Chapter XIII: The Lynching

Needless to say the household was astir. For our house had a fatal location--at least, so it proved that night--standing as it did in a quiet part of the town close to the long bridge that spanned the river. And the crowd was making for the bridge; this was to serve as a scaffold.

Uncle was not at home. He had gone forth about midnight, as my aunt told me. A few minutes later he returned, but only for a moment, to explain the cause of his absence, and to tell them not to expect him till they saw him. His eyes were bloodshot, my mother said, and his lips were dry. Yet uncle was the most peaceable of men--but this one thing seems to make savages out of the mildest of Southern gentlemen. It was the old story; this wretched negro had assaulted a woman on the street, a poor ignorant white girl who had been sitting up with a sick friend, and who thought she could slip unattended across the couple of blocks that separated her from her home. He had dragged her into an alley--but God sent somebody.

None of these infuriated men--and they comprised the flower of our population, many of them men of wealth and culture--had ever heard of the woman upon whom the black had attempted violence. But this mattered not--had she been the beauty of the city, or the belle of the South itself, their fury could not have been greater. She was white; he was black--that was enough, esteemed by them as a warrant from God Himself. For no thought of the right or wrong of their deadly zeal ever took possession of their minds. No knight of the middle ages was ever more sincere in the ardour that gave the Crusades their glory. If ever men believed they were doing God service, they were these hot-hearted men who hurried their trembling sacrifice onward to the bridge.

My aunt had put out the lights; whether to render the house less conspicuous, or to help us see the better, I do not know. For few words passed as the three white faces peered out at the wild scene before us. The moon had risen now, and we could see the faces of some of the men, though many were in masks. A peculiar quietness seemed to come over the throng as they came closer to the bridge, once so tense that we could catch distinctly the pleading wail of the central figure, tugging desperately at the rope around his neck. Poor creature, he knew not the ways of Southern men; or perhaps he did--and yet one drowning in mid-ocean would still swim towards the shore.

We saw them drag the miserable culprit on to the bridge--then we turned away. I suppose every Southern woman would cry out in horror at the thought of following them thus far--and every one would have done the same as we. Yet now we turned, faint, from the window--that last dread scene was for other eyes than ours.

But suddenly we heard a mighty shout, marvelling what it might portend. A kind of gleeful cry it was, as if something had been discovered, or some better plan devised; which proved to be the case. For I looked again, and lo! they were bearing the wretch back from the bridge. A swift vision of mercy quickened my heart, for I took this to be a reprieve. Yet the doomed man seemed reluctant to be moved, clinging desperately to the railing of the bridge--for his hands were free. The rope about his neck tightened as they dragged him back, and when it relaxed I could hear his piteous appeals, breaking now into loud wails of anguish. They dragged him on.

In a moment all was clear. A large post, or pole, stood close beside the bridge; towards this they hauled him, new zeal seeming to animate the breast of every executioner. I saw two or three of the younger men running towards the pole. They had something in their arms. It was wood--and a hot flush came over me from head to foot.

"Oh, God," I moaned to myself, "they're going to burn him," and even as I spoke they were tying the struggling man tight to the post, others piling the wood up about him.

In an instant all was ready--and I caught the gleam of a lighted match. I stood, transfixed with horror. Then I felt my aunt and my mother tugging faintly at my dress, clutching at my arm, their faces averted meantime.

"Come away; for God's sake, come away," they pleaded, faint and sick at heart.

I was just obeying and had already turned from the window, when I heard a shout, full of savage wrath and protest--whereat I turned and looked once more.

And my eyes fell on a scene that even yet, after all the intervening years, I cannot recall without a bounding heart. For suddenly from out the crowd there had rushed one man, tall, powerful, clothed in black, his face as savage as the others, though it was savagery of a different sort. He has told me since--though we have only spoken of it once or twice through all the years--that his own life was as nothing to him that night. He saw nothing but hundreds of bloodthirsty men, and one guilty wretch, and the first lick of flame about his feet. Out from the crowd had Gordon rushed with sudden impulse, and, when my eyes fell on him, the sticks and faggots were going this way and that, some by his feet, some by his hands outflung. Then, before the wonder-stricken men who were closest to him could interfere, he had trampled on the two or three already lighted brands, trampled them in fury deep into the ground.

Then he stood before them; he was close beside the black, whose quivering face was upturned to his in an agony of pleading. There he stood, a mighty figure of a man; at least, so he appeared to me as I gazed, petrified, at the awesome scene. And his pose was the very incarnation of defiance as he towered above them, his face aflame with indignation and courage and contempt.

