by Thomas Dixon
CHAPTER II
CLEO ENTERS
The conference of the carpetbagger with the little Governor proved moreominous than even Norton had feared. The blow struck was so daring, soswift and unexpected it stunned for a moment the entire white race.
When the editor reached his office on the second morning after the raid,his desk was piled with telegrams from every quarter of the state. TheGovernor had issued a proclamation disarming every white military companyand by wire had demanded the immediate surrender of their rifles to thenegro Adjutant-General. The same proclamation had created an equal numberof negro companies who were to receive these guns and equipments.
The negroid state Government would thus command an armed black guard offifty thousand men and leave the white race without protection.
Evidently His Excellency was a man of ambitions. It was rumored that heaspired to the Vice-Presidency and meant to win the honor by a campaign ofsuch brilliance that the solid negro-ruled South would back him in theNational Convention.
Beyond a doubt, this act was the first step in a daring attempt inspired bythe radical fanatics in Congress to destroy the structure of whitecivilization in the South.
And the Governor's resources were apparently boundless. President Johnson,though a native Southerner, was a puppet now in the hands of his powerfulenemies who dominated Congress. These men boldly proclaimed their purposeto make the South negro territory by confiscating the property of thewhites and giving it to the negroes. Their bill to do this, House BillNumber Twenty-nine, introduced by the government leader, Thaddeus Stevens,was already in the calendar and Mr. Stevens was pressing for its passagewith all the skill of a trained politician inspired by the fiercest hate.The army had been sent back into the prostrate South to enforce the edictsof Congress and the negro state government could command all the Federaltroops needed for any scheme concocted.
But the little Governor had a plan up his sleeve by which he proposed tostartle even the Black Radical Administration at Washington. He was goingto stamp out "Rebellion" without the aid of Federal troops, reserving hisright to call them finally as a last resort. That they were ready at hisnod gave him the moral support of their actual presence.
That any man born of a Southern mother and reared in the South under theconditions of refinement and culture, of the high ideals and the courage ofthe old regime, could fall so low as to use this proclamation, struckNorton at first as impossible. He refused to believe it. There must be somemisunderstanding. He sent a messenger to the Capitol for a copy of thedocument before he was fully convinced.
And then he laughed in sheer desperation at the farce-tragedy to which thelife of a brave people had been reduced. It was his business as an editorto record the daily history of the times. For a moment in imagination hestood outside his office and looked at his work.
"Future generations simply can't be made to believe it!" he exclaimed."It's too grotesque to be credible even to-day."
It had never occurred to him that the war was unreasonable. Its passions,its crushing cost, its bloodstained fields, its frightful cruelties were ofthe great movements of the race from a lower to a higher order of life.Progress could only come through struggle. War was the struggle which hadto be when two great moral forces clashed. One must die, the other live. Agreat issue had to be settled in the Civil War, an issue raised by thecreation of the Constitution itself, an issue its creators had not dared toface. And each generation of compromisers and interpreters had put it offand put it off until at last the storm of thundering guns broke from ahundred hills at once.
It had never been decided by the builders of the Republic whether it shouldbe a mighty unified nation or a loose aggregation of smaller sovereignties.Slavery made it necessary to decide this fundamental question on which theprogress of America and the future leadership of the world hung.
He could see all this clearly now. He had felt it dimly true throughoutevery bloody scene of the war itself. And so he had closed the eyes of thelonely dying boy with a reverent smile. It was for his country. He had diedfor what he believed to be right and it was good. He had stood bareheadedin solemn court martials and sentenced deserters to death, led them out inthe gray morning to be shot and ordered them dumped into shallow trencheswithout a doubt or a moment's hesitation. He had walked over battlefieldsat night and heard the groans of the wounded, the sighs of the dying, thecurses of the living, beneath the silent stars and felt that in the end itmust be good. It was war, and war, however cruel, was inevitable--the greatHigh Court of Life and Death for the nations of earth.
