by Thomas Dixon
CHAPTER III
HIS HOUSE IN ORDER
Norton knew from the first that there could be no hope of success in such acampaign as he had planned except in the single iron will of a leader whowould lead and whose voice lifted in impassioned appeal direct to the whiterace in every county of the state could rouse them to resistlessenthusiasm.
The man who undertook this work must burn the bridges behind him, asknothing for himself and take his life daily in his hands. He knew the statefrom the sea to its farthest mountain peak and without the slightest vanityfelt that God had called him to this task. There was no other man who coulddo it, no other man fitted for it. He had the training, bitter experience,and the confidence of the people. And he had no ambitions save a deathlessdesire to serve his country in the solution of its greatest and mostinsoluble problem. He edited the most powerful organ of public opinion inthe South and he was an eloquent and forceful speaker. His paper had earneda comfortable fortune, he was independent, he had the training of a veteransoldier and physical fear was something he had long since ceased to know.
And his house was in order for the event. He could leave for months inconfidence that the work would run with the smoothness of a clock.
He had sent Tom to a Northern university which had kept itself clean fromthe stain of negro associations. The boy had just graduated with honor,returned home and was at work in the office. He was a handsome, clean,manly, straight-limbed, wholesome boy, the pride of his father's heart, andhad shown decided talent for newspaper work.
Andy had long since become his faithful henchman, butler and man of allwork. Aunt Minerva, his fat, honest cook, was the best servant he had everknown, and Cleo kept his house.
The one point of doubt was Cleo. During the past year she had givenunmistakable signs of a determination to fight. If she should see fit tostrike in the midst of this campaign, her blow would be a crushing one. Itwould not only destroy him personally, it would confuse and crush his partyin hopeless defeat. He weighed this probability from every point of viewand the longer he thought it over the less likely it appeared that shewould take such a step. She would destroy herself and her child as well.She knew him too well now to believe that he would ever yield in such astruggle. Helen was just graduating from a convent school in the Northwest,a beautiful and accomplished girl, and the last thing on earth she couldsuspect was that a drop of negro blood flowed in her veins. He knew Cleotoo well, understood her hatred of negroes too well, to believe that shewould deliberately push this child back into a negroid hell merely to wreaka useless revenge that would crush her own life as well. She was too wise,too cunning, too cautious.
And yet her steadily growing desperation caused him to hesitate. The thinghe dreaded most was the loss of his boy's respect, which a last desperatefight with this woman would involve. The one thing he had taught Tom wasracial cleanness. With a wisdom inspired and guided by the brooding spiritof his mother he had done this thoroughly. He had so instilled into thisproud, sensitive boy's soul a hatred for all low association with womenthat it was inconceivable to him that any decent white man would stoop toan intrigue with a woman of negro blood. The withering scorn, theunmeasured contempt with which he had recently expressed himself to hisfather on this point had made the red blood slowly mount to the older man'sface.
He had rather die than look into this boy's clean, manly eyes and confessthe shame that would blacken his life. The boy loved him with a deep,tender, reverent love. His keen eyes had long ago seen the big traits inhis father's character. The boy's genuine admiration was the sweetest thingin his lonely life.
He weighed every move with care and deliberately made up his mind to strikethe blow and take the chances. No man had the right to weigh his personalcareer against the life of a people--certainly no man who dared to assumethe leadership of a race. He rose from his desk, opened the door of thereporters' room and called Tom.
The manly young figure, in shirt sleeves, pad and pencil in hand, enteredwith quick, firm step.
"You want me to interview you, Governor?" he said with a laugh. "Allright--now what do you think of that little scrimmage at the mouth of theharbor of Santiago yesterday? How's that for a Fourth of July celebration?I ask it of a veteran of the Confederate army?"
The father smiled proudly as the youngster pretended to be taking notes ofhis imaginary interview.
"You heard, sir," he went on eagerly, "that your old General, Joe Wheeler,was there and in a moment of excitement forgot himself and shouted to hisaid:
"'There go the damned Yankees!--charge and give 'em hell!'"
A dreamy look came into the father's eyes as he interrupted:
"I shouldn't be surprised if Wheeler said it--anyhow, it's too good a joketo doubt"--he paused and the smile on his serious face slowly faded.
"Shut the door, Tom," he said with a gesture toward the reporters' room.
The boy rose, closed the door, and sat down near his father's chair:
"Well, Dad, why so serious? Am I to be fired without a chance? or is itjust a cut in my wages? Don't prolong the agony!"
"I am going to put you in my chair in this office, my son," the father saidin a slow drawl. The boy flushed scarlet and then turned pale.
"You don't mean it--now?" he gasped.
"To-morrow."
"You think I can make good?" The question came through trembling lips andhe was looking at his father through a pair of dark blue eyes blurred bytears of excitement.
"You'll do better than I did at your age. You're better equipped."
"You think so?" Tom asked in quick boyish eagerness.
"I know it."
The boy sprang to his feet and grasped his father's hand:
"Your faith in me is glorious--it makes me feel like I can do anything----"
"You can--if you try."
"Well, if I can, it's because I've got good blood in me. I owe it all toyou. You're the biggest man I ever met, Dad. I've wanted to say this to youfor a long time, but I never somehow got up my courage to tell you what Ithought of you."
The father slipped his arm tenderly about the boy and looked out the windowat the bright Southern sky for a moment before he slowly answered:
"I'd rather hear that from you, Tom, than the shouts of the rest of theworld."
"I'm going to do my level best to prove myself worthy of the big faithyou've shown in me--but why have you done it? What does it mean?"
"Simply this, my boy, that the time has come in the history of the Southfor a leader to strike the first blow in the battle for racial purity byestablishing a clean American citizenship. I am going to disfranchise theNegro in this state as the first step toward the ultimate completeseparation of the races."
The boy's eyes flashed:
"It's a big undertaking, sir."
"Yes."
"Is it possible?"
"Many say not. That's why I'm going to do it. The real work must come afterthis first step. Just now the campaign which I'm going to inaugurateto-morrow in a speech at the mass meeting celebrating our victory atSantiago, is the thing in hand. This campaign will take me away from homefor several months. I must have a man here whom I can trust implicitly."
"I'll do my best, sir," the boy broke in.
"In case anything happens to me before it ends----"
Tom bent close:
"What do you mean?"
"You never can tell what may happen in such a revolution----"
"It will be a revolution?"
"Yes. That's what my enemies as yet do not understand. They will not beprepared for the weapons I shall use. And I'll win. I may lose my life, butI'll start a fire that can't be put out until it has swept the state--theSouth"--he paused--"and then the Nation!"