The spokesman for the callers, the lawyer Favor Herrington, touched the brim of his planter's hat. "Good day, Leota."
"Good day, Favor." She acknowledged three others by name; Cooper was one. She didn't miss the rifle or shotgun each man carried on his saddle.
Herrington plucked his sticky shirt away from his chest. "Scorcher, isn't it? I wonder if I might have a word with the Judge? Tell him some of his friends from the Calhoun Saber Club are here."
Leota Bledsoe hurried into the house. Moments later, shirt cuffs rolled up and his hot-looking black wool vest hanging open, the judge shuffled out in his carpet slippers. He was a slight man with mild brown eyes. He had shares in several of the larger phosphate processing plants near the city.
''To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit by such a distinguished group from the political opposition?" he said with a certain sarcasm.
Herrington chuckled. "You know we're Democrats, Judge, but I hope you recognize that we're Straightouts, and not damn Co-operationists who want to crawl in bed with the damn Republicans."
"With those red shirts I could hardly make a mistake," the Judge said heavily. All that spring there had been a fierce struggle between those who wanted to keep the Democratic Party pure and those who wanted to strengthen it by means of a coalition with some of the less obnoxious Republicans, such as Governor D. H. Chamberlain. Cooper and Straightouts like him were now resorting to some unusual methods to strengthen the party. Red-shirt rifle clubs. Visits such as this one. Public meetings; even some useful, if bloody, rioting. The last day or two, he'd heard, darkies and white men from both sides of the river had been knocking heads up in Hamburg.
"We want to discuss the nominating convention in Columbia next month," Herrington said.
That irritated the Judge. "Blast it, boys, don't you waste my time. Everyone knows I've voted Republican six years running."
"Yes, Judge, we know," Cooper said. "Perhaps that was in the best interests of your business." Casually, he laid a hand on the stock of the Centennial Winchester. "We don't believe that it's in the best interests of the state."
"See here, I'm not going to discuss my politics with a bunch of bullies who ride around selling their opinions with rifles."
"These rifles are for defense only," another of the Red Shirts said.
"Defense!" The Judge snorted. "You use those guns to frighten honest black men who only want the franchise, which is their Constitutional right. I know what this is, it's the Mississippi scheme. It cleaned all the Republicans and nigras out of state office over there last year, and now you're trying the same plan here. Well, I'm not interested."
He turned and shuffled back toward his front door.
"Judge, just a minute." Favor Herrington no longer sounded cordial. In the rose-scented shadows, the Judge blinked at the armed riders.
"I don't deny what you say," Herrington continued. "Yes, we are encouraging the niggers either to change their vote or to stay away from the polls in November. We are going to turn the Republican majority in this state into a Democratic one. We're going to nominate a Straightout ticket next month, starting with General Hampton at the top, and we're going to redeem South Carolina from the carpetbaggers and mongrel legislators who are dragging her to shame and ruin. Now" — he swabbed his shiny face with a blue bandanna — "to make that plan work, we must also convert erring Republicans to Democrats once again."
"Bulldoze them, that's what you mean," the Judge snapped. "At gunpoint."
"No, sir, Judge, nothing like that. We ask only that you do what's right for the state. We ask it politely and respectfully."
"Balderdash," the old man said.
Herrington raised his voice. "All your Republican brethren are doing it, Judge. It's a simple thing. Just change over. Cross Jordan."
"Cross Jordan, is that what you call it? I'd sooner cross the Styx into hell."
A couple of the Calhoun Saber Club members started to draw their rifles. In the house, the Judge's wife called a muffled warning. The dooryard grew very still in the heat. One of the horses dropped reeking dung. Herrington cued Cooper with a sideways glance.
Cooper tried to sound reasonable. "We are in earnest, Judge Bledsoe. You mustn't take us lightly. You have a family to think about, many grandchildren. Wouldn't you prefer respectability to ostracism? If not for yourself, then for them?"
"Up in Charleston," Herrington added, "there are a lot of hooligans roaming the streets. Sometimes decent folk aren't safe. Especially girls of a tender age. You have two such granddaughters in Charleston, don't you, sir?"
"By God, sir, are you threatening me?" the Judge cried.
"No, sir," Cooper said with a sober expression. "All we want is your pledge to cross Jordan. To support Governor Hampton when we nominate him in Columbia. To tell others of your decision."
"You boys go to hell, and take your rifles with you," Judge Cork Bledsoe said. "This isn't Mississippi."
"I'm sorry that's your decision," Favor Herrington said with cold fury. "Come on, fellows."
They rode one by one from the sweet-smelling dooryard. Judge Bledsoe stayed on the porch, glaring, until the last rider disappeared up the Charleston pike.
Herrington dropped back to walk his horse beside Cooper's. "You know the next name on the list."
"I know. I'm not going to have anything to do with it. He's my son-in-law."
"We don't expect you to take part, Cooper. You're excused from dealing with Mr. German. But we're going to call on him."
Cooper wiped his sweaty mouth with his long fingers. Softly, he said, "Do what you must."
Two nights later, unknown persons fired three rounds through the window of Bledsoe's house. At church the following Sunday, old friends in the congregation refused to speak to the Judge or his wife. On Tuesday, as their fifteen-year-old granddaughter and her governess strolled home on King Street at dusk, two young white men dashed from an alley, snatched the girl's reticule, and threatened her with knives. One slashed the sleeve of her dress before they ran off. At the end of the week Judge Cork Bledsoe announced his intention to cross Jordan.
THREE MILLIONS OF COLONISTS ON A STRIP BY THE SEA
FORTY MILLIONS OF FREEMEN
RULING FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN
"We won't be needing the suite," Virgilia said. "We have a reservation elsewhere."
The clerk at the Continental, the same one who had registered Madeline and Jane, was dubious. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Brown. I hope you're certain of your accommodations. I know of nothing to be had, not even hall space, in any of the good hotels."
"We'll be fine," Virgilia said. She left the noisy lobby and got into the hack waiting at the curb. Elegantly dressed in an overcoat with velvet lapels and pearl-gray gloves, Scipio regarded his wife with mild displeasure.
"Why did you do that?"
She kissed his cheek. "Because it isn't worth the fight, darling. I want to stay where we won't be treated rudely and stared at constantly. We'll have enough of it when we're with the family." She noted his frown and squeezed his hand. "Please. You know I'll always go to the barricades if it's important. This isn't important. Let's enjoy ourselves."
"Where do you want to go now?" the driver called down. He didn't hide his unhappiness about carrying a black man and a white woman, however much he made from it.