Then I saw a movement in the crowd--or felt it rather--that chilled my heart with terror. I knew what would happen now, knew it, with unerring instinct--and I trembled as a fawn quivers when it hears the first low cry of distant dogs. And swiftly, silently, scorning both aunt and mother, I flew through the door on to the porch, down the steps, gliding like a shadow till I found shelter behind an ancient elm on the outskirts of the swaying crowd. I was as safe there, and as unobserved, as though I had been a hundred miles away.

It only took a minute, but Gordon had begun to speak before I got there, his quivering voice ringing like a bell through the night. The men before me were just beginning to recover from the first shock of surprise.

"Who is that ---- fool?" I heard one enquire, not more than four feet ahead of me.

"I know him," a voice answered. I recognized the informant at once--he had been to our house for supper only a few nights before. "He's a parson that's visiting the Lundys. A ---- Scotchman," he went on contemptuously; "his father's a collie dog over there--takes care of sheep on the hills, he told me."

I knew how helpless I was, but my blood was boiling. I shook my fist at the horrid creature from where I stood--I could have lynched _him_, right then and there.

"If you must kill him before he's proved guilty," came Gordon's voice, "kill him like white men, not like Indians."

A mighty roar went up at this, and the crowd swayed nearer to the central figures. A loud howl of terror came from the negro. But the immediate peril was not for him--the storm was raging now about another head than his. I think a moment later would have seen Gordon in the clutches of the mob, had it not been temporarily restrained by one of the oldest and most honoured of our citizens. I saw him lift his hand as a signal for silence; in a moment he and Gordon seemed to be carrying on an animated argument. I couldn't hear Colonel Mitford, for such was his name; but I could catch Gordon's voice.

"I've heard plenty about your Southern chivalry--would you lynch a white man if he offered the same indignity to a black woman as this wretch has done?"

The Colonel seemed to pause for a season. And really, it's not much wonder that he should--I am as Southern as any one who ever lived, but that question makes me pause even yet. Soon the Colonel broke out again, this time into quite a prolonged speech.

"It's all your rightful heritage," came back Gordon's voice, ringing high; "it's the legacy slavery has left you. You're only reaping what you sowed."

At this the clamour was renewed, the crowd pressing in again--and I half started from my hiding-place. But again the Colonel persuaded them to silence, and again he directed his remarks to Gordon He was evidently saying something about the relation of the races.

Then came Gordon's thunderbolt: "It seems to me," he cried hotly, recklessly, "it seems to me you couldn't have much more fusion than you have already--this negro's half white himself;" which proved more, as I knew it would, than any Southern man would stand.

"Then you can take what you deserve, curse you for a nigger-lover," I heard the Colonel retort madly, his voice lost in the roar of hate, the wild outcry for vengeance that burst from the infuriated crowd. All resistance was now swept away, and a few ringleaders at the front fairly clutched at Gordon. One had him by the throat, the others pressing in upon him with wolfish fury gleaming in their eyes.

But before their purpose--what it was I know not, nor probably did they--before it could be carried out, another rushed to the grim theatre. It was my Uncle Henry, his hat gone, lost somewhere in the crowd. He leaped to where Gordon stood, and at his presence the men fell back.

"You shan't injure this man," he shouted hoarsely. "Not that I contend he doesn't deserve it--but he's my guest," the word echoing clear. "He's my guest," uncle repeated, for he knew the magic of the word; "he's a stranger amongst us--and an ignorant stranger at that. I'll take the fool home," he went on, casting at Gordon one of the most contemptuous glances I ever saw from human eyes, "and I'll deal with him myself. I'll promise you to deal with him--he's my guest. And you shall do as you please with the nigger."

I think the storm abated for a moment. Perhaps it would have subsided altogether, for stranger is a sacred name to Southern ears. But suddenly Colonel Mitford, still ashy pale with wrath, shouted to the crowd:

"He said they couldn't have more white blood in them than they've got--he said we're blended now," the words ending in a half snarl, half cry; for if there is anything under God's sky that makes Southern men drunk with fury it is just such a statement as Gordon had been rash enough to make.

Some one else shouted a confirmation of the Colonel's words, another added something Gordon had never said; and slowly, relentlessly, the crowd surged in again upon him. My uncle was rudely flung aside--I could hear his voice in protest through the storm. Then, exactly what I feared, some of the assassins, more maddened than the rest, jerked the rope from the negro's neck and flung it with a loud cry over Gordon's head. This was to the crowd what the taste of blood is to the tiger, and a fiendish yell broke from a hundred throats. It is not likely they really meant to kill him--but no one could forecast the limit of their violence.

