“Brother Tracy’s right. Look at what happened to Jeff Anderson down near Valdosta last spring. He ran away and got to Detroit where he had a good job working in an automobile plant. They swore out a warrant against him for stealing, brought him back, and the last I heard of him he was back down there working out a three-hundred-dollar fine. No, Brother Phillips, you’ve been reading the law that applies to white folks—not to us coloured people.”
James Swann’s story was along the same lines as the others. The seven men entered into a discussion of ways and means of taking some action which would alleviate conditions before the harvesting of the crop which was now in the ground. One suggestion after another was offered, only to be as quickly discarded because of local difficulties. Midnight came, with no decision reached. When it became apparent that nothing would be settled, Kenneth was chosen with Mr. Wilson and Mr. Phillips to work out some plan to be reported at the meeting to be held one week later.
CHAPTER IX
There was being held another meeting the same night. Two miles from Central City, to the North, was a natural auditorium, an amphitheatre formed by three hills. In this place a meeting alfresco was in progress. Though the place was far enough from the road to be reasonably free from prying intruders, sentinels paced the narrow roads that led to the place of assemblage. Skeleton-like pine-trees formed an additional barrier to the lonely spot, making as they did a natural fringe atop the three hills.
There was no moon. Light was furnished by pine torches fastened in some instances to trees, in others borne aloft by members of the gathering. About three hundred men were ranged in a circle around a rudely carved cross stuck in the ground. Each man was garbed in a long white robe reaching to his feet. On the left breast of each hood was a cross with other strange figures. Over the head of each man was a cowl with holes for eyelets. It was a meeting of Central City Klan, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Realm of Georgia. The Exalted Cyclops, whose voice bore a remarkable likeness to that of Sheriff Parker, was initiating new members into the mysteries of the order. He held in his hand a sheet from which he was reading the oath which the “aliens” repeated after him with their right hands upraised. Whether through fright or excitement or because the night air was chilly, the voices of the embryo “knights” had a strange quaver in them. Around them, rank on rank, stood the Klansmen, who followed the ceremony closely.
“… will willingly conform—to all regulations, usages, and requirements—of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan—which do now exist—or which may hereafter—be enacted—and will render—at all times—loyal respect, and steadfast support—to the Imperial Authority of same. …”
The droning voices ended the monotonous recital. The flickering torches gave forth a weird light that was lost in the darkness cast by the trees. The pungent odour of burning resin and the thick stifling smoke were blown by vagrant breezes into the faces of the hooded figures, causing a constant accompaniment of coughs, sneezes, and curses to the mumbled words. A recent rain-storm had left the low-lying ground soggy and damp and mightily uncomfortable underfoot. The crowd shifted uneasily as their feet grew cold with the dampness. Moths, mosquitoes, and other flying insects, attracted by the flaring lights, swarmed, getting beneath the cowls and robes and adding to the discomfort of the wearers. Even the imperfect illumination showed the cheap material of which the disguises were made, exhibited the wrinkles and dirt around the hems, revealed every aspect of the ill-fitting garments. Once from a spluttering torch there fell a bit of blazing resin on the hand of the man holding the light. With a yell he dropped the torch, danced and howled with pain, a ludicrous figure, until the agony had subsided. The torch, flung hastily away, set fire to the underbrush into which it had been cast. An unlooked-for intermission in the ceremonies followed as a score of the figures, holding the skirts of their robes aloft like old maids frightened at the appearance of a mouse, stamped out the fire, circling and yelling like a band of whirling deryishes.
Stodgy, phlegmatic, stupid citizens by day, these by night went through the discomforts of so unprepared a meeting-place, and through the absurdities of the rites imposed upon them by clever rogues who extracted from them fees and donations for the privilege of being made to appear more silly than is usually apparent. Add to that gullibility a natural love of the mysterious and adventurous and an instinct towards brute action restrained only by fear of punishment, by a conjuring of bogies and other malevolent dangers, and one understands, at least in part, the presence of these three hundred “white, Gentile, Protestant” citizens of Central City at this meeting.
The initiation ended, the Exalted Cyclops ordered the Kligrapp or secretary to read several communications from the Imperial Klan Palace at Atlanta. This he did, struggling manfully through the weird and absurd verbiage that would have made any of the men present howl with laughter had he heard his children using it in their play. Instead it was listened to attentively, seriously, and solemnly.
Then followed a recital of the work to be done by the local Klan. The Kligrapp consulted a sheet of paper in his hand.