The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan Read online

  Book I--The Assassination

  CHAPTER I

  THE BRUISED REED

  The fair girl who was playing a banjo and singing to the wounded soldierssuddenly stopped, and, turning to the surgeon, whispered:

  "What's that?"

  "It sounds like a mob----"

  With a common impulse they moved to the open window of the hospital andlistened.

  On the soft spring air came the roar of excited thousands sweeping downthe avenue from the Capitol toward the White House. Above all rang thecries of struggling newsboys screaming an "Extra." One of them dartedaround the corner, his shrill voice quivering with excitement:

  "_Extra! Extra! Peace! Victory!_"

  Windows were suddenly raised, women thrust their heads out, and othersrushed into the street and crowded around the boy, struggling to get hispapers. He threw them right and left and snatched the money--no one askedfor change. Without ceasing rose his cry:

  "_Extra! Peace! Victory! Lee has surrendered!_"

  At last the end had come.

  The great North, with its millions of sturdy people and their exhaustlessresources, had greeted the first shot on Sumter with contempt andincredulity. A few regiments went forward for a month's outing to settlethe trouble. The Thirteenth Brooklyn marched gayly Southward on a thirtydays' jaunt, with pieces of rope conspicuously tied to their muskets withwhich to bring back each man a Southern prisoner to be led in a noosethrough the streets on their early triumphant return! It would be unkindto tell what became of those ropes when they suddenly started back homeahead of the scheduled time from the first battle of Bull Run.

  People from the South, equally wise, marched gayly North, to whip fiveYankees each before breakfast, and encountered unforeseen difficulties.

  Both sides had things to learn, and learned them in a school whose logicis final--a four years' course in the University of Hell--the scream ofeagles, the howl of wolves, the bay of tigers, the roar of lions--alllocked in Death's embrace, and each mad scene lit by the glare ofvolcanoes of savage passions!

  But the long agony was over.

  The city bells began to ring. The guns of the forts joined the chorus, andtheir deep steel throats roared until the earth trembled.

  Just across the street a mother who was reading the fateful news turnedand suddenly clasped a boy to her heart, crying for joy. The last draft ofhalf a million had called for him.

  The Capital of the Nation was shaking off the long nightmare of horror andsuspense. More than once the city had shivered at the mercy of thosedaring men in gray, and the reveille of their drums had startled even thePresident at his desk.

  Again and again had the destiny of the Republic hung on the turning of ahair, and in every crisis, Luck, Fate, God, had tipped the scale for theUnion.

  A procession of more than five hundred Confederate deserters, who hadcrossed the lines in groups, swung into view, marching past the hospital,indifferent to the tumult. Only a nominal guard flanked them as theyshuffled along, tired, ragged, and dirty. The gray in their uniforms wasnow the colour of clay. Some had on blue pantaloons, some, blue vests,others blue coats captured on the field of blood. Some had pieces ofcarpet, and others old bags around their shoulders. They had been passingthus for weeks. Nobody paid any attention to them.

  "One of the secrets of the surrender!" exclaimed Doctor Barnes. "Mr.Lincoln has been at the front for the past weeks with offers of peace andmercy, if they would lay down their arms. The great soul of the President,even the genius of Lee could not resist. His smile began to melt thosegray ranks as the sun is warming the earth to-day."

  "You are a great admirer of the President," said the girl, with a curioussmile.

  "Yes, Miss Elsie, and so are all who know him."

  She turned from the window without reply. A shadow crossed her face as shelooked past the long rows of cots, on which rested the men in blue, untilher eyes found one on which lay, alone among his enemies, a youngConfederate officer.

  The surgeon turned with her toward the man.

  "Will he live?" she asked.

  "Yes, only to be hung."

  "For what?" she cried.

  "Sentenced by court-martial as a guerilla. It's a lie, but there's somepowerful hand back of it--some mysterious influence in high authority. Theboy wasn't fully conscious at the trial."

  "We must appeal to Mr. Stanton."

