19 Thumbs Up or Down?

The reunion of which Warfield spoke was a joint meeting of survivors of the great civil war from both sides, Northern and Southern. Their ranks had been thinning wofully of late, and, the fact that they had been former enemies making them better present friends, they had decided to meet together at Louisville which was fitly chosen as a border city, and the time was set for late September, when the weather would be cool and bracing.

I should never have dreamed of refusing to speak to these old men, after the custom of our country. It is true that some of them may not have been heroes, and even a few may have been impostors, but I am not one of those who take a pleasure in blackguarding the entire race. Of late a great fashion of attacking everything had grown up among us. Just as one Englishman when he was bored would say to another: “Let’s go kill something,” an American when he was bored would say to another: “Let’s go expose something.” It was exposure, exposure, until my ears grew weary and I did not believe the tenth part of it.

I repeat that I was tired of exposure, or alleged exposure, or exposure for a profit, and I prepared my speech with no desire to lecture these old soldiers and to tell them that they had fought in a bad cause, whichever side they were on, and that they had given further proofs of natural and inherent badness by living so long afterward. The personal and sympathetic side appealed to me and as I worked over my address, I forgot my personal affairs for the time being. I ceased also to give the newspapers more than a cursory glance, and many of the attacks upon me made no wound, because I did not see them or know of them.

The appointed time came, Jimmy Warfield ran down to Frankfort as a committee of one to escort me to Louisville, and we took the short ride on a pleasantly cool afternoon. Warfield was rather silent and seemed more than usually thoughtful, but I was glad of his presence and personal support. It had been some time now since I had faced a great audience, and I felt that I should encounter hostile looks if not worse.

It was almost dusk when we came into the station, and the usual crowd was about to see a Governor arrive. When I alighted from the train I heard a cheer and then the moment after it died the soft sibilant sound of a hiss, the most bitter of all sounds, the sound that the rattlesnake makes as he shoots his poison. Jimmy Warfield put his hand upon my arm.

“Don’t mind it, Harry,” he said. “It’s some vicious scamp with nothing better to do.”

“I don’t mind it,” I replied.

But I did mind it. It was the rattlesnake’s poison in my veins.

The hiss was not repeated and my friends and a committee of the old soldiers came forward to greet me. Here was no lack of spontaneity or heartiness and my hand was shaken with great enthusiasm, first by the veterans, upon every one of whom time had set a very deep seal. It was an affecting thing to see these white haired old men who had fought against each other, now clinging together for companionship and for strength to resist the assaults of years. After them came younger men, friends of my own age or near it and among them I saw the handsome, priestly face of Guthrie, the young member of the Lower House of Congress from the Louisville District and my exceedingly good friend. We shook hands warmly and then the group moved on to the carriages.

As we drove through the streets in the dark to the hotel an occasional cheer was raised, whether for myself or the veterans I did not know, but I was greatly uplifted and encouraged by the presence of my friends, and the heartiness of their greeting.

At the hotel another committee received me and there were many people, much bustle, much shaking of hands and many formal exchanges of compliments. The great lobby was crowded, but among the faces I soon saw that of Harrison, though changed. If I had been sore troubled in mind so had he or else what was writ large upon his countenance was written in lying words. It was a pale and weary face, that of a man sick of his life, and I felt a certain pity for him, so much in fact, that when he came forward and offered his hand, though considering myself to have great cause to hate him, I took it and shook it as if he had been a good friend.

“There were those who said you would not come,” he said in a low tone.

“Why?”

“Because of the attacks. You would not dare to face the multitude they claimed, but I knew better.”

He passed on, because the occasion allowed him only a moment, and I noticed on the outskirts of the crowd the mean features of Connor, distorted now in a malicious grin of irony. I allowed my glance to pass over his face without any sign of recognition and he did not come forward to speak.

