Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

A hitter had come to the plate wearing a Klan robe and hood. “Never mind run,” I said. “How’s he even gonna swing a bat?”

  The man got up and moved next to me on the bench. I couldn’t tell if he was a Klansman from his dress. He wore faded denim overalls with a white shirt and black bow tie, and a sweat-stained fedora was tilted back on his head. I pegged his age at about sixty, and he had a wrinkle for every one of those years etched on his leathery face.

  “Name’s Glenn Hyde.” He held out a hand impregnated with coal dust. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

  “Mickey Welch.” We shook hands. “I’m just passing through town.”

  “Where you from?”

  “St. Louis. I’m on my way back home from Indianapolis.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  It didn’t sound like Hyde was merely passing the time of day. “I’m a mechanic,” I lied. “I was learning how to repair Nationals. Got a new job with a garage in East St. Louis, and they want me to be familiar with the latest models.” Before he could ask me any details about automobiles, I added, “I’ve been asked to join the Klan in East St. Louis, too. Hope it’s okay for me to be here if I’m gonna be joining a klavern someplace else.”

  “Of course! Everyone’s welcome here. We’re glad to have you.” He coughed a few times and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “Let me tell you, if the East St. Louis klavern is anything like the one we have here, you’re gonna find you’re always among friends when you’re a Klansman.”

  “You been a member long?”

  He chuckled. “Nobody’s been a Knight for long, not in Indiana. The Evansville klavern was only organized a year and a half ago, and it was the first in the state. I joined last fall, after I saw the Klan in action.”

  “What kind of ‘action’?” I wasn’t sure Hyde would answer this question.

  He did, promptly and proudly. “My wife and I were sittin’ in Sunday worship one morning at the Methodist church we go to. It’s a small congregation, and a poor one; the church is always needing some kind of repair we can’t afford. Anyway, this particular Sunday, the pastor is in the middle of his sermon when all of a sudden he stops talking and gets a look on his face like he’s seen a ghost. There’s whispers coming from the back pews, so I turn around and can’t believe what I see: a dozen robed Klansmen walkin’ up the aisle. They go up to the altar, and one of them says to the minister, real polite and respectful, ‘We’re sorry to interrupt, but we thought you might be able to put this to good use.’ He hands the minister a bill, then the Klansmen turn around and file out as quiet as they came in. It was a hundred dollars they gave. Our pastor blessed the offering, and we all praised the Lord. I joined the Klan at their next meeting.”

  I wondered about the Klan’s less charitable activities. “What else does the local klavern do?” I asked.

  “Oh, all sorts of good works. Last Christmas, we took groceries to families down on their luck. And we made a few rent payments for some folks facin’ eviction. Tell you the truth, I had to scrape a bit for the ten-dollar membership—that’s almost a week’s wages around here. But when I see how it gets put to use, I’m real glad I did.” He nodded with satisfaction. “Yes sir, Klan is good people.”

  This wasn’t the Ku Klux Klan I’d heard about. “Must be doing something right,” I said. “Sure is growing fast.”

  “By leaps and bounds.” Hyde fell into a brief coughing fit; after catching his breath, he went on, “I been a coal miner all my life, same as most men in these parts. I never joined anything before, except the church, mostly ‘cause I was never invited to join anything—them fancy fraternal organizations want doctors and lawyers and businessmen, not workin’ men. That’s the great thing about the Klan: They want any good Christian American man, no matter how he earns his living—as long as it’s legal and moral, of course.”

  And it wants his ten bucks, I thought.

  Hyde crumpled up the peanut bag and rapped my knee. “Say, the Old Man is gonna be talkin’ soon. Wanna go hear him?”

  “Who is he?”

  “David C. Stephenson, but everybody calls him the Old Man. He’s the Exalted Cyclops of the klavern. Rumor has it he’s gonna be made Grand Dragon soon—that’ll put him in charge of the entire state.”

