Fetters and his companion returned to the ball. The barkeeper called a
servant of the hotel, with whose aid, Ben was carried upstairs and put
to bed, bruised in body and damaged in reputation.
_Twenty-four_
Ben's fight with young Fetters became a matter of public comment the
next day after the ball. His conduct was cited as sad proof of the
degeneracy of a once fine old family. He had been considered shiftless
and not well educated, but no one had suspected that he was a drunkard
and a rowdy. Other young men in the town, high-spirited young fellows
with plenty of money, sometimes drank a little too much, and
occasionally, for a point of honour, gentlemen were obliged to attack
or defend themselves, but when they did, they used pistols, a
gentleman's weapon. Here, however, was an unprovoked and brutal attack
with fists, upon two gentlemen in evening dress and without weapons to
defend themselves, "one of them," said the _Anglo-Saxon_, "the son of
our distinguished fellow citizen and colleague in the legislature, the
Honourable William Fetters."
When Colonel French called to see Miss Laura, the afternoon of next
day after the ball, the ladies were much concerned about the affair.
"Oh, Henry," exclaimed Miss Laura, "what is this dreadful story about
Ben Dudley? They say he was drinking at the hotel, and became
intoxicated, and that when Barclay Fetters and Tom McRae went into the
hotel, he said something insulting about Graciella, and when they
rebuked him for his freedom he attacked them violently, and that when
finally subdued he was put to bed unconscious and disgracefully
intoxicated. Graciella is very angry, and we all feel ashamed enough
to sink into the ground. What can be the matter with Ben? He hasn't
been around lately, and he has quarrelled with Graciella. I never
would have expected anything like this from Ben."
"It came from his great-uncle Ralph," said Mrs. Treadwell. "Ralph was
very wild when he was young, but settled down into a very polished
gentleman. I danced with him once when he was drunk, and I never knew
it--it was my first ball, and I was intoxicated myself, with
excitement. Mother was scandalised, but father laughed and said boys
would be boys. But poor Ben hasn't had his uncle's chances, and while
he has always behaved well here, he could hardly be expected to carry
his liquor like a gentleman of the old school."
"My dear ladies," said the colonel, "we have heard only one side of
the story. I guess there's no doubt Ben was intoxicated, but we know
he isn't a drinking man, and one drink--or even one drunk--doesn't
make a drunkard, nor one fight a rowdy. Barclay Fetters and Tom McRae
are not immaculate, and perhaps Ben can exonerate himself."
"I certainly hope so," said Miss Laura earnestly. "I am sorry for Ben,
but I could not permit a drunken rowdy to come to the house, or let my
niece be seen upon the street with him."
"It would only be fair," said the colonel, "to give him a chance to
explain, when he comes in again. I rather like Ben. He has some fine
mechanical ideas, and the making of a man in him, unless I am
mistaken. I have been hoping to find a place for him in the new cotton
mill, when it is ready to run."
They were still speaking of Ben, when there was an irresolute knock at
the rear door of the parlour, in which they were seated.
"Miss Laura, O Miss Laura," came a muffled voice. "Kin I speak to you
a minute. It's mighty pertickler, Miss Laura, fo' God it is!"
"Laura," said the colonel, "bring Catharine in. I saw that you were
troubled once before when you were compelled to refuse her something.
Henceforth your burdens shall be mine. Come in, Catharine," he called,
"and tell us what's the matter. What's your trouble? What's it all
about?"
The woman, red-eyed from weeping, came in, wringing her apron.
"Miss Laura," she sobbed, "an' Colonel French, my husban' Bud is done
gone and got inter mo' trouble. He's run away f'm Mistah Fettuhs, w'at
he wuz sol' back to in de spring, an' he's done be'n fine' fifty
dollahs mo', an' he's gwine ter be sol' back ter Mistah Fettuhs in de
mawnin', fer ter finish out de ole fine and wo'k out de new one. I's
be'n ter see 'im in de gyard house, an' he say Mistah Haines, w'at
use' ter be de constable and is a gyard fer Mistah Fettuhs now, beat
an' 'bused him so he couldn' stan' it; an' 'ceptin' I could pay all
dem fines, he'll be tuck back dere; an'he say ef dey evah beats him
ag'in, dey'll eithuh haf ter kill him, er he'll kill some er dem. An'
Bud is a rash man, Miss Laura, an' I'm feared dat he'll do w'at he
say, an' ef dey kills him er he kills any er dem, it'll be all de same
ter me--I'll never see 'm no mo' in dis worl'. Ef I could borry de
money, Miss Laura--Mars' Colonel--I'd wuk my fingers ter de bone 'tel
I paid back de las' cent. Er ef you'd buy Bud, suh, lack you did Unc'
Peter, he would n' mind wukkin' fer you, suh, fer Bud is a good wukker
we'n folks treats him right; an' he had n' never had no trouble nowhar
befo' he come hyuh, suh."
"How did he come to be arrested the first time?" asked the colonel.
"He didn't live hyuh, suh; I used ter live hyuh, an' I ma'ied him
down ter Madison, where I wuz wukkin'. We fell out one day, an' I got
mad and lef' 'im--it wuz all my fault an' I be'n payin' fer it evuh
since--an' I come back home an' went ter wuk hyuh, an' he come aftuh
me, an de fus' day he come, befo' I knowed he wuz hyuh, dis yer Mistah
Haines tuck 'im up, an' lock 'im up in de gyard house, like a hog in
de poun', an' he didn' know nobody, an' dey didn' give 'im no chanst
ter see nobody, an' dey tuck 'im roun' ter Squi' Reddick nex' mawnin',
an' fined 'im an' sol' 'im ter dis yer Mistuh Fettuhs fer ter wo'k out
de fine; an' I be'n wantin' all dis time ter hyuh fum 'im, an' I'd
done be'n an' gone back ter Madison to look fer 'im, an' foun' he wuz
gone. An' God knows I didn' know what had become er 'im, 'tel he run
away de yuther time an' dey tuck 'im an' sent 'im back again. An' he
hadn' done nothin' de fus' time, suh, but de Lawd know w'at he won' do
ef dey sen's 'im back any mo'."
Catharine had put her apron to her eyes and was sobbing bitterly. The
story was probably true. The colonel had heard underground rumours
about the Fetters plantation and the manner in which it was supplied
with labourers, and his own experience in old Peter's case had made
them seem not unlikely. He had seen Catharine's husband, in the
justice's court, and the next day, in the convict gang behind Turner's
buggy. The man had not looked like a criminal; that he was surly and
desperate may as well have been due to a sense of rank injustice as to
an evil nature. That a wrong had been done, under cover of law, was at
least more than likely; but a deed of mercy could be made to right it.
The love of money might be the root of all evil, but its control was
certainly a means of great good. The colonel glowed with the
consciousness of this beneficent power to scatter happiness.
"Laura," he said, "I will attend to this; it is a matter about which
you should not be troubled. Don't be alarmed, Catharine. Just be a
good girl and help Miss Laura all you can, and I'll look after your
husband, and pay his fine and let him work it out as a free man."
"Thank'y, suh, thank'y, Mars' Colonel, an' Miss Laura! An' de Lawd is
gwine bless you, suh, you an' my sweet young lady, fuh bein' good to
po' folks w'at can't do nuthin' to he'p deyse'ves out er trouble,"
said Catharine backing out with her apron to her eyes.
* * * * *
On leaving Miss Laura, the colonel went round to the office of Squire
Reddick, the justice of the peace, to inquire into the matter of Bud
Johnson. The justice was out of town, his clerk said, but would be in
his office at nine in the morning, at which time the colonel could
speak to him about Johnson's fine.