But this base betrayal which had followed the honorable surrender of abrave, heroic army--this wanton humiliation of a ruined people by pot-housepoliticians--this war on the dead, the wounded, the dying, and theirdefenseless women--this enthronement of Savagery, Superstition, Cowardiceand Brutality in high places where Courage and Honor and Chivalry hadruled--these vandals and camp followers and vultures provoking violence andexciting crime, set to rule a brave people who had risked all for aprinciple and lost--this was a nightmare; it was the reduction of humansociety to an absurdity!
For a moment he saw the world red. Anger, fierce and cruel, possessed him.The desire to kill gripped and strangled until he could scarcely breathe.
Nor did it occur to this man for a moment that he could separate hisindividual life from the life of his people. His paper was gaining incirculation daily. It was paying a good dividend now and would give hisloved ones the luxuries he had dreamed for them. The greater the turmoilthe greater his profits would be. And yet this idea never once flashedthrough his mind. His people were of his heart's blood. He had no lifeapart from them. Their joys were his, their sorrows his, their shame his.This proclamation of a traitor to his race struck him in the face as adirect personal insult. The hot shame of it found his soul.
When the first shock of surprise and indignation had spent itself, hehurried to answer his telegrams. His hand wrote now with the eager, suretouch of a master who knew his business. To every one he sent in substancethe same message:
"Submit and await orders."
As he sat writing the fierce denunciation of this act of the ChiefExecutive of the state, he forgot his bitterness in the thrill of life thatmeant each day a new adventure. He was living in an age whose simple recordmust remain more incredible than the tales of the Arabian Nights. And thespell of its stirring call was now upon him.
The drama had its comedy moments, too. He could but laugh at the sorryfigures the little puppets cut who were strutting for a day in pomp andsplendor. Their end was as sure as the sweep of eternal law. Water couldnot be made to run up hill by the proclamation of a Governor.
He had made up his mind within an hour to give the Scalawag a return blowthat would be more swift and surprising than his own. On the little man'sreception of that counter stroke would hang the destiny of hisadministration and the history of the state for the next generation.
On the day the white military companies surrendered their arms to theirnegro successors something happened that was not on the programme of theGovernor.
The Ku Klux Klan held its second grand parade. It was not merely a dressaffair. A swift and silent army of drilled, desperate men, armed anddisguised, moved with the precision of clockwork at the command of onemind. At a given hour the armory of every negro military company in thestate was broken open and its guns recovered by the white and scarletcavalry of the "Invisible Empire."
Within the next hour every individual negro in the state known to be inpossession of a gun or pistol was disarmed. Resistance was futile. Theattack was so sudden and so unexpected, the attacking party so overwhelmingat the moment, each black man surrendered without a blow and a successfulrevolution was accomplished in a night without a shot or the loss of alife.
Next morning the Governor paced the floor of his office in the Capitol withthe rage of a maddened beast, and Schlitz, the Carpetbagger, was summonedfor a second council of war. It proved to be a very important meeting inth
e history of His Excellency.
The editor sat at his desk that day smiling in quiet triumph as he read thefacetious reports wired by his faithful lieutenants from every district ofthe Klan. An endless stream of callers had poured through his modest littleroom and prevented any attempt at writing. He had turned the columns overto his assistants and the sun was just sinking in a smother of purple glorywhen he turned from his window and began to write his leader for the day.
It was an easy task. A note of defiant power ran through a sarcasticwarning to the Governor that found the quick. The editorial flashed withwit and stung with bitter epigram. And there was in his consciousness ofpower a touch of cruelty that should have warned the Scalawag against hisnext act of supreme folly.
But His Excellency had bad advisers, and the wheels of Fate moved swiftlytoward the appointed end.
Norton wrote this editorial with a joy that gave its crisp sentences thering of inspired leadership. He knew that every paper in the state read bywhite men and women would copy it and he already felt in his heart thereflex thrill of its call to his people.
He had just finished his revision of the last paragraph when a deep,laughing voice beside his chair slowly said:
"May I come in?"
He looked up with a start to find the tawny figure of the girl whose redhair he had stroked that night bowing and smiling. Her white, perfect teethgleamed in the gathering twilight and her smile displayed two prettydimples in the brownish red cheeks.