  "As well appeal to the devil. They say the order came from his office."

  "A boy of nineteen!" she exclaimed. "It's a shame. I'm looking for hismother. You told me to telegraph to Richmond for her."

  "Yes, I'll never forget his cries that night, so utterly pitiful andchildlike. I've heard many a cry of pain, but in all my life nothing soheartbreaking as that boy in fevered delirium talking to his mother. Hisvoice is one of peculiar tenderness, penetrating and musical. It goesquivering into your soul, and compels you to listen until you swear it'syour brother or sweetheart or sister or mother calling you. You shouldhave seen him the day he fell. God of mercies, the pity and the glory ofit!"

  "YOUR BROTHER SPRANG FORWARD AND CAUGHT HIM IN HIS ARMS."]

  "Phil wrote me that he was a hero and asked me to look after him. Were youthere?"

  "Yes, with the battery your brother was supporting. He was the colonel ofa shattered rebel regiment lying just in front of us before Petersburg.Richmond was doomed, resistance was madness, but there they were, raggedand half starved, a handful of men, not more than four hundred, but theirbayonets gleamed and flashed in the sunlight. In the face of a murderousfire he charged and actually drove our men out of an entrenchment. Weconcentrated our guns on him as he crouched behind this earthwork. Our ownmen lay outside in scores, dead, dying, and wounded. When the fireslacked, we could hear their cries for water.

  "Suddenly this boy sprang on the breastwork. He was dressed in a new graycolonel's uniform that mother of his, in the pride of her soul, had senthim.

  "He was a handsome figure--tall, slender, straight, a gorgeous yellow sashtasselled with gold around his waist, his sword flashing in the sun, hisslouch hat cocked on one side and an eagle's feather in it.

  "We thought he was going to lead another charge, but just as the batterywas making ready to fire he deliberately walked down the embankment in ahail of musketry and began to give water to our wounded men.

  "Every gun ceased firing, and we watched him. He walked back to thetrench, his naked sword flashed suddenly above that eagle's feather, andhis grizzled ragamuffins sprang forward and charged us like so manydemons.

  "There were not more than three hundred of them now, but on they came,giving that hellish rebel yell at every jump--the cry of the hunter fromthe hilltop at the sight of his game! All Southern men are hunters, andthat cry was transformed in war into something unearthly when it came froma hundred throats in chorus and the game was human.

  "Of course, it was madness. We blew them down that hill like chaff beforea hurricane. When the last man had staggered back or fallen, on came thisboy alone, carrying the colours he had snatched from a falling soldier, asif he were leading a million men to victory.

  "A bullet had blown his hat from his head, and we could see the bloodstreaming down the side of his face. He charged straight into the jaws ofone of our guns. And then, with a smile on his lips and a dare to death inhis big brown eyes, he rammed that flag into the cannon's mouth, reeled,and fell! A cheer broke from our men.

  "Your brother sprang forward and caught him in his arms, and as we bentover the unconscious form, he exclaimed: 'My God, doctor, look at him! Heis so much like me I feel as if I had been shot myself!' They were as muchalike as twins--only his hair was darker. I tell you, Miss Elsie, it's asin to kill men like that. One such man is worth more to this nation thanevery negro that ever set his flat foot on this continent!"

  The girl's eyes had grown dim as she listened to the story.

  "I will appeal to the President," she said firmly.

  "It's the only chance. And just now he is under tremendous p
ressure. Hisfriendly order to the Virginia Legislature to return to Richmond, Stantonforced him to cancel. A master hand has organized a conspiracy in Congressto crush the President. They curse his policy of mercy as imbecility, andswear to make the South a second Poland. Their watchwords are vengeanceand confiscation. Four fifths of his party in Congress are in this plot.The President has less than a dozen real friends in either House on whomhe can depend. They say that Stanton is to be given a free hand, and thatthe gallows will be busy. This cancelled order of the President looks likeit."

  "I'll try my hand with Mr. Stanton," she said with slow emphasis.

