food. Eventually they expected to discover this in the sacked homes of
the Sanguineæ, but temporarily other provision must be made. The entire
region had to be scoured. Colonies of Fuscæ and Schauffusi living in
nearby territory were attacked and destroyed. Their storehouses were
ransacked and the contents distributed. Every form of life was attacked
and still there was not enough.
Both McEwen and Ermi, now inseparable, joined in one of these raids. It
was upon a colony of Fuscæ, who had their home in a neighboring forest.
The company went singing on their way until within a short distance of
the colony, when they became silent.
“Let us not lose track of one another,” said McEwen.
“No,” said Ermi, “but they are nothing. We will take all they possess
without a struggle. See them running.”
As he said this, he motioned in the direction of several Fuscæ that
were fleeing toward their portals in terror. The Lucidi set up a shout,
and darted after, plunging into the open gates, striking and slaying
as they went. In a few minutes those first in came out again carrying
their booty. Others were singly engaged in fiercest battle with large
groups of the weaker Fuscæ. Only a few of the latter were inclined
to fight. They seemed for the most part dazed by their misfortunes.
Numbers hung from the topmost blades of the towering sword-trees, and
the broad, floor-like leaves of the massive weeds, about their caves
where they had taken refuge, holding in their jaws baby larvæ and
cocoons rescued from the invaders, with which they had hurriedly fled
to these nearest elevated objects.
Singly, McEwen pursued a dozen, and reveled in the sport of killing
them. He tumbled them with rushes of his body, crushed them with his
mandibles, and poisoned them with his formic sting.
“Do you need help?” called Ermi once, who was always near and shouting.
“Yes,” called McEwen scornfully, “bring me more of them.”
Soon the deadly work was over and the two comrades, gathering a mass of
food, joined the returning band, singing as they went.
“To-morrow,” said Ermi, as they went along, “we will meet the
Sanguineæ. It is agreed. The leaders are conferring now.”
McEwen did not learn where these latter were, but somehow he was
pleased. An insane lust of combat was now upon him.
“They will not be four to two this time,” he laughed exultingly.
“No, and we will not be barricading against them, either,” laughed
Ermi, the lust of war simmering in his veins.
As they came near their camp, however, they found a large number of
the assembled companies already in motion. Thousands upon thousands of
those who had arrived were already assembled in one group or another
and were prepared for action. There were cries and sounds of fighting,
and long lines of Lucidi hurrying hither and thither.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ermi excitedly.
“The Sanguineæ,” was the answer. “They are returning.”
Instantly McEwen became sober. Ermi turned to him affectionately.
“Now,” he said solemnly, “courage. We’re in for it.”
A tremendous hubbub followed. Already vast legions of the Lucidi were
bearing away to the east. McEwen and Ermi, not being able to find their
own, fell in with a strange company.
“Order!” shouted a voice in their ears. “Fall in line. We are called.”
The twain mechanically obeyed, and dropped behind a regular line. Soon
they were winding along with other long lines of warriors through the
tall sword trees, and in a little while reached a huge, smooth, open
plain where already the actual fighting had begun. Thousands were
here, apparently hundreds of thousands. There was little order, and
scarcely any was needed apparently, since all contacts were individual
or between small groups. It all depended now on numbers, and the
results of the contests between individuals, or at the most, these
small groups. Ermi, McEwen, and several other Lucidi were about to
seize upon one Sanguinea, who was approaching them, when an amazing
rush of the latter broke them, and McEwen found himself separated from
Ermi with a red demon snapping at his throat. Dazed by the shock and
clamor, he almost fell a prey to this first charge. A moment later,
however, his courage and daring returned. With a furious bound, he
recovered himself and forced himself upon his adversary, snapping his
neck in his jaws.
“Take that!” he said to the tumbling carcass.
He had no sooner ended one foe, however, than another clutched him.
They were on every hand, hard, merciless fighters like himself and Ermi
who rushed and tore and sawed with amazing force. McEwen faced his
newest adversary swiftly. While the latter was seeking for McEwen’s
head and antennæ with his mandibles, the former with a quick snap
seized his foe by the neck. Turning up his abdomen, he ejected formic
acid into the throat of the other. That finished him.