  Stephenson was the Klan leader Franklin Aubury had told me about. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  We left the ball game and headed toward a clearing near the river bend, stopping occasionally when Hyde grew short of breath. Groups of men were walking in the same direction, most of them wearing robes and hoods. Not all the Klan costumes were white, I noticed; a few were brightly colored. When I asked Glenn Hyde about it, he explained that they signified different ranks, including green for Great Titan and red for Grand Dragon. One that Hyde said we wouldn’t see today was the purple robe of Imperial Wizard William J. Simmons, who ran the Invisible Empire from his headquarters in Atlanta.

  “Why do some have the masks rolled up and others have them down?”

  “Well, not everyone understands what the Klan is truly about. So some prefer to keep their membership secret; I know a few whose own families don’t know. Others want to be open about being in the Klan. A Klansman is always free to reveal his own membership—but to tell about other Knights is a severe crime.” Another coughing fit racked him. “Don’t worry, they’ll give you all the rules when you join.”

  “What happens if you do tell who’s in the Klan?”

  Hyde thought a moment. “Let’s just say I don’t know anybody who’d risk tryin’ it.”

  I spotted a gold Klan robe tied with a red sash. “Is that Stephenson?”

  “No, gold is for national officers, like kleagles—very important men in the Invisible Empire.” He smiled. “I bet you’ll be surprised when you get a look at the Old Man.”

  A flatbed truck was parked at one end of the clearing, in the shade of a giant oak. On the bed of the truck, a gold-clad Klansman spoke through a megaphone, making a lengthy introduction of the featured speaker. Four white-robed comrades, their masks down, stood at attention behind him.

  When David C. Stephenson’s name was announced, a chubby-faced blond man in a gray business suit emerged from the passenger’s side of the truck. He was hoisted upon the truck bed and waved to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd.

  Glenn Hyde was right: Stephenson’s appearance did surprise me. The Exalted Cyclops was totally unremarkable in his dress and physique. If I’d met him on the street, I would have taken him for a bank clerk or an insurance salesman. I’d assumed Stephenson would have the most flamboyant costume of all, but his sack suit was positively drab compared to the robes around him. I had also assumed that he would be older, but the “Old Man” at the megaphone was probably no more than thirty-five, forty at the most.

  He launched into his speech, and it, too, was not what I’d expected. Stephenson didn’t rail against Negroes, and he never advocated vigilantism. He spoke in favor of “100 percent Americanism,” the sanctity of womanhood, the Bible, the flag, old-time religion, and law and order. He was against immorality, crime, and invasion of America by foreign dictators. Stephenson’s delivery was polished and passionate. Sometimes he sounded like one of the moving-picture stars who hawked Liberty Bonds during the war. At other times he sounded like a carnival snake-oil huckster, claiming that the Klan was the cure for all America’s ills.

  Most of what Stephenson said could have served as the campaign platform for any politician in the country. But he said it all with such vigor and conviction, that the crowd cheered him wildly and applauded his every hackneyed slogan as if it was a profound insight.

  The final surprise was that he had the good sense not to go on too long. Waving his fist, Stephenson concluded, “Every gambler, every criminal, every libertine, every home wrecker, every dope peddler, every moonshiner, every white slaver, every brothel madam, every pagan priest, every crooked politician, every shyster lawyer is fighting against the Klan. Think it over. Which
side are you on—theirs or ours?”

  After the applause died down, he gave a friendly wave and encouraged the crowd to have fun, enjoy the barbecue, and come to the parade later that night.

  “What did you think?” Glenn Hyde asked eagerly, as we began to walk away.

  I tried to sound enthusiastic. “Stephenson made a lot of sense.”

  Hyde smiled so broadly that I could almost hear new wrinkles crackling on his face. “Let me show you some other things that make sense.”

  I had the feeling some kind of sales pitch was coming, but I agreed, and he steered us toward the park entrance.

  “You know,” I said, “the newspapers make it sound like the main purpose of the Klan is to lynch colored people. I was glad to hear the straight scoop from Stephenson’s own lips.”

  “I never even look at the papers anymore,” said Hyde. “Only things I read now are the Bible and what the Klan publishes; those are all I can trust to give me the truth.”

