
The Flicker of Torches
October, 1867
Jonathan breathed deeply as he stared out over the western piazza. He
had always loved South Carolina sunsets. Their purple clouds swirled across a
background of gold, followed by curtains
of navy blue. Darkness settled slowly
over a city that seemed to be at peace, if only for a few nighttime hours. If
he had ever had doubts about the wisdom of bringing his family back to
Charleston after the war, they faded away in the soft, scented air. Flowers
still bloomed, even in these months of autumn, and the night birds still
chirped their sleepy calls. He closed his eyes, holding the memory against
whatever challenges the next day might bring. Perhaps that was what made him
miss the first flicker of torches from behind him.
“Damnation!”
“Sh-h-h-h!”
“Roses got thorns,” grumbled a scratchy voice.
“Hush!”
The mumbled comments, added to the shuffle of boots, jerked Jonathan
from his reverie. Turning from the sunset toward the other end of the piazza,
he was almost blinded by blazing torches carried by indistinct figures robed in
dark clothing. He moved toward the door,
which was open to catch the night breezes. He had left Susan sitting just inside
that door with her tatting, and his first instinct was to protect her from
whatever this invasion portended. But he was not quick enough to move back into
the house.
“Grenville?”
The challenging voice froze his movements, his hand still on the
latch. He eased the door closer to the
frame as he turned to face the group of men now stomping up the gentlemen’s
staircase. At the top, they stopped. “You Grenville?” the same voice asked
again.
“I’m Jonathan Grenville, yes. What do you want with me?”
The ringleader took a single stop onto the piazza. We don’t want you.
We want your nigger.”
“There are no Negroes here.”
“Yes? So you say. That’s not what
we heard.”
“Who are you? Why do you come in darkness with faces covered? I am
an honest man, and I expect others to be
honest as well. Identify yourselves and we can talk.”
“Our disguises are for our own protection. There are those about who
would prevent honest Southern gentlemen from doing everything they can to
protect their families, their state, and their heritage. We hide our faces
until we know that the people with whom we speak are not Scalawags,
Carpetbaggers, Yankees, or nigger-lovers. Do you fall into any of those
categories, Mr. Grenville?”
Jonathan tried his best not to react to the question. Truth be told, he
thought to himself, I probably fit into all four groups. “You are Klansmen,
then.” It was a statement, not a
question.
“Ah, you have heard of the noble Ku Klux Klan, I see. Why is a fine,
upstanding Southern gentleman like yourself not one of us?”
Jonathan refused to be baited. “I’ve heard of you, but I didn’t know
you were active in South Carolina. We’ve never needed your kind of interference
to manage our affairs. I repeat. What do you want with me?”
“We’re looking for Hector Gresham. Recognize the name, do you?”
“There’s no one else here, except for my family.We hire a woman to help
with the cleaning and the children, but she goes to her own home every
evening.”
“We’re not after a maid. We want Hector Gresham. He’s a fugitive from
justice, and we hear he might be heading here to seek your protection. You do
know him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, I know Mr. Gresham, but I haven’t seen him in over a year. He has
never been a criminal, and he’s certainly not my . . . ‘nigger.’”
“Used to be your slave, didn’t he? That’s what we’ve been told.”
“Long before the war, yes. But I freed him, and he moved his family far
south from here to start a new life.”
“Sure. Moved south to cause more trouble, more likely.”
“No, Hector’s not the type to cause trouble. Surely you have the wrong man.”
“Didn’t you own a plantation on Edisto Island?”
“Yes, but—”
“And that’s where he went—to join his father-in-law in stealing your
property from you.”
“You’re wrong. His father-in-law, Thomas, purchased a piece of our
land at the end of the war, just as
General Sherman’s Field Order 15 provided, and Hector went to help him turn it
into a proper farm. They bought the property fairly. You have the story
confused.”
“No, you are the one who is behind the times, Grenville. South Carolina
no longer recognizes anything that damnable Sherman had to say. General Howard
came to Edisto last October, at the order of President Johnson and told the
slaves that they had to give their land back to its former owners. In February,
agents of the Freedmen’s Bureau arrived to assure the peaceful transfer of
land, only to find a bunch of sullen, defiant niggers standing their ground,
armed with sticks and hoes. Your fellow Thomas was one of the ringleaders,
until federal troops forcibly removed the protesters. Thomas and some of his
lot armed themselves and declared they would die before they surrendered their
land. So some of them did.”
A chuckle came from somewhere in the darkness. “Served them right, too,
those damned niggers.”
Jonathan felt a chill ripple across his back, and although this was a
conversation he certainly did not want to have, he could not help but ask. “You
say you’re looking for Hector, so he was not one of those involved in that
incident?”
“No, but that don’t say much about what’ll happen to him when we catch
up with him. He’s made his own brand of trouble.”
