XIII

_THE LYNCHING_

Needless to say the household was astir. For our house had a fatal

location--at least, so it proved that night--standing as it did in a

quiet part of the town close to the long bridge that spanned the river.

And the crowd was making for the bridge; this was to serve as a

scaffold.

Uncle was not at home. He had gone forth about midnight, as my aunt

told me. A few minutes later he returned, but only for a moment, to

explain the cause of his absence, and to tell them not to expect him

till they saw him. His eyes were bloodshot, my mother said, and his

lips were dry. Yet uncle was the most peaceable of men--but this one

thing seems to make savages out of the mildest of Southern gentlemen.

It was the old story; this wretched negro had assaulted a woman on the

street, a poor ignorant white girl who had been sitting up with a sick

friend, and who thought she could slip unattended across the couple of

blocks that separated her from her home. He had dragged her into an

alley--but God sent somebody.

None of these infuriated men--and they comprised the flower of our

population, many of them men of wealth and culture--had ever heard of

the woman upon whom the black had attempted violence. But this

mattered not--had she been the beauty of the city, or the belle of the

South itself, their fury could not have been greater. She was white;

he was black--that was enough, esteemed by them as a warrant from God

Himself. For no thought of the right or wrong of their deadly zeal

ever took possession of their minds. No knight of the middle ages was

ever more sincere in the ardour that gave the Crusades their glory. If

ever men believed they were doing God service, they were these

hot-hearted men who hurried their trembling sacrifice onward to the

bridge.

My aunt had put out the lights; whether to render the house less

conspicuous, or to help us see the better, I do not know. For few

words passed as the three white faces peered out at the wild scene

before us. The moon had risen now, and we could see the faces of some

of the men, though many were in masks. A peculiar quietness seemed to

come over the throng as they came closer to the bridge, once so tense

that we could catch distinctly the pleading wail of the central figure,

tugging desperately at the rope around his neck. Poor creature, he

knew not the ways of Southern men; or perhaps he did--and yet one

drowning in mid-ocean would still swim towards the shore.

We saw them drag the miserable culprit on to the bridge--then we turned

away. I suppose every Southern woman would cry out in horror at the

thought of following them thus far--and every one would have done the

same as we. Yet now we turned, faint, from the window--that last dread

scene was for other eyes than ours.

But suddenly we heard a mighty shout, marvelling what it might portend.

A kind of gleeful cry it was, as if something had been discovered, or

some better plan devised; which proved to be the case. For I looked

again, and lo! they were bearing the wretch back from the bridge. A

swift vision of mercy quickened my heart, for I took this to be a

reprieve. Yet the doomed man seemed reluctant to be moved, clinging

desperately to the railing of the bridge--for his hands were free. The

rope about his neck tightened as they dragged him back, and when it

relaxed I could hear his piteous appeals, breaking now into loud wails

of anguish. They dragged him on.

In a moment all was clear. A large post, or pole, stood close beside

the bridge; towards this they hauled him, new zeal seeming to animate

the breast of every executioner. I saw two or three of the younger men

running towards the pole. They had something in their arms. It was

wood--and a hot flush came over me from head to foot.

"Oh, God," I moaned to myself, "they're going to burn him," and even as

I spoke they were tying the struggling man tight to the post, others

piling the wood up about him.

In an instant all was ready--and I caught the gleam of a lighted match.

I stood, transfixed with horror. Then I felt my aunt and my mother

tugging faintly at my dress, clutching at my arm, their faces averted

meantime.

"Come away; for God's sake, come away," they pleaded, faint and sick at

heart.

I was just obeying and had already turned from the window, when I heard

a shout, full of savage wrath and protest--whereat I turned and looked

once more.

And my eyes fell on a scene that even yet, after all the intervening

years, I cannot recall without a bounding heart. For suddenly from out

the crowd there had rushed one man, tall, powerful, clothed in black,

his face as savage as the others, though it was savagery of a different

sort. He has told me since--though we have only spoken of it once or

twice through all the years--that his own life was as nothing to him

that night. He saw nothing but hundreds of bloodthirsty men, and one

guilty wretch, and the first lick of flame about his feet. Out from

the crowd had Gordon rushed with sudden impulse, and, when my eyes fell

on him, the sticks and faggots were going this way and that, some by

his feet, some by his hands outflung. Then, before the wonder-stricken

men who were closest to him could interfere, he had trampled on the two

or three already lighted brands, trampled them in fury deep into the

ground.