The next morning was bright and clear, and cool enough to be bracing.
The colonel, alive with pleasant thoughts, rose early and after a cold
bath, and a leisurely breakfast, walked over to the mill site, where
the men were already at work. Having looked the work over and given
certain directions, he glanced at his watch, and finding it near nine,
set out for the justice's office in time to reach it by the appointed
hour. Squire Reddick was at his desk, upon which his feet rested,
while he read a newspaper. He looked up with an air of surprise as the
colonel entered.
"Why, good mornin', Colonel French," he said genially. "I kind of
expected you a while ago; the clerk said you might be around. But you
didn' come, so I supposed you'd changed yo' mind."
"The clerk said that you would be here at nine," replied the colonel;
"it is only just nine."
"Did he? Well, now, that's too bad! I do generally git around about
nine, but I was earlier this mornin' and as everybody was here, we
started in a little sooner than usual. You wanted to see me about Bud
Johnson?"
"Yes, I wish to pay his fine and give him work."
"Well, that's too bad; but you weren't here, and Mr. Turner was, and
he bought his time again for Mr. Fetters. I'm sorry, you know, but
first come, first served."
The colonel was seriously annoyed. He did not like to believe there
was a conspiracy to frustrate his good intention; but that result had
been accomplished, whether by accident or design. He had failed in the
first thing he had undertaken for the woman he loved and was to marry.
He would see Fetters's man, however, and come to some arrangement with
him. With Fetters the hiring of the Negro was purely a commercial
transaction, conditioned upon a probable profit, for the immediate
payment of which, and a liberal bonus, he would doubtless relinquish
his claim upon Johnson's services.
Learning that Turner, who had acted as Fetters's agent in the matter,
had gone over to Clay Johnson's saloon, he went to seek him there. He
found him, and asked for a proposition. Turner heard him out.
"Well, Colonel French," he replied with slightly veiled insolence, "I
bought this nigger's time for Mr. Fetters, an' unless I'm might'ly
mistaken in Mr. Fetters, no amount of money can get the nigger until
he's served his time out. He's defied our rules and defied the law,
and defied me, and assaulted one of the guards; and he ought to be
made an example of. We want to keep 'im; he's a bad nigger, an' we've
got to handle a lot of 'em, an' we need 'im for an example--he keeps
us in trainin'."
"Have you any power in the matter?" demanded the colonel, restraining
his contempt.
"Me? No, not _me_! I couldn't let the nigger go for his weight in
gol'--an' wouldn' if I could. I bought 'im in for Mr. Fetters, an'
he's the only man that's got any say about 'im."
"Very well," said the colonel as he turned away, "I'll see Fetters."
"I don't know whether you will or not," said Turner to himself, as he
shot a vindictive glance at the colonel's retreating figure. "Fetters
has got this county where he wants it, an' I'll bet dollars to bird
shot he ain't goin' to let no coon-flavoured No'the'n interloper come
down here an' mix up with his arrangements, even if he did hail from
this town way back yonder. This here nigger problem is a South'en
problem, and outsiders might's well keep their han's off. Me and
Haines an' Fetters is the kind o' men to settle it."
The colonel was obliged to confess to Miss Laura his temporary
setback, which he went around to the house and did immediately.
"It's the first thing I've undertaken yet for your sake, Laura, and
I've got to report failure, so far."
"It's only the first step," she said, consolingly.
"That's all. I'll drive out to Fetters's place to-morrow, and arrange
the matter. By starting before day, I can make it and transact my
business, and get back by night, without hurting the horses."
Catharine was called in and the situation explained to her. Though
clearly disappointed at the delay, and not yet free of apprehension
that Bud might do something rash, she seemed serenely confident of the
colonel's ultimate success. In her simple creed, God might sometimes
seem to neglect his black children, but no harm could come to a Negro
who had a rich white gentleman for friend and protector.
_Twenty-five_
It was not yet sunrise when the colonel set out next day, after an
early breakfast, upon his visit to Fetters. There was a crisp
freshness in the air, the dew was thick upon the grass, the clear blue
sky gave promise of a bright day and a pleasant journey.
The plantation conducted by Fetters lay about twenty miles to the
south of Clarendon, and remote from any railroad, a convenient
location for such an establishment, for railroads, while they bring in
supplies and take out produce, also bring in light and take out
information, both of which are fatal to certain fungus growths, social
as well as vegetable, which flourish best in the dark.
The road led by Mink Run, and the colonel looked over toward the house
as they passed it. Old and weather-beaten it seemed, even in the
distance, which lent it no enchantment in the bright morning light.
When the colonel had travelled that road in his boyhood, great
forests of primeval pine had stretched for miles on either hand,
broken at intervals by thriving plantations. Now all was changed. The
tall and stately growth of the long-leaf pine had well nigh
disappeared; fifteen years before, the turpentine industry, moving
southward from Virginia, along the upland counties of the Appalachian
slope, had swept through Clarendon County, leaving behind it a trail
of blasted trunks and abandoned stills. Ere these had yielded to
decay, the sawmill had followed, and after the sawmill the tar kiln,
so that the dark green forest was now only a waste of blackened stumps
and undergrowth, topped by the vulgar short-leaved pine and an
occasional oak or juniper. Here and there they passed an expanse of
cultivated land, and there were many smaller clearings in which could
be seen, plowing with gaunt mules or stunted steers, some heavy-footed
Negro or listless "po' white man;" or women and children, black or
white. In reply to a question, the coachman said that Mr. Fetters had
worked all that country for turpentine years before, and had only
taken up cotton raising after the turpentine had been exhausted from
the sand hills.
He had left his mark, thought the colonel. Like the plague of locusts,
he had settled and devoured and then moved on, leaving a barren waste
behind him.
As the morning advanced, the settlements grew thinner, until suddenly,
upon reaching the crest of a hill, a great stretch of cultivated
lowland lay spread before them. In the centre of the plantation, near
the road which ran through it, stood a square, new, freshly painted
frame house, which would not have seemed out of place in some Ohio or
Michigan city, but here struck a note alien to its surroundings. Off
to one side, like the Negro quarters of another generation, were
several rows of low, unpainted cabins, built of sawed lumber, the
boards running up and down, and battened with strips where the edges
met. The fields were green with cotton and with corn, and there were
numerous gangs of men at work, with an apparent zeal quite in contrast
with the leisurely movement of those they had passed on the way. It
was a very pleasing scene.
"Dis yer, suh," said the coachman in an awed tone, "is Mistah
Fetters's plantation. You ain' gwine off nowhere, and leave me alone
whils' you are hyuh, is you, suh?"
"No," said the colonel, "I'll keep my eye on you. Nobody'll trouble
you while you're with me."
Passing a clump of low trees, the colonel came upon a group at sight
of which he paused involuntarily. A gang of Negroes were at work. Upon
the ankles of some was riveted an iron band to which was soldered a
chain, at the end of which in turn an iron ball was fastened.
Accompanying them was a white man, in whose belt was stuck a revolver,
and who carried in one hand a stout leather strap, about two inches in
width with a handle by which to grasp it. The gang paused momentarily
to look at the traveller, but at a meaning glance from the overseer
fell again to their work of hoeing cotton. The white man stepped to
the fence, and Colonel French addressed him.
"Good morning."
"Mornin', suh."
"Will you tell me where I can find Mr. Fetters?" inquired the colonel.
"No, suh, unless he's at the house. He may have went away this
mornin', but I haven't heard of it. But you drive along the road to
the house, an' somebody'll tell you."
