around Malvern some years before the war, and a friend of mine who lived
there knew him the minute he saw him. He's the fellow that married
Margaret Gaither; you remember her; she came home to die not so very
long ago. Pulaski Tomlin adopted her daughter, or became the girl's
guardian. Now, Tolliver, whatever you do, don't breathe a word about
this Bridalbin--don't mention his name to a soul, not even to your
grandmother. There's no need of worrying that poor girl; she has already
had trouble enough in this world. I'm telling you about him because I
want you to keep your eye on him. He's up to some kind of devilment
besides exciting the niggers."
Gabriel promptly gave his word that he would never mention anything
about Bridalbin's name, and then he said--"But this parade--what does it
mean?"
The Major laughed. "Oh, that was just some of the boys from our
settlement. They are simply out for practice. They want to get their
hands in, as the saying is. They heard I was coming over, and so they
followed along. They don't belong to the Kuklux that you've read so much
about. A chap from North Carolina came along t'other day, and told about
the Knights of the White Camellia, and the boys thought it would be a
good idea to have a bouquet of their own. They have no signs or
passwords, but simply a general agreement. You'll have to organise
something of that kind here, Tolliver. Oh, you-all are so infernally
slow out here in the country! Why, even in Atlanta, they have a Young
Men's Democratic Club. You've got to get a move on you. There's no way
out of it. The only way to fight the devil is to use his own weapons.
The trouble is that some of the hot-headed youngsters want to hold the
poor niggers responsible, as I said just now, and the niggers are no
more to blame than the chicken in a new-laid egg. Don't forget that,
Tolliver. I wouldn't give my old Minervy Ann for a hundred and
seventy-five thousand of these white thieves and rascals; and Jerry
Tomlin, fool as he is, is more of a gentleman than any of the men who
have misled him."
They walked back to the village the way Gabriel had come. On top of the
Bermuda hill, Major Perdue paused and looked toward Shady Dale. Lights
were still twinkling in some of the houses, but for the most part the
town was in darkness.
The Major waved his hand in that direction, remarking, "That's what
makes the situation so dangerous, Tolliver--the women and the children.
Here, and in hundreds of communities, and in the country places all
about, the women and children are in bed asleep, or they are laughing
and talking, with only dim ideas of what is going on. It looks to me, my
son, as if we were between the devil and the deep blue sea. I, for one,
don't believe that there's any danger of a nigger-rising. But look at
the other side. I may be wrong; I may be a crazy old fool too fond of
the niggers to believe they're really mean at heart. Suppose that such
men as this--ah, now I remember!--this Boring--that is what Bridalbin
calls himself now--suppose that such men as he were to succeed in what
they are trying to do? I don't believe they will, even if we took no
steps to prevent it; but then there's the possibility--and we can't
afford to take any chances."
Gabriel agreed with all this very heartily. He was glad to feel that his
own views were also those of this keen, practical, hard-headed man of
the world.
"But men of my sort will be misjudged, Tolliver," pursued the Major;
"violent men will get in the saddle, and outrages will be committed, and
injustice will be done. Public opinion to the north of us will say that
the old fire-eaters, who won't permit even a respectable white man to
insult them with impunity--the old slave-drivers--are trying to destroy
the coloured race. But you will live, my son, to see some of these same
radicals admit that all the injustice and all the wrong is due to the
radical policy."
This prophecy came true. Time has abundantly vindicated the Major and
those who acted with him.
"Yes, yes," Major Perdue went on musingly, "injustice will be done. The
fact is, it has already begun in some quarters. Be switched if it
doesn't look like you can't do right without doing wrong somewhere on
the road."
Gabriel turned this paradox over in his mind, as they walked along; but
it was not until he was a man grown that it straightened itself out in
his mind something after this fashion: When a wrong is done the
innocent suffer along with the guilty; and the innocent also suffer in
its undoing.
Shady Dale woke up the next morning to find the walls and the fences in
all public places plastered with placards, or handbills, printed in red
ink. The most prominent feature of the typography, however, was not its
colour, but the image of a grinning skull and cross-bones. The handbill
was in the nature of a proclamation. It was dated "Den No. Ten, Second
Moon. Year 21,000 of the Dynasty." It read as follows:
"To all Lovers of Peace and Good Order--Greeting: Whereas, it has come
to the knowledge of the Grand Cyclops that evil-minded white men, and
deluded freedmen, are engaged in stirring up strife; and whereas it is
known that corruption is conspiring with ignorance--
"Therefore, this is to warn all and singular the persons who have made
or are now making incendiary propositions and threats, and all who are
banded together in secret political associations to forthwith cease
their activity. And let this warning be regarded as an order, the
violation of which will be followed by vengeance swift and sure. The
White Riders are abroad.