I wouldn't have cared if there had been a million men and every man a Nero. I didn't will to do it, I didn't know I was doing it, didn't calculate what it meant at all. But I just felt I was stronger than them all, and that it was now or never. So, without word or cry, I sprang from behind that ancient elm and leaped to where Gordon stood. I could never remember that I pushed or elbowed through the crowd; I don't believe I did. There seemed to be an open path for me, and in far less time than it takes to tell I was at his side. I remember how close I was--so close that I caught the gleam of that awful negro's eyes and felt his breath upon my cheek as he panted in prospect of his doom. And in a flash I had torn that rope from Gordon's neck, flung it on the ground, stamped on it, as I turned and hurled defiance at the crowd in one long look that I felt myself was all of fire. Then I took Gordon's hand in mine, pointing silently towards the house. He followed me, and uncle walked behind.

I don't think the slightest resistance was offered us. The only protest was from Gordon himself. He would have lingered, had he had his way. But some word of mine--I know not what--settled that mad purpose in his mind; and he walked beside me, towering still, his head more erect, his bearing more kingly, than that of any of the throng who turned scornful eyes upon him as we went.

We were almost through the crowd when something happened that almost brought the mist of unconsciousness before my eyes, my head reeling, my heart spinning like a top. A voice, instantly familiar, spoke Gordon's name, hurling an epithet of contempt and hate so malignant that he turned a moment, as if he would seek and punish his assailant. Then he smiled disdainfully, took my arm tighter in his own, and walked calmly on.

I too turned--and the face I saw was the face of Charlie Giddens. His gaze met mine, and he sought to smile; but I could see his enmity to Gordon gleaming through it all, and I hope my eyes bore themselves as my heart would wish.

When we gained our home aunt and mother received us with weeping joy. But uncle uttered never a word. Instead, he went silently about the house, drawing tight the shutters on every window that looked upon the scene we had just deserted. For he knew what was transpiring now. As he came down the stairs, I met him in the hall and flung my arms about his neck. Not a word of chiding escaped his lips--he stroked my hair, and his tenderness was the tenderness of farewell.

I told him, with trembling voice, that I had seen Mr. Giddens in the throng. This did not surprise him. "I know it," he said; "he came in on the eleven o'clock train--he heard the noise, of course, and came up. Listen," he suddenly cried, as we heard a footfall on the porch, succeeded by a gentle knock at the door, "what's that? That'll be him--go inside, child," as he walked to the door to open it.

Gordon was sitting in the corner of the room, offering speech to nobody, when Mr. Giddens came in. The latter bowed with courtly grace to my mother and my aunt, casting on me a glance that showed he still hoped--perhaps more now than ever. Then he walked straight over till he stood in front of Gordon.

"Laird," he said, before any one could speak, "you've tried to ruin my happiness--and I've got to settle with you yet for that." Gordon sprang to his feet. "And you've outraged the sentiment of this city--and you've disgraced this home," the words coming out like pistol-shots, "and I want to know what you've got to say for yourself."

"Nothing--to you," said Gordon, his face looking a little terrible, his voice overflowing with contempt.

Mr. Giddens turned livid--and he made a motion backward with his hand, a motion familiar to all Southern men; it was towards his pocket. "If it weren't my respect for the house we're in," he hissed through his teeth, "I'd shoot you like a dog."

Gordon's face was now altogether terrible. He stepped closer to the Southerner, his eyes fastened on him like balls of flame. "I've heard other cowards talk like that," he said.

Then Mr. Giddens' hand flew forward, unarmed; and he struck Gordon full in the face. We were too late--we might as well have raced with lightning. Before we could speak or move, Gordon's mighty grip was on his throat, and he wrenched him back, back, till his head struck with a thud against the corner wall. There is something marvellous about these Scotchmen when madness seizes them. So reserved, so silent, so inscrutable, there is no race on earth so calm and none so deadly. And strength--such fearful strength! Still gripping him with grasp of iron, Gordon drew back his hand, every muscle in neck and wrist standing out like whip-cords as he gathered force for the blow.

Then suddenly his hand fell to his side; he seemed to shake himself free from his passion, as a man wakens himself from sleep; the mighty struggle showed in the quivering voice.

"I could kill you," he said with fearful quietness; "I could kill you now--go," as he released his antagonist, already purple.

Holding his hand to his throat, the hot blood cooled by now, Mr. Giddens staggered over towards my uncle. "Mr. Lundy," he began thickly, "we expect you to deal with this cur--as you said you would. He's brought disgrace on you--and he's insulted every lady in the South by what he did to-night--and we look to you to treat him as he deserves."

There was a queer smile about my uncle's mouth. For nearly a minute he did not speak, did not even look towards the man who had addressed him. Then he turned slowly round.

"Mr. Giddens," he began, in a voice that sounded strange from him, "I'll deal with him. Yes, sir, I reckon I'll deal with him."