The colonel seemed to have seen the overseer before, but could not
remember where.
"Sam," he asked the coachman, "who is that white man?"
"Dat's Mistah Haines, suh--use' ter be de constable at Cla'endon, suh.
I wouldn' lak to be in no gang under him, suh, sho' I wouldn', no,
suh!"
After this ejaculation, which seemed sincere as well as fervent, Sam
whipped up the horses and soon reached the house. A Negro boy came out
to meet them.
"Is Mr. Fetters at home," inquired the colonel?
"I--_I_ don' know, suh--I--I'll ax Mars' Turner. _He's_ hyuh."
He disappeared round the house and in a few minutes returned with
Turner, with whom the colonel exchanged curt nods.
"I wish to see Mr. Fetters," said the colonel.
"Well, you can't see him."
"Why not?"
"Because he ain't here. He left for the capital this mornin', to be
gone a week. You'll be havin' a fine drive, down here and back."
The colonel ignored the taunt.
"When will Mr. Fetters return?" he inquired.
"I'm shore I don't know. He don't tell me his secrets. But I'll tell
_you_, Colonel French, that if you're after that nigger, you're
wastin' your time. He's in Haines's gang, and Haines loves him so well
that Mr. Fetters has to keep Bud in order to keep Haines. There's no
accountin' for these vi'lent affections, but they're human natur', and
they have to be 'umoured."
"I'll talk to your _master_," rejoined the colonel, restraining his
indignation and turning away.
Turner looked after him vindictively.
"He'll talk to my _master_, like as if I was a nigger! It'll be a long
time before he talks to Fetters, if that's who he means--if I can
prevent it. Not that it would make any difference, but I'll just keep
him on the anxious seat."
It was nearing noon, but the colonel had received no invitation to
stop, or eat, or feed his horses. He ordered Sam to turn and drive
back the way they had come.
As they neared the group of labourers they had passed before, the
colonel saw four Negroes, in response to an imperative gesture from
the overseer, seize one of their number, a short, thickset fellow,
overpower some small resistance which he seemed to make, throw him
down with his face to the ground, and sit upon his extremities while
the overseer applied the broad leathern thong vigorously to his bare
back.
The colonel reached over and pulled the reins mechanically. His
instinct was to interfere; had he been near enough to recognise in the
Negro the object of his visit, Bud Johnson, and in the overseer the
ex-constable, Haines, he might have yielded to the impulse. But on
second thought he realised that he had neither authority nor strength
to make good his interference. For aught he knew, the performance
might be strictly according to law. So, fighting a feeling of nausea
which he could hardly conquer, he ordered Sam to drive on.
The coachman complied with alacrity, as though glad to escape from a
mighty dangerous place. He had known friendless coloured folks, who
had strayed down in that neighbourhood to be lost for a long time; and
he had heard of a spot, far back from the road, in a secluded part of
the plantation, where the graves of convicts who had died while in
Fetters's service were very numerous.
_Twenty-six_
During the next month the colonel made several attempts to see
Fetters, but some fatality seemed always to prevent their meeting. He
finally left the matter of finding Fetters to Caxton, who ascertained
that Fetters would be in attendance at court during a certain week, at
Carthage, the county seat of the adjoining county, where the colonel
had been once before to inspect a cotton mill. Thither the colonel
went on the day of the opening of court. His train reached town toward
noon and he went over to the hotel. He wondered if he would find the
proprietor sitting where he had found him some weeks before. But the
buggy was gone from before the piazza, and there was a new face behind
the desk. The colonel registered, left word that he would be in to
dinner, and then went over to the court house, which lay behind the
trees across the square.
The court house was an old, square, hip-roofed brick structure, whose
walls, whitewashed the year before, had been splotched and discoloured
by the weather. From one side, under the eaves, projected a beam,
which supported a bell rung by a rope from the window below. A hall
ran through the centre, on either side of which were the county
offices, while the court room with a judge's room and jury room,
occupied the upper floor.
The colonel made his way across the square, which showed the usual
signs of court being in session. There were buggies hitched to trees
and posts here and there, a few Negroes sleeping in the sun, and
several old coloured women with little stands for the sale of cakes,
and fried fish, and cider.
The colonel went upstairs to the court room. It was fairly well
filled, and he remained standing for a few minutes near the entrance.
The civil docket was evidently on trial, for there was a jury in the
box, and a witness was being examined with some prolixity with
reference to the use of a few inches of land which lay on one side or
on the other of a disputed boundary. From what the colonel could
gather, that particular line fence dispute had been in litigation for
twenty years, had cost several lives, and had resulted in a feud that
involved a whole township.
The testimony was about concluded when the colonel entered, and the
lawyers began their arguments. The feeling between the litigants
seemed to have affected their attorneys, and the court more than once
found it necessary to call counsel to order. The trial was finished,
however, without bloodshed; the case went to the jury, and court was
adjourned until two o'clock.
The colonel had never met Fetters, nor had he seen anyone in the court
room who seemed likely to be the man. But he had seen his name freshly
written on the hotel register, and he would doubtless go there for
dinner. There would be ample time to get acquainted and transact his
business before court reassembled for the afternoon.
Dinner seemed to be a rather solemn function, and except at a table
occupied by the judge and the lawyers, in the corner of the room
farthest from the colonel, little was said. A glance about the room
showed no one whom the colonel could imagine to be Fetters, and he was
about to ask the waiter if that gentleman had yet entered the dining
room, when a man came in and sat down on the opposite side of the
table. The colonel looked up, and met the cheerful countenance of the
liveryman from whom he had hired a horse and buggy some weeks before.
"Howdy do?" said the newcomer amiably. "Hope you've been well."
"Quite well," returned the colonel, "how are you?"
"Oh, just tol'able. Tendin' co't?"
"No, I came down here to see a man that's attending court--your friend
Fetters. I suppose he'll be in to dinner."
"Oh, yes, but he ain't come in yet. I reckon you find the ho-tel a
little different from the time you were here befo'."
"This is a better dinner than I got," replied the colonel, "and I
haven't seen the landlord anywhere, nor his buggy."
"No, he ain't here no more. Sad loss to Carthage! You see Bark
Fetters--that's Bill's boy that's come home from the No'th from
college--Bark Fetters come down here one day, an' went in the ho-tel,
an' when Lee Dickson commenced to put on his big airs, Bark cussed 'im
out, and Lee, who didn't know Bark from Adam, cussed 'im back, an'
then Bark hauled off an' hit 'im. They had it hot an' heavy for a
while. Lee had more strength, but Bark had more science, an' laid Lee
out col'. Then Bark went home an' tol' the ole man, who had a mortgage
on the ho-tel, an' he sol' Lee up. I hear he's barberin' or somethin'
er that sort up to Atlanta, an' the hotel's run by another man.
There's Fetters comin' in now."
The colonel glanced in the direction indicated, and was surprised at
the appearance of the redoubtable Fetters, who walked over and took
his seat at the table with the judge and the lawyers. He had expected
to meet a tall, long-haired, red-faced, truculent individual, in a
slouch hat and a frock coat, with a loud voice and a dictatorial
manner, the typical Southerner of melodrama. He saw a keen-eyed,
hard-faced small man, slightly gray, clean-shaven, wearing a
well-fitting city-made business suit of light tweed. Except for a few
little indications, such as the lack of a crease in his trousers,
Fetters looked like any one of a hundred business men whom the colonel
might have met on Broadway in any given fifteen minutes during
business hours.