"Thrice endorsed by the Venerable, the Grand Cyclops, in behalf of the
all-powerful Klan. (. (. (. K. K. K. .) .) .)"
Now, if this document had been in writing, it might have passed for a
joke, but it was printed, and this fact, together with its grave and
formal style, gave it the dignity and importance of a genuine
proclamation from a real but an unseen and unknown authority. It had
the advantage of mystery, and there are few minds on which the
mysterious fails to have a real influence. In addition to this, the
spectacular performance at the Rev. Jeremiah's church the night before
gave substance to the proclamation. That event was well calculated to
awe the superstitious and frighten the timid.
The White Riders had disappeared as mysteriously as they came. Only one
person was known to have seen them after they had left the church--it
was several days before the Rev. Jeremiah could be induced to relate his
experience--and that person was Mr. Sanders. What he claimed to have
witnessed was even more alarming than the brief episode that occurred at
the Rev. Jeremiah's church. Mr. Sanders was called on to repeat the
story many times during the next few weeks, but it was observed by a few
of the more thoughtful that he described what he had seen with greater
freedom and vividness when there was a negro within hearing. His
narrative was something like this:
"Gus Tidwell sent arter me to go look at his sick hoss, an' I went an'
doctored him the best I know'd how, an' then started home ag'in. I had
but one thought on my mind; Gus had offered to pay me for my trouble
sech as it was, an' I was tryin' for to figger out in my mind what in
the name of goodness had come over Gus. I come mighty nigh whirlin'
roun' in my tracks, an' walkin' all the way back jest to see ef he
didn't need a little physic. He was cold sober at the time, an' all of a
sudden, when he seed that I had fetched his hoss through a mighty bad
case of the mollygrubs, he says to me, 'Mr. Sanders,' says he, 'you've
saved me a mighty fine hoss, an' I want to pay you for it. You've had
mighty hard work; what is it all wuth?' 'Gus,' says I, 'jest gi' me a
drink of cold water for to keep me from faintin', an' we'll say no more
about it.'
"Well, I didn't turn back, though I was much of a mind to. I mosied
along wondering what had come over Gus. I had got as fur on my way home
as the big 'simmon tree--you-all know whar that is--when all of a
sudden, I felt the wind a-risin'. It puffed in my face, an' felt warm,
sorter like when the wind blows down the chimbley in the winter time.
Then I heard a purrin' sound, an' I looked up, an' right at me was a
gang of white hosses an' riders. They was right on me before I seed 'em,
an' I couldn't 'a' got out'n the'r way ef I'd 'a' had the wings of a
hummin'-bird. So I jest ketched my breath, an' bowed my head, an' tried
to say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.' I couldn't think of the rest, an'
it wouldn't 'a' done no good nohow. I cast my eye aroun', findin' that I
wasn't trompled, an' the whole caboodle was gone. I didn't feel nothin'
but the wind they raised, as they went over me an' up into the elements.
Did you ever pass along by a pastur' at night, an' hear a cow fetch a
long sigh? Well, that's jest the kind of fuss they made as they passed
out'n sight."
This story made a striking climax to the performances that the negroes
themselves had witnessed, and for a time they were subdued in their
demeanour. They even betrayed a tendency to renew their old familiar
relations with the whites. The situation was not without its pathetic
side, and if Mr. Sanders professed to find it simply humourous, it was
only because of the effort which men make--an effort that is only too
successful--to hide the tenderer side of their natures. But the episode
of the White Riders soon became a piece of history; the alarm that it
had engendered grew cold; and Hotchkiss, aided by Bridalbin, who called
himself Boring, soon had the breach between the two races wider than
ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY
_Gabriel at the Big Poplar_
Late one afternoon, at a date when the tension between the two races was
at its worst, Gabriel chanced to be sitting under the great poplar which
was for years, and no doubt is yet, one of the natural curiosities of
Shady Dale, on account of its size and height. He had been reading, but
the light had grown dim as the sun dipped behind the hills, and he now
sat with his eyes closed. His seat at the foot of the tree was not far
from the public highway, though that fact did not add to its attractions
from Gabriel's point of view. He preferred the seat for sentimental
reasons. He had played there when a little lad, and likewise Nan had
played there; and they had both played there together. The old poplar
was hollow, and on one side the bark and a part of the trunk had
sloughed away. Here Gabriel and Nan had played housekeeping, many and
many a day before the girl had grown tired of her dolls. The hollow
formed a comfortable playhouse, and the youngsters, in addition to
housekeeping, had enjoyed little make-believe parties and picnics there.