"I knew you would, Mr. Lundy," the other returned eagerly; "I knew no Southern gentleman----"

"But I'll deal with you _first_, sir," my uncle interrupted stormily; "you knew--you knew, did you? Perhaps you didn't know that no gentleman allows another man to insult his guest. And that's what you've done, sir--that's what you've done--you struck a visitor in my house, struck him in the face, sir. There's the door, sir--the street's the place for you,--go," his voice rolling like thunder now.

Mr. Giddens ventured an amiable smile, stepping a little nearer to my uncle. I think he partly held out his hand. "Mr. Lundy," he began in a conciliatory tone, "I meant no disrespect to you. This really isn't necessary, Mr. Lundy. You and I were friends before we knew this--this Scotchman--was on the earth. And it seems a pity----"

"Go," thundered my uncle, pointing to the door. Then suddenly his voice grew white with ungovernable wrath, and he whipped a shining pistol from his pocket. "Go, by heavens," he cried huskily; "I had this ready for the nigger--but you'll get it if you speak another word. Go out that door--or you'll be carried out, by God," as he advanced nearer to the already retreating man.

When we were alone and all was still again, uncle silently motioned me to follow him. Gordon had already departed in silence to his room. Uncle took me into his own apartment and shut the door behind him.

"Helen," he began gravely, "I shall speak no word to--to your friend. Not a word. You must tell him."

"Tell him what?" I asked, who had no need to ask.

"I reckon you know," my uncle answered quietly. "He can stay here no longer, of course."

"No," I assented, my voice choking.

"But he needn't leave to-night--tell him he can stay the night. But to-morrow," he concluded significantly. I nodded.

"Will you go to him--some day, I mean?" he asked after a long pause.

"Yes," I faltered, with downcast head; "yes, some day."

"And leave me, Helen?"

"Yes."

"And your mother--and Aunt Agnes?"

"Yes," I murmured low, the hot tears dropping from my eyes.

"I suppose you know he can never come back here any more?" he began after a little, the words coming slowly and sadly.

"Yes," I answered; "yes, never any more."

"You're foolish, Helen," and his own voice was choking as he came over and put his arm around me. "When you remember he's a stranger; and then, your mother and I and----"

"Is that all?" I interrupted, sobbing.

"Yes," he said slowly, "yes, that's all."

"Then I'll tell him," I said brokenly; "I'll tell him now."

I stole up-stairs to the attic and knocked at Gordon's door. He opened it; then asked me if I would come in. I looked around; he had begun his simple packing. But he did not speak. Then I held out my arms--and I heard him murmur "Thank God" while he held me tight, so tight, as though he would never let me go.

I faltered out that uncle didn't want him to go until the morning.

"It's morning now," he said firmly, "and I'm just ready to go," from which resolve I was powerless to dissuade him. "I'll stay at the hotel till to-morrow evening," he added.

"But there's a morning train," I interrupted, looking up at him.

"I know--but I'm not going till the evening," he said quietly. I knew what he meant.

Suddenly he disengaged my arms and held me out in front of him. "Helen Randall," he said solemnly, "will you come to me?"

I buried my face again where it had been before; my tightening arms gave him answer. Then he kissed me, kissed me--only twice, I think--but he kissed me as maiden never was kissed before. And he bade me go; which I did after I had clung to him once more. And I remember how his poor face was bruised, where he had been struck the cruel blow.

I went to my room. Soon I heard him going down the stairs. I knew, from the sound of his steps, that he was carrying his valise. He saw Aunt Agnes in the hall, I believe, the only one who was there--and to her he said his last farewell. I heard the door close gently; I could catch the dying footfalls echoing through the night.

I opened my door before I went to bed. Something was resting against it. Picking it up eagerly, I scanned it beneath the light. It was the old Scotch psalm-book from which Gordon had sometimes sung. And the page was turned over to mark one of the psalms--the forty-sixth--which he had indicated with heavy strokes. My eyes swam as I read the great lines over and over again. They seemed just meant for us:

"God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid."

It refreshed me like a breath of mountain air to read the words; I was still murmuring them when I crept into bed. I resolved to try and learn the tune that was set to the noble psalm--Stroudwater it was called--and I wondered when I would sing it to Gordon in our own little home.

All of this, I remember, made me think that perhaps I wouldn't make such a bad minister's wife after all. I really loved the psalms. Yet I must confess, before this chapter finds its close, that a girl's heart takes a long time to change. I fear I was very weak and frivolous after all; I know I thought far more of Gordon, and of his love, than I did of religion or of the life-work that awaited me. Because, just as sleep was coming down about me, I found that my willful heart was chanting far other lines--and they seemed sweet and precious:

"Still must you call me tender names,
Still gently stroke my tresses;
Still shall my happy answering heart
Keep time to your caresses."

It was to their music I fell asleep, and I slept like a little child. But I have come to think long since that the song and the psalm were not such distant relatives after all.