The colonel timed his meal so as to leave the dining-room at the same
moment with Fetters. He went up to Fetters, who was chewing a
toothpick in the office, and made himself known.
"I am Mr. French," he said--he never referred to himself by his
military title--"and you, I believe, are Mr. Fetters?"
"Yes, sir, that's my name," replied Fetters without enthusiasm, but
eyeing the colonel keenly between narrowed lashes.
"I've been trying to see you for some time, about a matter," continued
the colonel, "but never seemed able to catch up with you before."
"Yes, I heard you were at my house, but I was asleep upstairs, and
didn't know you'd be'n there till you'd gone."
"Your man told me you had gone to the capital for two weeks."
"My man? Oh, you mean Turner! Well, I reckon you must have riled
Turner somehow, and he thought he'd have a joke on you."
"I don't quite see the joke," said the colonel, restraining his
displeasure. "But that's ancient history. Can we sit down over here in
the shade and talk by ourselves for a moment?"
Fetters followed the colonel out of doors, where they drew a couple of
chairs to one side, and the colonel stated the nature of his business.
He wished to bargain for the release of a Negro, Bud Johnson by name,
held to service by Fetters under a contract with Clarendon County. He
was willing to pay whatever expense Fetters had been to on account of
Johnson, and an amount sufficient to cover any estimated profits from
his services.
Meanwhile Fetters picked his teeth nonchalantly, so nonchalantly as to
irritate the colonel. The colonel's impatience was not lessened by the
fact that Fetters waited several seconds before replying.
"Well, Mr. Fetters, what say you?"
"Colonel French," said Fetters, "I reckon you can't have the nigger."
"Is it a matter of money?" asked the colonel. "Name your figure. I
don't care about the money. I want the man for a personal reason."
"So do I," returned Fetters, coolly, "and money's no object to me.
I've more now than I know what to do with."
The colonel mastered his impatience. He had one appeal which no
Southerner could resist.
"Mr. Fetters," he said, "I wish to get this man released to please a
lady."
"Sorry to disoblige a lady," returned Fetters, "but I'll have to keep
the nigger. I run a big place, and I'm obliged to maintain discipline.
This nigger has been fractious and contrary, and I've sworn that he
shall work out his time. I have never let any nigger get the best of
me--or white man either," he added significantly.
The colonel was angry, but controlled himself long enough to make one
more effort. "I'll give you five hundred dollars for your contract,"
he said rising from his chair.
"You couldn't get him for five thousand."
"Very well, sir," returned the colonel, "this is not the end of this.
I will see, sir, if a man can be held in slavery in this State, for a
debt he is willing and ready to pay. You'll hear more of this before
I'm through with it."
"Another thing, Colonel French," said Fetters, his quiet eyes
glittering as he spoke, "I wonder if you recollect an incident that
occurred years ago, when we went to the academy in Clarendon?"
"If you refer," returned the colonel promptly, "to the time I chased
you down Main Street, yes--I recalled it the first time I heard of
you when I came back to Clarendon--and I remember why I did it. It is
a good omen."
"That's as it may be," returned Fetters quietly. "I didn't have to
recall it; I've never forgotten it. Now you want something from me,
and you can't have it."
"We shall see," replied the colonel. "I bested you then, and I'll best
you now."
"We shall see," said Fetters.
Fetters was not at all alarmed, indeed he smiled rather pityingly.
There had been a time when these old aristocrats could speak, and the
earth trembled, but that day was over. In this age money talked, and
he had known how to get money, and how to use it to get more. There
were a dozen civil suits pending against him in the court house there,
and he knew in advance that he should win them every one, without
directly paying any juryman a dollar. That any nigger should get away
while he wished to hold him, was--well, inconceivable. Colonel French
might have money, but he, Fetters, had men as well; and if Colonel
French became too troublesome about this nigger, this friendship for
niggers could be used in such a way as to make Clarendon too hot for
Colonel French. He really bore no great malice against Colonel French
for the little incident of their school days, but he had not forgotten
it, and Colonel French might as well learn a lesson. He, Fetters, had
not worked half a lifetime for a commanding position, to yield it to
Colonel French or any other man. So Fetters smoked his cigar
tranquilly, and waited at the hotel for his anticipated verdicts. For
there could not be a jury impanelled in the county which did not have
on it a majority of men who were mortgaged to Fetters. He even held
the Judge's note for several hundred dollars.
The colonel waited at the station for the train back to Clarendon.
When it came, it brought a gang of convicts, consigned to Fetters.
They had been brought down in the regular "Jim Crow" car, for the
colonel saw coloured women and children come out ahead of them. The
colonel watched the wretches, in coarse striped garments, with chains
on their legs and shackles on their hands, unloaded from the train and
into the waiting wagons. There were burly Negroes and flat-shanked,
scrawny Negroes. Some wore the ashen hue of long confinement. Some
were shamefaced, some reckless, some sullen. A few white convicts
among them seemed doubly ashamed--both of their condition and of their
company; they kept together as much as they were permitted, and looked
with contempt at their black companions in misfortune. Fetters's man
and Haines, armed with whips, and with pistols in their belts, were
present to oversee the unloading, and the colonel could see them point
him out to the State officers who had come in charge of the convicts,
and see them look at him with curious looks. The scene was not
edifying. There were criminals in New York, he knew very well, but he
had never seen one. They were not marched down Broadway in stripes and
chains. There were certain functions of society, as of the body, which
were more decently performed in retirement. There was work in the
State for the social reformer, and the colonel, undismayed by his
temporary defeat, metaphorically girded up his loins, went home, and,
still metaphorically, set out to put a spoke in Fetters's wheel.
_Twenty-seven_
His first step was to have Caxton look up and abstract for him the
criminal laws of the State. They were bad enough, in all conscience.
Men could be tried without jury and condemned to infamous punishments,
involving stripes and chains, for misdemeanours which in more
enlightened States were punished with a small fine or brief detention.
There were, for instance, no degrees of larceny, and the heaviest
punishment might be inflicted, at the discretion of the judge, for the
least offense.
The vagrancy law, of which the colonel had had some experience, was an
open bid for injustice and "graft" and clearly designed to profit the
strong at the expense of the weak. The crop-lien laws were little more
than the instruments of organised robbery. To these laws the colonel
called the attention of some of his neighbours with whom he was on
terms of intimacy. The enlightened few had scarcely known of their
existence, and quite agreed that the laws were harsh and ought to be
changed.
But when the colonel, pursuing his inquiry, undertook to investigate
the operation of these laws, he found an appalling condition. The
statutes were mild and beneficent compared with the results obtained
under cover of them. Caxton spent several weeks about the State
looking up the criminal records, and following up the sentences
inflicted, working not merely for his fee, but sharing the colonel's
indignation at the state of things unearthed. Convict labour was
contracted out to private parties, with little or no effective State
supervision, on terms which, though exceedingly profitable to the
State, were disastrous to free competitive labour. More than one
lawmaker besides Fetters was numbered among these contractors.
Leaving the realm of crime, they found that on hundreds of farms,
ignorant Negroes, and sometimes poor whites, were held in bondage
under claims of debt, or under contracts of exclusive employment for
long terms of years--contracts extorted from ignorance by craft, aided
by State laws which made it a misdemeanour to employ such persons
elsewhere. Free men were worked side by side with convicts from the
penitentiary, and women and children herded with the most depraved
criminals, thus breeding a criminal class to prey upon the State.
