The K.K.K.

Contents

aHAPTER PAGE

I. In which the reader is taken to a goodly land, and introduced to pleasant company 5

II. A midnight alarm 15

Preface

Few thoughtful persons in this country can have failed to note the rapid growth of mob law among us in the. last few years. Formerly the punishment of offenders was left to the courts, and illegal violence in the name of justice never resorted to except when some deed of peculiar atrocity stirred an entire community to frenzy. Now human beings are frequently sent out of the world by hastily assembled crowds of men, not only in open defiance of the authorities, but often where the offense charged would not be punishable with death under the law. In one recent instance — where a flagrant outrage had been committed — excited citizens in a Western State burned a captive at the stake, thus introducing into a Christian land a practice which had previously been known only among the most cruel savages.

That this oft-repeated assumption of authority on the part of irresponsible persons is calculated to bring reproach on us as a people cannot be denied, and the time has come when serious inquiry should be made into, the causes back of this rapidly growing evil, with a view to staying its further progress if possible. Having been the judge of a criminal court for a number of years, I have become convinced that the only reason why good citizens countenance mob violence is that they have lost faith in the ability of the courts to deal effectually with crime. They weary of the delay attending criminal prosecutions, and the frequent failure of justice in the end exasperates them. If we would put a stop to illegal executions we must radically amend our criminal statutes so as to make it possible to try an accused person speedily in the court house before a jury of the best men in the community, and to punish him, if proven guilty, within a very short time after the commission of his crime.

The present story was written primarily for the purpose of tracing the progress of a grave criminal trial through the courts, and showing how wearisome and exasperating such a proceeding must be to those deeply interested in the suppression of crime and

Preface.

the preservation of order in a community. I have endeavored to make my characters true to life, and to frame a story which — though it contained a moral — would not be without interest to the general reader. Not being an author by trade, I have not been able to impart to my work that finish it might have possessed if it had come from more skilful hands, but I send it forth without apology, hoping it may find some friends among the millions of readers in this country, and be productive in the end of some good.

POSTSCRIPT.

This book was finished, and the above preface written, a year ago. Since then capital punishment has been inflicted in this country upon scores of alleged criminals without warrant of law. Many captives have been burned at the stake, one recently in my own State with barbarity too shocking to relate. Since this book went into the hands of the printer, in my own State a young white man charged with a heinous crime was taken to the woods by a mob, and hung. His captors denied his request to be permitted to tell his widowed mother good-by. They denied him a drink of water under the gallows. With jeers and insults they hung him by the neck until he was dead, and it is now well established in that community not only that this young man was innocent of any grave crime, but that no grave crime had been committed at all. Surely it is time to enquire whether alleged criminal offenses can be investigated by no better method than a hasty uprising of citizens at midnight.

Only a few weeks since, in the State of New York, in the midst of a dense throng, a treacherous and cowardly assassin murdered the head of the nation. The deed was dastardly and atrocious beyond precedent, yet the wretch who perpetrated it was delivered to the officers of the law, and taken to prison. Within one week from the death of his victim he was arraigned in court charged with murder. In less than forty-eight hours he was tried and convicted, and the death penalty was imposed upon him. Such despatch would not be possible in every grave case, but if there could be as a rule anything like an approach to it we would soon hear the last of mob law in this country.

Chapter 1

IN WHICH THE READER IS TAKEN TO A GOODLY LAND AND INTRO- DUCED TO PLEASANT COMPANY.

If you ever take occasion to descend the Cumberland River by steamer from Nashville, Tennessee, you will observe on the right bank of that picturesque stream, not far from the rapids called Harpeth Shoals, a rolling tract of highlands extending for some distance along your route, and stretching as far back into the interior as the eye can reach. This highland territory is known to the dwellers within its borders, and the good folk of the region roundabout, as ‘‘ The Marrowbone Hills.” It embraces a considerable expanse of country, but as it recedes northward!}^ narrows some distance out from the river into a long and precipitous neck of upland, which for some mysterious reason has been dubbed “ Paradise Ridge.” I say for some mysterious reason this rugged elevation has been so designated, but the old settlers thereabouts will tell you that the ‘‘ movers ” trekking from Carolina and Virginia, a hundred years ago, and encountering this formidable obstacle in their path, named it ” Paradise Ridge ” in fine scorn. Lumbering farm wagons, often a dozen or more together, constituted the transportation trains of that early period, and to surmount this frowning barrier with such a vehicle, well laden with wife, children, and household goods, was a feat scarcely paralleled by the notable one of Bonaparte’s crossing the Alps. In spite of vigorous application of the lash, and the liberal use of profanity, the desperate teams often stalled here on the upward climb, and when the summit at last was reached and the descent on the opposite side begun, the situation was found to be changed by no means for the better.