  "Good luck, Little Sister--let me know if I can help," the surgeonanswered cheerily as he passed on his round of work.

  Elsie Stoneman took her seat beside the cot of the wounded Confederate andbegan softly to sing and play.

  A little farther along the same row a soldier was dying, a faint chokingjust audible in his throat. An attendant sat beside him and would notleave till the last. The ordinary chat and hum of the ward went onindifferent to peace, victory, life, or death. Before the finality of thehospital all other events of earth fade. Some were playing cards orcheckers, some laughing and joking, and others reading.

  At the first soft note from the singer the games ceased, and the readerput down his book.

  The banjo had come to Washington with the negroes following the wake ofthe army. She had laid aside her guitar and learned to play all thestirring camp songs of the South. Her voice was low, soothing, and tender.It held every silent listener in a spell.

  As she played and sang the songs the wounded man loved, her eyes lingeredin pity on his sun-bronzed face, pinched and drawn with fever. He wassleeping the stupid sleep that gives no rest. She could count theirregular pounding of his heart in the throb of the big vein on his neck.His lips were dry and burnt, and the little boyish moustache curled upwardfrom the row of white teeth as if scorched by the fiery breath.

  He began to talk in flighty sentences, and she listened--his mother--hissister--and yes, she was sure as she bent nearer--a little sweetheart wholived next door. They all had sweethearts--these Southern boys. Again hewas teasing his dog--and then back in battle.

  At length he opened his eyes, great dark-brown eyes, unnaturally bright,with a strange yearning look in their depths as they rested on Elsie. Hetried to smile and feebly said:

  "Here's--a--fly--on--my--left--ear--my--guns--can't--somehow--reach--him--won't--you--"

  She sprang forward and brushed the fly away.

  Again he opened his eyes.

  "Excuse--me--for--asking--but am I alive?"

  "Yes, indeed," was the cheerful answer.

  "Well, now, then, is this me, or is it not me, or has a cannon shot me, orhas the devil got me?"

  "It's you. The cannon didn't shoot you, but three muskets did. The devilhasn't got you yet, but he will unless you're good."

  "I'll be good if you won't leave me----"

  Elsie turned her head away smiling, and he went on slowly:

  "But I'm dead, I know. I'm sleeping on a cot with a canopy over it. Iain't hungry any more, and an angel has been hovering over me playing on aharp of gold----"

  "Only a little Yankee girl playing the banjo."

  "Can't fool me--I'm in heaven."

  "You're in the hospital."

  "Funny hospital--look at that harp and that big trumpet hanging close byit--that's Gabriel's trumpet----"

  "No," she laughed. "This is the Patent Office building, that covers twoblocks, now a temporary hospital. There are seventy thousand woundedsoldiers in town, and more coming on every train. The thirty-fivehospitals are overcrowded."

  He closed his eyes a moment in silence, and then spoke with a feebletremor:

  "I'm afraid you don't know who I am--I can't impose on you--I'm arebel----"

  "Yes, I know. You are Colonel Ben Cameron. It makes no difference to menow which side you fought on."

  "Well, I'm in heaven--been dead a long time. I can prove it, if you'llplay again."

  "What shall I play?"

  "First, '_O Jonny Booker Help dis Nigger_.'"

  She played and sang it beautifully.

  "Now, '_Wake Up in the Morning_.'"

  Again he listened with wide, staring eyes that saw nothing except visionswithin.

  "Now, then, '_The Ole Gray Hoss_.'"

  As the last notes died away he tried to smile again:

  "One more--'_Hard Times an' Wuss er Comin'_.'"

  With deft, sure touch and soft negro dialect she sang it through.

  "Now, didn't I tell you that you couldn't fool me? No Yankee girl couldplay and sing these songs, I'm in heaven, and you're an angel."

  "Aren't you ashamed of yourself to flirt with me, with one foot in thegrave?"

  "That's the time to get on good terms with the angels--but I'm donedead----"

  Elsie laughed in spite of herself.

