“I am its soul.”
“How could a Southerner discover this, if your own children didn’t know it?”
“By their spies who have joined the League.”
“And do the rank and file know the Black Pope at the head of the order?”
“No, but high officials do.”
“Does Lynch?”
“Certainly.”
“Then he is the scoundrel who placed that note in your room. It is a clumsy attempt to forge an order of the Klan. The white man does not live in this town capable of that act. I know these people.”
“My boy, you are bewitched by the smiles of a woman to deny your own flesh and blood.”
“Nonsense, father—you are possessed by an idea which has become an insane mania——”
“Will you respect my wishes?” the old man broke in angrily.
“I will not,” was the clear answer. Phil turned and left the room, and the old man’s massive head sank on his breast in helpless baffled rage and grief.
He was more successful in his appeal to Elsie. He convinced her of the genuineness of the threat against him. The brutal reference to his lameness roused the girl’s soul. When the old man, crushed by Phil’s desertion, broke down the last reserve of his strange cold nature, tore his wounded heart open to her, cried in agony over his deformity, his lameness, and the anguish with which he saw the threatened ruin of his life-work, she threw her arms around his neck in a flood of tears and cried:
“Hush, father, I will not desert you. I will never leave you, or wed without your blessing. If I find that my lover was in any way responsible for this insult, I’ll tear his image out of my heart and never speak his name again!”
She wrote a note to Ben, asking him to meet her at sundown on horseback at Lover’s Leap.
Ben was elated at the unexpected request. He was hungry for an hour with his sweetheart, whom he had not seen save for a moment since the storm of excitement broke following the discovery of the crime.
He hastened through his work of ordering the movement of the Klan for the night, and determined to surprise Elsie by meeting her in his uniform of a Grand Dragon.
Secure in her loyalty, he would deliberately thus put his life in her hands. Using the water of a brook in the woods for a mirror, he adjusted his yellow sash and pushed the two revolvers back under the cape out of sight, saying to himself with a laugh:
“Betray me? Well, if she does, life would not be worth the living!”
When Elsie had recovered from the first shock of surprise at the white horse and rider waiting for her under the shadows of the old beech, her surprise gave way to grief at the certainty of his guilt, and the greatness of his love in thus placing his life without a question in her hands.
He tied the horses in the woods, and they sat down on the rustic.
He removed his helmet cap, threw back the white cape showing the scarlet lining, and the two golden circles with their flaming crosses on his breast, with boyish pride. The costume was becoming to his slender graceful figure, and he knew it.
“You see, sweetheart, I hold high rank in the Empire,” he whispered.
From beneath his cape he drew a long bundle which he unrolled. It was a triangular flag of brilliant yellow edged in scarlet. In the centre of the yellow ground was the figure of a huge black dragon with fiery red eyes and tongue. Around it was a Latin motto worked in scarlet: “quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus”—what always, what everywhere, what by all has been held to be true. “The battle-flag of the Klan,” he said; “the standard of the Grand Dragon.”
Elsie seized his hand and kissed it, unable to speak.
“Why so serious to-night?”
“Do you love me very much?” she answered.
“Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay his life at the feet of his beloved,” he responded tenderly.
“Yes, yes; I know—and that is why you are breaking my heart. When first I met you—it seems now ages and ages ago—I was a vain, self-willed, pert little thing——”
“It’s not so. I took you for an angel—you were one. You are one to-night.”
“Now,” she went on slowly, “in what I have lived through you I have grown into an impassioned, serious, self-disciplined, bewildered woman. Your perfect trust to-night is the sweetest revelation that can come to a woman’s soul and yet it brings to me unspeakable pain——”
“For what?”
“You are guilty of murder.”
Ben’s figure stiffened.
“The judge who pronounces sentence of death on a criminal outlawed by civilized society is not usually called a murderer, my dear.”
“And by whose authority are you a judge?”
“By authority of the sovereign people who created the State of South Carolina. The criminals who claim to be our officers are usurpers placed there by the subversion of law.”
“Won’t you give this all up for my sake?” she pleaded. “Believe me, you are in great danger.”
“Not so great as is the danger of my sister and mother and my sweetheart—it is a man’s place to face danger,” he gravely answered.
“This violence can only lead to your ruin and shame——”
“I am fighting the battle of a race on whose fate hangs the future of the South and the Nation. My ruin and shame will be of small account if they are saved,” was the even answer.
“Come, my dear,” she pleaded tenderly, “you know that I have weighed the treasures of music and art and given them all for one clasp of your hand, one throb of your heart against mine. I should call you cruel did I not know you are infinitely tender. This is the only thing I have ever asked you to do for me——”
“Desert my people! You must not ask of me this infamy, if you love me,” he cried.