  “Come to think of it,” I continued, “Stephenson—the Old Man—didn’t say anything about colored people at all.”

  “No reason he should. We have no quarrel with Nigras—long as they know their place, of course.” He wheezed suddenly and touched my arm; I helped him to a bench, where he rested for a few minutes.

  We then went on until we reached a row of food stands and merchandise tables. Hyde led me to one table that was covered with Klan literature and popular novels with Klan themes—like Ku Klux Kismet, White Knights, and Thomas Dixon’s The Clansman, on which D. W. Griffith had based his motion picture Birth of a Nation.

  “Mickey Welch,” he said, introducing me to the robed Klansman staffing the table, “this is a good friend of mine, Pete Gaffney.” Gaffney’s mask was rolled up, but he would have looked better with it down; he had a hatchet face pitted with smallpox scars.

  Hyde said to Gaffney, “I was just tellin’ Mickey here that we don’t have nothing against Nigras.” To me, he added, “We all keep to our own kind, and that keeps life peaceful for everybody.”

  “Ain’t had no kind of nigger trouble around here,” Gaffney agreed. “It’s the goddamn Catholics that’s the problem. They’re trying to take over this country for their goddamn pope.”

  “They are?”

  “Damn right, they are.” Gaffney picked at his nose. “Did you know that whenever a Catholic boy is born, they bury a rifle for him in the church grounds?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, it’s true. They do it so when he grows up, he’ll have a gun ready for when they try to turn America into part of the papal empire.” Gaffney wagged his finger. “There’s a Roman army in this country right now, and they’re just waiting for the pope to give the word.” He picked up a pamphlet titled Traitors In Our Midst. “Here, take this. You can read about it for yourself.”

  Yeah, I thought, as if being in print was enough to prove the claim true.

  “Give him some other material, too,” Hyde said. “Mickey’s gonna be joining the East St. Louis klavern.” He smiled warmly. “Let’s give him an education compliments of the Evansville Klan.”

  “Good idea,” said Gaffney. “Should read up on what the Jews are planning, too—they’re almost as bad as the Catholics.”

  He gave me copies of the official Indiana Klan newspaper, The Fiery Cross, and pamphlets entitled America for Americans, Believe the Bible, and The Public School Problem in America. Finally, he handed me a boycott list of “un-American” businesses, which he explained meant that they were owned by Jews or Catholics.

  When my hands were full, I thanked Gaffney, then Hyde suggested we get some barbecue.

  I tagged along with Glenn Hyde for the rest of the day. The old Klansman was a rich source of information, open, hospitable, and quick to introduce me to his friends. He seemed to enjoy taking me under his wing. I found that I also enjoyed his company; Hyde struck me as a decent man who happened to genuinely believe that the Ku Klux Klan was the best vehicle for promoting American and Christian ideals.

  Late in the afternoon, after another trip to the barbecue pit, Hyde asked, “You mind if we set a spell? I’m runnin’ out of wind.”

  We settled on a bench with a couple of soft drinks. I told Hyde that I’d spoken with Buddy Vaughn in St. Louis, and asked if he knew the Klan recruiter.

  “I’ve met him a couple times,” he answered. “Vaughn is one of the top kleagles in the country—really helped build the Invisible Empire. In 1915, when Birth of a Nation came out, Vaughn would sign up new members right in the theater lobbies. And he helped organize this klavern; the Old Man considered him his right-hand man.”

  “Was he the one in the gold robe who introduced Stephenson?”

  “Might have been, but there’s quite a few kleagles workin’ this part of the country.”

  I waited a while, then broached the subject of violence again. “There seems to be a lot of beatings and lynchings that the newspapers blame on the Klan,” I said. “You don’t believe any of them are true?”

  “Oh, I expect a few are. Every organization has its troublemakers and hotheads. But there isn’t nearly as much violence as some people want to believe. And what there is, is mostly in the South. We don’t have mob rule in Indiana.”

  “None?”