  "I know it," he went on, "because you have shining golden hair and ambereyes instead of blue ones. I never saw a girl in my life before with sucheyes and hair."

  "But you're young yet."

  "Never--was--such--a--girl--on--earth--you're--an----"

  She lifted her finger in warning, and his eyelids drooped In exhaustedstupor.

  "You musn't talk any more," she whispered, shaking her head.

  A commotion at the door caused Elsie to turn from the cot. A sweetmotherly woman of fifty, in an old faded black dress, was pleading withthe guard to be allowed to pass.

  "Can't do it, m'um. It's agin the rules."

  "But I must go in. I've tramped for four days through a wilderness ofhospitals, and I know he must be here."

  "Special orders, m'um--wounded rebels in here that belong in prison."

  "Very well, young man," said the pleading voice. "My baby boy's in thisplace, wounded and about to die. I'm going in there. You can shoot me ifyou like, or you can turn your head the other way."

  She stepped quickly past the soldier, who merely stared with dim eyes outthe door and saw nothing.

  She stood for a moment with a look of helpless bewilderment. The vast areaof the second story of the great monolithic pile was crowded with rows ofsick, wounded, and dying men--a strange, solemn, and curious sight.Against the walls were ponderous glass cases, filled with models of everykind of invention the genius of man had dreamed. Between these cases weredeep lateral openings, eight feet wide, crowded with the sick, and longrows of them were stretched through the centre of the hall. A gallery ranaround above the cases, and this was filled with cots. The clatter of thefeet of passing surgeons and nurses over the marble floor added to theweird impression.

  Elsie saw the look of helpless appeal in the mother's face and hurriedforward to meet her:

  "Is this Mrs. Cameron, of South Carolina?"

  The trembling figure in black grasped her hand eagerly:

  "Yes, yes, my dear, and I'm looking for my boy, who is wounded unto death.Can you help me?"

  "I thought I recognized you from a miniature I've seen," she answeredsoftly. "I'll lead you direct to his cot."

  "Thank you, thank you!" came the low reply.

  In a moment she was beside him, and Elsie walked away to the open windowthrough which came the chirp of sparrows from the lilac bushes in fullbloom below.

  The mother threw one look of infinite tenderness on the drawn face, andher hands suddenly clasped in prayer:

  "I thank Thee, Lord Jesus, for this hour! Thou hast heard the cry of mysoul and led my feet!" She gently knelt, kissed the hot lips, smoothed thedark tangled hair back from his forehead, and her hand rested over hiseyes.

  A faint flush tinged his face.

  "It's you,Mamma--I--know--you--that's--your--hand--or--else--it's--God's!"

  She slipped her arms about him.

  "My hero, my darling, my baby!"

  "I'll get well now, Mamma, never fear. You see, I had whipped themthat day as I had many a time before. I don't know how it happened--mymen seemed all to go down
at once. You know--I couldn't surrender inthat new uniform of a colonel you sent me--we made a gallant fight,and--now--I'm--just--a--little--tired--but you are here, and it's allright."

  "Yes, yes, dear. It's all over now. General Lee has surrendered, and whenyou are better I'll take you home, where the sunshine and flowers willgive you strength again."

  "How's my little sis?"

  "Hunting in another part of the city for you. She's grown so tall andstately you'll hardly know her. Your papa is at home, and don't know yetthat you are wounded."

  "And my sweetheart, Marion Lenoir?"

  "The most beautiful little girl in Piedmont--as sweet and mischievous asever. Mr. Lenoir is very ill, but he has written a glorious poem about oneof your charges. I'll show it to you to-morrow. He is our greatest poet.The South worships him. Marion sent her love to you and a kiss for theyoung hero of Piedmont. I'll give it to you now."

  She bent again and kissed him.

  "And my dogs?"

  "General Sherman left them, at least."

  "Well, I'm glad of that--my mare all right?"

  "Yes, but we had a time to save her--Jake hid her in the woods till thearmy passed."