Meanwhile the battle continued on every hand with the same mad
vehemence. Already the dead clogged the ground. Here, single combatants
struggled--there, whole lines moved and swayed in deadly combat. Ever
and anon new lines were formed, and strange hosts of friends or enemies
came up, falling upon the combatants of both sides with murderous
enthusiasm. McEwen, in a strange daze and lust of death, seemed to
think nothing of it. He was alone now--lost in a tossing sea of war,
and terror seemed to have forsaken him. It was wonderful, he thought,
mysterious----
As enemy after enemy assailed him, he fought them as he best knew, an
old method to him, apparently, and as they died, he wished them to
die--broken, poisoned, sawed in two. He began to count and exult in the
numbers he had slain. It was at last as though he were dreaming, and
all around was a vain, dark, surging mass of enemies.
Finally, four of the Sanguineæ seized upon him in a group, and he
went down before them, almost helpless. Swiftly they tore at his head
and body, endeavoring to dispose of him quickly. One seized a leg,
another an antenna. A third jumped and sawed at his neck. Still he
did not care. It was all war, and he would struggle to the last shred
of his strength, eagerly, enthusiastically. At last he seemed to lose
consciousness.
When he opened his eyes again, Ermi was beside him.
“Well?” said Ermi.
“Well?” answered McEwen.
“You were about done for, then.”
“Was I?” he answered. “How are things going?”
“I cannot tell yet,” said Ermi. “All I know is that you were faring
badly when I came up. Two of them were dead, but the other two were
killing you.”
“You should have left me to them,” said McEwen, noticing now for the
first time Ermi’s wounds. “It does not matter so much--one Lucidi more
or less--what of it? But you have been injured.”
“I--oh, nothing. You are the one to complain. I fear you are badly
injured.”
“Oh, I,” returned McEwen heavily, feeling at last the weight of death
upon him, “I am done for. I cannot live. I felt myself dying some time
ago.”
He closed his eyes and trembled. In another moment----
* * * * *
McEwen opened his eyes. Strangely enough he was looking out upon
jingling carriages and loitering passersby in the great city park. It
was all so strange, by comparison with that which he had so recently
seen, the tall buildings in the distance, instead of the sword trees,
the trees, the flowers. He jumped to his feet in astonishment, then
sank back again in equal amaze, a passerby eyeing him curiously the
while.
“I have been asleep,” he said in a troubled way. “I have been dreaming.
And what a dream!”
He shut his eyes again, wishing, for some strange reason--charm,
sympathy, strangeness--to regain the lost scene. An odd longing filled
his heart, a sense of comradeship lost, of some friend he knew missing.
When he opened his eyes again he seemed to realize something more of
what had been happening, but it was fading, fading.
At his feet lay the plain and the ants with whom he had recently
been--or so he thought. Yes, there, only a few feet away in the parched
grass, was an arid spot, over-run with insects. He gazed upon it, in
amazement, searching for the details of a lost world. Now, as he
saw, coming closer, a giant battle was in progress, such a one, for
instance, as that in which he had been engaged in his dream. The ground
was strewn with dead ants. Thousands upon thousands were sawing and
striking at each other quite in the manner in which he had dreamed.
What was this?--a revelation of the spirit and significance of a lesser
life or of his own--or what? And what was life if the strange passions,
moods and necessities which conditioned him here could condition those
there on so minute a plane?
“Why, I was there,” he said dazedly and a little dreamfully, “a little
while ago. I died there--or as well as died there--in my dream. At
least I woke out of it into this or sank from that into this.”
Stooping closer he could see where lines were drawn, how in places the
forces raged in confusion, and the field was cluttered with the dead.
At one moment an odd mad enthusiasm such as he had experienced in his
dream-world lay hold of him, and he looked for the advantage of the
Shining Slave Makers--the blacks--as he thought of the two warring
hosts as against the reds. But finding it not, the mood passed, and he
stood gazing, lost in wonder. What a strange world! he thought. What
worlds within worlds, all apparently full of necessity, contention,
binding emotions and unities--and all with sorrow, their sorrow--a
vague, sad something out of far-off things which had been there, and
was here in this strong bright city day, had been there and would be
here until this odd, strange thing called _life_ had ended.