Notwithstanding locked wheels and constant tugging against the breeching on the part of the hindmost mules, the conveyance nov/ went forward at headlong rate, bumping against huge boulders, and scattering the fearful housewife’s plunder, with now and then a few of the children, promiscuously along the route. Oftentimes spokes and tires were smashed, axles broken, or tongues shattered, and it took days to mend up and start afresh on the journey to a new home in the wilderness. All this was in the good old times that we dream so fondly about, and which nobody in his senses would like to have restored. The railroad from St. Louis to Nashville now cleaves in twain this exasperating Paradise Ridge, and the sleepy traveler may glide smoothly down from Ridgetop to Baker’s, at the foot, without ever being aroused from his nap.

The Marrowbone Hills, however, lie back of the narrow ridge just described, which stretches out from among them like the crooked handle of a gourd. The hill country proper is a pleasant land, where moderate heights and fertile valleys, wooded tracts, cleared fields, and running waters greet the eye of the traveler in agreeable diversity. The soil, even on the steep hillsides, yields a fair return to honest labor, and the atmosphere, owing to the general elevation of the country, is bracing and healthy nearly all the year round. The plain farmer folk who till the earth and spend their days here seldom achieve, or aspire to, great wealth, but they constitute a manly class, who hold their heads up, and generally manage — as they themselves frequently boast — to get through life without begging, borrowing or stealing.

Close to the borders of this hill region may be seen a singular succession of high conical mounds, called knobs ; and beyond these stretches a broad, level expanse of country as productive and beautiful to the eye as ever the crow flew over. In this lowland territory the dwellers are more pretentious than on the hills, and the soil for the most part is cultivated by negroes. These, as elsewhere at the South, constitute a class to themselves, and would prove more satisfactory as laborers but for their unfortunate propensity to shift their dwelling-places with a frequency that is discouraging to the landowner, and oftentimes baffling to the wouldbe collectors of poll-tax. As it is, the relation between the two races is by no means unkindly, though the negroes are a little too suspicious of the good intentions of the whites, and the latter, as a rule, too prone to charge up to the inferior race all offenses of

A Goodly Land and Pleasant Company. 7

whatever description that cannot be immediately traced to some other source.

At the time when my story begins — for I may as well confess now to the gentle reader that it is my purpose to inflict upon him a narrative in which fact is more or less mingled with fiction — there stood within the confines of the hill country, but not far from the oorder line, the substantial log house of an old woman who had dwelt there in peace and comparative comfort nearly all her days. She owned a snug little farm about her home, or, rather, had a life interest in the property, for the fee at her death vested in her granddaughter, a comely girl of some eighteen years, who dwelt with her. The old lady, Mrs. Susan Bascombe, was altogether illiterate, but honest, independent, courageous beyond most of her sex, and possessed of a fund of native good sense which stood her often in hand when mere “ book Tarnin’ ” would have been of no avail. She was quite an original character — this Widow Bascombe, as she was usually called — decidedly sharp-tongued when she fancied occasion demanded, but as a general thing kindly in her deportment toward others, and very popular with her neighbors.

Her granddaughter and namesake was, I make bold to say, as handsome and spirited a damsel as could have been found within the length and breadth of the Marrowbone Hills, or, for that matter, within the whole country far and near, without restriction of territory. The father and mother of the girl had both died when she was a wee thing, and left her to the care of the old lady, who had raised her, and endeavored to train her up in the way she should go. As she grew to womanhood the neighbors about did not fail to note that she had inherited from her grandmother a tall and shapely person, and that she resembled the old widow also in being the possessor of a strong character, of which self-reliance constituted the principal trait. In one particular the girl bad decidedly the advantage of the elder female, and that was in the matter of education. She had trotted back and forth as a child to the rough log school-house in her neighborhood — wagging often under a load of books that would have borne her down if she had not been strong for her years — and had so acquired smattering information upon many subjects and genuine knowledge of a few. She was quick witted, like her grandmother, and very ambitious, so that the pupil who stood above her in her classes was required to rise early and retire late. At this backwoods insti-

tute little Sue Bascombe, having no sensational novels to devour, acquired a taste for solid reading, which she afterward cultivated at home in the midst of increasing household duties. By the time she had donned long skirts and abandoned her school satchel she was quite a superior sort of young person, mentally as well as physically, and could more justly have been deemed thoroughly accomplished than many a graduate from a famed city academy.

