By Thomas Dixon, Jr.

Illustrated By C. D. Williams

New York:Doubleday, Page & Co.

1902

TO

HARRIET

SWEET-VOICED DAUGHTER OF THE OLD FASHIONED SOUTH

CONTENTS

HISTORICAL NOTE

LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

BOOK ONE—LEGREE’S REGIME

CHAPTER I—A HERO RETURNS

CHAPTER II—A LIGHT SHINING IN DARKNESS

CHAPTER III—DEEPENING SHADOWS

CHAPTER IV—MR. LINCOLN’S DREAM

CHAPTER V—THE OLD AND THE NEW CHURCH

CHAPTER VI—THE PREACHER AND THE WOMAN OF BOSTON

CHAPTER VII—THE HEART OF A CHILD

CHAPTER VIII—AN EXPERIMENT IN MATRIMONY

CHAPTER IX—A MASTER OF MEN

CHAPTER X—THE MAN OR BRUTE IN EMBRYO

CHAPTER XI—SIMON LEGREE

CHAPTER XII—RED SNOW DROPS

CHAPTER XIII—DICK

CHAPTER XIV—THE NEGRO UPRISING

CHAPTER XV—THE NEW CITIZEN KING

CHAPTER XVI—LEGREE SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE

CHAPTER XVII—THE SECOND REIGN OF TERROR

CHAPTER XVIII—THE RED FLAG OF THE AUCTIONEER

CHAPTER XIX—THE RALLY OF THE CLANSMEN

CHAPTER XX—HOW CIVILISATION WAS SAVED

CHAPTER XXI—THE OLD AND THE NEW NEGRO

CHAPTER XXII—THE DANGER OF PLAYING WITH FIRE

CHAPTER XXIII—THE BIRTH OF A SCALAWAG

CHAPTER XXIV—A MODERN MIRACLE

BOOK TWO—LOVE’S DREAM

CHAPTER I—BLUE EYES AND BLACK HAIR

CHAPTER II—THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER

CHAPTER III—FLORA

CHAPTER IV—THE ONE WOMAN

CHAPTER V—THE MORNING OF LOVE

CHAPTER VI—BESIDE BEAUTIFUL WATERS

CHAPTER VII—DREAMS AND FEARS

CHAPTER VIII—THE UNSOLVED RIDDLE

CHAPTER IX—THE RHYTHM OF THE DANCE

CHAPTER X—THE HEART OF A VILLAIN

CHAPTER XI—THE OLD OLD STORY

CHAPTER XII—THE MUSIC OF THE MILLS

CHAPTER XIII—THE FIRST KISS

CHAPTER XIV—A MYSTERIOUS LETTER

CHAPTER XV—A BLOW IN THE DARK

CHAPTER XVI—THE MYSTERY OF PAIN

CHAPTER XVII—IS GOD OMNIPOTENT?

CHAPTER XVIII—THE WAYS OF BOSTON

CHAPTER XIX—THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT

CHAPTER XX—A NEW LESSON IN LOVE

CHAPTER XXI—WHY THE PREACHER THREW HIS LIFE AWAY

CHAPTER XXII—THE FLESH AND THE SPIRIT

BOOK THREE—THE THE TRIAL BY FIRE

CHAPTER I—A GROWL BENEATH THE EARTH

CHAPTER II—FACE TO FACE WITH FATE

CHAPTER III—A WHITE LIE

CHAPTER IV—THE UNSPOKEN TERROR

CHAPTER V—A THOUSAND-LEGGED BEAST

CHAPTER VI—THE BLACK PERIL

CHAPTER VII—EQUALITY WITH A RESERVATION

CHAPTER VIII—THE NEW SIMON LEGREE

CHAPTER IX—THE NEW AMERICA

CHAPTER X—ANOTHER DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

CHAPTER XI—THE HEART OF A WOMAN

CHAPTER XII—THE SPLENDOUR OF SHAMELESS LOVE

CHAPTER XIII—A SPEECH THAT MADE HISTORY

CHAPTER XIV—THE RED SHIRTS

CHAPTER XV—THE HIGHER LAW

CHAPTER XVI—THE END OF A MODERN VILLAIN

CHAPTER XVII—WEDDING BELLS IN THE GOVERNOR’S MANSION

HISTORICAL NOTE

In answer to hundreds of letters, I wish to say that all the incidents used in Book I., which is properly the prologue of my story, were selected from authentic records, or came within my personal knowledge.