"I say, may I come in?" she repeated with a laugh.
"It strikes me you are pretty well in," Norton said good-humoredly.
"Yes, I didn't have any cards. So I came right up. It's getting dark andnobody saw me----"
The editor frowned and moved uneasily
"You're alone, aren't you?" she asked.
"The others have all gone to supper, I believe."
"Yes, I waited 'til they left. I watched from the Square 'til I saw themgo."
"Why?" he asked sharply.
"I don't know. I reckon I was afraid of 'em."
"And you're not afraid of me?" he laughed.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I know you."
Norton smiled:
"You wish to see me?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything wrong at Mr. Peeler's?"
"No, I just came to thank you for what you did and see if you wouldn't letme work for you?"
"Work? Where--here?"
"Yes. I can keep the place clean. My mother said it was awful. And, honest,it's worse than I expected. It doesn't look like it's been cleaned in ayear."
"I don't believe it has," the editor admitted.
"Let me keep it decent for you."
"Thanks, no. It seems more home-like this way."
"Must it be so dirty?" she asked, looking about the room and picking up thescattered papers from the floor.
Norton, watching her with indulgent amusement at her impudence, saw thatshe moved her young form with a rhythmic grace that was perfect. The simplecalico dress, with a dainty little check, fitted her perfectly. It was cutlow and square at the neck and showed the fine lines of a beautiful throat.Her arms were round and finely shaped and bare to an inch above the elbows.The body above the waistline was slender, and the sinuous free movement ofher figure showed that she wore no corset. Her step was as light as a cat'sand her voice full of good humor and the bubbling spirits of a perfectlyhealthy female animal.
His first impulse was to send her about her business with a word ofdismissal. But when she laughed it was with such pleasant assurance andsuch faith in his friendliness it was impossible to be rude.
She picked up the last crumpled paper and laid it on a table beside thewall, turned and said softly:
"Well, if you don't want me to clean up for you, anyhow, I brought you someflowers for your room--they're outside."
She darted through the door and returned in a moment with an armful ofroses.
"My mother let me cut them from our yard, and she told me to thank you forcoming that night. They'd have killed us if you hadn't come."
"Nonsense, they wouldn't have touched either you or your mother!"
"Yes, they would, too. Goodness--haven't you anything to put the flowersin?"
She tipped softly about the room, holding the roses up and arranging themgracefully.
Norton watched her with a lazy amused interest. He couldn't shake off theimpression that she was a sleek young animal, playful and irresponsible,that had strayed from home and wandered into his office. And he lovedanimals. He never passed a stray dog or a cat without a friendly word ofgreeting. He had often laid on his lounge at home, when tired, and watcheda kitten play an hour with unflagging interest. Every movement of thisgirl's lithe young body suggested such a scene--especially the velvet treadof her light foot, and the delicate motions of her figure followed suddenlyby a sinuous quick turn and a childish laugh or cry. The faint shadows ofnegro blood in her creamy skin and the purring gentleness of her voiceseemed part of the gathering twilight. Her eyes were apparently twice thesize as when first he saw them, and the pupils, dilated in the dusk,flashed with unusual brilliance.
She had wandered into the empty reporters' room without permission lookingfor a vase, came back and stood in the doorway laughing:
"This is the dirtiest place I ever got into in my life. Gracious! Isn'tthere a thing to put the flowers in?"
The editor, roused from his reveries, smiled and answered:
"Put them in the pitcher."
"Why, yes, of course, the pitcher!" she cried, rushing to the littlewashstand.
"Why, there isn't a drop of water in it--I'll go to the well and get some."
She seized the pitcher, laid the flowers down in the bowl, darted out thedoor and flew across the street to the well in the Court House Square.
The young editor walked carelessly to the window and watched her. Shesimply couldn't get into an ungraceful attitude. Every movement wasinstinct with vitality. She was alive to her finger tips. Her body swayedin perfect rhythmic unison with her round, bare arms as she turned theold-fashioned rope windlass, drew the bucket to the top and dropped iteasily on the wet wooden lids that flapped back in place.