Then he stood before them; he was close beside the black, whose

quivering face was upturned to his in an agony of pleading. There he

stood, a mighty figure of a man; at least, so he appeared to me as I

gazed, petrified, at the awesome scene. And his pose was the very

incarnation of defiance as he towered above them, his face aflame with

indignation and courage and contempt.

Then I saw a movement in the crowd--or felt it rather--that chilled my

heart with terror. I knew what would happen now, knew it, with

unerring instinct--and I trembled as a fawn quivers when it hears the

first low cry of distant dogs. And swiftly, silently, scorning both

aunt and mother, I flew through the door on to the porch, down the

steps, gliding like a shadow till I found shelter behind an ancient elm

on the outskirts of the swaying crowd. I was as safe there, and as

unobserved, as though I had been a hundred miles away.

It only took a minute, but Gordon had begun to speak before I got

there, his quivering voice ringing like a bell through the night. The

men before me were just beginning to recover from the first shock of

surprise.

"Who is that ---- fool?" I heard one enquire, not more than four feet

ahead of me.

"I know him," a voice answered. I recognized the informant at once--he

had been to our house for supper only a few nights before. "He's a

parson that's visiting the Lundys. A ---- Scotchman," he went on

contemptuously; "his father's a collie dog over there--takes care of

sheep on the hills, he told me."

I knew how helpless I was, but my blood was boiling. I shook my fist

at the horrid creature from where I stood--I could have lynched _him_,

right then and there.

"If you must kill him before he's proved guilty," came Gordon's voice,

"kill him like white men, not like Indians."

A mighty roar went up at this, and the crowd swayed nearer to the

central figures. A loud howl of terror came from the negro. But the

immediate peril was not for him--the storm was raging now about another

head than his. I think a moment later would have seen Gordon in the

clutches of the mob, had it not been temporarily restrained by one of

the oldest and most honoured of our citizens. I saw him lift his hand

as a signal for silence; in a moment he and Gordon seemed to be

carrying on an animated argument. I couldn't hear Colonel Mitford, for

such was his name; but I could catch Gordon's voice.

"I've heard plenty about your Southern chivalry--would you lynch a

white man if he offered the same indignity to a black woman as this

wretch has done?"

The Colonel seemed to pause for a season. And really, it's not much

wonder that he should--I am as Southern as any one who ever lived, but

that question makes me pause even yet. Soon the Colonel broke out

again, this time into quite a prolonged speech.

"It's all your rightful heritage," came back Gordon's voice, ringing

high; "it's the legacy slavery has left you. You're only reaping what

you sowed."

At this the clamour was renewed, the crowd pressing in again--and I

half started from my hiding-place. But again the Colonel persuaded

them to silence, and again he directed his remarks to Gordon He was

evidently saying something about the relation of the races.

Then came Gordon's thunderbolt: "It seems to me," he cried hotly,

recklessly, "it seems to me you couldn't have much more fusion than you

have already--this negro's half white himself;" which proved more, as I

knew it would, than any Southern man would stand.

"Then you can take what you deserve, curse you for a nigger-lover," I

heard the Colonel retort madly, his voice lost in the roar of hate, the

wild outcry for vengeance that burst from the infuriated crowd. All

resistance was now swept away, and a few ringleaders at the front

fairly clutched at Gordon. One had him by the throat, the others

pressing in upon him with wolfish fury gleaming in their eyes.

But before their purpose--what it was I know not, nor probably did

they--before it could be carried out, another rushed to the grim

theatre. It was my Uncle Henry, his hat gone, lost somewhere in the

crowd. He leaped to where Gordon stood, and at his presence the men

fell back.

"You shan't injure this man," he shouted hoarsely. "Not that I contend

he doesn't deserve it--but he's my guest," the word echoing clear.

"He's my guest," uncle repeated, for he knew the magic of the word;

"he's a stranger amongst us--and an ignorant stranger at that. I'll

take the fool home," he went on, casting at Gordon one of the most

contemptuous glances I ever saw from human eyes, "and I'll deal with

him myself. I'll promise you to deal with him--he's my guest. And you

shall do as you please with the nigger."