  “Not by the Klan. We’re official agents of law enforcement.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a sheriff’s badge. The five-pointed tin star was stamped Horse Thief Detective Association.

  “What is this? You go after horse thieves?”

  Hyde chuckled. “No, no, that’s just the name; it goes back to pioneer days. By organizing ourselves as a Horse Thief Detective Association, the state of Indiana gives us the same power and authority as a constable. We use it to enforce the laws the police don’t want to trouble themselves about.”

  “Such as ... ?”

  “Bootlegging, for one. This winter, we had a flood of Dubois County Dew pouring into Evansville—that’s a local moonshine. We put an end to it; busted up the stills and turned the moonshiners over to Prohibition agents.”

  This sounded like something out of the Wild West. “So you’re like a posse?”

  “Or an auxiliary police force. We also take care of things that maybe aren’t spelled out in the law, but ought to be.”

  “Like?”

  “Say a man’s not doing right by his family. Gambles away his money, leaving his wife and kids to go hungry. We straighten him out.”

  “How do you do that?”

  He coughed and spit. “Some morning, he might leave his house and find a dozen switches laid out at his front door. That’s a warning: It means if he don’t get on the straight and narrow, we’ll take him down to Possum Hollow, tie him to a tree, and wear out those switches on his back.”

  “Do they always take the warning?”

  “Wish they did, but no. We’ve had a few we had to take down to the Hollow. Had one last month, as a matter of fact.” Hyde smiled. “That fellow’s been a perfect gentleman ever since.”

  “What if the fellow who needs straightening out is a Klansman?” I asked. “I met a guy in East St. Louis who told me he joined the Klan but never went back after his first meeting. He said there were some bad apples in the klavern.”

  “The fellow we whipped last month was a Klansman.” Hyde sat up rigidly. “We can’t be preaching morality to others if we don’t practice it ourselves. The leadership of the Klan expects more of Knights than of anyone else.”

  I thought Hyde might be getting a little uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Sorry to keep asking about violence,” I said. “Seems like you have things real well organized here.” Then I decided to push a little further. “But in East St. Louis, there was a colored baseball player who was lynched, and folks seem to think it was Klansmen who did it. I wouldn’t ever want to be part of anything like that.”

  “Me neither,” Hyde answered. “But with Buddy Vaughn being the kleagle there, you won
’t have to worry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Vaughn won’t stand for it. Any Knight who got involved in a lynching would be punished—severely.”

  “A whipping?”

  Hyde gave me a look that hinted the punishment would be far worse than a mere whipping.

  After dusk, the parade began, with all marchers in full regalia, their masks down. By the flickering orange glow of hundreds of torches, the Ku Klux Klan advanced in disciplined formation, like a regiment of ghosts.

  Dozens of Klansmen carrying American flags led the way on horseback, riding mounts that were garbed in white horse suits. Next were the Klan officials, strutting proudly in robes of red, green, or gold. Behind them came the infantry, with row after row of pointed white hoods poking up into the night.

  Less organized, but garnering many admiring comments, was a small cluster of hooded children marching under the banner “Ku Klux Kiddies.” At the rear of the formation were a marching band and a women’s group whose hoods and robes were embellished with some feminine touches.

  The flames, the masks, the military precision, and the sheer number of marchers all made for a most impressive display.

  The Klan had organized the day well, I thought. First a relaxing picnic to fill the bellies, then some stirring speeches to rouse the emotions, and finally a striking spectacle that would make onlookers wish they were participants. Evansville Klan No. 1 was sure to get many new members after this day.

  I had the impression that the Klan’s long-term strategy was similar: Bring the members along gradually. First appeal to their sense of patriotism, then get them to carry out some “disciplinary” actions, and finally—That was still unclear. But whatever their ultimate objective, it appeared the Ku Klux Klan would have an army at their disposal, willing to achieve it.

  The parade was followed by a rally. Klansmen gathered around an enormous burning cross while rockets and fireworks exploded above. They led the crowd in singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “America,” and the official Klan song, which Glenn Hyde told me was called “The Kluxology.”