She was singing now a crooning, half-savage melody her mother had taughther. The low vibrant notes of her voice, deep and tender and quivering witha strange intensity, floated across the street through the gatheringshadows. The voice had none of the light girlish quality of her age ofeighteen, but rather the full passionate power of a woman of twenty-five.The distance, the deepening shadows and the quiet of the town's lazy life,added to the dreamy effectiveness of the song.
"Beautiful!" the man exclaimed. "The negro race will give the world a greatsinger some day----"
And then for the first time in his life the paradox of his personalattitude toward this girl and his attitude in politics toward the blackrace struck him as curious. He had just finished an editorial in which hehad met the aggressions of the negro and his allies with the fury, thescorn, the defiance, the unyielding ferocity with which the Anglo-Saxonconqueror has always treated his inferiors. And yet he was listening to thesoft tones of this girl's voice with a smile as he watched withgood-natured indulgence the light gleam mischievously from her impudent bigeyes while she moved about his room.
Yet this was not to be wondered at. The history of the South and thehistory of slavery made such a paradox inevitable. The long associationwith the individual negro in the intimacy of home life had broken down thebarriers of personal race repugnance. He had grown up with negro boys andgirls as playmates. He had romped and wrestled with them. Every servant inevery home he had ever known had been a negro. The first human face heremembered bending over his cradle was a negro woman's. He had fallenasleep in her arms times without number. He had found refuge there againsthis mother's stern commands and sobbed out on her breast the story of hisfancied wrongs and always found consolation. "Mammy's darlin'" was alwaysright--the world
cruel and wrong! He had loved this old nurse since hecould remember. She was now nursing his own and he would defend her withhis life without a moment's hesitation.
And so it came about inevitably that while he had swung his white andscarlet legions of disguised Clansmen in solid line against the Governorand smashed his negro army without the loss of a single life, he was at thesame moment proving himself defenseless against the silent and deadlypurpose that had already shaped itself in the soul of this sleek, sensuousyoung animal. He was actually smiling with admiration at the beautifulpicture he saw as she lifted the white pitcher, placed it on the crown ofred hair, and crossed the street.
She was still softly singing as she entered the room and arranged theflowers in pretty confusion.
Norton had lighted his lamp and seated himself at his desk again. She cameclose and looked over his shoulder at the piles of papers.
"How on earth can you work in such a mess?" she asked with a laugh.
"Used to it," he answered without looking up from the final reading of hiseditorial.
"What's that you've written?"
The impudent greenish gray eyes bent closer.
"Oh, a little talk to the Governor----"
"I bet it's a hot one. Peeler says you don't like the Governor--read it tome!"
The editor looked up at the mischievous young face and laughed aloud:
"I'm afraid you wouldn't understand it."
The girl joined in the laugh and the dimples in the reddish brown cheekslooked prettier than ever.
"Maybe I wouldn't," she agreed.
He resumed his reading and she leaned over his chair until he felt the softtouch of her shoulder against his. She was staring at his paste-pot,extended her tapering, creamy finger and touched the paste.
"What in the world's that?" she cried, giggling again.
"Paste."
Another peal of silly laughter echoed through the room.
"Lord, I thought it was mush and milk--I thought it was your supper!--don'tyou eat no supper?"
"Sometimes."
The editor looked up with a slight frown and said:
"Run along now, child, I've got to work. And tell your mother I'm obligedfor the flowers."
"I'm not going back home----"
"Why not?"
"I'm scared out there. I've come in town to live with my aunt."
"Well, tell her when you see her."
"Please let me clean this place up for you?" she pleaded.
"Not to-night."
"To-morrow morning, then? I'll come early and every morning--please--letme--it's all I can do to thank you. I'll do it a month just to show you howpretty I can keep it and then you can pay me if you want me. It's abargain, isn't it?"
The editor smiled, hesitated, and said:
"All right--every morning at seven."
"Thank you, major--good night!"
She paused at the door and her white teeth gleamed in the shadows. Sheturned and tripped down the stairs, humming again the strangely appealingsong she had sung at the well.