NIGGER JEFF
The city editor was waiting for one of his best reporters, Elmer Davies
by name, a vain and rather self-sufficient youth who was inclined to
be of that turn of mind which sees in life only a fixed and ordered
process of rewards and punishments. If one did not do exactly right,
one did not get along well. On the contrary, if one did, one did.
Only the so-called evil were really punished, only the good truly
rewarded--or Mr. Davies had heard this so long in his youth that he had
come nearly to believe it. Presently he appeared. He was dressed in
a new spring suit, a new hat and new shoes. In the lapel of his coat
was a small bunch of violets. It was one o’clock of a sunny spring
afternoon, and he was feeling exceedingly well and good-natured--quite
fit, indeed. The world was going unusually well with him. It seemed
worth singing about.
“Read that, Davies,” said the city editor, handing him the clipping.
“I’ll tell you afterward what I want you to do.”
The reporter stood by the editorial chair and read:
Pleasant Valley, Ko., April 16.
“A most dastardly crime has just been reported here. Jeff Ingalls,
a negro, this morning assaulted Ada Whitaker, the nineteen-year-old
daughter of Morgan Whitaker, a well-to-do farmer, whose home is four
miles south of this place. A posse, headed by Sheriff Mathews, has
started in pursuit. If he is caught, it is thought he will be lynched.”
The reporter raised his eyes as he finished. What a terrible crime!
What evil people there were in the world! No doubt such a creature
ought to be lynched, and that quickly.
“You had better go out there, Davies,” said the city editor. “It looks
as if something might come of that. A lynching up here would be a big
thing. There’s never been one in this state.”
Davies smiled. He was always pleased to be sent out of town. It was a
mark of appreciation. The city editor rarely sent any of the other men
on these big stories. What a nice ride he would have!
As he went along, however, a few minutes later he began to meditate
on this. Perhaps, as the city editor had suggested, he might be
compelled to witness an actual lynching. That was by no means so
pleasant in itself. In his fixed code of rewards and punishments he
had no particular place for lynchings, even for crimes of the nature
described, especially if he had to witness the lynching. It was too
horrible a kind of reward or punishment. Once, in line of duty,
he had been compelled to witness a hanging, and that had made him
sick--deathly so--even though carried out as a part of the due process
of law of his day and place. Now, as he looked at this fine day and
his excellent clothes, he was not so sure that this was a worthwhile
assignment. Why should he always be selected for such things--just
because he could write? There were others--lots of men on the staff.
He began to hope as he went along that nothing really serious would
come of it, that they would catch the man before he got there and put
him in jail--or, if the worst had to be--painful thought!--that it
would be all over by the time he got there. Let’s see--the telegram
had been filed at nine a.m. It was now one-thirty and would be three
by the time he got out there, all of that. That would give them time
enough, and then, if all were well, or ill, as it were, he could just
gather the details of the crime and the--aftermath--and return. The
mere thought of an approaching lynching troubled him greatly, and the
farther he went the less he liked it.
He found the village of Pleasant Valley a very small affair indeed,
just a few dozen houses nestling between green slopes of low hills,
with one small business corner and a rambling array of lanes. One
or two merchants of K----, the city from which he had just arrived,
lived out here, but otherwise it was very rural. He took notes of the
whiteness of the little houses, the shimmering beauty of the small
stream one had to cross in going from the depot. At the one main corner
a few men were gathered about a typical village barroom. Davies headed
for this as being the most likely source of information.
In mingling with this company at first he said nothing about his being
a newspaper man, being very doubtful as to its effect upon them, their
freedom of speech and manner.
The whole company was apparently tense with interest in the crime which
still remained unpunished, seemingly craving excitement and desirous of
seeing something done about it. No such opportunity to work up wrath
and vent their stored-up animal propensities had probably occurred here
in years. He took this occasion to inquire into the exact details of
the attack, where it had occurred, where the Whitakers lived. Then,
seeing that mere talk prevailed here, he went away thinking that he had
best find out for himself how the victim was. As yet she had not been
described, and it was necessary to know a little something about her.
Accordingly, he sought an old man who kept a stable in the village,
and procured a horse. No carriage was to be had. Davies was not an
excellent rider, but he made a shift of it. The Whitaker home was not
so very far away--about four miles out--and before long he was knocking
at its front door, set back a hundred feet from the rough country road.
