"Not a word now to a living soul until I strike——"
"I understand, sir, not a word," the Carpetbagger replied in low tones as he nervously fumbled his hat and edged his way out of the room.
The editor received the Governor's first move in the game with contempt. It was exactly what he had expected—this organization of white renegades, thieves, loafers, cut-throats, and deserters. It was the last resort of desperation. Every day, while these dirty ignorant recruits were being organized and drilled, he taunted the Governor over the personnel of his "Loyal" army. He began the publication of the history of its officers and men. These biographical stories were written with a droll humor that kept the whole state in a good-humored ripple of laughter and inspired the convention that nominated a complete white man's ticket to renewed enthusiasm.
And then the bolt from the blue—the Governor's act of supreme madness!
As the editor sat at his desk writing an editorial congratulating the state on the brilliant ticket that the white race had nominated and predicting its triumphant election, in spite of negroes, thieves, cut-throats, Scalawags and Carpetbaggers, a sudden commotion on the sidewalk in front of his office stopped his pencil in the midst of an unfinished word.
He walked to the window and looked out. By the flickering light of the street lamp he saw an excited crowd gathering in the street.
A company of the Governor's new guard had halted in front. An officer ripped off the palings from the picket fence beside the building and sent a squad of his men to the rear.
The tramp of heavy feet on the stairs was heard and the dirty troopers crowded into the editor's room, muskets in hand, cocked, and their fingers on the triggers.
Norton quietly drew the pencil from his ear, smiled at the mottled group of excited men, and spoke in his slow drawl:
"And why this excitement, gentlemen?"
The captain stepped forward:
"Are you Major Daniel Norton?"
"I am, sir."
"You're my prisoner."
"Show your warrant!" was the quick challenge.
"I don't need one, sir."
"Indeed! And since when is this state under martial law?"
"Will you go peaceable?" the captain asked roughly.
"When I know by whose authority you make this arrest."
The editor walked close to the officer, drew himself erect, his hands clenched behind his back and held the man's eye for a moment with a cold stare.
The captain hesitated and drew a document from his pocket.
The editor scanned it hastily and suddenly turned pale:
"A proclamation suspending the writ of habeas corpus—impossible!"
The captain lifted his dirty palms:
"I reckon you can read!"
"Oh, yes, I can read it, captain—still it's impossible. You can't suspend the law of gravitation by saying so on a scrap of paper——"
"You are ready to go?"
The editor laughed:
"Certainly, certainly—with pleasure, I assure you."
The captain lifted his hand and his men lowered their guns. The editor seized a number of blank writing pads, a box of pencils, put on his hat and called to his assistants:
"I'm moving my office temporarily to the county jail, boys. It's quieter over there. I can do better work. Send word to my home that I'm all right and tell my wife not to worry for a minute. Every man to his post now and the liveliest paper ever issued! And on time to the minute."
The printers had crowded into the room and a ringing cheer suddenly startled the troopers.
The foreman held an ugly piece of steel in his hand and every man seemed to have hold of something.
"Give the word, chief!" the foreman cried.
The editor smiled:
"Thanks, boys, I understand. Go back to your work. You can help best that way."
The men dropped their weapons and crowded to the door, jeering and howling in derision at the awkward squad as they stumbled down the stairs after their commander, who left the building holding tightly to the editor's arm, as if at any moment he expected an escape or a rescue.
The procession wended its way to the jail behind the Court House through a crowd of silent men who merely looked at the prisoner, smiled and nodded to him over the heads of his guard.
An ominous quiet followed the day's work. The Governor was amazed at the way his sensational coup was received. He had arrested and thrown into jail without warrant the leaders of the white party in every county in the state. He was absolutely sure that these men were the leaders of the Ku Klux Klan, the one invisible but terrible foe he really feared.
He had expected bluster, protests, mass meetings and fiery resolutions. Instead his act was received with a silence that was uncanny. In vain his Carpetbagger lieutenant congratulated him on the success of his Napoleonic move.
His little ferret eyes snapped with suppressed excitement.
"But what the devil is the meaning of this silence, Schlitz?" he asked with a tremor.
"They're stunned, I tell you. It was a master stroke. They're a lot of cowards and sneaks, these night raiders, anyhow. It only took a bold act of authority to throw them into a panic."
The Scalawag shook his head thoughtfully:
"Doesn't look like a panic to me—I'm uneasy——"
"The only possible mistake you've made was the arrest of Norton."
"Yes, I know public sentiment in the North don't like an attempt to suppress free speech, but I simply had to do it. Damn him, I've stood his abuse as long as I'm going to. Besides his dirty sheet is at the bottom of all our trouble."
When the Governor scanned his copy of the next morning's Eagle and Phoenix his feeling of uneasiness increased.
Instead of the personal abuse he had expected from the young firebrand, he read a long, carefully written editorial reviewing the history of the great writ of habeas corpus in the evolution of human freedom. The essay closed with the significant statement that no Governor in the records of the state or the colony had ever dared to repeal or suspend this guarantee of Anglo-Saxon liberty—not even for a moment during the chaos of the Civil War.
But the most disquieting feature of this editorial was the suggestive fact that it was set between heavy mourning lines and at the bottom of it stood a brief paragraph enclosed in even heavier black bands:
"We regret to announce that the state is at present without a chief executive. Our late unlamented Governor passed away in a fit of insanity at three o'clock yesterday."
When the little Scalawag read the sarcastic obituary he paled for a moment and the hand which held the paper trembled so violently he was compelled to lay it on the table to prevent his secretary from noting his excitement.
For the first time in the history of the state an armed guard was stationed at the door of the Governor's mansion that night.
The strange calm continued. No move was made by the negroid government to bring the imprisoned men to trial and apparently no effort was being made by the men inside the jails to regain their liberty.
Save that his editorials were dated from the county jail, no change had occurred in the daily routine of the editor's life. He continued his series of articles on the history of the state each day, setting them in heavy black mourning lines. Each of these editorials ended with an appeal to the patriotism