TRAPPED
Norton's campaign during its first months was a continuous triumph. The
opposition had been so completely stunned by the epoch-making declaration
of principles on which he had chosen to conduct the fight that they had as
yet been unable to rally their forces. Even the rival newspaper, founded to
combat the ideas for which the _Eagle and Phoenix_ stood, was compelled to
support Norton's ticket to save itself from ruin. The young editor found a
source of endless amusement in taunting the professor on this painful fact.
The leader had chosen to begin his tour of the state in the farthest
mountain counties that had always been comparatively free from negro
influence. These counties were counted as safe for the opposition before
the startling program of the editor's party had been announced. Yet from
the first day's mass meeting which he had addressed an enthusiasm had been
developed under the spell of Norton's eloquence that had swept the crowds
of mountaineers off their feet. They had never been slave owners, and they
had no use for a negro as servant, laborer, voter, citizen, or in any other
capacity. The idea of freeing the state forever from their baleful
influence threw the entire white race into solid ranks supporting his
ticket.
The enthusiasm kindled in the mountains swept the foothills, gaining
resistless force as it reached the more inflammable feelings of the people
of the plains who were living in daily touch with the negro.
Yet amid all the scenes of cheering and enthusiasm through which he was
passing daily the heart of the leader was heavy with dread. His mind was
brooding over the last scene with Cleo and its possible outcome.
He began to worry with increasing anguish over the certainty that when she
struck the blow would be a deadly one. The higher the tide of his triumph
rose, the greater became the tension of his nerves. Each day had its
appointment to speak. Some days were crowded with three or four
engagements. These dates were made two weeks ahead and great expense had
been incurred in each case to advertise them and secure record crowds. It
was a point of honor with him to make good these dates even to the smallest
appointment at a country crossroads.
It was impossible to leave for a trip home. It would mean the loss of at
least four days. Yet his anxiety at last became so intense that he
determined to rearrange his dates and swing his campaign into the territory
near the Capital at once. It was not a good policy. He would risk the loss
of the cumulative power of his work now sweeping from county to county, a
resistless force. But it would enable him to return home for a few hours
between his appointments.
There had been nothing in Tom's reports to arouse his fears. The boy had
faithfully carried out his instructions to give no information that might
annoy him. His brief letters were bright, cheerful, and always closed with
the statement: "Everything all right at home, and I'm still jollying the
professor about supporting the cause he hates."
When he reached the county adjoining the Capital his anxiety had reached a
point beyond endurance. It would be three days before he could connect with
a schedule of trains that would enable him to get home between the time of
his hours to speak. He simply could not wait.
He telegraphed to Tom to send Andy to the meeting next day with a bound
volume of the paper for the year 1866 which contained some facts he wished
to use in his speech in this district.
Andy's glib tongue would give him the information he needed.
The train was late and the papers did not arrive in time. He was compelled
to leave his hotel and go to the meeting without them.
An enormous crowd had gathered. And for the first time on his tour he felt
hostility in the glances that occasionally shot from groups of men as he
passed. The county was noted for its gangs of toughs who lived on the edge
of a swamp that had been the rendezvous of criminals for a century.
The opposition had determined to make a disturbance at this meeting and if
possible end it with a riot. They counted on the editor's fiery temper when
aroused to make this a certainty. They had not figured on the cool audacity
with which he would meet such a situation.
When he reached the speaker's stand, the county Chairman whispered:
"They are going to make trouble here to-day."
"Yes?"
"They've got a speaker who's going to demand a division of time."
The editor smiled:
"Really?"
"Yes," the Chairman said, nodding toward a tall, ministerial-looking
individual who was already working his way through the crowd. "That's the
fellow coming now."
Norton turned and confronted the chosen orator of the opposition, a
backwoods preacher of a rude native eloquence whose name he had often
heard.
He saw at a glance that he was a man of force. His strong mouth was clean
of mustache and the lower lip was shaved to the chin. A long beard covered
the massive jaws and his hair reached the collar of his coat. He had been a
deserter during the war, and a drunken member of the little Scalawag
Governor's famous guard that had attempted to rule the state without the
civil law. He had been converted in a Baptist revival at a crossroads
meeting place years before and became a preacher. His religious conversion,
however, had not reached his politics or dimmed his memory of the events of
Reconstruction.
He had hated Norton with a deep and abiding fervor from the day he had
escaped from his battalion in the Civil War down to the present moment.
Norton hadn't the remotest idea that he was the young recruit who had taken
to his heels on entering a battle and never stopped running until he
reached home.
"This is Major Norton?" the preacher asked.
"Yes," was the curt answer.
"I demand a division of time with you in a joint discussion here, sir."
Norton's figure stiffened and he looked at the man with a flush of anger:
"Did you say demand?"
"Yes, sir, I did," the preacher answered, snapping his hard mouth firmly.
"We believe in free speech in this county."
