Edie put her finger in the pie. One day when Ike was away, she called to
Hotchkiss as he was passing on his way to town, and invited him into the
house. There was something about the man that had attracted the wild
and untamed passions of the woman. He was not a very handsome man, but
his refinement of manner and speech stood for something, and Edie had
resolved to cultivate his acquaintance. He went in, in response to her
invitation, and found that she desired to ask his advice as to the best
and easiest method of converting Ike into a Union Leaguer. Hotchkiss
gave her such advice as he could in the most matter-of-fact way, and
went on about his business. Otherwise he paid no more attention to her
than if she had been a sign in front of a cigar-store. Edie was not
accustomed to this sort of thing, and it puzzled her. She went to her
looking-glass and studied her features, thinking that perhaps something
was wrong. But her beauty had not even begun to fade. A melancholy
tenderness shone in her lustrous eyes, her rosy lips curved archly, and
the glow of the peach-bloom was in her cheeks.
"I didn't know the man was a preacher," she said, laughing at herself in
the glass.
Time and again she called Mr. Hotchkiss in as he went by, and on some
occasions they held long consultations at the little gate in front of
her door. Ike was not at all blind to these things; if he had been,
there was more than one friendly white man to call his attention to
them. The negro was compelled to measure Hotchkiss by the standard of
the most of the white men he knew. He was well aware of Edie's purposes,
and he judged that Hotchkiss would presently find them agreeable.
Ike listened to Edie's arguments in behalf of the Union League with a
great deal of patience. Prompted by Hotchkiss, she urged that
membership in that body would give him an opportunity to serve his race
politically; he might be able to go to the legislature, and, in that
event, Edie could go to Atlanta with him, where (she said to herself)
she would be able to cut a considerable shine. Moreover, membership in
the league, with his aptitude for making a speech, would give him
standing among the negro leaders all over the State.
Ike argued a little, but not much, considering his feelings. He pointed
out that all his customers, the people who ate his cakes and his cream,
and so forth and so on, were white, and felt strongly about the
situation. Should they cease their patronage, what would he and Edie do
for victuals to eat and clothes to wear?
"Oh, we'll git along somehow; don't you fret about that," said Edie with
a toss of her head.
"Maybe you will, but not me," replied Ike.
At last, however, he had consented to join the league, and appeared to
be very enthusiastic over the matter. As Mr. Hotchkiss went along home
that night--the night on which the young men had gone to the country
dance--he was feeling quite exultant over Ike's conversion, and the
enthusiasm he had displayed over the proceedings. After he had decided
to go home rather than wait for Bridalbin, he hunted about in the crowd
for Ike, but the negro was not to be found. As their roads lay in the
same direction Hotchkiss would have been glad of the negro's company
along the way, and he was somewhat disappointed when he was told that
Ike had started for home as soon as the meeting adjourned. Mr. Hotchkiss
thereupon took the road and went on his way, walking a little more
rapidly than usual, in the hope of overtaking Ike. At last, however, he
came to the conclusion that the negro had remained in town. He was
sorry, for there was nothing he liked better than to drop gall and venom
into the mind of a fairly intelligent negro.
As for Ike, he had his own plans. He had told Edie that in all
probability he wouldn't come home that night, and advised her to get a
nearby negro woman to stay all night with her. This Edie promised to do.
When the league adjourned, Ike lost no time in taking to the road, and
for fear some one might overtake him he went in a dog-trot for the first
mile, and walked rapidly the rest of the way. Before he came to the
house, he stopped and pulled off his shoes, hiding them in a
fence-corner. He then left the road, and slipped through the woods until
he was close to the rear of the house. Here his wariness was redoubled.
He wormed himself along like a snake, and crept and crawled, until he
was close enough to see Edie sitting on the front step--there was but
one--of their little cabin. He was close enough to see that she had on
her Sunday clothes, and he thought he could smell the faint odour of
cologne; he had brought her a bottle home the night before.
He lay concealed for some time, but finally he heard footsteps on the
road, and he rose warily to a standing position. Edie heard the
footsteps too, for she rose and shook out her pink frock, and went to
the gate. The lonely pedestrian came leisurely along the road, having no
need for haste. When he found that it was impossible to overtake Ike,
Mr. Hotchkiss ceased to walk rapidly, and regulated his pace by the
serenity of the hour and the deliberate movements of nature. The hour
was rapidly approaching when solitude would be at its meridian on this
side of the world, and a mocking-bird not far away was singing it in.
