CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
_The Knights of the White Camellia_
Matters have changed greatly since those days, and all for the better.The people of the whole country understand one another, and there is nolonger any sectional prejudice for the politicians to feed and grow fatupon. But in the days of reconstruction everything was at white heat,and every episode and every development appeared to be calculated to addto the excitement. In all this, Shady Dale had as large a share as anyother community. The whites had witnessed many political outrages thatseemed to have for their object the renewal of armed resistance. And itis impossible, even at this late day, for any impartial person to readthe debates in the Federal Congress during the years of 1867-68 withoutrealising the awful fact that the prime movers in the reconstructionscheme (if not the men who acted as their instruments and tools) wereintent on stirring up a new revolution in the hope that the negroesmight be prevailed upon to sack cities and towns, and destroy the whitepopulation. This is the only reasonable inference; no other conceivableconclusion can explain the wild and whirling words that were uttered inthese debates: unless, indeed, some charitable investigator shallestablish the fact that the radical leaders were suffering from a sortof contagious dementia.
It is all over and gone, but it is necessary to recall the facts inorder to explain the passionate and blind resistance of the whites ofthe South and their hatred of everything that bore the name or earmarksof Republicanism. Shady Dale, in common with other communities, hadwitnessed the assembling of a convention to frame a new constitution forthe State. This body was well named the mongrel convention. It was madeup of political adventurers from Maine, Vermont, and other NorthernStates, and boasted of a majority composed of ignorant negroes andcriminals. One of the most prominent members had served a term in aNorthern penitentiary. The real leaders, the men in whose wisdom andconservatism the whites had confidence, were disqualified from holdingoffice by the terms of the reconstruction acts, and the conventionemphasised and adopted the policy of the radical leaders inWashington--a policy that was deliberately conceived for the purpose ofplacing the governments of the Southern States in the hands of ignorantnegroes controlled by men who had no interest whatever in the welfare ofthe people.
But this was not all, nor half. When the military commandant who hadcharge of affairs in Georgia, found that the State governmentestablished under the terms of Mr. Lincoln's plan of reconstruction, hadno idea of paying the expenses of the mongrel convention out of theState's funds, he issued an order removing the Governor and Treasurer,and "detailed for duty as Governor of Georgia," one of the members ofhis staff.
The mongrel convention, which would have been run out of any NorthernState in twenty-four hours, had provided for an election to be held inApril, 1868, for the ratification or rejection of the new constitutionthat had been framed, and for the election of Governor and members ofthe General Assembly. Beginning on the 20th, the election was tocontinue for three days, a provision that was intended to enable thenegroes to vote at as many precincts as they could conveniently reach ineighty-three hours. No safeguard whatever was thrown around theballot-box, and it was the remembrance of this initial and overwhelmingcombination of fraud and corruption that induced the whites, at a laterday, to stuff the ballot-boxes and suppress the votes of the ignorant.
These things, with the hundreds of irritating incidents and episodesbelonging to the unprecedented conditions, gradually worked up thefeelings of the whites to a very high pitch of exasperation. The worstfears of the most timid bade fair to be realised, for the negroes,certain of their political supremacy, sure of the sympathy and supportof Congress and the War Department, and filled with the conceit producedby the flattery and cajolery of the carpet-bag sycophants, werebeginning to assume an attitude which would have been threatening andoffensive 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 elementsof danger in it. He knew the negroes too well; he was too familiar withtheir habits of thought, and with their various methods of accomplishinga desired end. But he was familiar with the apprehensions of thecommunity, and made no effort to put forward his own views, except inoccasional conversations with Meriwether Clopton. After a time, however,it became clear, even to Gabriel, that something must be done toconvince the misguided negroes that the whites were not asleep.
He conformed himself to all the new conditions with the readyversatility of youth. He studied hard both night and day, but he spentthe greater part of his time in the open air. It was perhaps fortunatefor him at this time that there was a lack of formality in his methodsof acquiring knowledge. He had no tutor, but his line of study wasmapped out for him by Meriwether Clopton, who was astonished at thegrowing appetite of the lad for knowledge--an appetite that seemed to beinsatiable.
What he most desired to know, however, he made no inquiries about. Heached, as Mrs. Absalom would have said, to know why he had suddenly cometo 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 likedher as well as ever, but somehow he became panic-stricken whenever hefound himself in her company, which was not often.
It was impossible that his desire to avoid her should fail to beobserved by Nan, and she found a reason for it in the belief thatGabriel had discovered in some way that she was in the closet with TasmaTid the night the Union League had been organised. Nan would never haveknown what a crime--this was the name she gave the escapade--what acrime she had committed but for the shock it gave her step-mother. Thislady had been trained and educated in a convent, where every rule ofpropriety was emphasised and magnified, and most rigidly insisted upon.
