THE AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

IN January, a few years ago, a young man took the train at Chicago, Ill., on a trip to Alabama, where he expected to start in business. As he passed through Illinois that evening there was a blanket of snow, a foot deep, all over its fertile prairies. When he reached Kentucky the rain was falling on green fields, and the young man was reminded of the land of his birth, the Emerald Isle. As the train rushed onward toward the equator signs of the springtime multiplied, and soon every trace of winter was gone. In southern Alabama he found roses in bloom and perpetual sunshine. "Here," he said to himself, "is an ideal State." And well he might praise the great Cotton State! With its rich belts of agricultural, mineral, cotton and lumber lands, Alabama surpasses almost every other State in its variety of natural resources, while the sunshine of winter gives a climate where the fierce rigors of a Northern sky are unknown. Arrived at his destination the young man began to make himself at home in his new State. At first he was charmed with everything. He found the inhabitants of the State partly white and partly black, the white race, as was natural, possessing an easy mastery, keen in intellect and strong with the rich inheritance of a thousand years of Christian civilization. But the black race seemed needed also, strong in brawn and genial in disposition, and he could not but admire the dusky laborers who toiled happily under the warm Southern sun. In a little over a year

the young man from Ireland, who was no other than my own brother, had become acquainted with the entire State. His travels, both for business and for pleasure, took him into almost every city and town in the Commonwealth, and he came to know the life of the people as only a close observer could. He was without prejudice toward the Southern white man, for he was not a Northerner, but an Irishman. As time went on he be

gan slowly to learn, at first hand, what we call "the Race Problem." From personal experience he can testify that it is a real "problem," which it will take many years to solve, but, as he is a Christian, he believes there is only one solution. What this solution is will be found in my story," The Testing Fire." Large portions of this story have been suggested by the actual experiences of my brother in Alabama, and, as a whole, the story is founded on fact, as every Southerner will at once recognize. In writing this story I have used much reserve. It will be some time yet before any writer can tell all he knows of this problem, which seems destined to test our nation more than any other question which is demanding a solution.

THE TESTING FIRE

CHAPTER I

AN ACT OF MERCY

"WHOA! Whoa there! What's the matter with you?" A grave-looking, elderly man, driving slowly along a country road near Dothan, Alabama, awoke from a pleasant reverie and sought to quiet his horse, which had suddenly taken fright and nearly upset the buggy, turning quickly to one side.

"Whoa! whoa, I say!" he continued, looking around to see the cause of the horse's fright. He soon discovered what had almost caused him disaster. A black man was lying insensible by the roadside, his clothing half torn from his body and his face covered with blood.

"A black dog!" said the occupant of the buggy, who was the pastor of the Calvary Church, of Dothan, Rev. William Durham, as he drove the still frightened horse past the fallen negro.

"Don't be afraid, Meg," he went on, speaking gently to his horse; "that black rascal can't hurt you now. Someone has given him just what he deserved, I'm sure."

And the pastor of the fashionable Calvary Church of the prosperous city of Dothan drove on in a ruffled mood. His pleasing reverie about the spiritual prosperity of his church had been rudely interrupted by the sudden appearance of the unconscious African.

"Ah!" he exclaimed bitterly, speaking to himself aloud," that is the dark shadow that is over all Alabama. It hangs like a menacing cloud over our future. The former chattel has become a possible if not an actual brute."

As he spoke the grave, kindly expression which was habitual to him left his face. His eyes shone with a steely glare. He gnashed his teeth together. William Durham seemed to change into another man altogether when the race problem of the South came into his mind. On every other subject he was calm and considerate, but he felt that it would be treason to everything good in his beloved Southland if he allowed himself to think dispassionately on the negro question.

He was only a boy when the war closed, bringing ruin to Alabama as to the other Southern States. His father, wounded in battle, died shortly after Lee's surrender at Appomattox Courthouse, broken-hearted and despairing for the future. The valuation of property in Alabama fell from $792,000,000 in 1860 to $202,000,000 in 1865.

Worst of all, he remembered with the vividness of all early impressions the awful black government of the State for six terrible years, from 1868 to 1874, when the State debt rose from $8,000,000 to $25,000,000. The deeds of the "carpet-baggers" were burned into his memory as with a red-hot branding iron. He could never forget them. These old days were now long since past. The "carpet-bagger," a not unnatural result of the exigencies of the war, had disappeared forever. The State of Alabama had risen from its poverty to wealth and prosperity. Its marvelous resources of agriculture, cotton, coal and iron had been developed in a way undreamt of before the war in the old days of slave labor. Powerful cities were rising on every hand.