  "Bully for Jake."

  "I don't know what we should have done without him."

  "Old Aleck still at home and getting drunk as usual?"

  "No, he ran away with the army and persuaded every negro on the Lenoirplace to go, except his wife, Aunt Cindy."

  "The old rascal, when Mrs. Lenoir's mother saved him from burning to deathwhen he was a boy!"

  "Yes, and he told the Yankees those fire scars were made with the lash,and led a squad to the house one night to burn the barns. Jake headed themoff and told on him. The soldiers were so mad they strung him up andthrashed him nearly to death. We haven't seen him since."

  "Well, I'll take care of you, Mamma, when I get home. Of course I'll getwell. It's absurd to die at nineteen. You know I never believed the bullethad been moulded that could hit me. In three years of battle I lived acharmed life and never got a scratch."

  His voice had grown feeble and laboured, and his face flushed. His motherplaced her hand on his lips.

  "Just one more," he pleaded feebly. "Did you see the little angel who hasbeen playing and singing for me? You must thank her."

  "Yes, I see her coming now. I must go and tell Margaret, and we will get apass and come every day."

  She kissed him, and went to meet Elsie.

  "And you are the dear girl who has been playing and singing for my boy, awounded stranger here alone among his foes?"

  "Yes, and for all the others, too."

  Mrs. Cameron seized both of her hands and looked at her tenderly.

  "You will let me kiss you? I shall always love you."

  She pressed Elsie to her heart. In spite of the girl's reserve, a sobcaught her breath at the touch of the warm lips. Her own mother had diedwhen she was a baby, and a shy, hungry heart, long hidden from the world,leaped in tenderness and pain to meet that embrace.

  Elsie walked with her to the door, wondering how the terrible truth of herboy's doom could be told.

  She tried to speak, looked into Mrs. Cameron's face, radiant with gratefuljoy, and the words froze on her lips. She decided to walk a little waywith her. But the task became all the harder.

  At the corner she stopped abruptly and bade her good-bye:

  "I must leave you now, Mrs. Cameron. I will call for you in the morningand help you secure the passes to enter the hospital."

  The mother stroked the girl's hand and held it lingeringly.

  "How good you are," she said softly. "And you have not told me yourname?"

  Elsie hesitated and said:

  "That's a little secret. They call me Sister Elsie, the Banjo Maid, in thehospitals. My father is a man of distinction. I should be annoyed if myfull name were known. I'm Elsie Stoneman. My father is the leader of theHouse. I live with my aunt."

  "Thank you," she whispered, pressing her hand.

  Elsie watched the dark figure disappear in the crowd with a strange tumultof feeling.

  The mention of her father had revived the suspicion that he was themysterious power threatening the policy of the President and planning areign of terror for the South. Next to the President, he was the mostpowerful man in Washington, and the unrelenting foe of Mr. Lincoln,although the leader of his party in Congress, which he ruled with a rod ofiron. He was a man of fierce and terrible resentments. And yet, in hispersonal life, to those he knew, he was generous and considerate. "OldAustin Stoneman, the Great Commoner," he was called, and his name was oneto conjure with in the world of deeds. To this fair girl he was thenoblest Roman of them all, her ideal of greatness. He was an indulgentfather, and while not demonstrative, loved his children with passionatedevotion.

  She paused and looked up at the huge marble columns that seemed each asentinel beckoning her to return within to the cot that held a woundedfoe. The twilight had deepened, and the soft light of the rising moon hadclothed the solemn majesty of the building with shimmering tenderness andbeauty.

  "Why should I be distressed for one, an enemy, among these thousands whohave fallen?" she asked herself. Every detail of the scene she had passedthrough with him and his mother stood out in her soul with startlingdistinctness--and the horror of his doom cut with the deep sense ofpersonal anguish.

  "He shall not die," she said, with sudden resolution. "I'll take hismother to the President. He can't resist her. I'll send for Phil to helpme."

  She hurried to the telegraph office and summoned her brother.