One day, when Nan was returning home from the village, she saw Gabrielcoming directly toward her. She studied the ground at her feet for aconsiderable distance, and when she looked up again Gabriel was gone; hehad disappeared. This episode, insignificant though it was, was thecause of considerable worry to Nan. She gave Mrs. Dorrington theparticulars, 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 forit. But this time it is too plain."
"What silly children!" exclaimed Mrs. Dorrington, with her cute Frenchaccent.
Nan went to a window and looked out, drumming on a pane. Outsideeverything seemed to be in disorder. The flowers were weeds, and thetrees were not beautiful any more. Even the few birds in sight were alldressed 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 foundout that I was in the closet with Tasma Tid." How sad it was to becompelled to realise the awful responsibilities that rest as a burdenupon 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 suchthings."
"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 beimpossible for you to do anything _very_ wrong."
"Oh, but it isn't impossible," Nan insisted. "I feel wicked, and I knowI am wicked. If Gabriel Tolliver ever dares to find out that I was inthat closet, I'll tell him what I think of him, and then I'll--" Herthreat was never completed. Mrs. Dorrington rose from her chair just intime to place her hand over Nan's mouth.
"If you were to tell Gabriel what you really think of him," said thelady, "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 littleoccasionally," remarked Mrs. Dorrington, with a smile.
"Now,
what _do_ you mean by that, Johnny?" cried Nan. But the onlyreply she received was an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.
Gabriel was as much mystified by his own dread of meeting Nan, as he wasby her coolness toward him. He could not recall any incident which shehad resented; but still she was angry with him. Well, if it was so, sobe it; and though he thought it was cruel in his old comrade to harbourhard thoughts against him, he never sought for an explanation. He hadhis own world to fall back upon--a world of books, the woods and thefields. And he was far from unhappiness; for no human being who lovesNature well enough to understand and interpret its meaning and itsmyriad messages to his own satisfaction, can be unhappy for any lengthof time. Whatever his losses or his disappointments, he can make themall good by going into the woods and fields and taking Nature, the greatcomforter, by the hand.
So Gabriel confined his communications for the most part to his old andever-faithful friends, the woods and the velvety Bermuda fields. Hewalked about among these old friends with a lively sense of theirvitality and their fruitfulness. He was certain that the fields knew himas well as he knew them--and as for the trees, he had a feeling thatthey knew his name as well as he knew theirs. He was so familiar withsome of them, and they with him, that the katydids in the branchescontinued their cries even while he was leaning against the trunks ofthe friends of his childhood: whereas, if a stranger or an alien to thewoods had so much as laid the tip of his little finger on the ruggedbark of one of them, a shuddering signal would have been sent aloft, andthe cries would have ceased instantly.
Gabriel's grandmother went to bed early and rose early--a habit thatbelongs to old age. But it was only after the darkness and silence ofnight had descended upon the world that all of Gabriel's faculties werealert. It was his favourite time for studying and reading, and forwalking about in the woods and fields, especially when the weather wastoo 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 dayssometimes brought a lump in his throat; but the skies, and theconstellations (in their season) remained, and were as fresh and asbeautiful 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 surroundingcountry; and though it was close to Shady Dale, it was a lonely place.Here the killdees ran, and bobbed their heads, and uttered theirplaintive cries unmolested; here the partridge could raise her brood inpeace; and here the whippoorwill was free to play upon his flute.
Many and many a time, while sitting on this hill, Gabriel had watchedthe village-lights go out one by one till all was dark; and the silenceseemed to float heaven-ward, and fall again, and shift and move in vastundulations, keeping time to a grand melody which the soul could feeland respond to, but which the ear could not hear. And at such time,Gabriel believed that in the slow-moving constellations, with theirglittering trains, could be read the great secrets that philosophers andscientists are searching for.
Beyond the valley, still farther away from the town, was the negrochurch, 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, andthen there were services every night in the week, and sometimes allnight long. The Rev. Jeremiah was a preacher who had lung-power tospare, and his voice was well calculated to shatter our old friend thewelkin, so dear to poets and romancers. But if there was no revival inprogress, the nights devoted to prayer-meetings were mainly musical, andthe songs, subdued by the distance, floated across the valley to Gabrielwith 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 wasless singing than usual. This attracted his attention and then excitedhis curiosity. Listening more intently, he failed to hear the sound of asingle voice lifted in prayer, in song or in preaching. The time wasafter nine o'clock, and this silence was so unusual that Gabrielconcluded to investigate.
He made his way across the valley, and was soon within ear-shot of thechurch. The pulpit was unoccupied, but Gabriel could see that a whiteman was standing in front of it. The inference to be drawn from hismovements and gestures was that he was delivering an address to thenegroes. Hotchkiss was standing near the speaker, leaning in a familiarway on one of the side projections of the pulpit. Gabriel knewHotchkiss, but the man who was speaking was a stranger. He was flushedas with wine, and appeared to have no control of his hands, for he flungthem about wildly.