The only serious liberty I have taken with history is to tone down the facts to make them credible in fiction. The village of “Hambright” is my birthplace, and is located near the center of “Military District No. 2,” comprising the Carolinas, which were destroyed as States by an Act of Congress in 1867. It will be a century yet before people outside the South can be made to believe a literal statement of the history of those times.

I tried to write this book with the utmost restraint.

Thomas Dixon, Jr.

May 9, 1902.

Elmington Manor, Dixondale, Va.

LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

Scene: The Foothills of North Carolina-Boston-New York Time: From 1865 to 1900

Charles Gaston...........Who dreams of a Governor’s Mansion

Sallie Worth.............A daughter of the old fashioned South

Gen. Daniel Worth..................................Her father

Mrs. Worth...........................................Sallie’s mother

The Rev. John Durham.........A preacher who threw his life away

Mrs. Durham........Of the Southern Army that never surrendered

Tom Camp.....................A one-legged Confederate soldier

Flora....................................Tom’s little daughter

Simon Legree........Ex-slave driver and Reconstruction leader

Allan McLeod..............................A Scalawag

Hon. Everett Lowell..........Member of Congress from Boston

Helen Lowell........................His daughter

Miss Susan Walker.................A maiden of Boston

Major Stuart Dameron..............Chief of the Ku Klux Klan

Hose Norman.......................A dare-devil poor white man

Nelse........................A black hero of the old régime

Aunt Eve.....................His wife-“a respectable woman.”

Hon. Tim Shelby...................Political boss of the new era

Hon. Pete Sawyer.........Sold seven times, got the money once

George Harris, Jr............An Educated Negro, son of Eliza

Dick.......................................An unsolved riddle

CHAPTER I—A HERO RETURNS

ON the field of Appomattox General Lee was waiting the return of a courier. His handsome face was clouded by the deepening shadows of defeat. Rumours of surrender had spread like wildfire, and the ranks of his once invincible army were breaking into chaos.

Suddenly the measured tread of a brigade was heard marching into action, every movement quick with the perfect discipline, the fire, and the passion of the first days of the triumphant Confederacy.

“What brigade is that?” he sharply asked.

“Cox’s North Carolina,” an aid replied.

As the troops swept steadily past the General, his eyes filled with tears, he lifted his hat, and exclaimed, “God bless old North Carolina!”

The display of matchless discipline perhaps recalled to the great commander that awful day of Gettysburg when the Twenty-sixth North Carolina infantry had charged with 820 men rank and file and left 704 dead and wounded on the ground that night. Company F from Campbell county charged with 91 men and lost every man killed and wounded. Fourteen times their colours were shot down, and fourteen times raised again. The last time they fell from the hands of gallant Colonel Harry Burgwyn, twenty-one years old, commander of the regiment, who seized them and was holding them aloft when instantly killed.

The last act of the tragedy had closed. Johnston surrendered to Sherman at Greensboro on April 26th, 1865, and the Civil War ended,—the bloodiest, most destructive war the world ever saw. The earth had been baptized in the blood of five hundred thousand heroic soldiers, and a new map of the world had been made.

The ragged troops were straggling home from Greensboro and Appomattox along the country roads. There were no mails, telegraph lines or railroads. The men were telling the story of the surrender. White-faced women dressed in coarse homespun met them at their doors and with quivering lips heard the news.

Surrender!

