charge of affairs in Georgia, found that the State government
established under the terms of Mr. Lincoln's plan of reconstruction, had
no idea of paying the expenses of the mongrel convention out of the
State's funds, he issued an order removing the Governor and Treasurer,
and "detailed for duty as Governor of Georgia," one of the members of
his staff.
The mongrel convention, which would have been run out of any Northern
State in twenty-four hours, had provided for an election to be held in
April, 1868, for the ratification or rejection of the new constitution
that had been framed, and for the election of Governor and members of
the General Assembly. Beginning on the 20th, the election was to
continue for three days, a provision that was intended to enable the
negroes to vote at as many precincts as they could conveniently reach in
eighty-three hours. No safeguard whatever was thrown around the
ballot-box, and it was the remembrance of this initial and overwhelming
combination of fraud and corruption that induced the whites, at a later
day, to stuff the ballot-boxes and suppress the votes of the ignorant.
These things, with the hundreds of irritating incidents and episodes
belonging to the unprecedented conditions, gradually worked up the
feelings of the whites to a very high pitch of exasperation. The worst
fears of the most timid bade fair to be realised, for the negroes,
certain of their political supremacy, sure of the sympathy and support
of Congress and the War Department, and filled with the conceit produced
by the flattery and cajolery of the carpet-bag sycophants, were
beginning to assume an attitude which would have been threatening and
offensive if their skins had been white as snow.
Gabriel was now old enough to appreciate the situation as it existed,
though he never could bring himself to believe that there were elements
of danger in it. He knew the negroes too well; he was too familiar with
their habits of thought, and with their various methods of accomplishing
a desired end. But he was familiar with the apprehensions of the
community, and made no effort to put forward his own views, except in
occasional conversations with Meriwether Clopton. After a time, however,
it became clear, even to Gabriel, that something must be done to
convince the misguided negroes that the whites were not asleep.
He conformed himself to all the new conditions with the ready
versatility of youth. He studied hard both night and day, but he spent
the greater part of his time in the open air. It was perhaps fortunate
for him at this time that there was a lack of formality in his methods
of acquiring knowledge. He had no tutor, but his line of study was
mapped out for him by Meriwether Clopton, who was astonished at the
growing appetite of the lad for knowledge--an appetite that seemed to be
insatiable.
What he most desired to know, however, he made no inquiries about. He
ached, as Mrs. Absalom would have said, to know why he had suddenly come
to be afraid of Nan Dorrington. He had been somewhat shy of her before,
but now, in these latter days, he was absolutely afraid of her. He liked
her as well as ever, but somehow he became panic-stricken whenever he
found himself in her company, which was not often.
It was impossible that his desire to avoid her should fail to be
observed by Nan, and she found a reason for it in the belief that
Gabriel had discovered in some way that she was in the closet with Tasma
Tid the night the Union League had been organised. Nan would never have
known what a crime--this was the name she gave the escapade--what a
crime she had committed but for the shock it gave her step-mother. This
lady had been trained and educated in a convent, where every rule of
propriety was emphasised and magnified, and most rigidly insisted upon.
One day, when Nan was returning home from the village, she saw Gabriel
coming directly toward her. She studied the ground at her feet for a
considerable distance, and when she looked up again Gabriel was gone; he
had disappeared. This episode, insignificant though it was, was the
cause of considerable worry to Nan. She gave Mrs. Dorrington the
particulars, and then asked her what it all meant.
"Why should it mean anything?" that lady asked with a laugh.
"Oh, but it must mean something, Johnny. Gabriel has avoided me before,
and I have avoided him, but we have each had some sort of an excuse for
it. But this time it is too plain."
"What silly children!" exclaimed Mrs. Dorrington, with her cute French
accent.
Nan went to a window and looked out, drumming on a pane. Outside
everything seemed to be in disorder. The flowers were weeds, and the
trees were not beautiful any more. Even the few birds in sight were all
dressed in drab. What a small thing can change the world for us!
"I know why he hid himself," Nan declared from the window. "He has found
out that I was in the closet with Tasma Tid." How sad it was to be
compelled to realise the awful responsibilities that rest as a burden
upon Girls who are Grown!