As Gabriel sat leaning against the old poplar, his back to the road and
his eyes closed, he heard the sound of men's voices. The conversation
was evidently between country folk who had been spending a part of the
day in town. Turning his head, Gabriel saw that there were three
persons, one riding and two walking. Directly opposite the tree where
Gabriel sat, they met an acquaintance who was apparently making a
belated visit to town.
"Hello, boys!" said the belated one by way of salutation. "I 'low'd I'd
find you in town, an' have company on my way home."
"What's the matter, Sam?" asked one of the others. "This ain't no time
of day to be gwine away from home."
"Well, I'm jest obliged to git some ammunition," replied Sam. "I've been
off to mill mighty nigh all day, an' this evenin', about four o'clock,
whilst my wife was out in the yard, a big buck nigger stopped at the
gate, an' looked at her. She took no notice of him one way or another,
an' presently, he ups an' says, 'Hello, Sissy! can't you tell a feller
howdy?'"
"_He did?_" cried the others. Gabriel could hear their gasps of
astonishment and indignation from where he sat.
"He said them very words," replied Sam; "'Hello, Sissy! can't you tell a
feller howdy?'"
"Did you leave anybody at home?" inquired one of the others.
"You bet your sweet life!" replied Sam in the slang of the day. "Johnny
Bivins is there, an' he ain't no slouch, Johnny ain't. I says to Molly,
says I, 'Johnny will camp here till I can run to town, an' git me some
powder an' buckshot.'"
"We have some," one of the others suggested.
"Better let 'im go on an' git it," said another; "we can't have too much
in our neck of the woods when things look like they do now. We'll wait
for you, Sam, if you'll hurry up."
"Good as wheat!" responded Sam, who went rapidly toward town.
"I tell you what, boys, we didn't make up our minds about this business
a single minute too soon," remarked one of the three who were waiting
for the return of their neighbour. "Somethin's got to be done, an' the
sooner it's done, the sooner it'll be over with."
"You're talkin' now with both hands and tongue!" declared one of the
others, in a tone of admiration.
"You'll see," remarked the one who had proposed to wait, "that Sam is
jest as ripe as we are. We know what we know, an' Sam knows what he
knows. I don't know as I blame the niggers much. Look at it from their
side of the fence. They see these d--d white hellians goin' roun',
snortin' an' preachin' ag'in the whites, an' they see us settin' down,
hands folded and eyes shet, and they jest natchally think we're whipped
and cowed. Can you blame 'em? I hate 'em all right enough, but I don't
blame 'em."
Gabriel knew that the man who was speaking was George Rivers, a small
farmer living a short distance in the country. His companions were Tom
Alford and Britt Hanson, and the man who had gone to town for the
ammunition was Sam Hathaway.
"Are you right certain an' shore that this man Hotchkiss is stayin' wi'
Mahlon Butts?" George Rivers inquired.
"He lopes out from there every mornin'," replied Tom Alford.
"Mahlon allers was the biggest skunk in the woods," remarked Hanson.
"He's runnin' for ordinary. I happened to hear him talkin' to a lot of
niggers t'other day, and I went up and cussed him out. I wanted the
niggers to see how chicken-hearted he is. Well, sirs, he never turned a
feather. I never seed a more lamblike man in my life. I started to spit
in his face, and then I happened to think about his wife. Yes, sirs, it
seemed to me for about the space of a second or two that I was lookin'
right spang in Becky's big eyes, an' I couldn't 'a' said a word or done
a thing to save my life. I jest whirled in my tracks and went on about
my business. You-all know Becky Butts--well, there's a woman that comes
mighty nigh bein' a saint. Why she married sech a rapscallion as Mahlon,
I'll never tell you, an' I don't believe she knows herself. But she's
all that's saved Mahlon."
"That's the Lord's truth," responded Tom Alford.
"Why, when he first j'ined the stinkin' radicals," continued Britt
Hanson, "a passel of the boys, me among 'em, laid off to pay him a party
call, an' string him up. Well, the very day we'd fixed on, here comes
Becky over to my house; an' she fetched the baby, too. I knowed, time I
laid eyes on her, that she had done got wind of what we was up to. Says
she to me, 'Britt, I hear it whispered around that you are fixin' up to
do me next to the worst harm a man can do to a woman.' 'Why, Becky,'
says I, 'I wouldn't harm you for the world, and I wouldn't let anybody
else do it.' 'Oh, yes, you would, Britt,' says she. She laughed as she
said it, but when I looked in her big eyes, I could see trouble and pain
in 'em. I says to her, says I, 'What put that idee in your head, Becky?'