In the case of Fetters alone the colonel found a dozen instances where
the law, bad as it was, had not been sufficient for Fetters's purpose,
but had been plainly violated. Caxton discovered a discharged guard of
Fetters, who told him of many things that had taken place at Sycamore;
and brought another guard one evening, at that time employed there,
who told him, among other things, that Bud Johnson's life, owing to
his surliness and rebellious conduct, and some spite which Haines
seemed to bear against him, was simply a hell on earth--that even a
strong Negro could not stand it indefinitely.
A case was made up and submitted to the grand jury. Witnesses were
summoned at the colonel's instance. At the last moment they all
weakened, even the discharged guard, and their testimony was not
sufficient to justify an indictment.
The colonel then sued out a writ of habeas corpus for the body of Bud
Johnson, and it was heard before the common pleas court at Clarendon,
with public opinion divided between the colonel and Fetters. The court
held that under his contract, for which he had paid the consideration,
Fetters was entitled to Johnson's services.
The colonel, defeated but still undismayed, ordered Caxton to prepare
a memorial for presentation to the federal authorities, calling their
attention to the fact that peonage, a crime under the Federal
statutes, was being flagrantly practised in the State. This allegation
was supported by a voluminous brief, giving names and dates and
particular instances of barbarity. The colonel was not without some
quiet support in this movement; there were several public-spirited men
in the county, including his able lieutenant Caxton, Dr. Price and old
General Thornton, none of whom were under any obligation to Fetters,
and who all acknowledged that something ought to be done to purge the
State of a great disgrace.
There was another party, of course, which deprecated any scandal which
would involve the good name of the State or reflect upon the South,
and who insisted that in time these things would pass away and there
would be no trace of them in future generations. But the colonel
insisted that so also would the victims of the system pass away, who,
being already in existence, were certainly entitled to as much
consideration as generations yet unborn; it was hardly fair to
sacrifice them to a mere punctilio. The colonel had reached the
conviction that the regenerative forces of education and
enlightenment, in order to have any effect in his generation, must be
reinforced by some positive legislative or executive action, or else
the untrammelled forces of graft and greed would override them; and he
was human enough, at this stage of his career to wish to see the
result of his labours, or at least a promise of result.
The colonel's papers were forwarded to the proper place, whence they
were referred from official to official, and from department to
department. That it might take some time to set in motion the
machinery necessary to reach the evil, the colonel knew very well, and
hence was not impatient at any reasonable delay. Had he known that his
presentation had created a sensation in the highest quarter, but that
owing to the exigencies of national politics it was not deemed wise,
at that time, to do anything which seemed like an invasion of State
rights or savoured of sectionalism, he might not have been so serenely
confident of the outcome. Nor had Fetters known as much, would he have
done the one thing which encouraged the colonel more than anything
else. Caxton received a message one day from Judge Bullard,
representing Fetters, in which Fetters made the offer that if Colonel
French would stop his agitation on the labour laws, and withdraw any
papers he had filed, and promise to drop the whole matter, he would
release Bud Johnson.
The colonel did not hesitate a moment. He had gone into this fight for
Johnson--or rather to please Miss Laura. He had risen now to higher
game; nothing less than the system would satisfy him.
"But, Colonel," said Caxton, "it's pretty hard on the nigger. They'll
kill him before his time's up. If you'll give me a free hand, I'll get
him anyway."
"How?"
"Perhaps it's just as well you shouldn't know. But I have friends at
Sycamore."
"You wouldn't break the law?" asked the colonel.
"Fetters is breaking the law," replied Caxton. "He's holding Johnson
for debt--and whether that is lawful or not, he certainly has no right
to kill him."
"You're right," replied the colonel. "Get Johnson away, I don't care
how. The end justifies the means--that's an argument that goes down
here. Get him away, and send him a long way off, and he can write for
his wife to join him. His escape need not interfere with our other
plans. We have plenty of other cases against Fetters."
Within a week, Johnson, with the connivance of a bribed guard, a
poor-white man from Clarendon, had escaped from Fetters and seemingly
vanished from Beaver County. Fetters's lieutenants were active in
their search for him, but sought in vain.
_Twenty-eight_
Ben Dudley awoke the morning after the assembly ball, with a violent
headache and a sense of extreme depression, which was not relieved by
the sight of his reflection in the looking-glass of the bureau in the
hotel bedroom where he found himself.
One of his eyes was bloodshot, and surrounded by a wide area of
discolouration, and he was conscious of several painful contusions on
other portions of his body. His clothing was badly disordered and
stained with blood; and, all in all, he was scarcely in a condition to
appear in public. He made such a toilet as he could, and, anxious to
avoid observation, had his horse brought from the livery around to the
rear door of the hotel, and left for Mink Run by the back streets. He
did not return to town for a week, and when he made his next
appearance there, upon strictly a business visit, did not go near the
Treadwells', and wore such a repellent look that no one ventured to
speak to him about his encounter with Fetters and McRae. He was
humiliated and ashamed, and angry with himself and all the world. He
had lost Graciella already; any possibility that might have remained
of regaining her affection, was destroyed by his having made her name
the excuse for a barroom broil. His uncle was not well, and with the
decline of his health, his monomania grew more acute and more
absorbing, and he spent most of his time in the search for the
treasure and in expostulations with Viney to reveal its whereabouts.
The supervision of the plantation work occupied Ben most of the time,
and during his intervals of leisure he sought to escape unpleasant
thoughts by busying himself with the model of his cotton gin.
His life had run along in this way for about two weeks after the
ball, when one night Barclay Fetters, while coming to town from his
father's plantation at Sycamore, in company with Turner, his father's
foreman, was fired upon from ambush, in the neighbourhood of Mink
Run, and seriously wounded. Groaning heavily and in a state of
semi-unconsciousness he was driven by Turner, in the same buggy in
which he had been shot, to Doctor Price's house, which lay between
Mink Run and the town.
The doctor examined the wound, which was serious. A charge of buckshot
had been fired at close range, from a clump of bushes by the wayside,
and the charge had taken effect in the side of the face. The sight of
one eye was destroyed beyond a peradventure, and that of the other
endangered by a possible injury to the optic nerve. A sedative was
administered, as many as possible of the shot extracted, and the
wounds dressed. Meantime a messenger was despatched to Sycamore for
Fetters, senior, who came before morning post-haste. To his anxious
inquiries the doctor could give no very hopeful answer.
"He's not out of danger," said Doctor Price, "and won't be for several
days. I haven't found several of those shot, and until they're located
I can't tell what will happen. Your son has a good constitution, but
it has been abused somewhat and is not in the best condition to throw
off an injury."
"Do the best you can for him, Doc," said Fetters, "and I'll make it
worth your while. And as for the double-damned scoundrel that shot him
in the dark, I'll rake this county with a fine-toothed comb till he's
found. If Bark dies, the murderer shall hang as high as Haman, if it
costs me a million dollars, or, if Bark gets well, he shall have the
limit of the law. No man in this State shall injure me or mine and go
unpunished."
The next day Ben Dudley was arrested at Mink Run, on a warrant sworn
out by Fetters, senior, charging Dudley with attempted murder. The
accused was brought to Clarendon, and lodged in Beaver County jail.
Ben sent for Caxton, from whom he learned that his offense was not
subject to bail until it became certain that Barclay Fetters would
recover. For in the event of his death, the charge would be murder; in
case of recovery, the offense would be merely attempted murder, or
shooting with intent to kill, for which bail was allowable. Meantime
he would have to remain in jail.
In a day or two young Fetters was pronounced out of danger, so far as
his life was concerned, and Colonel French, through Caxton, offered to
sign Ben's bail bond. To Caxton's surprise Dudley refused to accept
bail at the colonel's hands.