"Well, you were there," replied Mrs. Dorrington, "and since that is so,
why not make a joke of it? Gabriel has no squeamishness about such
things."
"Then why should he act as he does?" Nan was about to break down.
"Well, he has his own reasons, perhaps, but they are not what you think.
Oh, far from it. Gabriel knows as well as I do that it would be
impossible for you to do anything _very_ wrong."
"Oh, but it isn't impossible," Nan insisted. "I feel wicked, and I know
I am wicked. If Gabriel Tolliver ever dares to find out that I was in
that closet, I'll tell him what I think of him, and then I'll--" Her
threat was never completed. Mrs. Dorrington rose from her chair just in
time to place her hand over Nan's mouth.
"If you were to tell Gabriel what you really think of him," said the
lady, "he would have great astonishment."
"Oh, no, he wouldn't, Johnny. You don't know how conceited Gabriel is.
I'm just ready to hate him."
"Well, it may be good for your health to dislike him a little
occasionally," remarked Mrs. Dorrington, with a smile.
"Now, what _do_ you mean by that, Johnny?" cried Nan. But the only
reply she received was an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.
Gabriel was as much mystified by his own dread of meeting Nan, as he was
by her coolness toward him. He could not recall any incident which she
had resented; but still she was angry with him. Well, if it was so, so
be it; and though he thought it was cruel in his old comrade to harbour
hard thoughts against him, he never sought for an explanation. He had
his own world to fall back upon--a world of books, the woods and the
fields. And he was far from unhappiness; for no human being who loves
Nature well enough to understand and interpret its meaning and its
myriad messages to his own satisfaction, can be unhappy for any length
of time. Whatever his losses or his disappointments, he can make them
all good by going into the woods and fields and taking Nature, the great
comforter, by the hand.
So Gabriel confined his communications for the most part to his old and
ever-faithful friends, the woods and the velvety Bermuda fields. He
walked about among these old friends with a lively sense of their
vitality and their fruitfulness. He was certain that the fields knew him
as well as he knew them--and as for the trees, he had a feeling that
they knew his name as well as he knew theirs. He was so familiar with
some of them, and they with him, that the katydids in the branches
continued their cries even while he was leaning against the trunks of
the friends of his childhood: whereas, if a stranger or an alien to the
woods had so much as laid the tip of his little finger on the rugged
bark of one of them, a shuddering signal would have been sent aloft, and
the cries would have ceased instantly.
Gabriel's grandmother went to bed early and rose early--a habit that
belongs to old age. But it was only after the darkness and silence of
night had descended upon the world that all of Gabriel's faculties were
alert. It was his favourite time for studying and reading, and for
walking about in the woods and fields, especially when the weather was
too warm for study. Every Sunday night found him in the Bermuda fields,
long since deserted by Nan and Tasma Tid. To think of the old days
sometimes brought a lump in his throat; but the skies, and the
constellations (in their season) remained, and were as fresh and as
beautiful as when they looked down in pity on the sufferings of Job.
Gabriel's favourite Bermuda field was crowned by a hill, which,
gradually sloping upward, commanded a fine view of the surrounding
country; and though it was close to Shady Dale, it was a lonely place.
Here the killdees ran, and bobbed their heads, and uttered their
plaintive cries unmolested; here the partridge could raise her brood in
peace; and here the whippoorwill was free to play upon his flute.
Many and many a time, while sitting on this hill, Gabriel had watched
the village-lights go out one by one till all was dark; and the silence
seemed to float heaven-ward, and fall again, and shift and move in vast
undulations, keeping time to a grand melody which the soul could feel
and respond to, but which the ear could not hear. And at such time,
Gabriel believed that in the slow-moving constellations, with their
glittering trains, could be read the great secrets that philosophers and
scientists are searching for.
Beyond the valley, still farther away from the town, was the negro
church, of which the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin was the admired pastor.