Mr. Hotchkiss would have passed Ike's gate without turning his head, but
he heard a voice softly call his name. He paused, and looked around, and
at the gate he saw the figure of Edie. "Is that you, Mr. Hotchkiss? What
you do with Ike?"
"Isn't he at home? He started before I did."
"He ain't comin' home to-night, an' I was so lonesome that I had to set
on the step here to keep myse'f company," said Edie. "Won't you come in
an' rest? I know you must be tired; I got some cold water in here, fresh
from the well."
"No, I'll not stop," replied Mr. Hotchkiss. "It is late, and I must be
up early in the morning."
"Well, tell me 'bout Ike," said Edie. "You got 'im in the league all
right, I hope?" She came out of the gate, as she said this, and moved
nearer to Hotchkiss. In her hand she held a flower of some kind, and
with this she toyed in a shamefaced sort of way.
"Mr. Varner is now a member in good standing," replied Hotchkiss, "and I
think he will do good work for his race and for the party."
Edie moved a step or two nearer to him, toying with her flower. Now, Mr.
Hotchkiss was a genuine reformer of the most approved type, and, as
such, he was entitled to as many personal and private fads as he chose
to have. He was a vegetarian, holding to the theory that meat is a
poison, though he was not averse to pie for breakfast. His pet aversion,
leaving alcohol out of the question, was all forms of commercial
perfumes. As Edie came close to him, he caught a whiff of her
cologne-scented clothes, and his anger rose.
"Why will you ladies," he said, "persist in putting that sort of stuff
on you?"
"I dunner what you mean," replied Edie, edging still closer to
Hotchkiss.
"Why that infernal----"
He never finished the sentence. A pistol-shot rang out, and Hotchkiss
fell like a log. Edie, fearing a similar fate for herself, ran screaming
down the road, and never paused until she had reached the dwelling of
Mahlon Butts. She fell in the door when it was opened and lay on the
floor, moaning and groaning. When she could be persuaded to talk, her
voice could have been heard a mile.
"They've killt him!" she screamed; "they've killt him! an' he was sech a
good man! Oh, he was sech a good man!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
_Mr. Sanders Searches for Evidence_
The news of the shooting of Hotchkiss spread like wildfire, and startled
the community, giving rise to various emotions. It created consternation
among the negroes, who ran to and fro, and hither and yonder, like wild
creatures. Many of the whites, especially the thoughtless and the
irresponsible, contemplated the tragedy with a certain degree of
satisfaction, feeling that a very dangerous man had been providentially
removed. On the other hand, the older and more conservative citizens
deplored it, knowing well that it would involve the whole community in
trouble, and give it a conspicuous place in the annals which radical
rage was daily preparing, in order still further to inflame the public
mind of the North.
Bridalbin promptly disappeared from Shady Dale, but returned in a few
days, accompanied by a squad of soldiers. It was the opinion of the
community, when these fresh troops made their appearance, that they were
to be added to the detachment stationed in the town; but this proved to
be a mistake. Two nights after their arrival, when the officer in
charge, who was a member of the military commander's staff, had
investigated the killing, he gave orders for the arrest of Gabriel
Tolliver, Francis Bethune, Paul Tomlin, and Jesse Tidwell. The arrests
were made at night, and so quietly that when the town awoke to the
facts, and was ready to display its rage at such a high-handed
proceeding, the soldiers and their prisoners were well on their way to
Malvern.
The people felt that something must be done, but what? One by one the
citizens instinctively assembled at the court-house. No call was issued;
the meeting was not preconcerted; there was no common understanding; but
all felt that there must be a conference, a consultation, and there was
no place more convenient than the old court-house, where for long years
justice had been simply and honestly administered.
It was, indeed, a trying hour. Meriwether Clopton and his daughter Sarah
were the first to make their appearance at the court-house, and it was
perhaps owing to their initiative that a large part of the community
shortly assembled there. At first, there was some talk of a rescue, and
this would have been feasible, no doubt; but while Lawyer Tidwell was
violently advocating this course, Mr. Sanders mounted the judge's bench,
and rapped loudly for order. When this had been secured, he moved that
Meriwether Clopton be called to the chair. The motion had as many
seconds as there were men in the room, for the son of the First Settler
was as well-beloved and as influential as his father had been.
