CHAPTER XLVII.
IX weeks later the election came off.
It was no “walk-over” for Carson. Wiggin seemed only more desperately spurred on by every exposition of his underhand chicanery. He died hard. He fought with his nose in the mire, but, throwing honor to the winds, he fought. Carson Dwight's stand on the negro question was Wiggin's strongest weapon. It was a torch with which the candidate could inflame the breasts of a certain class of men at a moment's notice. He was a crude but powerful speaker, and wherever he went he left smouldering or raging fires. Pledged to him were the lowest order of men, and they fought for him and worked for him like bandits in the dark. Over these men he wielded a sword of fear. Carson Dwight's intention in getting to the legislature was to make laws against lynching, and every man who had ever protected his home and fireside by summary justice to the black brutes would be ferreted out and imprisoned for life. But Dwight's more gentle and saner reasoning, backed by his heroic conduct of the past, held sway. He was elected. He was not only elected, but, as the exponent of a new issue, the news of his election was telegraphed all over the South. He had written some articles for Wade Tingle's paper which had been widely copied and commented on, and his political course was watched by many conservative thinkers, who prophesied a remarkable career for him. He was a fearless man, with a new voice, who had taken a radical stand based on humanitarian and Christian principles. Family history was simply repeating itself. His ancestors had stood for the humane treatment of the slaves thrust upon them by circumstances, and he, in the same hereditary spirit, was standing for kind, just treatment of those ex-slaves and their descendants. No man who knew him would have accused him of believing in the social equality of the races any more than they would earlier have brought the same charge against his ancestors.
On the night the returns were brought in and it was known that he had triumphed, “the gang” had arranged a big pine torch-light procession, and it passed with its blaze and din through every street of the town. Carson was at home when they lined themselves, in all their tooting of horns, beating of drums, and general clatter, along the front fence. The town brass-band did its best, and every sort of transparency that the inventive mind of Wade Tingle could devise was borne, as if by the smoke and heat of the torches themselves, above the long procession.
Garner separated himself from the throng, and, clad in a new and costly suit of clothes, a tribute to his engagement to Miss Tarpley—a fine black frock-coat, broadcloth trousers, and a silk hat—he made his way into the house and up the stairs to the veranda above, where Carson and his mother and father were standing.
“The boys want a speech,” he said to Carson, “and you've got to give them the best in your shop. By George, they deserve it.” Carson was demurring, but his mother pressed him to comply, and Garner, with his stateliest strut, his coat buttoned so tightly at the waist that, the tails spread out as if inviting him to sit down, and his hat held on a level with his left shoulder, advanced to the balustrade, and in his happiest mood introduced the man who, he declared, was the broadest-minded, the most conscientious and fearless candidate that ever trod the boards of a political platform. They were to receive the expression of gratitude and appreciation of a man whose name was written upon every heart present. Garner had the distinguished honor and pride to introduce his law partner and close friend, the Hon. Carson Dwight.
Carson never spoke better in his life. What he said was from a boyish heart overflowing with content and good-will. When he had finished Mrs. Dwight rose from her chair and proudly stood by his side. The cheers at her appearance rent the air. Then Garner pushed old Dwight forward from the shadow of a column where he was standing, and as the old gentleman awkwardly bowed his greeting, the cheers broke out afresh. Bob Smith, who was a sort of drum-major, with a ribbon-wound walking-cane for a baton, struck up, “For he's a jolly good fellow,” and as the crowd sang it to the spluttering and jangling accompaniment of the band the procession moved down the street.