Ordinarily, there were services in this church three times a week,
unless one of the constantly recurring revivals was in progress, and
then there were services every night in the week, and sometimes all
night long. The Rev. Jeremiah was a preacher who had lung-power to
spare, and his voice was well calculated to shatter our old friend the
welkin, so dear to poets and romancers. But if there was no revival in
progress, the nights devoted to prayer-meetings were mainly musical, and
the songs, subdued by the distance, floated across the valley to Gabriel
with entrancing sweetness.
One Wednesday night, when the political conditions were at their worst,
Gabriel observed that while the lights were lit in the church, there was
less singing than usual. This attracted his attention and then excited
his curiosity. Listening more intently, he failed to hear the sound of a
single voice lifted in prayer, in song or in preaching. The time was
after nine o'clock, and this silence was so unusual that Gabriel
concluded to investigate.
He made his way across the valley, and was soon within ear-shot of the
church. The pulpit was unoccupied, but Gabriel could see that a white
man was standing in front of it. The inference to be drawn from his
movements and gestures was that he was delivering an address to the
negroes. Hotchkiss was standing near the speaker, leaning in a familiar
way on one of the side projections of the pulpit. Gabriel knew
Hotchkiss, but the man who was speaking was a stranger. He was flushed
as with wine, and appeared to have no control of his hands, for he flung
them about wildly.
Gabriel crept closer, and climbed a small tree, in the hope that he
might hear what the stranger was saying, but listen as he might, no
sound of the stranger's voice came to Gabriel. The church was full of
negroes, and a strange silence had fallen on them. He marvelled somewhat
at this, for the night was pleasant, and every window was open. The
impression made upon the young fellow was very peculiar. Here was a man
flinging his arms about in the heat and ardour of argument or
exhortation, and yet not a sound came through the windows.
Suddenly, while Gabriel was leaning forward trying in vain to hear the
words of the speaker, a tall, white figure, mounted on a tall white
horse, emerged from the copse at the rear of the church. At the first
glance, Gabriel found it difficult to discover what the figures were,
but as horse and rider swerved in the direction of the church, he saw
that both were clad in white and flowing raiment. While he was gazing
with all his eyes, another figure emerged from the copse, then another,
and another, until thirteen white riders, including the leader, had come
into view. Following one another at intervals, they marched around the
church, observing the most profound silence. The hoofs of their horses
made no sound. Three times this ghostly procession marched around the
church. Finally they paused, each horseman at a window, save the leader,
who, being taller than the rest, had stationed himself at the door.
He was the first to break the silence. "Brothers, is all well with you?"
his voice was strong and sonorous.
"All is not well," replied twelve voices in chorus.
"What do you see?" the impressive voice of the leader asked.
"Trouble, misery, blood!" came the answering chorus.
"Blood?" cried the leader.
"Yes, blood!" was the reply.
"Then all is well!"
"So mote it be! All is well!" answered twelve voices in chorus.
Once more the ghostly procession rode round and round the church, and
then suddenly disappeared in the darkness. Gabriel rubbed his eyes. For
an instant he believed that he had been dreaming. If ever there were
goblins, these were they. The figures on horseback were so closely
draped in white that they had no shape but height, and their heads and
hands were not in view.
It may well be believed that the sudden appearance and disappearance of
these apparitions produced consternation in the Rev. Jeremiah's
congregation. The stranger who had been addressing them was left in a
state of collapse. The only person in the building who appeared to be
cool and sane was the man Hotchkiss. The negroes sat paralysed for an
instant after the white riders had disappeared--but only for an instant,
for, before you could breathe twice, those in the rear seats made a
rush for the door. This movement precipitated a panic, and the entire
congregation joined in a mad effort to escape from the building. The
Rev. Jeremiah forgot the dignity of his position, and, umbrella in hand,
emerged from a window, bringing the upper sash with him. Benches were
overturned, and wild shrieks came from the women. The climax came when
five pistol-shots rang out on the air.
Gabriel, in his tree, could hear the negroes running, their feet
sounding on the hard clay like the furious scamper of a drove of wild
horses. Years afterward, he could afford to laugh at the events of that
night, but, at the moment, the terror of the negroes was contagious, and
he had a mild attack of it.