"My friends," he said, after thanking the meeting for the honour
conferred upon him, "I feel as if we were all in the midst of a dream,
and therefore I am at a loss what to say to you. As it is all very
real, and far removed from the regions of dreams, the best that I can do
is to counsel moderation and calmness. The blow that has fallen on a few
of us strikes at all, for what has happened to some of our young men may
easily happen to the rest, especially if we meet this usurpation of
civil justice with measures that are violent and retaliatory. We can
only hope that the Hand that has led us into the sea of troubles by
which we have been overwhelmed of late will lead us safely out again.
For myself, I am fully persuaded that what now seems to be a calamity
will, in some shape or other, make us all stronger and better. I am an
old man, and this has been my experience. You need have no fears for the
welfare of the young men. They may be deprived for a time of the
comforts to which they are accustomed, but their safety is assured. They
will probably be tried before a military court, but if there is a spark
of justice in such a tribunal, our young men will shortly be restored to
us. We all know that these lads never dreamed of assassination, and this
is what the killing of this unfortunate man amounts to. We have met here
to-day, not to discuss measures of vengeance and retaliation, but to
consult together as to the best means of securing evidence of the
innocence of the young men. Speaking for myself, I think it would be
well to place the whole matter in the hands of Mr. Sanders, leaving him
to act as he thinks best."
This was agreed to by the meeting, more than one of the audience
declaring loudly that Mr. Sanders was the very man for the occasion. By
unanimous agreement it was decided that one of the most distinguished
lawyers in the State should be retained to defend the young men and that
he should be authorised to employ such assistant counsel as he might
deem necessary.
It was the personality of Meriwether Clopton, rather than his remarks,
that soothed and subdued the crowd which had assembled at the
court-house. He was serenity itself; his attitude breathed hope and
courage; and in the tones of his voice, in his very gestures, there was
a certainty that the young men would not be made the victims of
political necessity. In his own mind, however, he was not at all sure
that the radical leaders at Washington would not be driven by their
outrageous rancour to do the worst that could be done.
As may be supposed, Mr. Sanders did not allow the grass to grow under
his feet. He was the first to leave the court-room, but he was followed
and overtaken by Silas Tomlin.
"Be jigged, Silas, ef you don't look like you've seed a ghost!"
exclaimed Mr. Sanders, whose good-humour had been restored by the
prospect of prompt action.
"Worse than that, Sanders; Paul has been carried off. If you'll fetch
him back, you may show me an army of ghosts. But I wanted to see you,
Sanders, about this business. You'll need money, and if you can't get it
anywhere else, come to me; I'll take it as a favour."
Mr. Sanders frowned and pursed his lips as if he were about to whistle.
"You mean, Silas, that if I need money, and can't beg, nor borry, nor
steal it, maybe you'll loan me a handful of shinplasters. Why, man, I
wouldn't give you the wroppin's of my little finger for all the money
you eber seed or saved. Do you think that I'm tryin' to make money?"
"But there'll be expenses, William, and money's none too plentiful among
our people." Silas spoke in a pleading tone, and his lips were trembling
from grief or excitement.
Noticing this, Mr. Sanders relented a little in his attitude toward the
man. "Well, Silas, when I reely need money, I'll call on you. But don't
lose any sleep on account of that promise, for it'll be many a long day
before I call on you."
With that, Mr. Sanders mounted his horse--known far and wide as the
Racking Roan--and was soon out of sight. His destination was the
residence of Mahlon Butts, and in no long time his horse had covered the
distance.
Although the murder of Hotchkiss was more than a week old, a
considerable number of negroes were lounging about the premises of Judge
Butts--he had once been a Justice of the Peace--and in the road near by,
drawn to the spot by that curious fascination which murder or death
exerts on the ignorant. They moved about with something like awe,
talking in low tones or in whispers. Mr. Sanders tied his horse to a
swinging limb and went in. He was met at the door by Mahlon himself.
"Why, come in, William; come in an' make yourself welcome. You uv heard
of the trouble, I make no doubt, or you wouldn't be here. It's turrible,
William, turrible, for a man to be overcome in this off-hand way, wi' no
time for to say his pra's or even so much as to be sorry for his
misdeeds."
Judge Butts's dignity was of the heavy and oppressive kind. His
enunciation was slow and deliberate, and he had a way of looking over
his spectacles, and nodding his head to give emphasis to his words. This
dignity, which was fortified in ignorance, had received a considerable
reinforcement from the fact that he was a candidate for a county office
on the Republican ticket.