I dined with Guthrie and Warfield and a few other of my friends, and after dinner Guthrie and Warfield came to my room. We smoked a little while and I saw that they were hesitating about something. Hesitation to speak implies that the words to be spoken are disagreeable, and to help them I said:

“You want to tell me about the meeting to-morrow. Any advice that you can give me, old friends, I shall be glad to have.”

Warfield glanced at Guthrie, and Guthrie glanced at Warfield, but this time it was Guthrie who spoke.

“You are to address the meeting to-morrow afternoon Governor,” said Guthrie, “your speech is down for 3 o’clock, and you are sure of a great reception, but—we think we ought to tell you—there is a cabal here against you—we don’t know just who is leading it—but they are bent on making trouble for you to-morrow. We thought we ought to warn you in order that you may be on your guard.”

I felt my face flush and I was sorry now that I had shaken hands with Harrison. I could not forget that I was the Governor of the State and as such I was entitled to respect.

“I am ready to face them whoever they are,” I said with confidence.

“We knew that,” replied Guthrie warmly, “but we were not willing to let them surprise you. This thing that they are planning is an outrage.”

I was grateful to them for their friendship, as true friendship as man ever had, and I said so, but they lightly turned my words aside.

“Your friends far outnumber your enemies, Harry,” said Jimmy Warfield, “and they are going to be heard.”

When they left me, and when the lateness of the hour told me that I should have no more callers that evening I drew my chair to the window and looked out at the dim city, the dark mass of the buildings and the electric lights twinkling here and there through the dusk. The words of Guthrie and Warfield had sunk deep, though perhaps not in the way they intended. It was indeed a pretty pass if I had to face conflict every time I came out of seclusion. The memory of the hiss lingered, and still stung like the rattlesnake’s poison. Was it fair to either me, my friends or the State that I should be placed in such a position? I was Governor! Then the Governor should not be forced to stand on the defensive. It was his place to command and to lead, it was his duty to do both, but looking as far ahead as I could I could see no solution, no escape from the snare of the fowler. Young people, evidently a party from a theatre passed in the street opposite, and though I could not hear them I could tell by their faces that they were laughing and talking. How I envied them!

I spent the next morning at the hotel. My dignity as Governor and custom directed that I should remain away from the great hall until the time came for me to make my speech, but I was informed that all my friends, and all those whom I considered my enemies were in the city. Alicia was visiting the Guthries and I wished to ask about her, but I checked the desire, fearing lest my simple questions might be misinterpreted.

The day was crisp and cool with a brilliant sunlight over the city, and the early editions of the evening papers told me that the reunion was a magnificent success. The hall, the largest in the city, was crowded and Northern and Southern enthusiasm were united in one grand, rolling volume that often sent cheers in thunder against the roof and that thrilled everybody with the sense of humanity and fellowship. Moved as I was by the florid accounts I felt that the reality would stir me much more deeply. I suppose that a sentimental strain is in us all and lucky it is that it is so. Jimmy Warfield took luncheon with me and shortly afterward the committee came for me.

“They are all tuned up,” said Warfield, as we drove the short distance from the hotel to the hall, “and you can play on their emotions as you will, Harry.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

We stopped at a side door in a side street and entered behind the stage. Here occurred the usual formalities, I was received by a committee, I shook hands with all its members, and we made polite remarks to each other, but my ear was turned to the scene that shut us out from the stage. Through its paper wall came the deep hum and murmur of a great crowd, and now and then a vast burst of cheering that made the building tremble. Some one was speaking, and he was doing it well—I learned afterward that it was Guthrie, called suddenly to fill a vacancy, made by the unexpected absence of another speaker, and more than filling the missing man’s place.

I thrilled at the sound of the applause. Only those who have had it know how sweet it is. The cynic who despises the acclaim of the multitude is one in whose veins poison has been instilled. Nor am I one of those, who jeer at the “million-footed”; the final voice of the most people is the decree most nearly just. The murmur and the thunder that rose and fell at times also thrilled me with the sense of conflict. I was now a trained public speaker, I had faced the public from many a stage, and the scent of the powder was in my nostrils. I would do my best, I did not need the encouragements of Guthrie and Warfield.