“But, listen; this is wrong—this wild vengeance is a crime you are doing, however great the provocation. We cannot continue to love one another if you do this. Listen: I love you better than father, mother, life, or career—all my dreams I’ve lost in you. I’ve lived through eternity to-day with my father——”
“You know me guiltless of the vulgar threat against him——”
“Yes, and yet you are the leader of desperate men who might have done it. As I fought this battle to-day, I’ve lost you, lost myself, and sunk down to the depths of despair, and at the end rang the one weak cry of a woman’s heart for her lover! Your frown can darken the brightest sky. For your sake I can give up all save the sense of right. I’ll walk by your side in life—lead you gently and tenderly along the way of my dreams if I can, but if you go your way, it shall be mine; and I shall still be glad because you are there! See how humble I am—only you must not commit crime!”
“Come, sweetheart, you must not use that word,” he protested, with a touch of wounded pride.
“You are a conspirator——”
“I am a revolutionist.”
“You are committing murder!”
“I am waging war.”
Elsie leaped to her feet in a sudden rush of anger and extended her hand:
“Good-bye. I shall not see you again. I do not know you. You are still a stranger to me.”
He held her hand firmly.
“We must not part in anger,” he said slowly. “I have grave work to do before the day dawns. We may not see each other again.”
She led her horse to the seat quickly and without waiting for his assistance sprang into the saddle.
“Do you not fear my betrayal of your secret?” she asked.
He rode to her side, bent close, and whispered:
“It’s as safe as if locked in the heart of God.”
A little sob caught her voice, yet she said slowly in firm tones:
“If another crime is committed in this county by your Klan, we will never see each other again.”
He escorted her to the edge of the town without a word, pressed her hand in silence, wheeled his horse, and disappeared on the road to the North Carolina line.
* * *
CHAPTER IV
The Banner of the Dragon
Ben Cameron rode rapidly to the rendezvous of the pickets who were to meet the coming squadrons.
He returned home and ate a hearty meal. As he emerged from the dining-room, Phil seized him by the arm and led him under the big oak on the lawn:
“Cameron, old boy, I’m in a lot of trouble. I’ve had a quarrel with my father, and your sister has broken me all up by returning my ring. I want a little excitement to ease my nerves. From Elsie’s incoherent talk I judge you are in danger. If there’s going to be a fight, let me in.”
Ben took his hand:
“You’re the kind of a man I’d like to have for a brother, and I’ll help you in love—but as for war—it’s not your fight. We don’t need help.”
At ten o’clock Ben met the local Den at their rendezvous under the cliff, to prepare for the events of the night.
The forty members present were drawn up before him in double rank of twenty each.
“Brethren,” he said to them solemnly, “I have called you to-night to take a step from which there can be no retreat. We are going to make a daring experiment of the utmost importance. If there is a faint heart among you, now is the time to retire——”
“We are with you!” cried the men.
“There are laws of our race, old before this Republic was born in the souls of white freemen. The fiat of fools has repealed on paper these laws. Your fathers who created this Nation were first Conspirators, then Revolutionists, now Patriots and Saints. I need to-night ten volunteers to lead the coming clansmen over this county and disarm every negro in it. The men from North Carolina cannot be recognized. Each of you must run this risk. Your absence from home to-night will be doubly dangerous for what will be done here at this negro armoury under my command. I ask of these ten men to ride their horses until dawn, even unto death, to ride for their God, their native land, and the womanhood of the South!
“To each man who accepts this dangerous mission I offer for your bed the earth, for your canopy the sky, for your bread stones; and when the flash of bayonets shall fling into your face from the Square the challenge of martial law, the protection I promise you—is exile, imprisonment, and death! Let the ten men who accept these terms step forward four paces.”
With a single impulse the whole double line of forty white-and-scarlet figures moved quickly forward four steps!
The leader shook hands with each man, his voice throbbing with emotion as he said:
“Stand together like this, men, and armies will march and countermarch over the South in vain! We will save the life of our people.”
The ten guides selected by the Grand Dragon rode forward, and each led a division of one hundred men through the ten townships of the county and successfully disarmed every negro before day without the loss of a life.
The remaining squadron of two hundred and fifty men from Hambright, accompanied by the Grand Titan in command of the Province of Western Hill Counties, were led by Ben Cameron into Piedmont as the waning moon rose between twelve and one o’clock.
They marched past Stoneman’s place on the way to the negro armoury, which stood on the opposite side of the street a block below.
The wild music of the beat of a thousand hoofs on the cobblestones of the street waked every sleeper. The old Commoner hobbled to his window and watched them pass, his big hands fumbling nervously, and his soul stirred to its depths.
The ghostlike shadowy columns moved slowly with the deliberate consciousness of power. The scarlet circles on their breasts could be easily seen when one turned toward the house, as could the big red letters K. K. K. on each horse’s flank.
In the centre of the line waved from a gold-tipped spear the battle-flag of the Klan. As they passed the bright lights burning at his gate, old Stoneman could see this standard plainly. The huge black dragon with flaming eyes and tongue seemed a living thing crawling over a scarlet-tipped yellow cloud.
At the window above stood a little figure watching that banner of the Dragon pass with aching heart.
Phil stood at another, smiling with admiration for their daring:
“By George, it stirs the blood to see it! You can’t crush men of that breed!”
The watchers were not long in doubt as to what the raiders meant.