A new word in the vocabulary of the South—a word so terrible in its meaning that the date of its birth was to be the landmark of time. Henceforth all events would be reckoned from this; “before the Surrender,” or “after the Surrender.”

Desolation everywhere marked the end of an era. Not a cow, a sheep, a horse, a fowl, or a sign of animal life save here and there a stray dog, to be seen. Grim chimneys marked the site of once fair homes. Hedgerows of tangled blackberry briar and bushes showed where a fence had stood before war breathed upon the land with its breath of fire and harrowed it with teeth of steel.

These tramping soldiers looked worn and dispirited. Their shoulders stooped, they were dirty and hungry. They looked worse than they felt, and they felt that the end of the world had come.

They had answered those awful commands to charge without a murmur; and then, rolled back upon a sea of blood, they charged again over the dead bodies of their comrades. When repulsed the second time and the mad cry for a third charge from some desperate commander had rung over the field, still without a word they pulled their old ragged hats down close over their eyes as though to shut out the hail of bullets, and, through level sheets of blinding flame, walked straight into the jaws of hell. This had been easy. Now their feet seemed to falter as though they were not sure of the road.

In every one of these soldier’s hearts, and over all the earth hung the shadow of the freed Negro, transformed by the exigency of war from a Chattel to be bought and sold into a possible Beast to be feared and guarded. Around this dusky figure every white man’s soul was keeping its grim vigil.

North Carolina, the typical American Democracy, had loved peace and sought in vain to stand between the mad passions of the Cavalier of the South and the Puritan fanatic of the North. She entered the war at last with a sorrowful heart but a soul clear in the sense of tragic duty. She sent more boys to the front than any other state of the Confederacy—and left more dead on the field. She made the last charge and fired the last volley for Lee’s army at Appomattox.

These were the ragged country boys who were slowly tramping homeward. The group whose fortunes we are to follow were marching toward the little village of Hambright that nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge under the shadows of King’s Mountain. They were the sons of the men who had first declared their independence of Great Britain in America and had made their country a hornet’s nest for Lord Cornwallis in the darkest days of the cause of Liberty. What tongue can tell the tragic story of their humble home coming?

In rich Northern cities could be heard the boom of guns, the scream of steam whistles, the shouts of surging hosts greeting returning regiments crowned with victory. From every flag-staff fluttered proudly the flag that our fathers had lifted in the sky—the flag that had never met defeat.

It is little wonder that in this hour of triumph the world should forget the defeated soldiers who without a dollar in their pockets were tramping to their ruined homes.

Yet Nature did not seem to know of sorrow or death. Birds were singing their love songs from the hedgerows, the fields were clothed in gorgeous robes of wild flowers beneath which forget-me-nots spread their contrasting hues of blue, while life was busy in bud and starting leaf reclothing the blood-stained earth in radiant beauty.

As the sun was setting behind the peaks of the Blue Ridge, a giant negro entered the village of Ham-bright. He walked rapidly down one of the principal streets, passed the court house square unobserved in the gathering twilight, and three blocks further along paused before a law-office that stood in the corner of a beautiful lawn filled with shrubbery and flowers.

“Dars de ole home, praise de Lawd! En now I’se erfeard ter see my Missy, en tell her Marse Charles’s daid. Hit’ll kill her! Lawd hab mussy on my po black soul! How kin I!”

He walked softly up the alley that led toward the kitchen past the “big” house, which after all was a modest cottage boarded up and down with weatherstrips nestling amid a labyrinth of climbing roses, honeysuckles, fruit bearing shrubbery and balsam trees. The negro had no difficulty in concealing his movements as he passed.

“Lordy, dars Missy watchin’ at de winder! How pale she look! En she wuz de purties’ bride in de two counties! God-der-mighty, I mus’ git somebody ter he’p me! I nebber tell her! She drap daid right ’fore my eyes, en liant me twell I die. I run fetch de Preacher, Marse John Durham, he kin tell her.”

A few moments later he was knocking at the door of the parsonage of the Baptist church.