I think the storm abated for a moment. Perhaps it would have subsided

altogether, for stranger is a sacred name to Southern ears. But

suddenly Colonel Mitford, still ashy pale with wrath, shouted to the

crowd:

"He said they couldn't have more white blood in them than they've

got--he said we're blended now," the words ending in a half snarl, half

cry; for if there is anything under God's sky that makes Southern men

drunk with fury it is just such a statement as Gordon had been rash

enough to make.

Some one else shouted a confirmation of the Colonel's words, another

added something Gordon had never said; and slowly, relentlessly, the

crowd surged in again upon him. My uncle was rudely flung aside--I

could hear his voice in protest through the storm. Then, exactly what

I feared, some of the assassins, more maddened than the rest, jerked

the rope from the negro's neck and flung it with a loud cry over

Gordon's head. This was to the crowd what the taste of blood is to the

tiger, and a fiendish yell broke from a hundred throats. It is not

likely they really meant to kill him--but no one could forecast the

limit of their violence.

I wouldn't have cared if there had been a million men and every man a

Nero. I didn't will to do it, I didn't know I was doing it, didn't

calculate what it meant at all. But I just felt I was stronger than

them all, and that it was now or never. So, without word or cry, I

sprang from behind that ancient elm and leaped to where Gordon stood.

I could never remember that I pushed or elbowed through the crowd; I

don't believe I did. There seemed to be an open path for me, and in

far less time than it takes to tell I was at his side. I remember how

close I was--so close that I caught the gleam of that awful negro's

eyes and felt his breath upon my cheek as he panted in prospect of his

doom. And in a flash I had torn that rope from Gordon's neck, flung it

on the ground, stamped on it, as I turned and hurled defiance at the

crowd in one long look that I felt myself was all of fire. Then I took

Gordon's hand in mine, pointing silently towards the house. He

followed me, and uncle walked behind.

I don't think the slightest resistance was offered us. The only

protest was from Gordon himself. He would have lingered, had he had

his way. But some word of mine--I know not what--settled that mad

purpose in his mind; and he walked beside me, towering still, his head

more erect, his bearing more kingly, than that of any of the throng who

turned scornful eyes upon him as we went.

We were almost through the crowd when something happened that almost

brought the mist of unconsciousness before my eyes, my head reeling, my

heart spinning like a top. A voice, instantly familiar, spoke Gordon's

name, hurling an epithet of contempt and hate so malignant that he

turned a moment, as if he would seek and punish his assailant. Then he

smiled disdainfully, took my arm tighter in his own, and walked calmly

on.

I too turned--and the face I saw was the face of Charlie Giddens. His

gaze met mine, and he sought to smile; but I could see his enmity to

Gordon gleaming through it all, and I hope my eyes bore themselves as

my heart would wish.

When we gained our home aunt and mother received us with weeping joy.

But uncle uttered never a word. Instead, he went silently about the

house, drawing tight the shutters on every window that looked upon the

scene we had just deserted. For he knew what was transpiring now. As

he came down the stairs, I met him in the hall and flung my arms about

his neck. Not a word of chiding escaped his lips--he stroked my hair,

and his tenderness was the tenderness of farewell.

I told him, with trembling voice, that I had seen Mr. Giddens in the

throng. This did not surprise him. "I know it," he said; "he came in

on the eleven o'clock train--he heard the noise, of course, and came

up. Listen," he suddenly cried, as we heard a footfall on the porch,

succeeded by a gentle knock at the door, "what's that? That'll be

him--go inside, child," as he walked to the door to open it.

Gordon was sitting in the corner of the room, offering speech to

nobody, when Mr. Giddens came in. The latter bowed with courtly grace

to my mother and my aunt, casting on me a glance that showed he still

hoped--perhaps more now than ever. Then he walked straight over till

he stood in front of Gordon.

"Laird," he said, before any one could speak, "you've tried to ruin my

happiness--and I've got to settle with you yet for that." Gordon

sprang to his feet. "And you've outraged the sentiment of this

city--and you've disgraced this home," the words coming out like

pistol-shots, "and I want to know what you've got to say for yourself."

"Nothing--to you," said Gordon, his face looking a little terrible, his

voice overflowing with contempt.

Mr. Giddens turned livid--and he made a motion backward with his hand,

a motion familiar to all Southern men; it was towards his pocket. "If

it weren't my respect for the house we're in," he hissed through his

teeth, "I'd shoot you like a dog."