They deployed quickly around the armoury. A whistle rang its shrill cry, and a volley of two hundred and fifty carbines and revolvers smashed every glass in the building. The sentinel had already given the alarm, and the drum was calling the startled negroes to their arms. They returned the volley twice, and for ten minutes were answered with the steady crack of two hundred and fifty guns. A white flag appeared at the door, and the firing ceased. The negroes laid down their arms and surrendered. All save three were allowed to go to their homes for the night and carry their wounded with them.
The three confederates in the crime of their captain were bound and led away. In a few minutes the crash of a volley told their end.
The little white figure rapped at Phil’s door and placed a trembling hand on his arm:
“Phil,” she said softly, “please go to the hotel and stay until you know all that has happened—until you know the full list of those killed and wounded. I’ll wait. You understand?”
As he stooped and kissed her, he felt a hot tear roll down her cheek.
“Yes, little Sis, I understand,” he answered.
* * *
CHAPTER V
The Reign of the Klan
In quick succession every county followed the example of Ulster, and the arms furnished the negroes by the State and National governments were in the hands of the Klan. The League began to collapse in a panic of terror.
A gale of chivalrous passion and high action, contagious and intoxicating, swept the white race. The moral, mental, and physical earthquake which followed the first assault on one of their daughters revealed the unity of the racial life of the people. Within the span of a week they had lived a century.
The spirit of the South “like lightning had at last leaped forth, half startled at itself, its feet upon the ashes and the rags,” its hands tight-gripped on the throat of tyrant, thug, and thief.
It was the resistless movement of a race, not of any man or leader of men. The secret weapon with which they struck was the most terrible and efficient in human history—these pale hosts of white-and-scarlet horsemen! They struck shrouded in a mantle of darkness and terror. They struck where the power of resistance was weakest and the blow least suspected. Discovery or retaliation was impossible. Not a single disguise was ever penetrated. All was planned and ordered as by destiny. The accused was tried by secret tribunal, sentenced without a hearing, executed in the dead of night without warning, mercy, or appeal. The movements of the Klan were like clockwork, without a word, save the whistle of the Night Hawk, the crack of his revolver, and the hoofbeat of swift horses moving like figures in a dream, and vanishing in mists and shadows.
The old club-footed Puritan, in his mad scheme of vengeance and party power, had overlooked the Covenanter, the backbone of the South. This man had just begun to fight! His race had defied the Crown of Great Britain a hundred years from the caves and wilds of Scotland and Ireland, taught the English people how to slay a king and build a commonwealth, and, driven into exile into the wilderness of America, led our Revolution, peopled the hills of the South, and conquered the West.
As the young German patriots of 1812 had organized the great struggle for their liberties under the noses of the garrisons of Napoleon, so Ben Cameron had met the leaders of his race in Nashville, Tennessee, within the picket lines of thirty-five thousand hostile troops, and in the ruins of an old homestead discussed and adopted the ritual of the Invisible Empire.
Within a few months this Empire overspread a territory larger than modern Europe. In the approaching election it was reaching out its daring white hands to tear the fruits of victory from twenty million victorious conque
rors.
The triumph at which they aimed was one of incredible grandeur. They had risen to snatch power out of defeat and death. Under their clan leadership the Southern people had suddenly developed the courage of the lion, the cunning of the fox, and the deathless faith of religious enthusiasts.
Society was fused in the white heat of one sublime thought and beat with the pulse of the single will of the Grand Wizard of the Klan of Memphis.
Women and children had eyes and saw not, ears and heard not. Over four thousand disguises for men and horses were made by the women of the South, and not one secret ever passed their lips!
With magnificent audacity, infinite patience, and remorseless zeal, a conquered people were struggling to turn his own weapon against their conqueror, and beat his brains out with the bludgeon he had placed in the hands of their former slaves.
Behind the tragedy of Reconstruction stood the remarkable man whose iron will alone had driven these terrible measures through the chaos of passion, corruption, and bewilderment which followed the first assassination of an American President. As he leaned on his window in this village of the South and watched in speechless rage the struggle at that negro armoury, he felt for the first time the foundations sinking beneath his feet. As he saw the black cowards surrender in terror, noted the indifference and cool defiance with which those white horsemen rode and shot, he knew that he had collided with the ultimate force which his whole scheme had overlooked.
He turned on his big club foot from the window, clinched his fist and muttered:
“But I’ll hang that man for this deed if it’s the last act of my life!”
The morning brought dismay to the negro, the carpet-bagger, and the scallawag of Ulster. A peculiar freak of weather in the early morning added to their terror. The sun rose clear and bright except for a slight fog that floated from the river valley, increasing the roar of the falls. About nine o’clock a huge black shadow suddenly rushed over Piedmont from the west, and in a moment the town was shrouded in twilight. The cries of birds were hushed and chickens went to roost as in a total eclipse of the sun. Knots of people gathered on the streets and gazed uneasily at the threatening skies. Hundreds of negroes began to sing and shout and pray, while sensible people feared a cyclone or cloud-burst. A furious downpour of rain was swiftly followed by sunshine, and the negroes rose from their knees, shouting with joy to find the end of the world had after all been postponed.
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