“Nelse! At last! I knew you’d come!”

“Yassir, Marse John, I’se home. Hit’s me.”

“And your Master is dead. I was sure of it, but I never dared tell your Mistress. You came for me to help you tell her. People said you had gone over into the promised land of freedom and forgotten your people; but Nelse, I never believed it of you and I’m doubly glad to shake your hand to-night because you’ve brought a brave message from heroic lips and because you have brought a braver message in your honest black face of faith and duty and life and love.”

“Thankee Marse John, I wuz erbleeged ter come home.”

The Preacher stepped into the hall and called the servant from the kitchen.

“Aunt Mary, when your Mistress returns tell her I’ve received an urgent call and will not be at home for supper.”

“I’ll be ready in a minute, Nelse,” he said, as he disappeared into the study. When he reached his desk, he paused and looked about the room in a helpless way as though trying to find some half forgotten volume in the rows of books that lined the walls and lay in piles on his desk and tables. He knelt beside the desk and prayed. When he rose there was a soft light in his eyes that were half filled with tears.

Standing in the dim light of his study he was a striking man. He had a powerful figure of medium height, deep piercing eyes and a high intellectual forehead. His hair was black and thick. He was a man of culture, had graduated at the head of his class at Wake Forest College before the war, and was a profound student of men and books. He was now thirty-five years old and the acknowledged leader of the Baptist denomination in the state. He was eloquent, witty, and proverbially good natured. His voice in the pulpit was soft and clear, and full of a magnetic quality that gave him hypnotic power over an audience. He had the prophetic temperament and was more of poet than theologian.

The people of this village were proud of the man as a citizen and loved him passionately as their preacher. Great churches had called him, but he had never accepted. There was in his make-up an element of the missionary that gave his personality a peculiar force.

He had been the college mate of Colonel Charles Gaston whose faithful slave had come to him for help, and they had always been bosom friends. He had performed the marriage ceremony for the Colonel ten years before when he had led to the altar the beautiful daughter of the richest planter in the adjoining county. Durham’s own heart was profoundly moved by his friend’s happiness and he threw into the brief preliminary address so much of tenderness and earnest passion that the trembling bride and groom forgot their fright and were melted to tears. Thus began an association of their family life that was closer than their college days.

He closed his lips firmly for an instant, softly shut the door and was soon on the way with Nelse. On reaching the house, Nelse went directly to the kitchen, while the Preacher walking along the circular drive approached the front. His foot had scarcely touched the step when Mrs. Gaston opened the door.

“Oh, Dr. Durham, I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been depressed to-day, watching the soldiers go by. All day long the poor foot-sore fellows have been passing. I stopped some of them to ask about Colonel Gaston and I thought one of them knew something and would not tell me. I brought him in and gave him dinner, and tried to coax him, but he only looked wistfully at me, stammered and said he didn’t know. But some how I feel that he did. Come in Doctor, and say something to cheer me. If I only had your faith in God!”

“I have need of it all to-night, Madam!” he answered with bowed head.

“Then you have heard bad news?”

“I have heard news,—wonderful news of faith and love, of heroism and knightly valour, that will be a priceless heritage to you and yours. Nelse has returned—”

“God have mercy on me!”—she gasped covering her face and raising her arm as though cowering from a mortal blow.

“Here is Nelse, Madam. Hear his story. He has only told me a word or two.” Nelse had slipped quietly in the back door.

“Yassum. Missy, I’se home at las’.”

She looked at him strangely for a moment. “Nelse, I’ve dreamed and dreamed of your coming, but always with him. And now you come alone to tell me he is dead. Lord have pity! there is nothing left!” There was a far-away sound in her voice as though half dreaming.

“Yas, Missy, dey is, I jes seed him—my young Marster—dem bright eyes, de ve’y nose, de chin, de mouf! He walks des like Marse Charles, he talks like him, he de ve’y spit er him, en how he hez growed! He’ll be er man fo you knows it. En I’se got er letter fum his Pa fur him, an er letter fur you, Missy.”

