HIS HOUSE IN ORDER
Norton knew from the first that there could be no hope of success in such a
campaign as he had planned except in the single iron will of a leader who
would lead and whose voice lifted in impassioned appeal direct to the white
race in every county of the state could rouse them to resistless
enthusiasm.
The man who undertook this work must burn the bridges behind him, ask
nothing for himself and take his life daily in his hands. He knew the state
from the sea to its farthest mountain peak and without the slightest vanity
felt that God had called him to this task. There was no other man who could
do it, no other man fitted for it. He had the training, bitter experience,
and the confidence of the people. And he had no ambitions save a deathless
desire to serve his country in the solution of its greatest and most
insoluble problem. He edited the most powerful organ of public opinion in
the South and he was an eloquent and forceful speaker. His paper had earned
a comfortable fortune, he was independent, he had the training of a veteran
soldier and physical fear was something he had long since ceased to know.
And his house was in order for the event. He could leave for months in
confidence that the work would run with the smoothness of a clock.
He had sent Tom to a Northern university which had kept itself clean from
the stain of negro associations. The boy had just graduated with honor,
returned home and was at work in the office. He was a handsome, clean,
manly, straight-limbed, wholesome boy, the pride of his father's heart, and
had shown decided talent for newspaper work.
Andy had long since become his faithful henchman, butler and man of all
work. Aunt Minerva, his fat, honest cook, was the best servant he had ever
known, and Cleo kept his house.
The one point of doubt was Cleo. During the past year she had given
unmistakable signs of a determination to fight. If she should see fit to
strike in the midst of this campaign, her blow would be a crushing one. It
would not only destroy him personally, it would confuse and crush his party
in hopeless defeat. He weighed this probability from every point of view
and the longer he thought it over the less likely it appeared that she
would take such a step. She would destroy herself and her child as well.
She knew him too well now to believe that he would ever yield in such a
struggle. Helen was just graduating from a convent school in the Northwest,
a beautiful and accomplished girl, and the last thing on earth she could
suspect was that a drop of negro blood flowed in her veins. He knew Cleo
too well, understood her hatred of negroes too well, to believe that she
would deliberately push this child back into a negroid hell merely to wreak
a useless revenge that would crush her own life as well. She was too wise,
too cunning, too cautious.
And yet her steadily growing desperation caused him to hesitate. The thing
he dreaded most was the loss of his boy's respect, which a last desperate
fight with this woman would involve. The one thing he had taught Tom was
racial cleanness. With a wisdom inspired and guided by the brooding spirit
of his mother he had done this thoroughly. He had so instilled into this
proud, sensitive boy's soul a hatred for all low association with women
that it was inconceivable to him that any decent white man would stoop to
an intrigue with a woman of negro blood. The withering scorn, the
unmeasured contempt with which he had recently expressed himself to his
father on this point had made the red blood slowly mount to the older man's
face.
He had rather die than look into this boy's clean, manly eyes and confess
the shame that would blacken his life. The boy loved him with a deep,
tender, reverent love. His keen eyes had long ago seen the big traits in
his father's character. The boy's genuine admiration was the sweetest thing
in his lonely life.
He weighed every move with care and deliberately made up his mind to strike
the blow and take the chances. No man had the right to weigh his personal
career against the life of a people--certainly no man who dared to assume
the leadership of a race. He rose from his desk, opened the door of the
reporters' room and called Tom.
The manly young figure, in shirt sleeves, pad and pencil in hand, entered
with quick, firm step.
"You want me to interview you, Governor?" he said with a laugh. "All
right--now what do you think of that little scrimmage at the mouth of the
harbor of Santiago yesterday? How's that for a Fourth of July celebration?
I ask it of a veteran of the Confederate army?"
The father smiled proudly as the youngster pretended to be taking notes of
his imaginary interview.
"You heard, sir," he went on eagerly, "that your old General, Joe Wheeler,
was there and in a moment of excitement forgot himself and shouted to his
aid:
"'There go the damned Yankees!--charge and give 'em hell!'"
A dreamy look came into the father's eyes as he interrupted:
"I shouldn't be surprised if Wheeler said it--anyhow, it's too good a joke
to doubt"--he paused and the smile on his serious face slowly faded.
"Shut the door, Tom," he said with a gesture toward the reporters' room.
The boy rose, closed the door, and sat down near his father's chair:
"Well, Dad, why so serious? Am I to be fired without a chance? or is it
just a cut in my wages? Don't prolong the agony!"
"I am going to put you in my chair in this office, my son," the father said
in a slow drawl. The boy flushed scarlet and then turned pale.
"You don't mean it--now?" he gasped.
"To-morrow."
"You think I can make good?" The question came through trembling lips and
he was looking at his father through a pair of dark blue eyes blurred by
tears of excitement.
"You'll do better than I did at your age. You're better equipped."
"You think so?" Tom asked in quick boyish eagerness.
"I know it."
The boy sprang to his feet and grasped his father's hand:
"Your faith in me is glorious--it makes me feel like I can do anything----"
"You can--if you try."
"Well, if I can, it's because I've got good blood in me. I owe it all to
you. You're the biggest man I ever met, Dad. I've wanted to say this to you
for a long time, but I never somehow got up my courage to tell you what I
thought of you."
The father slipped his arm tenderly about the boy and looked out the window
at the bright Southern sky for a moment before he slowly answered:
"I'd rather hear that from you, Tom, than the shouts of the rest of the
world."
"I'm going to do my level best to prove myself worthy of the big faith
you've shown in me--but why have you done it? What does it mean?"
"Simply this, my boy, that the time has come in the history of the South
for a leader to strike the first blow in the battle for racial purity by
establishing a clean American citizenship. I am going to disfranchise the
Negro in this state as the first step toward the ultimate complete
separation of the races."
The boy's eyes flashed:
"It's a big undertaking, sir."
"Yes."
"Is it possible?"
"Many say not. That's why I'm going to do it. The real work must come after
this first step. Just now the campaign which I'm going to inaugurate
to-morrow in a speech at the mass meeting celebrating our victory at
Santiago, is the thing in hand. This campaign will take me away from home
for several months. I must have a man here whom I can trust implicitly."
"I'll do my best, sir," the boy broke in.
"In case anything happens to me before it ends----"
Tom bent close:
"What do you mean?"
"You never can tell what may happen in such a revolution----"
"It will be a revolution?"
"Yes. That's what my enemies as yet do not understand. They will not be
prepared for the weapons I shall use. And I'll win. I may lose my life, but
I'll start a fire that can't be put out until it has swept the state--the
South"--he paused--"and then the Nation!"