"I don't want any favours from Colonel French," he said decidedly. "I
prefer to stay in jail rather than to be released on his bond."
So he remained in jail.
Graciella was not so much surprised at Ben's refusal to accept bail.
She had reasoned out, with a fine instinct, the train of emotions
which had brought her lover to grief, and her own share in stirring
them up. She could not believe that Ben was capable of shooting a man
from ambush; but even if he had, it would have been for love of her;
and if he had not, she had nevertheless been the moving cause of the
disaster. She would not willingly have done young Mr. Fetters an
injury. He had favoured her by his attentions, and, if all stories
were true, he had behaved better than Ben, in the difficulty between
them, and had suffered more. But she loved Ben, as she grew to
realise, more and more. She wanted to go and see Ben in jail but her
aunt did not think it proper. Appearances were all against Ben, and he
had not purged himself by any explanation. So Graciella sat down and
wrote him a long letter. She knew very well that the one thing that
would do him most good would be the announcement of her Aunt Laura's
engagement to Colonel French. There was no way to bring this about,
except by first securing her aunt's permission. This would make
necessary a frank confession, to which, after an effort, she nerved
herself.
"Aunt Laura," she said, at a moment when they were alone together, "I
know why Ben will not accept bail from Colonel French, and why he will
not tell his side of the quarrel between himself and Mr. Fetters. He
was foolish enough to imagine that Colonel French was coming to the
house to see me, and that I preferred the colonel to him. And, Aunt
Laura, I have a confession to make; I have done something for which I
want to beg your pardon. I listened that night, and overheard the
colonel ask you to be his wife. Please, dear Aunt Laura, forgive me,
and let me write and tell Ben--just Ben, in confidence. No one else
need know it."
Miss Laura was shocked and pained, and frankly said so, but could not
refuse the permission, on condition that Ben should be pledged to keep
her secret, which, for reasons of her own, she was not yet ready to
make public. She, too, was fond of Ben, and hoped that he might clear
himself of the accusation. So Graciella wrote the letter. She was no
more frank in it, however, on one point, than she had been with her
aunt, for she carefully avoided saying that she _had_ taken Colonel
French's attentions seriously, or built any hopes upon them, but
chided Ben for putting such a construction upon her innocent actions,
and informed him, as proof of his folly, and in the strictest
confidence, that Colonel French was engaged to her Aunt Laura. She
expressed her sorrow for his predicament, her profound belief in his
innocence, and her unhesitating conviction that he would be acquitted
of the pending charge.
To this she expected by way of answer a long letter of apology,
explanation, and protestations of undying love.
She received, instead, a brief note containing a cold acknowledgment
of her letter, thanking her for her interest in his welfare, and
assuring her that he would respect Miss Laura's confidence. There was
no note of love or reproachfulness--mere cold courtesy.
Graciella was cut to the quick, so much so that she did not even
notice Ben's mistakes in spelling. It would have been better had he
overwhelmed her with reproaches--it would have shown at least that he
still loved her. She cried bitterly, and lay awake very late that
night, wondering what else she could do for Ben that a self-respecting
young lady might. For the first time, she was more concerned about Ben
than about herself. If by marrying him immediately she could have
saved him from danger and disgrace she would have done so without one
selfish thought--unless it were selfish to save one whom she loved.
* * * * *
The preliminary hearing in the case of the State _vs._ Benjamin Dudley
was held as soon as Doctor Price pronounced Barclay Fetters out of
danger. The proceedings took place before Squire Reddick, the same
justice from whom the colonel had bought Peter's services, and from
whom he had vainly sought to secure Bud Johnson's release.
In spite of Dudley's curt refusal of his assistance, the colonel, to
whom Miss Laura had conveyed a hint of the young man's frame of mind,
had instructed Caxton to spare no trouble or expense in the prisoner's
interest. There was little doubt, considering Fetters's influence and
vindictiveness, that Dudley would be remanded, though the evidence
against him was purely circumstantial; but it was important that the
evidence should be carefully scrutinised, and every legal safeguard
put to use.
The case looked bad for the prisoner. Barclay Fetters was not present,
nor did the prosecution need him; his testimony could only have been
cumulative.
Turner described the circumstances of the shooting from the trees by
the roadside near Mink Run, and the driving of the wounded man to
Doctor Price's.
Doctor Price swore to the nature of the wound, its present and
probable consequences, which involved the loss of one eye and perhaps
the other, and produced the shot he had extracted.
McRae testified that he and Barclay Fetters had gone down between
dances, from the Opera Ball, to the hotel bar, to get a glass of
seltzer. They had no sooner entered the bar than the prisoner, who had
evidently been drinking heavily and showed all the signs of
intoxication, had picked a quarrel with them and assaulted Mr.
Fetters. Fetters, with the aid of the witness, had defended himself.
In the course of the altercation, the prisoner had used violent and
profane language, threatening, among other things, to kill Fetters.
All this testimony was objected to, but was admitted as tending to
show a motive for the crime. This closed the State's case.
Caxton held a hurried consultation with his client. Should they put in
any evidence, which would be merely to show their hand, since the
prisoner would in any event undoubtedly be bound over? Ben was unable
to deny what had taken place at the hotel, for he had no distinct
recollection of it--merely a blurred impression, like the memory of a
bad dream. He could not swear that he had not threatened Fetters. The
State's witnesses had refrained from mentioning the lady's name; he
could do no less. So far as the shooting was concerned, he had had no
weapon with which to shoot. His gun had been stolen that very day, and
had not been recovered.
"The defense will offer no testimony," declared Caxton, at the result
of the conference.
The justice held the prisoner to the grand jury, and fixed the bond at
ten thousand dollars. Graciella's information had not been without its
effect, and when Caxton suggested that he could still secure bail, he
had little difficulty in inducing Ben to accept Colonel French's
friendly offices. The bail bond was made out and signed, and the
prisoner released.
Caxton took Ben to his office after the hearing. There Ben met the
colonel, thanked him for his aid and friendship, and apologised for
his former rudeness.
"I was in a bad way, sir," he said, "and hardly knew what I was doing.
But I know I didn't shoot Bark Fetters, and never thought of such a
thing."
"I'm sure you didn't, my boy," said the colonel, laying his hand, in
familiar fashion, upon the young fellow's shoulder, "and we'll prove
it before we quit. There are some ladies who believe the same thing,
and would like to hear you say it."
"Thank you, sir," said Ben. "I should like to tell them, but I
shouldn't want to enter their house until I am cleared of this charge.
I think too much of them to expose them to any remarks about
harbouring a man out on bail for a penitentiary offense. I'll write to
them, sir, and thank them for their trust and friendship, and you can
tell them for me, if you will, that I'll come to see them when not
only I, but everybody else, can say that I am fit to go."
"Your feelings do you credit," returned the colonel warmly, "and
however much they would like to see you, I'm sure the ladies will
appreciate your delicacy. As your friend and theirs, you must permit
me to serve you further, whenever the opportunity offers, until this
affair is finished."
Ben thanked the colonel from a full heart, and went back to Mink Run,
where, in the effort to catch up the plantation work, which had
fallen behind in his absence, he sought to forget the prison
atmosphere and lose the prison pallor. The disgrace of having been in
jail was indelible, and the danger was by no means over. The sympathy
of his friends would have been priceless to him, but to remain away
from them would be not only the honourable course to pursue, but a
just punishment for his own folly. For Graciella, after all, was only
a girl--a young girl, and scarcely yet to be judged harshly for her
actions; while he was a man grown, who knew better, and had not acted
according to his lights.