At this moment Charlie entered the room, slipped past Nelse and climbed into his mother’s arms. He was a sturdy little fellow of eight years with big brown eyes and sensitive mouth.

“Yassir—Ole Grant wuz er pushin’ us dar afo’ Richmond Pear ter me lak Marse Robert been er fightin’ him ev’y day for six monts. But he des keep on pushin’ en pushin’ us. Marse Charles say ter me one night atter I been playin’ de banjer fur de boys, Come ter my tent Nelse fo turnin’ in—I wants ter see you.’ He talk so solemn like, I cut de banjer short, en go right er long wid him. He been er writin’ en done had two letters writ. He say, ‘Nelse, we gwine ter git outen dese trenches ter-morrer. It twell be my las’ charge. I feel it. Ef I falls, you take my swode, en watch en dese letters back home to your Mist’ess and young Marster, en you promise me, boy, to stan’ by em in life ez I stan’ by you.’ He know I lub him bettern any body in dis work, en dat I’d rudder be his slave dan be free if he’s daid! En I say, ‘Dat I will, Marse Charles.’

“De nex day we up en charge ole Grant. Pears ter me I nebber see so many dead Yankees on dis yearth ez we see layin’ on de groun’ whar we brake froo dem lines! But dey des kep fetchin’ up annudder army back er de one we breaks, twell bymeby, dey swing er whole millyon er Yankees right plum behin’ us, en five millyon er fresh uns come er swoopin’ down in front. Den yer otter see my Marster! He des kinder riz in de air—pear ter me like he wuz er foot taller en say to his men—’ ‘Bout face, en charge de line in de rear!’ Wall sar, we cut er hole clean froo dem Yankees en er minute, end den bout face ergin en begin ter walk backerds er fightin’ like wilecats ev’y inch. We git mos back ter de trenches, when Marse Charles drap des lak er flash! I runned up to him en dar wuz er big hole in his breas’ whar er bullet gone clean froo his heart. He nebber groan. I tuk his head up in my arms en cry en take on en call him! I pull back his close en listen at his heart. Hit wuz still. I takes de swode an

de watch en de letters outen de pockets en start on—when bress God, yer cum dat whole Yankee army ten hundred millyons, en dey tromple all over us!

“Den I hear er Yankee say ter me ‘Now, my man, you’se free.’ ‘Yassir, sezzi, dats so,’ en den I see a hole ter run whar dey warn’t no Yankees, en I run spang into er millyon mo. De Yankees wuz ev’y whar. Pear ter me lak dey riz up outer de groun’. All dat day I try ter get away fum ’em. En long ’bout night dey ’rested me en fetch me up fo er Genr’l, en he say, ‘What you tryin’ ter get froo our lines fur, nigger? Doan yer know yer free now, en if you go back you’d be a slave ergin?’”

“Dats so, sah,” sezzi, “but I’se ’bleeged ter go home.”

“What fur?” sezze.

“Promise Marse Charles ter take dese letters en swode en watch back home to my Missus en young Marster, en dey waitin’ fur me—I’se ’bleeged ter go.”

“Den he tuk de letters en read er minute, en his eyes gin ter water en he choke up en say, ‘Go-long!’

“Den I skeedaddled ergin. Dey kep on ketchin’ me twell bimeby er nasty stinkin low-life slue-footed Yankee kotched me en say dat I wuz er dang’us nigger, en sont me wid er lot er our prisoners way up ter ole Jonson’s Islan’ whar I mos froze ter deaf. I stay dar twell one day er fine lady what say she from Boston cum er long, en I up en tells her all erbout Marse Charles and my Missus, en how dey all waitin’ fur me, en how bad I want ter go home, en de nex news I knowed I wuz on er train er whizzin’ down home wid my way all paid. I get wid our men at Greensboro en come right on fas’ ez my legs’d carry me.”