And says she, 'No matter how it got there, Britt, so long as it's there.
You're fixin' up to hurt me an' my baby.'
"Well, sirs, you can see where she had me. I says, says I, 'Becky,
what's to hender you from takin' supper here to-night?' This kinder took
her by surprise. She says, 'I'd like it the best in the world, Britt;
but don't you think I'd better be at home--to-night?' 'No,' says I, 'a
passel of the boys'll be here d'reckly after supper, and I reckon maybe
they'd like to see you. You know yourself that they're all mighty fond
of you, Becky,' says I. She sorter studied awhile, an' then she says,
'I'll tell you what I'll do, Britt--I'll come over after supper an' set
awhile.' 'You ain't afeard to come?' says I. 'No, Britt,' says she; 'I
ain't afeard of nothin' in this world except my friends.' She was
laughin', but they ain't much diff'ence betwixt that kind of laughin'
an' cryin'.
"About that time, mother come in. Says she, 'An' be shore an' fetch the
baby, Becky.' The minnit mother said that, I know'd that she was the one
that told Becky what we had laid off to do. You-all know what happened
after that."
"We do that away," said George Rivers. "When I walked in on you, and
seen Becky an' the baby, I know'd purty well that the jig was up, but I
thought I'd set it out and see what'd happen."
"I never seen a baby do like that'n done that night," remarked Tom
Alford. "It laughed an' it crowed, an' helt out its han's to go to ever'
blessed feller in the crowd; an' Becky looked like she was the happiest
creetur in the world. I was the fust feller to cave, an' I didn't feel a
bit sheepish about it, neither. I rose, I did, an' says, 'Well, boys,
it's about my bedtime, an' I reckon I'll toddle along,' an' so I handed
the baby to the next feller, an' mosied off home."
"You did," said Britt Hanson, "an' by the time the boys got through
passin' the baby to the next feller, there wan't any feller left but me.
An' then the funniest thing happened that you ever seed. You know how
Becky was gwine on, laughin' an' talkin'. Well, the last man hadn't
hardly shet the door behind him, when Becky flopped down and put her
head in mother's lap, and cried like a baby. I'm mighty glad I ain't
married," Britt Hanson went on. "There ain't a man in the world that
knows a woman's mind. Why, Becky was runnin' on and laughin' jest like a
gal at picnic up to the minnit the last man slammed the door, and then,
down she went and began to boohoo. Now, what do you think of that?"
"I know one thing," remarked George Rivers--"the meaner a man is, the
quicker he gits the pick of the flock. The biggest fool in the world
allers gits the best or the purtiest gal."
Then there was a pause, as if the men were listening. "Well," said Tom
Alford, after awhile, "we ain't after the gals now. That Hotchkiss
feller goes out to Mahlon's by fust one road and then the other. You
know where Ike Varner lives; well, Ike's wife is a mighty good-lookin'
yaller gal, an' when Hotchkiss knows that Ike ain't at home, he goes by
that road. I got all that from a nigger that works for me. If Ike ain't
at home, he goes in for a drink of water, an' then he tells the yaller
gal how to convert Ike into bein' a radical--Ike, you know, don't flock
with that crowd. That's what the gal tells my nigger. Well, I put a flea
in Ike's ear t'other day, an' night before last, Ike comes to me to
borry my pistol. You know that short, single-barrel shebang? Well, I
loant it to him on the express understandin' that he wasn't to shoot any
spring doves nor wild pea-fowls."
The men laughed, and then sat or stood silent, each occupied with his
own reflections, until Sam Hathaway returned. Whereupon, they moved on,
one of them singing, in a surprisingly sweet tenor, the ballad of "Nelly
Gray."
It was now dark, and ordinarily, Gabriel would have gone to supper. But,
instead of doing that, he went on toward town, and met Hotchkiss and
Boring on the outskirts. They were engaged in a close discussion when
Gabriel met them. It would have been a great deal better for him and his
friends if he had passed on without a word; but Gabriel was Gabriel, and
he was compelled to act according to Gabriel's nature. So, without
hesitation, he walked up to the two men.
"Is this Mr. Hotchkiss?" he inquired.
"That is my name," replied Hotchkiss in his smoothest tone.
"Are you going out to Butts's to-night?"