“I’m from the _Times_,” he said to the tall, rawboned woman who opened
the door, with an attempt at being impressive. His position as reporter
in this matter was a little dubious; he might be welcome, and he might
not. Then he asked if this were Mrs. Whitaker, and how Miss Whitaker
was by now.
“She’s doing very well,” answered the woman, who seemed decidedly
stern, if repressed and nervous, a Spartan type. “Won’t you come in?
She’s rather feverish, but the doctor says she’ll probably be all right
later on.” She said no more.
Davies acknowledged the invitation by entering. He was very anxious to
see the girl, but she was sleeping under the influence of an opiate,
and he did not care to press the matter at once.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“About eight o’clock this morning,” said the woman. “She started to go
over to our next door neighbor here, Mr. Edmonds, and this negro met
her. We didn’t know anything about it until she came crying through the
gate and dropped down in here.”
“Were you the first one to meet her?” asked Davies.
“Yes, I was the only one,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “The men had all gone to
the fields.”
Davies listened to more of the details, the type and history of the
man, and then rose to go. Before doing so he was allowed to have a look
at the girl, who was still sleeping. She was young and rather pretty.
In the yard he met a country man who was just coming to get home news.
The latter imparted more information.
“They’re lookin’ all around south of here,” he said, speaking of a
crowd which was supposed to be searching. “I expect they’ll make short
work of him if they get him. He can’t get away very well, for he’s
on foot, wherever he is. The sheriff’s after him too, with a deputy
or two, I believe. He’ll be tryin’ to save him an’ take him over to
Clayton, but I don’t believe he’ll be able to do it, not if the crowd
catches him first.”
So, thought Davies, he would probably have to witness a lynching after
all. The prospect was most unhappy.
“Does any one know where this negro lived?” he asked heavily, a growing
sense of his duty weighing upon him.
“Oh, right down here a little way,” replied the farmer. “Jeff Ingalls
was his name. We all know him around here. He worked for one and
another of the farmers hereabouts, and don’t appear to have had such a
bad record, either, except for drinkin’ a little now and then. Miss Ada
recognized him, all right. You follow this road to the next crossing
and turn to the right. It’s a little log house that sets back off the
road--something like that one you see down the lane there, only it’s
got lots o’ chips scattered about.”
Davies decided to go there first, but changed his mind. It was growing
late, and he thought he had better return to the village. Perhaps by
now developments in connection with the sheriff or the posse were to be
learned.
Accordingly, he rode back and put the horse in the hands of its owner,
hoping that all had been concluded and that he might learn of it here.
At the principal corner much the same company was still present,
arguing, fomenting, gesticulating. They seemed parts of different
companies that earlier in the day had been out searching. He wondered
what they had been doing since, and then decided to ingratiate himself
by telling them he had just come from the Whitakers and what he had
learned there of the present condition of the girl and the movements of
the sheriff.
Just then a young farmer came galloping up. He was coatless, hatless,
breathless.
“They’ve got him!” he shouted excitedly. “They’ve got him!”
A chorus of “whos,” “wheres” and “whens” greeted this information as
the crowd gathered about the rider.
“Why, Mathews caught him up here at his own house!” exclaimed the
latter, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. “He must ’a’
gone back there for something. Mathews’s takin’ him over to Clayton,
so they think, but they don’t project he’ll ever get there. They’re
after him now, but Mathews says he’ll shoot the first man that tries to
take him away.”
“Which way’d he go?” exclaimed the men in chorus, stirring as if to
make an attack.
“’Cross Sellers’ Lane,” said the rider. “The boys think he’s goin’ by
way of Baldwin.”
“Whoopee!” yelled one of the listeners. “We’ll get him away from him,
all right! Are you goin’, Sam?”
“You bet!” said the latter. “Wait’ll I get my horse!”
“Lord!” thought Davies. “To think of being (perforce) one of a lynching
party--a hired spectator!”
He delayed no longer, however, but hastened to secure his horse again.
He saw that the crowd would be off in a minute to catch up with the
sheriff. There would be information in that quarter, drama very likely.
“What’s doin’?” inquired the liveryman as he noted Davies’ excited
appearance.