The pistol-shots occurred as the Rev. Jeremiah emerged from the window,
and were evidently in the nature of a signal, for before the echoes of
the reports had died away, the white horsemen came into view again, and
rode after the fleeing negroes. Gabriel did not witness the effect of
this movement, but it came near driving the fleeing negroes into a
frenzy. The white riders paid little attention to the mob itself, but
selected the Rev. Jeremiah as the object of their solicitude.
He had bethought him of his dignity when he had gone a few hundred
steps, and found he was not pursued, and, instead of taking to the
woods, as most of his congregation did, he kept to the public road.
Before he knew it, or at least before he could leave the road, he found
himself escorted by the entire band. Six rode on each side, and the
leader rode behind him. Once he started to run, but the white riders
easily kept pace with him, their horses going in a comfortable canter.
When he found that escape was impossible, he ceased to run. He would
have stopped, but when he tried to do so he felt the hot breath of the
leader's horse on the back of his neck, and the sensation was so
unexpected and so peculiar, that the frightened negro actually thought
that a chunk of fire, as he described it afterward, had been applied to
his head. So vivid was the impression made on his mind that he declared
that he had actually seen the flame, as it circled around his head; and
he maintained that the back of his head would have been burned off if
"de fier had been our kind er fier."
Finding that he could not escape by running, he began to walk, and as he
was a man of great fluency of speech, he made an effort to open a
conversation with his ghostly escort. He was perspiring at every pore,
and this fact called for a frequent use of his red pocket-handkerchief.
"Blood!" cried the leader, and twelve voices repeated the word.
"Bosses--Marsters! What is I ever done to you?" To this there was no
reply. "I ain't never hurted none er you-all; I ain't never had de idee
er harmin' you. All I been doin' for dis long time, is ter try ter fetch
sinners ter de mercy-seat. Dat's all I been doin', an' dat's all I
wanter do--I tell you dat right now." Still there was no response, and
the Rev. Jeremiah made bold to take a closer look at the riders who were
within range of his vision. He nearly sunk in his tracks when he saw
that each one appeared to be carrying his head under his arm. "Name er
de Lord!" he cried; "who is you-all anyhow? an' what you gwineter do wid
me?"
Silence was the only answer he received, and the silence of the riders
was more terrifying than their talk would have been. "Ef you wanter know
who been tryin' fer ter 'casion trouble, I kin tell you, an' dat mighty
quick." But apparently the white riders were not seeking for
information. They asked no questions, and the perspiration flowed more
freely than ever from the Rev. Jeremiah's pores. Again his red
handkerchief came out of his pocket, and again the rider behind him
cried out "Blood!" and the others repeated the word.
The Rev. Jeremiah, in despair, caught at what he thought was the last
straw. "Ef you-all think dey's blood on dat hankcher, you mighty much
mistooken. 'Twuz red in de sto', long 'fo' I bought it, an' ef dey's any
blood on it, I ain't put it dar--I'll tell you dat right now."
But there was no answer to his protest, and the ghostly cortege
continued to escort him along the road. The white riders went with him
through town and to the Tomlin Place. Once there, each one filed between
him and the gate he was about to enter, and the last word of each was
"Beware!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
_Major Tomlin Perdue Arrives_
Gabriel was struck by the fact that Hotchkiss seemed to be undisturbed
by the events that had startled and stampeded the negroes and the white
stranger. He remained in the church for some time after the others were
gone, and he showed no uneasiness whatever. He had seated himself on one
of the deacons' chairs near the pulpit, and, with his head leaning on
his hand, appeared to be lost in thought. After awhile--it seemed to be
a very long time to Gabriel--he rose, put on his hat, blew out one by
one the lamps that rested in sconces along the wall, and went out into
the darkness.
Gabriel had remained in the tree, and with good reason. He knew that
whoever fired the pistol, the reports of which added so largely to the
panic among the negroes, was very close to the tree where he had hid
himself, and so he waited, not patiently, perhaps, but with a very good
grace. When Hotchkiss was out of sight, and presumably out of hearing,
Gabriel heard some one calling his name. He made no answer at first, but
the call was repeated in a tone sufficiently loud to leave no room for
mistake.