Another chuckle responded. “String him up, I say. Ain’t fit to live.”
The ringleader held up a hand to quiet his followers and then turned
back to Jonathan. “So you haven’t seen him?”
“No.”
“Well, keep your eyes on the lookout. He’s bound to turn up here sooner
or later, and when he does . . .” The statement trailed off but left no doubt
as to the threat it proffered. “We’ll be back, Grenville. We’re not through
with him . . . or with you.”
Jonathan found that he could not move as he watched this small band of
trouble-makers move down the street. They kept to the shadows, and peered
furtively into empty yards. And then they turned a corner and were gone.
Jonathan felt the terror drain from his body, only to realize that he was
trembling and sweating at the same time. I can’t let Susan see me like this, he
thought. I must calm down or I will frighten her beyond reason. He drew several
deep breaths and tried to stretch his muscles.
He froze again as another dark figure emerged from the shrubbery and
climbed the stairs. This man had no torch, yet he moved sure-footed across the
piazza. “You may not be ready to believe this, Mr. Grenville, but I am your
friend.” He spoke in falsetto, making his voice unidentifiable.
“Do I know you?”
“You’ve seen me many a time. If you saw my face, you would know me.”
“Then take off that mask and reveal yourself.”
“I cannot do that. I took a solemn oath to keep my identity a secret
from all with whom I have Klan dealings. We don’t even know the others in the
Klan. That’s for our own protection. We are strangers but we move with a single
purpose: to rescue the South from the horrible injustice that has been
committed against her.”
“There was no injustice. The South started the war by seceding, and
pursued it long after all hope of victory was lost. The bloodshed of those
horrible years must rest on your own shoulders.”
“This is not an argument I want to have with you. I like you. I know
you to be a good man. I know how many students have profited from their time in
your classroom. But I know more about you than that. You are a Yankee, born,
raised, and educated in Massachusetts, of all places.”
“I’ve never denied that.”
“Some would call you a Carpetbagger, although I wouldn’t. Still, you
came down here to make your living by teaching our young men, although, as I recall, you lost
your teaching job because you taught them some of your abolitionist views. You
hoped to change our attitudes and our business practices to suit yourself. You
married a young Southern belle to get your greedy hands on her inherited
property.”
“See here! I had no such . . .”
“I know. I wouldn’t say all that, but some will, and those who do will
call you Carpetbagger. Others—those who believe that you once made an honest
attempt to learn the ways of the South—will label you Scalawag.”
“Which is, according to your definition?”
“A Scalawag is a Southerner who turns agains his own land and
traditions. You have to admit that you . . .”
“I have to admit nothing. I am a simple man only trying to live a quiet
life here in my wife’s ancestral home. I am not a political creature. I vote as
a civic duty but not as an outspoken advocate of one party or another. I do not
meddle with such things. Why cannot you leave me alone?”
“Because you do not yet understand the gravity of your position. And as
your friend, I want to help you to do that.”
“You have a strange way of
showing friendship.”
“This is the only way I have. But I pray you will listen to me further.
The Klansmen who were here tonight also call you a nigger-lover. The story of
you freeing your slaves on the night of the Great Fire is well-known. A certain
judge who helped draw up the formal emancipation papers for you now moves with
us. He will speak against you, if it should ever come to that.”
“Why should it ever come up? I have done nothing wrong, while all of
you—you have invaded my property and brought threats against me and my family.
You have come under cover of darkness and in disguise. I challenge you once
again to stand and reveal yourself if you are so sure of the rightness of your
cause.”
“And I have told you that I will not do that. Ever. I may never have
another chance to speak to you so freely. I’m risking punishment, as it is. But
as I told you, I am your friend, and I would like to see you avoid further
difficulty with the Klansmen. I urge you to take this warning to heart. If
Hector Gresham comes to you for protection, you must turn him over to the
authorities. If you do not, the Klan will come after him with a rope. And then,
my friend—and then—they will come after you. Take care!” With the same
light-footed step that marked his arrival, he moved down the piazza steps and
was lost into the darkness.
Still stunned by this turn of events, Jonathan moved to the door,
determined only to reclaim the safety of his home. As he closed the door behind
him and dropped the heavy safety bar, he heard Susan’s voice, as if from a far
distance.
She stood in the doorway to the dining room, down the hall from the twin
parlors that flanked the front door. In the flickering gas light, her eyes were
huge, and her hands cupped her cheeks as if to hold herself together.
“Jonathan?”
“Everything’s all right, Susan. You don’t need to fret yourself.”
She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. They’re here.”
“Who’s here? That unruly mob has gone on their way. I’m sorry if you
had to hear part of that, but they’re all gone now.”
“No, not them. Him. Hector’s here—and Sarah. They’re below stairs right
now. What are we going to do?”
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