struggling to keep back the tears.
A boy of eight, with big wide friendly eyes, slipped into the room, looked up into her face tenderly, and said:
“He’s the biggest liar in North Carolina. The old man’s right upstairs in the room over your head. Come on; I’ll show you.”
Margaret snatched the child in her arms and kissed him.
She knocked in vain for ten minutes. At last she heard his voice within:
“Go away from that door!”
“I’m from Piedmont, sir,” cried Margaret, “with an important message from the Commandant for you.”
“Yes; I saw you come. I will not see you. I know everything, and I will hear no appeal.”
“But you cannot know of the exchange of men,” pleaded the girl.
“I tell you I know all about it. I will not interfere – ”
“But you could not be so cruel – ”
“The majesty of the law must be vindicated. The judge who consents to the execution of a murderer is not cruel. He is showing mercy to Society. Go, now; I will not hear you.”
In vain Margaret knocked, begged, pleaded, and sobbed.
At last, in a fit of desperation, as she saw the sun sinking lower and the precious minutes flying, she hurled her magnificent figure against the door and smashed the cheap lock which held it.
The old man sat at the other side of the room, looking out of the window, with his massive jaws locked in rage. The girl staggered to his side, knelt by his chair, placed her trembling hand on his arm, and begged:
“For the love of Jesus, have mercy! Come with me quickly!”
With a growl of anger, he said:
“No!”
“It was a mad impulse, in my defence as well as his own.”
“Impulse, yes! But back of it lay banked the fires of cruelty and race hatred! The Nation cannot live with such barbarism rotting its heart out.”
“But this is war, sir – a war of races, and this an accident of war – besides, his life had been attempted by them twice before.”
“So I’ve heard, and yet the negro always happens to be the victim – ”
Margaret leaped to her feet and glared at the old man for a moment in uncontrollable anger.
“Are you a fiend?” she fairly shrieked.
Old Stoneman merely pursed his lips.
The girl came a step closer, and extended her hand again in mute appeal.
“No, I was foolish. You are not cruel. I have heard of a hundred acts of charity you have done among our poor. Come, this is horrible! It is impossible! You cannot consent to the death of your son – ”
Stoneman looked up sharply:
“Thank God, he hasn’t married my daughter yet – ”
“Your daughter!” gasped Margaret. “I’ve told you it was Phil who killed the negro! He took Ben’s place just before the guards were exchanged – ”
“Phil! – Phil?” shrieked the old man, staggering to his club foot and stumbling toward Margaret with dilated eyes and whitening face; “My boy – Phil? – why – why, are you crazy? – Phil? Did you say —Phil?”
“Yes. Ben persuaded him to go to Charlotte until the excitement passed to avoid trouble. Come, come, sir, we must be quick! We may be too late!”
She seized and pulled him toward the door.
“Yes. Yes, we must hurry,” he said in a laboured whisper, looking around dazed. “You will show me the way, my child – you love him – yes, we will go quickly – quickly! my boy – my boy!”
Margaret called the landlord, and while they hitched Queen to the buggy, the old man stood helplessly wringing and fumbling his big ugly hands, muttering incoherently, and tugging at his collar as though about to suffocate.
As they dashed away, old Stoneman laid a trembling hand on Margaret’s arm.
“Your horse is a good one, my child?”
“Yes; the one Marion saved – the finest in the county.”
“And you know the way?”
“Every foot of it. Phil and I have driven it often.”
“Yes, yes – you love him,” he sighed, pressing her hand.
Through the long reckless drive, as the mare flew over the rough hills, every nerve and muscle of her fine body at its utmost tension, the father sat silent. He braced his club foot against the iron bar of the dashboard and gripped the sides of the buggy to steady his feeble body. Margaret leaned forward intently watching the road to avoid an accident. The old man’s strange colourless eyes stared straight in front, wide open, and seeing nothing, as if the soul had already fled through them into eternity.
CHAPTER IX
“Vengeance Is Mine”
It was dark long before Margaret and Stoneman reached Piedmont. A mile out of town a horse neighed in the woods, and, tired as she was, Queen threw her head high and answered the call.
The old man did not notice it, but Margaret knew a squadron of white-and-scarlet horsemen stood in those woods, and her heart gave a bound of joy.
As they passed the Presbyterian church, she saw through the open window her father standing at his Elder’s seat leading in prayer. They were holding a watch service, asking God for victory in the eventful struggle of the day.
Margaret attempted to drive straight to the jail, and a sentinel stopped them.
“I am Stoneman, sir – the real commander of these troops,” said the old man, with authority.
“Orders is orders, and I don’t take ’em from you,” was the answer.
“Then tell your commander that Mr. Stoneman has just arrived from Spartanburg and asks to see him at the hotel immediately.”
He hobbled into the parlour and waited in agony while Margaret tied the mare. Ben, her mother and father, and every servant were gone.
In a few moments the second officer hurried to Stoneman, saluted, and said:
“We’ve pulled it off in good shape, sir. They’ve tried to fool us with a dozen tricks, and a whole regiment has been lying in wait for us all day. But at dark the Captain outwitted them, took his prisoner with a squad of picked cavalry, and escaped their pickets. They’ve been gone an hour, and ought to be back with the body – ”
Old Stoneman sprang on him with the sudden fury of a madman, clutching at his throat.