"Tolliver, where are you? If you're asleep, wake up and show me a
near-cut to town."
"Who are you?" Gabriel asked.
"One," replied the other.
"I don't know your voice," said Gabriel; "how did you know me?"
"That is a secret that belongs to the Knights of the White Camellia,"
answered the unknown. "If you don't come down, I'm afraid I'll have to
shake you out of that tree. Can't you slide down without hurting your
feelings?"
Gabriel slid down the trunk of the small tree as quickly as he could,
and found that the owner of the voice was no other than Major Tomlin
Perdue, of Halcyondale.
"You didn't expect to find me roosting around out here, did you?" the
irrepressible Major asked, as he shook Gabriel warmly by the hand.
"Well, I fully expected to find you. Your grandmother told me an hour
ago that I'd find you mooning about on the hills back there. I didn't
find you because I didn't care to go about bawling your name; so I came
around by the road. I was loafing around here when you came up, and I
knew it was you, as soon as I heard you slipping up that tree. But that
hill business, and the mooning--how about them? You're in love, I
reckon. Well, I don't blame you. She's a fine gal, ain't she?"
"Who?" inquired Gabriel.
"Who!" cried Major Perdue, mockingly. "Why, there's but one gal in the
Dale. You know that as well as I do. She never has had her match, and
she'll never have one. And it's funny, too; no matter which way you
spell her first name, backwards or forwards, it spells the same. Did you
ever think of that, Tolliver? But for Vallic--you know my daughter,
don't you?--I never would have found it out in the world."
Gabriel laughed somewhat sheepishly, wondering all the time how Major
Perdue could think and talk of such trivial matters, in the face of the
spectacle they had just witnessed.
"Well, you deserve good luck, my boy," the Major went on. "Everybody
that knows you is singing your praises--some for your book-learning,
some for your modesty, and some for the way you ferreted out the designs
of that fellow who was last to leave the church."
"I'm sure I don't deserve any praise," protested Gabriel.
"Continue to feel that way, and you'll get all the more," observed the
Major, sententiously. "But for you these dirty thieves might have got
the best of us. Why, we didn't know, even at Halcyondale, what was up
till we got word of your discovery. Well, sir, as soon as we found out
what was going on, we got together, and wiped 'em up. Why, you've got
the pokiest crowd over here I ever heard of. They just sit and sun
themselves, and let these white devils do as they please. When they do
wake up, the white rascals will be gone, and then they'll take their
spite out of the niggers--and the niggers ain't no more to blame for all
this trouble than a parcel of two-year-old children. You mark my words:
the niggers will suffer, and these white rascals will go scot-free. Why
don't the folks here wake up? They can't be afraid of the Yankee
soldiers, can they? Why the Captain here is a rank Democrat in politics,
and a right down clever fellow."
"He is a clever gentleman," Gabriel assented. "I have met him walking
about in the woods, and I like him very much. He is a Kentuckian, and
he's not fond of these carpet-baggers and scalawags at all. But I never
told anybody before that he is a good friend of mine. You know how they
are, especially the women--they hate everything that's clothed in blue."
"Well, by George! you are the only person in the place that keeps his
eyes open, and finds out things. You saw that rascal talking to the
niggers awhile ago, didn't you? Well, he's the worst of the lot. He has
been preaching his social equality doctrine over in our town, but I
happened to run across him t'other day, and I laid the law down to him.
I told him I'd give him twenty-four hours to get out of town. He stayed
the limit; but when he saw me walk downtown with my shot-gun, he took a
notion that I really meant business, and he lit out. Minervy Ann found
out where he was headed for, and I've followed him over here. He's the
worst of the lot, and they're all rank poison."
Major Perdue paused a moment in his talk, as if reflecting. "Can you
keep a secret, Tolliver?" he asked after awhile.
"Well, I haven't had much practice, Major, but if it is important, I'll
do my best to keep it."
"Oh, it is not so important. That fellow you saw talking to the negroes
awhile ago is named Bridalbin."
"Bridalbin!" exclaimed Gabriel.