CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Foiled the Ku Klux
Throughout the reconstruction period there was less lawlessness in Hale than in the counties adjoining, and overthrow of the radical administration was effected without bloodshed.
January 19, 1871, in the wee sma’ hours, a cyclops and his retinue of seventy unceremoniously called at Judge Blackford’s apartments to pay their respects. The call was intended as a sort of “surprise party”; but coming events had cast their shadows before, and those shadows were as premonitions of an early nocturnal visit, and the judge was “not at home.” He was cautiously domiciled in a room adjoining his office, in another part of town. Here, in the embrace of Morpheus, perhaps reveling in dreams of a blessed land beyond the jurisdiction of the Grand Wizard, he was aroused with the cry of “Ku Klux!” by an alert negro, who had hastened from the judge’s home to apprise him of the presence there of the unwelcome visitors. The alarm was not premature, for the horsemen were hotfooting in the wake of the negro and reached the office almost as soon as he. The judge needed no repetition of the dreadful tidings. His transition from Dreamland to earth was instantaneous, and his plunge in dishabille through an open window was a disappearing act worthy of reproduction on a dramatic stage. The weird sound of a whistle close at hand broke discordantly into the sweet concert of frogs, katydids and other melodists of the nights and accelerated the speed of him who sought asylum and ghostly solitude in the boneyard in the depths of the forest.
Recounting the thrilling incidents of that awful night, and his sojourn of three nights in the gruesome refuge, Dr. Blackford, expressed bitter resentment of the rude treatment to which his glossy tile, which he abandoned in vanishing through the window, was subjected by the klansmen; they placed it on the end of a staff and bore it as a sort of mock pennant at the head of the cavalcade. Often trivial incidents, if ridiculous or amusing, eclipse those that are grave. It was so in the Eutaw riot, when a “plug hat” diverted dangerous men from an unlawful purpose,—but that is another story, and will be told in due time.
For the next few days, Dr. Blackford camped at night and returned to his office in the morning. According to his own statement, a prominent Confederate general took him to his quarters in a hotel and promised him protection temporarily. One evening, in general conversation, the subject of the Ku Klux was broached, and the host imparted to his very receptive guest much information thereon. The klans pervaded the country, and were better organized than the Confederate army had ever been. There was no escape for a proscribed man if he should tarry when ordered to be on the move; when they dealt with a man, a klan from some other county or state did the work, and all residents could be seen pursuing their accustomed walks. “You are watched,” he said, “day and night, and your whereabouts cannot long be concealed. On that night when the Ku Klux were after you, not more than one or two persons in the vicinity had knowledge of their coming.”
[There were at that time in Greensboro two distinguished Confederate generals, Forrest and Rucker, engaged in building the Selma and Memphis Railroad.]
Judge Blackford conferred with some prominent citizens, and at his request they consented to purchase his property on condition that he resign and betake himself to other parts. After prolonged negotiations, the arrangement was effected. Governor Lindsay appointed as Blackford’s successor to the probate judgeship Mr. James M. Hobson, father of Congressman Richmond P. Hobson. Dr. Blackford, with his grievances, repaired to Washington, where an emollient in the form of a special agency of the Postoffice Department diverted his thoughts from the enemies he had left behind.
The details of Dr. Blackford’s statement of information derived from the Confederate general should be taken with a grain of salt, because his memory was not accurate. In Washington he testified in regard to another occurrence in Greensboro, and General Blair’s inquisitiveness exposed the infirmity referred to.
He said the citizens regarded the soldiers “as a set of niggers and offscourings of creation” whom they could “buy with two dollars and a drink of whisky,” and make them do their will. Then he related that “while probate judge” there was an election in Greensboro, and soldiers in charge at the polls got drunk and changed negroes’ votes. He interfered, and one of them asked: “What the devil have you got to do with it?” The doctor replied: “I have simply this much, I am the presiding officer here of this county; I propose to keep the peace and enforce my rights as the presiding officer of the county, and I will deal with you myself if you do not leave.” The valiant doctor then drew a pistol and said, “If you do not leave here now, I will shoot you.” Comrades of the obstreperous soldier interposed and bore him away, leaving the doctor in serene enjoyment of his rights as “presiding officer of the county.” After he had testified further at considerable length, Senator Blair suddenly projected himself into the inquiry with the question:
“On what occasion was it you drew your pistol upon a United States soldier and told him you would shoot him if he would not desist?”
“It was on the day of the election.”
“What election?”
“For the constitution; the day we voted on the constitution, I think that was the day.”
“What office did you hold then?”
“No, sir; it was not the day of the constitutional election; it was the day on which the election, I think, of officers took place, and I know that I was—or at least my impression is that I was probate judge at the time; that is my impression, that I was probate judge at the time.”
“The officers were elected on the same day the constitution was voted on. So you could not have been a probate judge until you were elected and commissioned.”
“No, sir; my impression is, that it was after I was probate judge that that occurred. I think I told him that by virtue of the office that I held, if he did not desist from this—I know that was my assertion to the soldier.”
“Was that a proper act for an officer, a conservator of the peace?”
“I do not know that it was, but the acts of violence going on, I thought, demanded it, and the sheriff of the county had left,—and left these soldiers there to do just what they pleased, and they were drunk; and when I asked them several times to desist from this thing, and this fellow clapped his hand on his pistol,—and I had a large derringer in my pocket, and I told him he should do it.”
“You drew your pistol on him?”
“Yes, sir; I drew my pistol.”
“Was it your duty to arrest him?”
“Perhaps it might have been, sir. I did not think so; in the midst of that excitement, I did not think so, sir.”
“If a peace officer set such examples, they cannot complain that they are followed by others.”
“Yes, sir; that may be all true, but the peace officers had all forsaken me and I was there, either to let the election go by default or else to pursue that course,—and I resolved on that to get him away from there.”
“Would not the course have been just as effectual if you had arrested him in the name of the law?”
“I think the parties around him would have resisted arrest.”
“Would not they have equally resisted your firing upon him?”