The house where the two . omen dwelt was a double log structure with an open passageway between the lower rooms, such as are still quite common in that part of the country. It was a story and a half high, and the two contracted apartments above were used, the one as a general lumber room, the other as a snug dormitory, where the grateful wayfarer was allowed to repose in a fat feather bed, with about six inches of breathing space betwixt his nose and the well-seasoned rafters overhead. The genteel room of the mansion was below and across the open passageway from that occupied by the widow and her granddaughter. This special company room* had great brass dog-irons on the hearth, in the well-scrubbed knobs of which one might detect his own countenance dancing about when the fire* was briskly ablaze. There was a high-post bed here, with a canopy overhead, which was seldom occupied, and indeed was kept more for ornament than utility. A young man of scholastic attainments and solemn demeanor boarded with the family during the pedagogic months of the year; but though he was permitted to use the company room for chat and study during his sojourn, he was required always to betake himself to die cuddy apartment upstairs when bedtime came. He was now absent upon his summer vacation, whiling away the time with some distant relatives who had consented to supply him with food and lodging for the benefit of his society.

The schoolmaster being away, the old ladv and her granddaughter were left alone in the house, but they were not apprehensive of danger or specially lonely, for they were not timid, and had come to derive a good deal of comfort from each other’s society. Besides, there were kindly neighbors scattered around them, and visits from one or more of these was an almost daily occurrence. On the widow’s farm, about a half-mile from the dwelling, a negro named Sandy Kinchen lived in a single-room cabin with his wife and one child. His closest friend was a little dog of the fox terrier variety, and the general opinion in regard to them both was that they were no better than they should be.

A Goodly Land and Pleasant Company. 9

Thx3 Kinchcn, with his dog his heels, would tramp the country all night in search of ’coons and ’possums, or on worse business, but could seldom be induced to tread a corn furrow or tobacco row by day with the view of paying his rent or earning a support for his family. He was indeed a worthless fellow, and little t-iought of by the neighbors, many of whom expressed surprise that the old widow would suffer him to loaf about on her premises. Leaving his laziness out of the question, however, no worse was suspected of him as yet than that he cherished an undue fondness for watermelons not grown in his own patch and chickens that roosted away from his wife’s henhouse.

At the time of the year which I write — it was an evening in early June — the leaves on the trees had but recently come to full growth, and there was a newness and freshness about the verdure everywhere that presently would be dulled by the scorching heat of summer and the dust from the roads and fields. The sun had just disappeared behind the crest of a high hill that loomed up immediately back of the old farmhouse, and a deep shadow had crept across the yard and was now encroaching upon a little piece of meadow land that lay in front beyond the highway. Sue Bascombe had stood for some minutes in the open doorway of the family room, looking down the road toward the level country, as if she expected some one to approach from that direction. Near the center of the room her grandmother sat in a split-bottomed chair smoking a cob pipe. Early as the hour was the two had supped, and all evidences of the evening meal had been cleared away. The girl stood in the open doorway with her arms folded and her head resting carelessly against the framework on her right. vShe was trim and square-shouldered, with a good suit of black hair and eyes to match. A stranger could not have failed to notice the striking resemblance between herself and grandmother, notwithstanding the great disparity in their ages.

“ You needn’t look so hard. Sue,” remarked the old lady, removing the pipe from her mouth as she spoke. “ Looking won’t fetch him, child.”

“ I’m not trying to fetch him,” answered the girl, with a trace of resentment at the insinuation. ‘‘ If he doesn’t want to come he can stay away.”

The old woman laughed. Somebody would have a fit of the blues if he did,” she replied, and began sucking at her pipestem again.

The girl made no answer. Her grandmother smoked on in silence a while longer. Then she continued between whiffs : “ Wal, wal, honey, I ain’t a blamin’ you for bein’ a little anxious. I ’members the time when I’d a been anxious too ef my beau hadn’t turned up jess at the very minute he sot. Gals is gals ; gals is gals.”

” I’m not anxious, Granny,” remarked the young lady in the doorway.

“ Naw, you ain’t, and yit you is. Wal, wal, I used to be a gal myself, and I finds fault with no person for bein’ a gal. Times has changed though sence I was a gal. Laws a mussy, jess to think how times has changed. The Pearsons, they used to be regular highflyers, and your grandpappy, you know, he was a overseer ”

“ I hope he was a good one,” interjected Sue, who had family pride of the right sort.