The murmur suddenly burst into a cheer mightier than all the rest, that rolled and echoed again and again, and then died down into a silence so intense that it was painful. Guthrie had finished and they were waiting for the next man.

“Will you come on now, Governor?” exclaimed the Chairman of the Committee. “It’s a little earlier than we expected, but there’s been a slip and you’ll oblige us greatly.”

“Oh, certainly,” I replied with great willingness, as I felt myself upraised by the moment and did not wish to delay until the inspiration was gone.

He led the way at once and we passed in front of the scene to the stage, where all who were seated rose to their feet and the Chairman of the meeting, taking me by the arm, walked with me to the footlights.

I had a confused view of a vast audience, the largest that I had ever faced, men and women, rising in row on row, but all their faces were melted together in one great composite blur. In my ears was the thunder of the cheering, rising and swelling in volume, and sending the blood leaping through every vein. Then people sprang up, men waved their hats, and women their fans, and I was forced to bow again and again, while I waited for the applause to subside. These are the supreme moments of a man’s life when he stands before his world and the world approves. I heard my name shouted over and over, and then when the applause seemed about to sink it would suddenly rise into renewed and greater volume. I felt that I was in the house of my friends, and that these were my people.

The applause died at last, its last faint echo sank away, and I raised my hand. Then in the intense silence came from a point far up in the balcony the sharp, sibilant, deadly sound of a hiss. In the painful stillness it was fearfully loud, and once more the terrible simile of the rattlesnake’s warning leaped into my mind. Was I about to be stung? My face flushed and all eyes turned toward the balcony, but I raised my hand again, and they turned back to me.

The audience before me had now taken form and shape in my eyes. Arrayed in a solid mass just before the stage were the veterans in their ancient uniforms, white hair and bald heads shining in the sunlight, that poured through the open windows. Beyond was the great terrace of the spectators, the bright faces and brilliant costumes of the women splashing it with glowing color. I should be dull indeed if I did not rise to such an audience, and, for a moment, the hiss was forgotten.

I began to speak and from the beginning I knew that I was doing well. One feels the truth in such cases, and I had come to the hall, filled with the sentiment and the passion, the glory and the terror of the mighty conflict that once rent our nation, not the anger or hate, but the greatness of it, and I was only giving vent to them. At intervals the cheers rose for me as they had risen for Guthrie, and, when I glanced at him and Warfield, I saw content and deep satisfaction on both their faces. Again I wish to say what friends I had in those two men, and after all that has happened I wish to say it still!

The speech went on. I did not feel that it was I, Harry Clarke, who was speaking; I was merely the mouthpiece for the thoughts, the imagery and the illustrations that had been gathering of their own accord and that insisted upon utterance. I held the audience too, I knew it, I could see the spell upon their faces, and my heart thrilled with the sense of my triumph.

I paused, a little longer that usual, and then from the balcony broke again that hiss, sharper, more sibilant and more terrible than ever. The rattlesnake was still there with his fangs and his poison. The audience burst into an angry cry of rebuke, the hiss was repeated and then a tumult arose. I raised my hand as a sign that I would resume my speech and the tumult increased. There were cries of “Order!” “Put them out!” “Go on!” and then sharp and loud above all the turmoil rose a cry, hurled directly at me: “Tell them about Charlie Johnson!”

I knew that I turned deadly pale, and I knew that for a moment there was a dimness before me, in which the whole audience seemed to reel, but then I recovered myself and into my ears came the sound of a voice saying:

“Do the right thing, Charlie,” and before my eyes as if in a vision came the rapt, prophetic face of a seer.

There was a flurry among the people about me on the stage. Warfield and Guthrie, their faces burning with indignation, were striving to quiet the crowd and secure for me the attention that was my due. “This is what we feared, Harry!” exclaimed Warfield in an angry half whisper.