Gordon's face was now altogether terrible. He stepped closer to the

Southerner, his eyes fastened on him like balls of flame. "I've heard

other cowards talk like that," he said.

Then Mr. Giddens' hand flew forward, unarmed; and he struck Gordon full

in the face. We were too late--we might as well have raced with

lightning. Before we could speak or move, Gordon's mighty grip was on

his throat, and he wrenched him back, back, till his head struck with a

thud against the corner wall. There is something marvellous about

these Scotchmen when madness seizes them. So reserved, so silent, so

inscrutable, there is no race on earth so calm and none so deadly. And

strength--such fearful strength! Still gripping him with grasp of

iron, Gordon drew back his hand, every muscle in neck and wrist

standing out like whip-cords as he gathered force for the blow.

Then suddenly his hand fell to his side; he seemed to shake himself

free from his passion, as a man wakens himself from sleep; the mighty

struggle showed in the quivering voice.

"I could kill you," he said with fearful quietness; "I could kill you

now--go," as he released his antagonist, already purple.

Holding his hand to his throat, the hot blood cooled by now, Mr.

Giddens staggered over towards my uncle. "Mr. Lundy," he began

thickly, "we expect you to deal with this cur--as you said you would.

He's brought disgrace on you--and he's insulted every lady in the South

by what he did to-night--and we look to you to treat him as he

deserves."

There was a queer smile about my uncle's mouth. For nearly a minute he

did not speak, did not even look towards the man who had addressed him.

Then he turned slowly round.

"Mr. Giddens," he began, in a voice that sounded strange from him,

"I'll deal with him. Yes, sir, I reckon I'll deal with him."

"I knew you would, Mr. Lundy," the other returned eagerly; "I knew no

Southern gentleman----"

"But I'll deal with you _first_, sir," my uncle interrupted stormily;

"you knew--you knew, did you? Perhaps you didn't know that no

gentleman allows another man to insult his guest. And that's what

you've done, sir--that's what you've done--you struck a visitor in my

house, struck him in the face, sir. There's the door, sir--the

street's the place for you,--go," his voice rolling like thunder now.

Mr. Giddens ventured an amiable smile, stepping a little nearer to my

uncle. I think he partly held out his hand. "Mr. Lundy," he began in

a conciliatory tone, "I meant no disrespect to you. This really isn't

necessary, Mr. Lundy. You and I were friends before we knew this--this

Scotchman--was on the earth. And it seems a pity----"

"Go," thundered my uncle, pointing to the door. Then suddenly his

voice grew white with ungovernable wrath, and he whipped a shining

pistol from his pocket. "Go, by heavens," he cried huskily; "I had

this ready for the nigger--but you'll get it if you speak another word.

Go out that door--or you'll be carried out, by God," as he advanced

nearer to the already retreating man.

When we were alone and all was still again, uncle silently motioned me

to follow him. Gordon had already departed in silence to his room.

Uncle took me into his own apartment and shut the door behind him.

"Helen," he began gravely, "I shall speak no word to--to your friend.

Not a word. You must tell him."

"Tell him what?" I asked, who had no need to ask.

"I reckon you know," my uncle answered quietly. "He can stay here no

longer, of course."

"No," I assented, my voice choking.

"But he needn't leave to-night--tell him he can stay the night. But

to-morrow," he concluded significantly. I nodded.

"Will you go to him--some day, I mean?" he asked after a long pause.

"Yes," I faltered, with downcast head; "yes, some day."

"And leave me, Helen?"

"Yes."

"And your mother--and Aunt Agnes?"

"Yes," I murmured low, the hot tears dropping from my eyes.

"I suppose you know he can never come back here any more?" he began

after a little, the words coming slowly and sadly.

"Yes," I answered; "yes, never any more."

"You're foolish, Helen," and his own voice was choking as he came over

and put his arm around me. "When you remember he's a stranger; and

then, your mother and I and----"

"Is that all?" I interrupted, sobbing.

"Yes," he said slowly, "yes, that's all."

"Then I'll tell him," I said brokenly; "I'll tell him now."

I stole up-stairs to the attic and knocked at Gordon's door. He opened

it; then asked me if I would come in. I looked around; he had begun

his simple packing. But he did not speak. Then I held out my

arms--and I heard him murmur "Thank God" while he held me tight, so

tight, as though he would never let me go.