” That’s what he was,” replied thQ old woman promptly. “ He was giv’ up to be the best in all the country. Up and down, fur and wide, there wa’n’t no better overseer than Lemuel Bascombe, and them that says to the contrary tells what ain’t so. Times has changed though, as I was a sayin’ ; times has changed. Laws a mussy, jess to think of it! This here world moves round and round ; and some goes up while some comes down. That’s a true word as ever was spoke. Your grandpappy, Lemuel Bascombe — folks called him Lem for short — used to oversee for Ran Pearson’s daddy. That was in the old times, child, the old times. One lived at the big house then and t’other at the quarter. I remember it all as well as if it had been yistiddy. Mighty stuck up, I tell you, was ole Miss Pearson, Ran’s •mammy ; mighty -stuck up ; mighty stuck up. When she driv by in her carriage she hilf her head high, and was jess as like not to speak to a body as. to speak. Proud she was, I tell you, and her ways was ways of grondeur. That was in the long time ago, and now here’s her own dear son a hitchin’ his hoss at my gate, and a cornin’ in to keep company with my granddarter. Wal, wal; will wonders never cease?”

“ He needn’t come. I’m sure, unless he wants to,” retorted Miss Sue, tossing her head.

“Mighty uppish, mighty uppish,” replied old Mrs. Bascombe, surveying her granddaughter, however, with considerable pride as she spoke. “ Wal, wal ; we’ll let bygones be bygones — that’s the best way. Ran Pearson is a clever fellow, Sue ; and it never

A Goodly Land and Pleasant Company. ii

hurt anybody yit that he come of a good fambly. Even a dog of good breed is better’n a low down cur. Ran is a gentleman, a gentleman born, and a gentleman in his ways, and them what says to the contrary tells what ain't so. To be sho, to be sho, he’s gittin’ along now to be considerable of a old bachelor, considerable of a old bachelor, but he carr’t help that.”

“ He’s not forty yet,” replied the girl.

“ Ef he ain’t,” replied the old woman, “ he’s so nigh thar ain’t no fun in it. Lemme see,” taking her pipe from her mouth to reflect, “ come, thirty-nine year next November — or was it thirtyeight ? But that’s neither here nor thar. Ran is old enough to be stiddy, and yit he ain’t hurt with age. That much anybody can say for him and tell no lie. He hain’t put on specks yit, and he’s still supple in his j’ints; but he’s gittin’ along, gittin’ along. Ran is. Ef him and a right spry young chap was sparkin’ the same gal. I’m afraid he’d git left ; but when it’s a race ’twixt him and a poke-easy fellow like the schoolmarster — I’ll lay my last dollar on Ran”

“ The schoolmarster, fiddlesticks,” rejoined the young lady impatiently. ‘‘ Who’s thinking of him ? ”

“ Ah, never mind, never mind,” answered the old woman. “ I tell you what ”

‘‘ What does he care for me. I’d like to know ? ” interrupted the girl.

“ He cares a heap for you,” replied her grandmother, “ and you know it as well as you know you’re standin’ thar.”

“ He wouldn’t give a page of his dry Latin and Greek for the best girl in Marrowbone Hills,” said Miss Sue.

“ He’d put all his books in a pile and burn ’em for Sue Bascombe; and you needn’t let on like you don’t think he would,” replied the old lady.

“ He’s downright stupid,” cried Miss Sue from her place in the doorway. “ He’s stupid as an owl, for all he’s so dreadfully wise.”

He’s a fine young fellow,” answered old Mrs. Bascombe, ‘‘and the best gal in the country might be proud to git him.”

“ I wouldn’t give a snap of my finger for him;” said Sue, suiting the action to the word, and snapping her middle finger sharply against her thumb.

“ you mout go further and do wuss,” retorted the old woman, who never allowed herself to be worsted in debate if she could help it.

What further would have followed between these two high-spirited females must forever remain a matter of conjecture, for at this moment the sound of a horse^s feet was heard up the road and the girl abruptly left the doorway. She lit a candle that stood on a little shelf against the wall — it was now growing dark in the room — and taking up a brush and comb began to arrange her hair. She did not need to primp much, for she had been expecting her visitor, but a few touches at the last moment are never out of place. The mirror before which she stood was an old-fashioned looking-glass, with two ships depicted at the top, sailing over a singularly blue sea. About half her figure was reflected in this, and she had no reason to be dissatisfied with the hurried inspection she took of her person. After a few moments spent in tidying, she blew out the candle, and, crossing the open passageway into the spare room, lit a lamp that stood on a center table there. The old woman, without invitation, arose and followed her. She was fond of company, and she didn’t believe in leaving unmarried people of different sexes to themselves. She took her seat in a large arm-chair by the lamp and began knitting industriously, rocking back and forth as she did so. Sue went to the window curtains and gave them a shake, though there wasn’t anything specially the matter with them. She then searched the corners of the room with a keen eye for cobwebs, but none were visible. A step was now heard in the passage, and afterward a rap on the bare floor, made with the heavy end of a riding-whip or the heel of a boot.