The noise died down a little, the police were at work, and the majority of the audience were with me. I stood waiting, I had never moved from my position at the center of the stage, near the front. I was calm now, the icy feeling about my heart that had come at first was gone, and the tumult sank yet further I raised my hand for the third time as the signal that I would go on.

“Now he is going to tell us all about Charlie Johnson,” came the voice from the balcony, and it was followed by a burst of derisive laughter.

I felt a sudden thrill of inspiration. There was a way! Who showed it to me I do not know—perhaps Alicia or Elias, or the sudden irresistible culmination of circumstances, or perhaps all together moving forward with deadly accuracy to a certain moment that had now come. Be that as it may it was like a flash of light to my blind mind, struggling in the darkness, and I saw the end, the end of the struggles, the evasions, the concealments, and the burden that was too heavy to be borne.

I felt a sudden lightness, alike of head and heart, a deep thrilling sensation of relief and peace, even of joy. All my nerves quivered with the rebound, and I wondered why I had not seen before this new, easy and right way which lay so plain before me. My mind repeated joyously and in unspoken words, “An end of it all! Off with the burden! Only light and truth now!”

These impressions, visions and resolves, so wide in their scope, so great in number and so fruitful of result were only a moment in passing through my mind, but I believe that the friends so near on the stage saw the change in me. Once as I glanced about I caught the eyes of Jimmy Warfield, and he was no longer excited and indignant, but sat in his chair, calm and expectant; he, too, had undergone a change.

I faced the audience and it suddenly became quiet; no more noise, no more cries, no more interruptions, it may be that in supreme moments an electric current passes between the speaker and those to whom he speaks, claiming and securing the attention of both. I felt now that all would hear me, that the moment was fully mine, and looking back at that great crisis in my life I can truly say that I felt neither fear nor apprehension. I had a courage that was not my own, but flowing to me from some higher source. I was conscious that the intense stillness remained unbroken, and that the thousands of faces bent forward, an eager multitude, every pair of eyes centered upon me. I felt as if I stood in the arena in the Roman days, and that before me curved the Colosseum with its living terrace on terrace, but I repeat that I was not afraid.

“You want to know about Charlie Johnson,” I began, and never before had I felt my voice so clear and so full, so steady and so strong. “Then I will tell you. Charlie Johnson was sent to the penitentiary at Frankfort for burglary, where he served his sentence and I am Charlie Johnson. Yes, I, Henry Clarke, whom you elected Governor of Kentucky, and the Charlie Johnson who served that term in the penitentiary are one and the same man.”

I paused and a deep breath ran through the audience. The multitude seemed to curve forward, to come closer to me, and its blended face grew more eager. But as yet I saw only curiosity, the fever to know more, not condemnation. On the stage about me no one moved, not a garment rustled.

“I was that Charlie Johnson,” I continued, “and I served my term. I told the world once before that I had been wild and dissipated in my youth, and that early life of mine led me into trouble from which I did not escape. But I was innocent of the crime for which I was convicted. I know all convicts make such a claim, but mine is true. Why I did not undertake to prove my innocence I shall not try to explain to you here. That concerns only me and another whom I do not name. But you know all my public life since I reappeared among you, as myself, as Harry Clarke, and it is for you to say what I shall be henceforth.”

I paused again, but I still faced the audience, confident in my strength and now that it was out, the whole story boiled so to speak from my lips. I felt a wonderful lightness of heart and mind. It was a sensation of relief, of sheer joy that I cannot describe. For the first time in years I stood forth for what I was, for all that I had been, and no one in the world could say to me that I hid anything. The burden was gone, and I stood up, erect and strong.

“You’ve done the right thing, Harry,” cried a voice in my ear. It was Warfield. How grateful were his words to me!

“I have told you all,” I repeated. “I conceal nothing, and I apologize for nothing. Now it is for you to say what you will do with me.”