Before Mr. Sanders could make any reply to Mahlon's opening remark, Mrs.
Becky Butts came into the room. She was not in a very good humour, and,
at first, she failed to see Mr. Sanders.
"Mahlon, if you don't go and run that gang of niggers off, I'll take the
shot-gun to 'em. They've been hanging around--why, howdye, Mr. Sanders?
I certainly am glad to see you. I hope you'll stay to dinner; it looks
like old times to see you in the house."
There was something about Mrs. Becky Butts that was eminently satisfying
to the eye. She was younger than her husband, who, at fifty, appeared to
be an old man. Her sympathies were so keen and persistent that they
played boldly in her face, running about over her features as the
sunshine ripples on a pond of clear water.
"Set down, Becky," said Mr. Sanders, after he had responded to her
salutation. "I've come to find out about the killing of that feller
Hotchkiss."
"You may well call it killin', William, bekaze Friend Hotchkiss was
stone dead a few hours arter the fatal shot was fired," declared Judge
Butts.
"Where was the killin' done?" inquired Mr. Sanders. He addressed himself
to Mrs. Butts, but Mahlon made reply.
"We found him, William, right spang in front of Ike Varner's
cabin--right thar, an' nowhar else. He war doin' his level best for to
git on his feet, an' he tried to talk, but not more than two or three
words did he say."
"Well, what did he say?" inquired Mr. Sanders.
"It was the same thing ever' time--'Why, Tolliver, Tolliver'--them was
his very words."
"Are you right certain about that, Mahlon?" asked Mr. Sanders.
"As certain an' shore, William, as I am that I'm settin' here. Ef he
said it once, he said it a dozen times."
"I reckon maybe he had been talking with young Tolliver before he came
from town," remarked Mrs. Butts, noting Mr. Sanders's serious
countenance.
"Whar was he wounded, Becky?" asked Mr. Sanders.
"Between the left ear and the temple."
"Becky's right, William," was the solemn comment of Mahlon. "Yes, sir,
he was hit betwixt the year an' the temple."
"Did you have a doctor?"
"We sent for one, but if he come, we never saw him," Mrs. Butts replied.
"Would you uv believed it, William? An' yit it's the plain truth," said
Mahlon.
"What time was Hotchkiss killed?"
"'Bout half-past ten; maybe a little sooner."
This was all the information Mr. Sanders could get, and it was a great
deal more than he wanted in one particular. He knew that Gabriel
Tolliver was innocent of the killing; but the fact that his name was
called by the dying man was almost as damaging as an ante-mortem
accusation would have been.
Mr. Sanders rode to Ike Varner's cabin, a few hundred yards away. Tying
his horse to the fence on the opposite side of the road, he entered the
house without ceremony.
"Who is that? La! Mr. Sanders, you sho did skeer me," exclaimed Edie.
"Why, when did you come? I would as soon have spected to see a ghost!"
"You'll see 'em here before you're much older," replied Mr. Sanders,
grimly. "They ain't fur off. Wher's Ike?"
"La! ef you know anything about Ike you know more than I does. I ain't
laid eyes on that nigger man, not sence----" She paused, and looked at
Mr. Sanders with a smile.
"Not sence the night Hotchkiss was killed," said Mr. Sanders, completing
her sentence for her.
"La, Mr. Sanders! how'd you know that? But it's the truth: I ain't never
seen Ike sence that night."
"I know a heap more'n you think I do," Mr. Sanders remarked. "Hotchkiss
was talkin' to you at the gate thar when he was shot. What was he
sayin'?"
The woman was a bright mulatto, and, remembering her own designs and
desires so far as Hotchkiss was concerned, her face flushed and she
turned her eyes away. "Why, he wan't sayin' a word, hardly; I was doin'
all the talkin'. I was settin' on the step there, an' I seen him
passin', an' hollad at him. I ast him if he wouldn't have a drink of
cold water, an' he said he would, an' I took it out to the gate, an'
while I was talkin', they shot him. They certainly did."
"Did you ask Ike about it?" Mr. Sanders inquired.
"La! I ain't seen Ike sence that night," exclaimed Edie, flirting her
apron with a coquettish air that was by no means unbecoming.
"Now, Edie," said Mr. Sanders, with a frown to match the severity of his
voice, "you know as well as I do, that when you heard the pistol go off,
and saw what had happened, you run in the house an' flung your apern
over your head." It was a wild guess, but it was close to the truth.