“They’re after him,” replied the latter nervously. “The sheriff’s
caught him. They’re going now to try to take him away from him, or
that’s what they say. The sheriff is taking him over to Clayton, by way
of Baldwin. I want to get over there if I can. Give me the horse again,
and I’ll give you a couple of dollars more.”
The liveryman led the horse out, but not without many provisionary
cautions as to the care which was to be taken of him, the damages which
would ensue if it were not. He was not to be ridden beyond midnight.
If one were wanted for longer than that Davies must get him elsewhere
or come and get another, to all of which Davies promptly agreed. He
then mounted and rode away.
When he reached the corner again several of the men who had gone for
their horses were already there, ready to start. The young man who had
brought the news had long since dashed off to other parts.
Davies waited to see which road this new company would take. Then
through as pleasant a country as one would wish to see, up hill and
down dale, with charming vistas breaking upon the gaze at every turn,
he did the riding of his life. So disturbed was the reporter by the
grim turn things had taken that he scarcely noted the beauty that was
stretched before him, save to note that it was so. Death! Death! The
proximity of involuntary and enforced death was what weighed upon him
now.
In about an hour the company had come in sight of the sheriff, who,
with two other men, was driving a wagon he had borrowed along a lone
country road. The latter was sitting at the back, a revolver in each
hand, his face toward the group, which at sight of him trailed after
at a respectful distance. Excited as every one was, there was no
disposition, for the time being at least, to halt the progress of the
law.
“He’s in that wagon,” Davies heard one man say. “Don’t you see they’ve
got him in there tied and laid down?”
Davies looked.
“That’s right,” said another. “I see him now.”
“What we ought to do,” said a third, who was riding near the front,
“is to take him away and hang him. That’s just what he deserves, and
that’s what he’ll get before we’re through to-day.”
“Yes!” called the sheriff, who seemed to have heard this. “You’re not
goin’ to do any hangin’ this day, so you just might as well go on
back.” He did not appear to be much troubled by the appearance of the
crowd.
“Where’s old man Whitaker?” asked one of the men who seemed to feel
that they needed a leader. “He’d get him quick enough!”
“He’s with the other crowd, down below Olney,” was the reply.
“Somebody ought to go an’ tell him.”
“Clark’s gone,” assured another, who hoped for the worst.
Davies rode among the company a prey to mingled and singular feelings.
He was very much excited and yet depressed by the character of the
crowd which, in so far as he could see, was largely impelled to its
jaunt by curiosity and yet also able under sufficient motivation on
the part of some one--any one, really--to kill too. There was not so
much daring as a desire to gain daring from others, an unconscious wish
or impulse to organize the total strength or will of those present
into one strength or one will, sufficient to overcome the sheriff and
inflict death upon his charge. It was strange--almost intellectually
incomprehensible--and yet so it was. The men were plainly afraid of the
determined sheriff. They thought something ought to be done, but they
did not feel like getting into trouble.
Mathews, a large solemn, sage, brown man in worn clothes and a faded
brown hat, contemplated the recent addition to his trailers with
apparent indifference. Seemingly he was determined to protect his man
and avoid mob justice, come what may. A mob should not have him if he
had to shoot, and if he shot it would be to kill. Finally, since the
company thus added to did not dash upon him, he seemingly decided to
scare them off. Apparently he thought he could do this, since they
trailed like calves.
“Stop a minute!” he called to his driver.
The latter pulled up. So did the crowd behind. Then the sheriff stood
over the prostrate body of the negro, who lay in the jolting wagon
beneath him, and called back:
“Go ’way from here, you people! Go on, now! I won’t have you follerin’
after me!”
“Give us the nigger!” yelled one in a half-bantering, half-derisive
tone of voice.
“I’ll give ye just two minutes to go on back out o’ this road,”
returned the sheriff grimly, pulling out his watch and looking at it.
They were about a hundred feet apart. “If you don’t, I’ll clear you
out!”
“Give us the nigger!”
“I know you, Scott,” answered Mathews, recognizing the voice. “I’ll
arrest every last one of ye to-morrow. Mark my word!”
The company listened in silence, the horses champing and twisting.
“We’ve got a right to foller,” answered one of the men.