I saw the great curve of faces before me transformed by new emotions, and it still seemed to bend forward and to come yet closer to me. The stillness ceased, and as I stood there facing the people a hum arose and fast deepened into a tumult. The black figures of the men and the brilliant figures of the women moved as if shaken by new emotions. The whole audience, terrace after terrace, seemed to be swaying about, and a confused uproar filled the hall. Then with a suddenness absolute and far more dramatic than any theatrical effect all the noise and all the movements ceased, and a deep, intense and painful silence reigned again.

All eyes had suddenly shifted from me to something else, and I had not dreamed what it would be or could be. In a box on the left, almost hidden from me where I stood, a woman had suddenly arisen and come forward until she leaned over the low railing and faced the audience with both hands upraised.

It was Alicia, with the look of the seer and the prophet, the look of Elias on her face. Some such look may have been upon the face of Judith when she went to the tent of Holofernes.

“For God’s sake stop her!” I cried to Warfield and Guthrie, but they paid me no attention. Nor did any other.

I saw her figure sway and tremble and then raise itself proudly erect.

“He is not telling you all,” she said, and her voice was clear and strong, filling the great hall. “He is hiding something from you and what he hides is the most important of all.”

She, too, paused, as I had done more than once in my own confession, and a most extraordinary gasping sigh came from the audience, a sigh of curiosity keyed to its last pitch.

“For God’s sake stop her!” I tried to say again, but my tongue lay dry in my mouth, and the words died at my lips.

“He said that he was innocent and he is,” she continued, and her voice was clear and distinct to the farthest person in the hall. “He said also that his secret is known to one other whom he does not name, but it is I. He suffered to shield me, to protect my good name. Because he was found by my husband, George Grey, in our house at midnight he claimed to be a burglar and suffered in silence. Why he was there you may think what you will, but he was there and he was no burglar.”

I was still standing—I do not think I had moved an inch—and when she uttered the last words I saw her face suddenly whiten. Then she sank down as if all the life had gone out of her on the instant, and the hands of those behind her lifted her up and carried her away.

As God is my judge I had not foreseen any such climax and revelation. I had not known that Alicia was in the hall, nor, if knowing it, could I have thought that she would have the strength to rise and say what she had said. I was overpowered, the place grew dark, and the audience spun before me. I felt my arms seized on either side and I knew afterward that it was Guthrie and Warfield who held me.

From the front came a vast turmoil, cheers and hisses, cries of “Clarke! Clarke! Clarke!” and nearby women were weeping. The turmoil swelled and the cheers drowned the hisses—that I can never forget.

“You’ve done right, Harry, old man,” Jimmy Warfield whispered again in my ear, “and you’ve done the thing that I knew you would do.”

I looked at him in deep astonishment and he smiled,

“I have known the whole truth these two weeks,” he said. “She—Mrs. Grey, told it all to me. I’ve never been so proud of you in my life as I am to-day.”

“Where is she?” I asked.

“Mrs. Guthrie has taken her away in her carriage. Don’t you be afraid for her Harry. Coming at such a time and under such circumstances the public will believe. The impression made here to-day can never be effaced.”

The chairman was on his feet dismissing the audience. Enough had happened for one session he said, which was true, and the people exited and many of them more than pleased with the living drama that had passed before them were going out. The black figures of the men and the bright figures of the women flowed in a stream toward the door, and the noise of thousands of feet as they moved on, rumbled heavily.

“Come, Harry,” said Warfield. “We’d better go.”

I noticed that some of the men on the stage fell away from me, but many more came around me, shook hands with me and said words of sympathy. I repeat that I am no believer in the general wickedness of human nature. I, of all men, should know to the contrary; in the moment of what the world would call my deepest abasement, my greatest shame, I had friends who came closer to me and who veered not an inch in their faith.

“We’ll slip out as quietly as we can,” said Guthrie. “It seems to me that it would be better to avoid the crowd just now, Mr. Clarke.”

“I’ll do whatever you and Jimmy say,” I replied earnestly.

They led the way to the side door by which I had come and we went quietly out, to proceed as quickly to my hotel, where I hastened to my room, for I would be alone.

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