Three days after Ben Dudley's release on bail, Clarendon was treated
to another sensation. Former constable Haines, now employed as an
overseer at Fetters's convict farm, while driving in a buggy to
Clarendon, where he spent his off-duty spells, was shot from ambush
near Mink Run, and his right arm shattered in such a manner as to
require amputation.
_Twenty-nine_
Colonel French's interest in Ben Dudley's affairs had not been
permitted to interfere with his various enterprises. Work on the chief
of these, the cotton mill, had gone steadily forward, with only
occasional delays, incident to the delivery of material, the weather,
and the health of the workmen, which was often uncertain for a day or
two after pay day. The coloured foreman of the brick-layers had been
seriously ill; his place had been filled by a white man, under whom
the walls were rising rapidly. Jim Green, the foreman whom the colonel
had formerly discharged, and the two white brick-layers who had quit
at the same time, applied for reinstatement. The colonel took the two
men on again, but declined to restore Green, who had been discharged
for insubordination.
Green went away swearing vengeance. At Clay Johnson's saloon he hurled
invectives at the colonel, to all who would listen, and with anger
and bad whiskey, soon worked himself into a frame of mind that was
ripe for any mischief. Some of his utterances were reported to the
colonel, who was not without friends--the wealthy seldom are; but he
paid no particular attention to them, except to keep a watchman at the
mill at night, lest this hostility should seek an outlet in some
attempt to injure the property. The precaution was not amiss, for once
the watchman shot at a figure prowling about the mill. The lesson was
sufficient, apparently, for there was no immediate necessity to repeat
it.
The shooting of Haines, while not so sensational as that of Barclay
Fetters, had given rise to considerable feeling against Ben Dudley.
That two young men should quarrel, and exchange shots, would not
ordinarily have been a subject of extended remark. But two attempts at
assassination constituted a much graver affair. That Dudley was
responsible for this second assault was the generally accepted
opinion. Fetters's friends and hirelings were openly hostile to young
Dudley, and Haines had been heard to say, in his cups, at Clay
Jackson's saloon, that when young Dudley was tried and convicted and
sent to the penitentiary, he would be hired out to Fetters, who had
the country contract, and that he, Haines, would be delighted to have
Dudley in his gang. The feeling against Dudley grew from day to day,
and threats and bets were openly made that he would not live to be
tried. There was no direct proof against him, but the moral and
circumstantial evidence was quite sufficient to convict him in the
eyes of Fetter's friends and supporters. The colonel was sometimes
mentioned, in connection with the affair as a friend of Ben's, for
whom he had given bail, and as an enemy of Fetters, to whom his
antagonism in various ways had become a matter of public knowledge and
interest.
One day, while the excitement attending the second shooting was thus
growing, Colonel French received through the mail a mysteriously
worded note, vaguely hinting at some matter of public importance which
the writer wished to communicate to him, and requesting a private
interview for the purpose, that evening, at the colonel's house. The
note, which had every internal evidence of sincerity, was signed by
Henry Taylor, the principal of the coloured school, whom the colonel
had met several times in reference to the proposed industrial school.
From the tenor of the communication, and what he knew about Taylor,
the colonel had no doubt that the matter was one of importance, at
least not one to be dismissed without examination. He thereupon
stepped into Caxton's office and wrote an answer to the letter, fixing
eight o'clock that evening as the time, and his own library as the
place, of a meeting with the teacher. This letter he deposited in the
post-office personally--it was only a step from Caxton's office. Upon
coming out of the post-office he saw the teacher standing on an
opposite corner. When the colonel had passed out of sight, Taylor
crossed the street, entered the post-office, and soon emerged with the
letter. He had given no sign that he saw the colonel, but had looked
rather ostentatiously the other way when that gentleman had glanced in
his direction.
At the appointed hour there was a light step on the colonel's piazza.
The colonel was on watch, and opened the door himself, ushering Taylor
into his library, a very handsome and comfortable room, the door of
which he carefully closed behind them.
The teacher looked around cautiously.
"Are we alone, sir?"
"Yes, entirely so."
"And can any one hear us?"
"No. What have you got to tell me?"
"Colonel French," replied the other, "I'm in a hard situation, and I
want you to promise that you'll never let on to any body that I told
you what I'm going to say."
"All right, Mr. Taylor, if it is a proper promise to make. You can
trust my discretion."
"Yes, sir, I'm sure I can. We coloured folks, sir, are often accused
of trying to shield criminals of our own race, or of not helping the
officers of the law to catch them. Maybe we does, suh," he said,
lapsing in his earnestness, into bad grammar, "maybe we does
sometimes, but not without reason."
"What reason?" asked the colonel.
"Well, sir, fer the reason that we ain't always shore that a coloured
man will get a fair trial, or any trial at all, or that he'll get a
just sentence after he's been tried. We have no hand in makin' the
laws, or in enforcin' 'em; we are not summoned on jury; and yet we're
asked to do the work of constables and sheriffs who are paid for
arrestin' criminals, an' for protectin' 'em from mobs, which they
don't do."
"I have no doubt every word you say is true, Mr. Taylor, and such a
state of things is unjust, and will some day be different, if I can
help to make it so. But, nevertheless, all good citizens, whatever
their colour, ought to help to preserve peace and good order."
"Yes, sir, so they ought; and I want to do just that; I want to
co-operate, and a whole heap of us want to co-operate with the good
white people to keep down crime and lawlessness. I know there's good
white people who want to see justice done--but they ain't always
strong enough to run things; an' if any one of us coloured folks tells
on another one, he's liable to lose all his frien's. But I believe,
sir, that I can trust you to save me harmless, and to see that nothin'
mo' than justice is done to the coloured man."
"Yes, Taylor, you can trust me to do all that I can, and I think I
have considerable influence. Now, what's on your mind? Do you know who
shot Haines and Mr. Fetters?"
"Well, sir, you're a mighty good guesser. It ain't so much Mr. Fetters
an' Mr. Haines I'm thinkin' about, for that place down the country is
a hell on earth, an' they're the devils that runs it. But there's a
friend of yo'rs in trouble, for something he didn' do, an' I wouldn'
stan' for an innocent man bein' sent to the penitentiary--though many
a po' Negro has been. Yes, sir, I know that Mr. Ben Dudley didn' shoot
them two white men."
"So do I," rejoined the colonel. "Who did?"
"It was Bud Johnson, the man you tried to get away from Mr.
Fetters--yo'r coachman tol' us about it, sir, an' we know how good a
friend of ours you are, from what you've promised us about the school.
An' I wanted you to know, sir. You are our friend, and have showed
confidence in us, and I wanted to prove to you that we are not
ungrateful, an' that we want to be good citizens."
"I had heard," said the colonel, "that Johnson had escaped and left
the county."
"So he had, sir, but he came back. They had 'bused him down at that
place till he swore he'd kill every one that had anything to do with
him. It was Mr. Turner he shot at the first time and he hit young Mr.
Fetters by accident. He stole a gun from ole Mr. Dudley's place at
Mink Run, shot Mr. Fetters with it, and has kept it ever since, and
shot Mr. Haines with it. I suppose they'd 'a' ketched him before, if
it hadn't be'n for suspectin' young Mr. Dudley."
"Where is Johnson now," asked the colonel.
"He's hidin' in an old log cabin down by the swamp back of Mink Run.
He sleeps in the daytime, and goes out at night to get food and watch
for white men from Mr. Fetters's place."
"Does his wife know where he is?"
"No, sir; he ain't never let her know."