"La, Mr. Sanders! you talk like you was watchin' me. 'Twa'n't my apern,
'twas my han's. I didn't have on no apern that night; I had on my Sunday
frock."
"An' you know jest as well as I do that Ike come in here an' stood over
you, an' said somethin' to you."
"No, sir; he didn't stand over me; I was here"--she illustrated his
position by her movements--"an' when Ike come in, he stood over there."
"What did he say?"
"He said," replied Edie, smiling to show her pretty teeth, "'If you want
him, go out there an' git him.' Yes, sir, he said that. La! I never
heard of a nigger killin' a white man on _that_ account; did you, Mr.
Sanders?"
"I don't know as I ever did," replied Mr. Sanders, regarding her with an
expression akin to pity. "But times has changed."
"They certainly has," said Edie. "I tell you what, Mr. Sanders, I don't
b'live Mr. Hotchkiss was a man." She looked up at Mr. Sanders, as she
made the remark. Catching his eye, she exclaimed--"I don't; I declare I
don't! I never will believe it." She gave a chirruping laugh, as she
made the remark.
It is to be doubted if, in the history of the world, a man ever had a
higher compliment paid to his devotion and his singleness of purpose.
As Mr. Sanders mounted his horse, Edie watched him, and, as she stood
with her arms extended, each hand grasping a side of the doorway,
smiling and showing her white teeth, she presented a picture of wild and
irresponsible beauty that an artist would have admired. Finally, she
turned away with a laugh, saying, "I declare that Mr. Sanders is a
sight!"
In due time the Racking Roan carried Mr. Sanders across Murder Creek to
the plantation of Felix Samples, where the news of the arrest of the
young men occasioned both grief and indignation. They had arrived at the
dance about nine o'clock, and had started home between eleven and
twelve. Gabriel, Mr. Samples said, was not one of the party. Indeed, he
remembered very well that when some of the young people asked for
Gabriel, Francis Bethune had said that the town had been searched for
Gabriel, and he was not to be found.
Evidently, there was no case against the three young men who had gone to
the dance. They could prove an alibi by fifty persons. "Be jigged ef I
don't b'lieve Gabriel is in for it," said Mr. Sanders to himself as he
was going back to Shady Dale. "An' that's what comes of moonin' aroun'
an' loafin' about in the woods wi' the wild creeturs."
Mr. Sanders went straight to the Lumsden Place to consult with Gabriel's
grandmother. Meriwether Clopton and Miss Fanny Tomlin were already
there, each having called for the purpose of offering her such comfort
and consolation as they could. This fine old gentlewoman had had the
care of Gabriel almost from the time he was born, for his birth left his
mother an invalid, the victim of one of those mysterious complaints that
sometimes seize on motherhood. It was well known in that community,
whose members knew whatever was to be known about one another, that Lucy
Lumsden's mind and heart were wholly centred on Gabriel and his affairs.
She was a frail, delicate woman, gentle in all her ways, and ever ready
to efface herself, as it were, and give precedence to others. Her
manners were so fine that they seemed to cling to her as the perfume
clings to the rose.
So these old friends--Meriwether Clopton, and Miss Fanny
Tomlin--considered it to be their duty, as it was their pleasure, to
call on Lucy Lumsden in her trouble. They expected to find her in a
state of collapse, but they found her walking about the house,
apparently as calm as a June morning.
"Good-morning, Meriwether," she said pleasantly; "it is a treat indeed,
and a rare one, to see you in this house. And here is Fanny! I am glad
to see you, my dear. It is very good of you to come to an old woman who
is in trouble. I think we are all in trouble together. No, don't sit
here, my dear; the library is cooler, and you must be warm. Come into
the library, Meriwether."
"Upon my word, you look twenty years younger," said Miss Fanny Tomlin.
"Do I, indeed? Then trouble must be good for me. Still, I don't
appreciate it. I am an old woman, my dear, and all the years of my life
I have had a contempt for those who fly into a rage, or lose their
tempers. And now, look at me! Never in all your days have you seen a
woman in such a rage as I have felt all day and still feel!"
"The idea!" exclaimed Miss Fanny. "Why, you look as cool as a cucumber."
"Yes, the idea!" echoed Mrs. Lumsden. "If I had those miserable
creatures in my power, do you know what I would do? Do you know,
Meriwether?"
"I can't imagine, Lucy," he replied gently. He saw that the apparent
calmness of Gabriel's grandmother was simply the result of suppressed
excitement.