Norton placed his hands in his pockets, and looked him over from head to
foot:
"Well, you've got the gall of the devil, I must say, even if you do wear
the livery of heaven. You demand free speech at my expense! I like your
cheek. It cost my committee two hundred dollars to advertise this meeting
and make it a success, and you step up at the last moment and demand that I
turn it over to your party. If you want free speech, hire your own hall and
make it to your heart's content. You can't address this crowd from a
speaker's stand built with my money."
"You refuse?"
Norton looked at him steadily for a moment and took a step closer:
"I am trying to convey that impression to your mind. Must I use my foot to
emphasize it?"
The long-haired one paled slightly, turned and quickly pushed his way
through the crowd to a group awaiting him on the edge of the brush arbor
that had been built to shelter the people from the sun. The Chairman
whispered to Norton:
"There'll be trouble certain--they're a tough lot. More than half the men
here are with him."
"They won't be when I've finished," he answered with a smile.
"You'd better divide with them----"
"I'll see him in hell first!"
Norton stepped quickly on the rude pine platform that had been erected for
the speaker and faced the crowd. For the first time on his trip the
cheering was given with moderation.
He saw the preacher walk back under the arbor and his men distribute
themselves with apparent design in different parts of the crowd.
He lifted his hand with a gesture to stop the applause and a sudden hush
fell over the eager, serious faces.
His eye wandered carelessly over the throng and singled out the men he had
seen distribute themselves among them. He suddenly slipped his hand behind
him and drew from beneath his long black frock coat a big revolver and laid
it beside the pitcher of lemonade the Chairman had provided.
A slight stir swept the crowd and the stillness could be felt.
The speaker lifted his broad shoulders and began his speech in an intense
voice that found its way to the last man who hung on the edge of the crowd:
"Gentlemen," he began slowly, "if there's any one present who doesn't wish
to hear what I have to say, now is the time to leave. This is my meeting,
and I will not be interrupted. If, in spite of this announcement, there
happens to be any one here who is looking for trouble"--he stopped and
touched the shining thing that lay before him--"you'll find it here on the
table--walk right up to the front."
A cheer rent the air. He stilled it with a quick gesture and plunged into
his speech.
In the intense situation which had developed he had forgotten the fear
that had been gnawing at his heart for the past weeks.
At the height of his power over his audience his eye suddenly caught the
black face of Andy grinning in evident admiration of his master's
eloquence.
Something in the symbolism of this negro grinning at him over the heads of
the people hanging breathless on his words sent a wave of sickening fear to
his heart. In vain he struggled to throw the feeling off in the midst of
his impassioned appeal. It was impossible. For the remaining half hour he
spoke as if in a trance. Unconsciously his voice was lowered to a strange
intense monotone that sent the chills down the spines of his hearers.
He closed his speech in a silence that was strangling.
The people were dazed and he was half-way down the steps of the rude
platform before they sufficiently recovered to break into round after round
of cheering.
He had unconsciously made the most powerful speech of his life, and no man
in all the crowd that he had hypnotized could have dreamed the grim secret
which had been the source of his inspiration.
Without a moment's delay he found Andy, examined the package he brought and
hurried to his room.
"Everything all right at home, Andy?" he asked with apparent carelessness.
The negro was still lost in admiration of Norton's triumph over his hostile
audience.
"Yassah, you sho did set 'em afire wid dat speech, major!" he said with a
laugh.
"And I asked you if everything was all right at home?"
"Oh, yassah, yassah--everything's all right. Of cose, sah, dey's a few
little things always happenin'. Dem pigs get in de garden las' week an' et
everything up, an' dat ole cow er own got de hollow horn agin. But
everything else all right, sah."
"And how's aunt Minerva?"
"Des es big an' fat ez ebber, sah, an' er gittin' mo' unruly every
day--yassah--she's gittin' so sassy she try ter run de whole place an' me,
too."
"And Cleo?"
This question he asked bustling over his papers with an indifference so
perfectly assumed that Andy never guessed his interest to be more than
casual, and yet he ceased to breathe until he caught the laughing answer:
"Oh, she's right dar holdin' her own wid Miss Minerva an' I tells her las'
week she's lookin' better dan ebber--yassah--she's all right."
Norton felt a sense of grateful relief. His fears had been groundless. They
were preposterous to start with. The idea that she might attempt to visit
Helen in his absence was, of course, absurd.
His next question was asked with a good-natured, hearty tone:
"And Mr. Tom?"
Andy laughed immoderately and Norton watched him with increasing wonder.
"Right dar's whar my tale begins!"
"Why, what's the matter with him?" the father asked with a touch of anxiety
in his voice.
"Lordy, dey ain't nuttin' de _matter_ wid him 'tall--hit's a fresh cut!"
Again Andy laughed with unction.
"What is it?" Norton asked with impatience. "What's the matter with Tom?"
"Nuttin' 'tall, sah--nuttin' 'tall--I nebber see 'im lookin' so well in my
life. He gets up sooner den I ebber knowed him before. He comes home
quicker an' stays dar longer an' he's de jolliest young gentleman I know
anywhar in de state. Mo' specially, sah, since dat handsome young lady from
de North come down to see us----"
The father's heart was in his throat as he stammered:
"A handsome young lady from the North--I don't understand!"
