Gabriel Tolliver: A Story of Reconstruction

by Joel Chandler Harris

"Yes, blood!" was the reply.

"Then all is well!"

"So mote it be! All is well!" answered twelve voices in chorus.

Once more the ghostly procession rode round and round the church, and then suddenly disappeared in the darkness. Gabriel rubbed his eyes. For an instant he believed that he had been dreaming. If ever there were goblins, these were they. The figures on horseback were so closely draped in white that they had no shape but height, and their heads and hands were not in view.

It may well be believed that the sudden appearance and disappearance of these apparitions produced consternation in the Rev. Jeremiah's congregation. The stranger who had been addressing them was left in a state of collapse. The only person in the building who appeared to be cool and sane was the man Hotchkiss. The negroes sat paralysed for an instant after the white riders had disappeared—but only for an instant, for, before you could breathe twice, those in the rear seats made a rush for the door. This movement precipitated a panic, and the entire congregation joined in a mad effort to escape from the building. The Rev. Jeremiah forgot the dignity of his position, and, umbrella in hand, emerged from a window, bringing the upper sash with him. Benches were overturned, and wild shrieks came from the women. The climax came when five pistol-shots rang out on the air.

Gabriel, in his tree, could hear the negroes running, their feet sounding on the hard clay like the furious scamper of a drove of wild horses. Years afterward, he could afford to laugh at the events of that night, but, at the moment, the terror of the negroes was contagious, and he had a mild attack of it.

The pistol-shots occurred as the Rev. Jeremiah emerged from the window, and were evidently in the nature of a signal, for before the echoes of the reports had died away, the white horsemen came into view again, and rode after the fleeing negroes. Gabriel did not witness the effect of this movement, but it came near driving the fleeing negroes into a frenzy. The white riders paid little attention to the mob itself, but selected the Rev. Jeremiah as the object of their solicitude.

He had bethought him of his dignity when he had gone a few hundred steps, and found he was not pursued, and, instead of taking to the woods, as most of his congregation did, he kept to the public road. Before he knew it, or at least before he could leave the road, he found himself escorted by the entire band. Six rode on each side, and the leader rode behind him. Once he started to run, but the white riders easily kept pace with him, their horses going in a comfortable canter. When he found that escape was impossible, he ceased to run. He would have stopped, but when he tried to do so he felt the hot breath of the leader's horse on the back of his neck, and the sensation was so unexpected and so peculiar, that the frightened negro actually thought that a chunk of fire, as he described it afterward, had been applied to his head. So vivid was the impression made on his mind that he declared that he had actually seen the flame, as it circled around his head; and he maintained that the back of his head would have been burned off if "de fier had been our kind er fier."

Finding that he could not escape by running, he began to walk, and as he was a man of great fluency of speech, he made an effort to open a conversation with his ghostly escort. He was perspiring at every pore, and this fact called for a frequent use of his red pocket-handkerchief.

"Blood!" cried the leader, and twelve voices repeated the word.