Gabriel crept closer, and climbed a small tree, in the hope that hemight hear what the stranger was saying, but listen as he might, nosound of the stranger's voice came to Gabriel. The church was full ofnegroes, and a strange silence had fallen on them. He marvelled somewhatat this, for the night was pleasant, and every window was open. Theimpression made upon the young fellow was very peculiar. Here was a manflinging his arms about in the heat and ardour of argument orexhortation, and yet not a sound came through the windows.
Suddenly, while Gabriel was leaning forward trying in vain to hear thewords of the speaker, a tall, white figure, mounted on a tall whitehorse, emerged from the copse at the rear of the church. At the firstglance, Gabriel found it difficult to discover what the figures were,but as horse and rider swerved in the direction of the church, he sawthat both were clad in white and flowing raiment. While he was gazingwith all his eyes, another figure emerged from the copse, then another,and another, until thirteen white riders, including the leader, had comeinto view. Following one another at intervals, they marched around thechurch, observing the most profound silence. The hoofs of their horsesmade no sound. Three times this ghostly procession marched around thechurch. 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, andthen suddenly disappeared in the darkness. Gabriel rubbed his eyes. Foran instant he believed that he had been dreaming. If ever there weregoblins, these were they. The figures on horseback were so closelydraped in white that they had no shape but height, and their heads andhands were not in view.
It may well be believed that the sudden appearance and disappearance ofthese apparitions produced consternation in the Rev. Jeremiah'scongregation. The stranger who had been addressing them was left in astate of collapse. The only person in the building who appeared to becool and sane was the man Hotchkiss. The negroes sat paralysed for aninstant after the white riders had disappeared--but only for an instant,for, before you could breathe twice, those in the rear seats made arush for the door. This movement precipitated a panic, and the entirecongregation joined in a mad effort to escape from the building. TheRev. Jeremiah forgot the dignity of his position, and, umbrella in hand,emerged from a window, bringing the upper sash with him. Benches wereoverturned, and wild shrieks came from the women. The climax came whenfive pistol-shots rang out on the air.
Gabriel, in his tree, could hear the negroes running, their feetsounding on the hard clay like the furious scamper of a drove of wildhorses. Years afterward, he could afford to laugh at the events of thatnight, but, at the moment, the terror of the negroes was contagious, andhe 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 ofthe reports had died away, the
white horsemen came into view again, androde after the fleeing negroes. Gabriel did not witness the effect ofthis movement, but it came near driving the fleeing negroes into afrenzy. The white riders paid little attention to the mob itself, butselected the Rev. Jeremiah as the object of their solicitude.
He had bethought him of his dignity when he had gone a few hundredsteps, and found he was not pursued, and, instead of taking to thewoods, 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 foundhimself escorted by the entire band. Six rode on each side, and theleader rode behind him. Once he started to run, but the white riderseasily kept pace with him, their horses going in a comfortable canter.When he found that escape was impossible, he ceased to run. He wouldhave stopped, but when he tried to do so he felt the hot breath of theleader's horse on the back of his neck, and the sensation was sounexpected and so peculiar, that the frightened negro actually thoughtthat a chunk of fire, as he described it afterward, had been applied tohis head. So vivid was the impression made on his mind that he declaredthat he had actually seen the flame, as it circled around his head; andhe 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 hewas a man of great fluency of speech, he made an effort to open aconversation 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 noreply. "I ain't never hurted none er you-all; I ain't never had de ideeer harmin' you. All I been doin' for dis long time, is ter try ter fetchsinners ter de mercy-seat. Dat's all I been doin', an' dat's all Iwanter do--I tell you dat right now." Still there was no response, andthe Rev. Jeremiah made bold to take a closer look at the riders who werewithin range of his vision. He nearly sunk in his tracks when he sawthat each one appeared to be carrying his head under his arm. "Name erde Lord!" he cried; "who is you-all anyhow? an' what you gwineter do widme?"
Silence was the only answer he received, and the silence of the riderswas more terrifying than their talk would have been. "Ef you wanter knowwho been tryin' fer ter 'casion trouble, I kin tell you, an' dat mightyquick." But apparently the white riders were not seeking forinformation. They asked no questions, and the perspiration flowed morefreely than ever from the Rev. Jeremiah's pores. Again his redhandkerchief came out of his pocket, and again the rider behind himcried out "Blood!" and the others repeated the word.
The Rev. Jeremiah, in despair, caught at what he thought was the laststraw. "Ef you-all think dey's blood on dat hankcher, you mighty muchmistooken. 'Twuz red in de sto', long 'fo' I bought it, an' ef dey's anyblood 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 cortegecontinued to escort him along the road. The white riders went with himthrough town and to the Tomlin Place. Once there, each one filed betweenhim and the gate he was about to enter, and the last word of each was"Beware!"
Gabriel Tolliver: A Story of Reconstruction Page 19