"By the way, Taylor," asked the colonel, "how do _you_ know all this?"
"Well, sir," replied the teacher, with something which, in an
uneducated Negro would have been a very pronounced chuckle, "there's
mighty little goin' on roun' here that I _don't_ find out, sooner or
later."
"Taylor," said the colonel, rising to terminate the interview, "you
have rendered a public service, have proved yourself a good citizen,
and have relieved Mr. Dudley of serious embarrassment. I will see that
steps are taken to apprehend Johnson, and will keep your participation
in the matter secret, since you think it would hurt your influence
with your people. And I promise you faithfully that every effort shall
be made to see that Johnson has a fair trial and no more than a just
punishment."
He gave the Negro his hand.
"Thank you, sir, thank you, sir," replied the teacher, returning the
colonel's clasp. "If there were more white men like you, the coloured
folks would have no more trouble."
The colonel let Taylor out, and watched him as he looked cautiously up
and down the street to see that he was not observed. That coloured
folks, or any other kind, should ever cease to have trouble, was a
vain imagining. But the teacher had made a well-founded complaint of
injustice which ought to be capable of correction; and he had
performed a public-spirited action, even though he had felt
constrained to do it in a clandestine manner.
About his own part in the affair the colonel was troubled. It was
becoming clear to him that the task he had undertaken was no light
one--not the task of apprehending Johnson and clearing Dudley, but
that of leavening the inert mass of Clarendon with the leaven of
enlightenment. With the best of intentions, and hoping to save a life,
he had connived at turning a murderer loose upon the community. It was
true that the community, through unjust laws, had made him a murderer,
but it was no part of the colonel's plan to foster or promote evil
passions, or to help the victims of the law to make reprisals. His aim
was to bring about, by better laws and more liberal ideas, peace,
harmony, and universal good will. There was a colossal work for him to
do, and for all whom he could enlist with him in this cause. The very
standards of right and wrong had been confused by the race issue, and
must be set right by the patient appeal to reason and humanity.
Primitive passions and private vengeance must be subordinated to law
and order and the higher good. A new body of thought must be built up,
in which stress must be laid upon the eternal verities, in the light
of which difficulties which now seemed unsurmountable would be
gradually overcome.
But this halcyon period was yet afar off, and the colonel roused
himself to the duty of the hour. With the best intentions he had let
loose upon the community, in a questionable way, a desperate
character. It was no less than his plain duty to put the man under
restraint. To rescue from Fetters a man whose life was threatened, was
one thing. To leave a murderer at large now would be to endanger
innocent lives, and imperil Ben Dudley's future.
The arrest of Bud Johnson brought an end to the case against Ben
Dudley. The prosecuting attorney, who was under political obligations
to Fetters, seemed reluctant to dismiss the case, until Johnson's
guilt should have been legally proved; but the result of the Negro's
preliminary hearing rendered this position no longer tenable; the case
against Ben was nolled, and he could now hold up his head as a free
man, with no stain upon his character.
Indeed, the reaction in his favour as one unjustly indicted, went far
to wipe out from the public mind the impression that he was a drunkard
and a rowdy. It was recalled that he was of good family and that his
forebears had rendered valuable service to the State, and that he had
never been seen to drink before, or known to be in a fight, but that
on the contrary he was quiet and harmless to a fault. Indeed, the
Clarendon public would have admired a little more spirit in a young
man, even to the extent of condoning an occasional lapse into license.
There was sincere rejoicing at the Treadwell house when Ben, now free
in mind, went around to see the ladies. Miss Laura was warmly
sympathetic and congratulatory; and Graciella, tearfully happy, tried
to make up by a sweet humility, through which shone the true
womanliness of a hitherto undeveloped character, for the past stings
and humiliations to which her selfish caprice had subjected her lover.
Ben resumed his visits, if not with quite their former frequency, and
it was only a day or two later that the colonel found him and
Graciella, with his own boy Phil, grouped in familiar fashion on the
steps, where Ben was demonstrating with some pride of success, the
operation of his model, into which he was feeding cotton when the
colonel came up.
The colonel stood a moment and looked at the machine.
"It's quite ingenious," he said. "Explain the principle."
Ben described the mechanism, in brief, well-chosen words which
conveyed the thought clearly and concisely, and revealed a fine mind
for mechanics and at the same time an absolute lack of technical
knowledge.
"It would never be of any use, sir," he said, at the end, "for
everybody has the other kind. But it's another way, and I think a
better."
"It is clever," said the colonel thoughtfully, as he went into the
house.
The colonel had not changed his mind at all since asking Miss Laura to
be his wife. The glow of happiness still warmed her cheek, the spirit
of youth still lingered in her eyes and in her smile. He might go a
thousand miles before meeting a woman who would please him more, take
better care of Phil, or preside with more dignity over his household.
Her simple grace would adapt itself to wealth as easily as it had
accommodated itself to poverty. It would be a pleasure to travel with
her to new scenes and new places, to introduce her into a wider world,
to see her expand in the generous sunlight of ease and freedom from
responsibility.
True to his promise, the colonel made every effort to see that Bud
Johnson should be protected against mob violence and given a fair
trial. There was some intemperate talk among the partisans of Fetters,
and an ominous gathering upon the streets the day after the arrest,
but Judge Miller, of the Beaver County circuit, who was in Clarendon
that day, used his influence to discountenance any disorder, and
promised a speedy trial of the prisoner. The crime was not the worst
of crimes, and there was no excuse for riot or lynch law. The accused
could not escape his just punishment.
As a result of the judge's efforts, supplemented by the colonel's and
those of Doctor Price and several ministers, any serious fear of
disorder was removed, and a handful of Fetters's guards who had come
up from his convict farm and foregathered with some choice spirits of
the town at Clay Jackson's saloon, went back without attempting to do
what they had avowedly come to town to accomplish.
_Thirty_
One morning the colonel, while overseeing the work at the new mill
building, stepped on the rounded handle of a chisel, which had been
left lying carelessly on the floor, and slipped and fell, spraining
his ankle severely. He went home in his buggy, which was at the mill,
and sent for Doctor Price, who put his foot in a plaster bandage and
ordered him to keep quiet for a week.
Peter and Phil went around to the Treadwells' to inform the ladies of
the accident. On reaching the house after the accident, the colonel
had taken off his coat, and sent Peter to bring him one from the
closet off his bedroom.
When the colonel put on the coat, he felt some papers in the inside
pocket, and taking them out, recognised the two old letters he had
taken from the lining of his desk several months before. The
housekeeper, in a moment of unusual zeal, had discovered and mended
the tear in the sleeve, and Peter had by chance selected this
particular coat to bring to his master. When Peter started, with Phil,
to go to the Treadwells', the colonel gave him the two letters.
"Give these," he said, "to Miss Laura, and tell her I found them in
the old desk."
It was not long before Miss Laura came, with Graciella, to call on the
colonel. When they had expressed the proper sympathy, and had been
assured that the hurt was not dangerous, Miss Laura spoke of another
matter.
"Henry," she said, with an air of suppressed excitement, "I have made
a discovery. I don't quite know what it means, or whether it amounts
to anything, but in one of the envelopes you sent me just now there
was a paper signed by Mr. Fetters. I do not know how it could have
been left in the desk; we had searched it, years ago, in every nook
and cranny, and found nothing."
The colonel explained the circumstances of his discovery of the
papers, but prudently refrained from mentioning how long ago they had
taken place.
Miss Laura handed him a thin, oblong, yellowish slip of paper, which
had been folded in the middle; it was a printed form, upon which
several words had been filled in with a pen.