"Why, Miss Helen, sah, de young lady you invite ter spen' de summer wid
us."
Norton's eyes suddenly grew dim, he leaned on the table, stared at Andy,
and repeated blankly:
"The young lady I asked to spend the summer with us?"
"Yassah, Miss Helen, sah, is her name--she cum 'bout er week atter you
lef----"
"And she's been there ever since?" he asked.
"Yassah, an' she sho is a powerful fine young lady, sah. I don't blame
Mister Tom fer bein' crazy 'bout her!"
There was a moment's dead silence.
"So Tom's crazy about her?" he said in a high, nervous voice, which Andy
took for a joke.
"Yassah, I'se had some sperience myself, sah, but I ain't nebber seen
nuttin' like dis! He des trot long atter her day an' night like a fice. An'
de funny thing, sah, is dat he doan' seem ter know dat he's doin' it.
Everybody 'bout de house laffin' fit ter kill dersef an' he don't pay no
'tention. He des sticks to her like a sick kitten to a hot brick! Yassah,
hit sho's funny! I des knowed you'd bust er laughin' when you sees 'em."
Norton had sunk to a seat too weak to stand. His face was pale and his
breath came in short gasps as he turned to the negro, stared at him
hopelessly for a moment and said:
"Andy, get me a good horse and buggy at the livery stable--we'll drive
through the country to-night. I want to get home right away."
Andy's mouth opened and his eyes stared in blank amazement.
"De Lawd, major, hit's mos' sundown now an' hit's a hundred miles from here
home--hit took me all day ter come on de train."
"No, it's only forty miles straight across the country. We can make it
to-night with a good horse. Hurry, I'll have my valise packed in a few
minutes."
"Do you know de way, sah?" Andy asked, scratching his head.
"Do as I tell you--quick!" Norton thundered.
The negro darted from the room and returned in half an hour with a horse
and buggy.
Through the long hours of the night they drove with but a single stop at
midnight in a quiet street of a sleeping village. They halted at the well
beside a store and watered the horse.
A graveyard was passed a mile beyond the village, and Andy glanced timidly
over his shoulder at the white marble slabs glistening in the starlight.
His master had not spoken for two hours save the sharp order to stop at the
well.
"Dis sho is er lonesome lookin' place!" Andy said with a shiver.
But the man beside him gave no sign that he heard. His eyes were set in a
strange stare at the stars that twinkled in the edge of the tree tops far
ahead.
Andy grew so lonely and frightened finally at the ominous silence that he
pretended to be lost at each crossroads to force Norton to speak.
"I wuz afraid you gone ter sleep, sah!" he said with an apologetic laugh.
"An' I wuz erfered dat you'd fall out er de buggy gwine down er hill."
In vain he tried to break the silence. There was no answer--no sign that he
was in the same world, save the fact of his body's presence.
The first streak of dawn was widening on the eastern horizon when Norton's
cramped legs limped into the gate of his home. He stopped to steady his
nerves and looked blankly up at the window of his boy's room. He had given
Tom his mother's old room when he had reached the age of sixteen.
Somewhere behind those fluted pillars, white and ghost-like in the dawn,
lay the girl who had suddenly risen from the dead to lead his faltering
feet up life's Calvary. He saw the cross slowly lifting its dark form from
the hilltop with arms outstretched to embrace him, and the chill of death
crept into his heart.
The chirp of stirring birds, the dim noises of waking life, the whitening
sky-line behind the house recalled another morning in his boyhood. He had
waked at daylight to go to his traps set at the branch in the edge of the
woods behind the barn. The plantation at that time had extended into the
town. A fox had been killing his fancy chickens. He had vowed vengeance in
his boyish wrath, bought half a dozen powerful steel-traps and set them in
the fox's path. The prowler had been interrupted the night before and had
not gotten his prey. He would return sure.
He recalled now every emotion that had thrilled his young heart as he
bounded along the dew-soaked path to his traps.
Before he could see the place he heard the struggles of his captive.
"I've got him!" he shouted with a throb of savage joy.
He leaped the fence and stood frozen to the spot. The fox was a magnificent
specimen of his breed, tall and heavy as a setter dog, with beautiful
appealing eyes. His fine gray fur was spotched with blood, his mouth torn
and bleeding from the effort to break the cruel bars that held his foreleg
in their death-like grip. With each desperate pull the blood spurted afresh
and the steel cut deeper into bone and flesh.
The strange cries of pain and terror from the trapped victim had struck him
dumb. He had come with murder in his heart to take revenge on his enemy,
but when he looked with blanched face on the blood and heard the pitiful
cries he rushed to the spot, tore the steel arms apart, loosed the fox,
pushed his quivering form from him and gasped:
"Go--go--I'm sorry I hurt you like that!"
Stirred by the memories of the dawn he lived this scene again in vivid
anguish, and as he slowly mounted the steps of his home, felt the steel
bars of an inexorable fate close on his own throat.