“If you’ve killed my son,” he gasped – “go – go! Follow them with a swift messenger and stop them! It’s a mistake – you’re killing the wrong man – you’re killing my boy – quick – my God, quick – don’t stand there staring at me!”
The officer rushed to obey his order as Margaret entered.
The old man seized her arm, and said with laboured breath:
“Your father, my child, ask him to come to me quickly.”
Margaret hurried to the church, and an usher called the doctor to the door.
He read the question trembling on the girl’s lips.
“Nothing has happened yet, my daughter. Your brother has held a regiment of his men in readiness every moment of the day.”
“Mr. Stoneman is at the hotel and asks to see you immediately,” she whispered.
“God grant he may prevent bloodshed,” said the father. “Go inside and stay with your mother.”
When Doctor Cameron entered the parlour Stoneman hobbled painfully to meet him, his face ashen, and his breath rattling in his throat as if his soul were being strangled.
“You are my enemy, Doctor,” he said, taking his hand, “but you are a pious man. I have been called an infidel – I am only a wilful sinner – I have slain my own son, unless God Almighty, who can raise the dead, shall save him! You are the man at whom I aimed the blow that has fallen on my head. I wish to confess to you and set myself right before God. He may hear my cry, and have mercy on me.”
He gasped for breath, sank into his seat, looked around, and said:
“Will you close the door?”
The doctor complied with his request and returned.
“We all wear masks, Doctor,” began the trembling voice. “Beneath lie the secrets of love and hate from which actions move. My will alone forged the chains of negro rule. Three forces moved me – party success, a vicious woman, and the quenchless desire for personal vengeance. When I first fell a victim to the wiles of the yellow vampire who kept my house, I dreamed of lifting her to my level. And when I felt myself sinking into the black abyss of animalism, I, whose soul had learned the pathway of the stars and held high converse with the great spirits of the ages – ”
He paused, looked up in terror, and whispered:
“What’s that noise? Isn’t it the distant beat of horses’ hoofs?”
“No,” said the doctor, listening; “it’s the roar of the falls we hear, from a sudden change of the wind.”
“I’m done now,” Stoneman went on, slowly fumbling his hands. “My life has been a failure. The dice of God are always loaded.”
His great head drooped lower, and he continued:
“Mightiest of all was my motive of revenge. Fierce business and political feuds wrecked my iron mills. I shouldered their vast debts, and paid the last mortgage of a hundred thousand dollars the week before Lee invaded my State. I stood on the hill in the darkness, cried, raved, cursed, while I watched the troops lay those mills in ashes. Then and there I swore that I’d live until I ground the South beneath my heel! When I got back to my house they had buried a Confederate soldier in the field. I dug his body up, carted it to the woods, and threw it into a ditch – ”
The hand of the white-haired Southerner suddenly gripped old Stoneman’s throat – and then relaxed. His head sank on his breast, and he cried in anguish:
“God be merciful to me a sinner! Would I, too, seek revenge!”
Stoneman looked at the doctor, dazed by his sudden onslaught and collapse.
“Yes, he was somebody’s boy down here,” he went on, “who was loved perhaps even as I love – I don’t blame you. See, in the inside pocket next to my heart I carry the pictures of Phil and Elsie taken from babyhood up, all set in a little book. They don’t know this – nor does the world dream I’ve been so soft-hearted – ”
He drew a miniature album from his pocket and fumbled it aimlessly:
“You know Phil was my first-born – ”
His voice broke, and he looked at the doctor helplessly.
The Southerner slipped his arm around the old man’s shoulders and began a tender and reverent prayer.
The sudden thunder of a squad of cavalry with clanking sabres swept by the hotel toward the jail.
Stoneman scrambled to his feet, staggered, and caught a chair.
“It’s no use,” he groaned, “ – they’ve come with his body – I’m slipping down – the lights are going out – I haven’t a friend! It’s dark and cold – I’m alone, and lost – God – has – hidden – His – face – from – me!”
Voices were heard without, and the tramp of heavy feet on the steps.
Stoneman clutched the doctor’s arm in agony:
“Stop them! – Stop them! Don’t let them bring him in here!”
He sank limp into the chair and stared at the door as it swung open and Phil walked in, with Ben and Elsie by his side, in full clansman disguise.
The old man leaped to his feet and gasped:
“The Klan! – The Klan! No? Yes! It’s true – glory to God, they’ve saved my boy – Phil – Phil!”
“How did you rescue him?” Doctor Cameron asked Ben.
“Had a squadron lying in wait on every road that led from town. The Captain thought a thousand men were on him, and surrendered without a shot.”
At twelve o’clock Ben stood at the gate with Elsie.
“Your fate hangs in the balance of this election to-night,” she said. “I’ll share it with you, success or failure, life or death.”
“Success, not failure,” he answered firmly. “The Grand Dragons of six States have already wired victory. Look at our lights on the mountains! They are ablaze – range on range our signals gleam until the Fiery Cross is lost among the stars!”
“What does it mean?” she whispered.
“That I am a successful revolutionist – that Civilization has been saved, and the South redeemed from shame.”