“ Come in,” cried Sue.

The visitor who entered at this invitation looked to be forty years of age, if he wasn’t. The hair on the summit of his head was decidedly thin, so much so that his pate glistened through it in places, but it could not be fairly said as yet that he was bald. His face was serious — a good, honest face, one would say — and in manner he was rather retiring. Indeed, there was a sort of stiffness about him as he returned their salutation, which indicated that he was not entirely at ease in company ; and this perhaps was the highest compliment he could have paid those on whom he had called. It was convincing proof that while the old woman might have considered it a half-condescension on his part to visit them, there was no such idea predominant in his own mind. Randolph Pearson always felt somewhat constrained in the presence of fe-

A Goodly Land and Pleasant Company.

males, for he had never been a society man. His father had been wealthy, but extravagant, and the son at his death inherited from him a comparatively small patrimony. He had added to this materially, however, by frugality, sobriety, and strict attention to his business, and by pursuing this course for a number of years had finally won for himself among the good ladies of the vicinity the double reputation of being a desirable catch and a confirmed old bachelor. He had begun casting a wistful eye upon the Bascombe girl while she was yet tramping to and from the country school-house, loaded down with books. When she grew up to be a young lady, and a handsome one to boot, he made bold to call upon her, and as this was a startling step for a man of his habits, his first visit set the tongue of rumor wagging in his neighborhood most industriously.

Between two entertaining females Mr. Pearson managed on this occasion to while away the time quite agreeably. He discoursed with the old lady about the best method of protecting her fowls from varmints, and the safest preventive against the ravages of the potato bug in the garden. He listened politely while she indulged in reminiscences of the days when, her husband — Lem Bascombe, folk called him — was overseer for his father.

“ Terbacker brought better figgers them times than nowadays. All you had to do was to haul it to the river, and it floated down natural to New Ileens. Now it’s got to be loaded on the steam cars, and drug across the country away off to New Yark, and that costs money. Three acres of terbacker them times was a average crop for a field hand, and he had to tend it or take the consequences. Now, bless yo<ur life, niggers is too genteel to sile thar fingers with suckers and horn worms. ’Stidder puttin’ in thar best licks on the farm, they go trapesing about with guns, shootin’ rabbits, and plottin’ all manner of devilment agin the whites.”

Miss Sue was a party to much of the above promiscuous talk, occasionally agreeing with her grandmother, sometimes taking issue with her stoutly. Now and then a subject was sprung where the discourse for a time was necessarily between the damsel and her steady-going wooer, but on the whole it would have been difficult to tell from the drift of the talk whether Pearson’s visit was to the old lady, the young lady, or the family. He remained until nine o’clock — which is considered honest bedtime in the Marrowbone Hills — and when he took his departure the girl accompanied

him out to the stile block. There presumably they had some chat of a nature customary and proper between bachelor and maiden who contemplate establishing between themselves a firmer and more lasting union. Even this confidential confab, however, was of no great duration, and, after the lapse of a further half-hour, the visitor mounted and rode away.

The girl stood at the fence till the sound of the horse’s feet had died away in the distance. Then she walked slowly back to the house. She fastened the windows down in the spare room, extinguished the light and locked the door. This done, she crossed the passageway to the apartment occupied by herself and grandmother. The old lady had preceded her and was now preparing for bed ; but the girl took her stand again in the open doorway, as she had done in the early evening. The night was pleasant, and not very dark. There were stars a plenty in the blue vault of the sky, but no moon.

A Midnight Alarm.

CHAPTER IL

A MIDNIGHT ALARM.

The girl stood in the doorway and looked up at the sky and out into the dim night for some time. ‘‘Somehow, I feel lonesome to-night, Granny,” she said, after a while, without turning her head. “ I wonder what’s the matter with me ? ”

“ Go to bed, go to bed,” said the old woman, “ and git up early in the mornin’, and let’s have breakfast betimes.”

The girl made no reply, but continued looking out across the little meadow in front of the house. She could discern dim outlines beyond, but no objects could be distinguished. A screech owl, from a dead tree in the wood, set up its harrowing cry.

“ Heigho,” said the girl, after a silence of some minutes, “ somehow I feel lonesome to-night.”