"Now, that is a queer question," remarked Hotchkiss, after a pause--"a
very queer question. What is your name?"
"Tolliver--Gabriel Tolliver."
"Gabriel Tolliver--h'm--yes. Well, Mr. Tolliver, why are you so desirous
of knowing whether I go to Butts's to-night?"
"Honestly," replied Gabriel, a little nettled at the man's airs, "I
don't want to know at all. I simply wanted to advise you not to go there
to-night."
"Oh, you wanted to _advise_ me not to go. Now, then, let's go a little
further into the matter. _Why_ do you want to advise me?" Hotchkiss was
a man who was not only ripe for a discussion at all times, and upon any
subject, but made it a point to emphasise all the most trifling details.
"Have you any special interest in my welfare?"
"I think not," replied Gabriel, bluntly. "I simply wanted to drop you a
hint. You can take it or not, just as you choose." With that, he turned
on his heel, and went home to supper, little dreaming that his kindness
of heart, and his sincere efforts to do a stranger a favour would
involve him in a tangled web of circumstances, from which he would find
it almost impossible to escape.
Gabriel heard Hotchkiss laugh, but he did not hear the remark that
followed.
"Why, even the children and the young men think I am a coward. They have
the idea that courage exists nowhere but among themselves. It is the
most peculiar mental delusion I ever heard, and it persists in the face
of facts. The probability is that the young man who has just delivered
this awful warning has laid a wager with some of his companions that he
can fill me full of fright and prevent my going to Butts's."
"Now, I don't think that," replied Boring, or Bridalbin. "I know these
people to the core. I had their ideas and thought their thoughts until I
found that sentiment doesn't pay. That young man has probably heard some
threat made against you, and he thinks he is doing the chivalrous thing
to give you a warning. Chivalry! Why, I reckon that word has done more
harm to this section, first and last, than the war itself."
"Or, more probable still," suggested Hotchkiss, his voice as smooth and
as flexible as a snake, "he was simply trying to find out whether I
propose to go to Butts's to-night. If I had some one to keep an eye on
him, we might be able to procure some important information, disclosing
a conspiracy against the officers of the Government. A few arrests in
this neighbourhood might have a wholesome and subduing effect."
"Don't you believe it," said Bridalbin. "I know these people a great
deal better than you do."
"I know them a great deal better than I care to," remarked Hotchkiss
drily. "I have not a doubt that this young Tolliver was one of that
marauding band of conspirators that surrounded the church recently, and
endeavoured to intimidate our coloured fellow-citizens. Nor do I doubt
that these same conspirators will make an effort to frighten me. I have
no doubt that they will make a strong effort to run me away. But they
can't do it, my friend. I feel that I have a mission here, and here I
propose to stay until there is no work for me to do."
"Well, I can keep an eye on Tolliver if you think it best," Bridalbin
suggested somewhat doubtfully. "I know where he lives."
"Do that, Boring," exclaimed Hotchkiss with grateful enthusiasm. "Come
to the lodge about nine or half-past, and report." The "lodge" was the
new name for the old school-house, and in that direction Hotchkiss
turned his steps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
_Bridalbin Follows Gabriel_
Boring, or Bridalbin--no one ever discovered why he changed his name,
for he changed neither his nature nor his associations--followed along
after Gabriel, and was in time to see him enter the door and close it
behind him. The Lumsden Place was somewhat in the open, but the trees,
where Bridalbin took up his position of watcher, made such dense and
heavy shadows that it was almost impossible to distinguish objects more
than a few feet away. In these heavy shadows Bridalbin stood while
Gabriel was supposed to be eating his supper.
A dog trotting along the walk shied and growled when he saw the
motionless figure, but after that, there was a long period of silence,
which was finally broken by voices on a veranda not far away. The owners
of the voices had evidently come out for a breath of fresh air, and were
carrying on a conversation which had begun inside. Bridalbin could see
neither the house nor the occupants of the veranda, but he could hear
every word that was said. One of the voices was soft and clear, while
the other was hard, almost harsh, yet it was the voice of a woman. If
Bridalbin had been at all familiar with Shady Dale, he would have known
that one of the speakers was Madame Awtry and the other Miss Puella
Gillum.
"It was only a few weeks ago that they told the poor child about her
father," said Miss Puella. "Neighbour Tomlin couldn't muster up the
courage to do it, and so it became Fanny's duty. I know it nearly broke
her heart."
"Why did they tell her at all? Why did they think it was necessary?"
inquired Madame Awtry. Her voice had in it the quality that attracts
attention and compels obedience.