CHAPTER 3

At last there had sprung into existence a great Ku Klux Klan, a veritable empire of the South, to protect the southern country.

– President Woodrow Wilson

The proud residents of Pulaski, Tennessee are more likely to talk about the early ordinances of their little town, settled in 1809, than the post-Civil War developments originating there that threatened to divide and destroy the entire nation. Original laws banning the discharge of firearms at a “mark, or a bat or any bird on a wing,” and the “tinning” of dogs—tying objects to the tails of dogs or other similar animals, paled in contrast to the sad truth that the most clandestine and heinous hate-group in American history was founded right there in Pulaski.

The Ku Klux Klan was first organized by six Confederate soldiers of the Pulaski Regiment that were predictably disgruntled at Lee’s surrender at Appomattox and the subsequent freeing of the slaves. Former members of the famed “Davis Battery” and “Coleman’s Scouts,” the six bound themselves to each other with an oath and declared that they were a kuklos—the Greek word for circle. Their sole existence was to oppose and ultimately stop the reconstruction of the South. This they would accomplish by threat, intimidation, and if necessary, outright violence. Citizens of Pulaski would later rationalize and excuse their behavior by accusing four of the six men of being lawyers. Growth of the Ku Klux Klan in the South would be epidemic.

By the turn of the century the Klan was securely established in Atlanta. Its tentacles were far reaching, even to the North, but the deep South still laid claim to the Klan’s homegrown roots.

In the spring of 1944, a young, robust third year-student at the famed Macon Military College in Macon, Georgia, Lieutenant-Colonel Hardouin Jackson Bender, III, had traveled from Macon to Atlanta with his roommate, Padgett Coleman, to spend a long weekend with Padgett’s family. The Colemans were a part of Atlanta’s political and financial hierarchy; thus a Saturday evening gala to honor the two cadets assembled the finest of Atlanta’s southern culture

Both boys had recently passed the necessary exams and had been informed that on the following Friday at morning assembly they would be advancing to the higher and more prestigious military rank of Colonel. Among the many accolades they could expect to receive, one would trump them all—a personal letter from President Franklin D. Roosevelt, congratulating them on their accomplishment and thanking them for doing their duty. Similar letters from Georgia’s Governor and elected Congressional delegation were expected as well. It was all meaningless and impersonal for no one of any real political importance had ever met either of the two boys, but their families, ravenous for attention and prestige, acted as though they were all on a first-name basis.

The gathering at the Coleman home was to celebrate their impending promotion and to show off the letters. Many would come to pay tribute.

Among the upper tier of those fortunate enough to be included on the guest list were Augustus and Madelyn McDougal, along with their striking twenty-year-old daughter, Susannah. Augustus McDougal was an attorney and senior partner in the firm of Lowell, McDougal, & Myers—one of Atlanta’s most prestigious law practices. He was also, very quietly, the principal architect of central Georgia’s Ku Klux Klan activities.

Susannah was a student at nearby Agnes Scott College, an upscale women’s institution with Presbyterian affiliation. In less time than it took to peel and devour a single boiled shrimp, Lt. Colonel Bender had spotted Susannah and was instantly smitten. The two spent the entire evening looking into each other’s eyes—completely unaware of everyone else who was there.

In the weeks that followed, Hardouin and Susannah wrote long and increasingly passionate letters to each other, and that prompted Hardouin to board the train from Macon to Atlanta to see her as often as he could. Nine months later, he decided to approach her parents and formally ask for her hand in marriage. Now a full Colonel, a title of distinction and notoriety that he would proudly carry with him for the rest of his life, Hardouin believed his accomplishments had sufficiently impressed Susannah’s parents. A meeting of this sort was an absolute necessity. Securing parental approval to marry a young woman was a highly regarded tradition in the South. It was an obligation and a part of the process that Colonel Hardouin Bender simply could not avoid.

The taxi ride from the train depot to his destination took less time that Hardouin had planned. Almost before he realized it, the taxi came to an abrupt halt and the driver started talking money.

“This the place?” the cabbie asked with a slow Georgia drawl. “If it is, then the fare is two bucks and a quarter—plus the tip.”

Hardouin looked up and studied the house momentarily. “This is it,” he said quietly while reaching for his wallet. He pulled out three ones and handed them to the driver.

“You look scared kid,” the driver said. “Something bad fixin’ to happen in there?”

“I hope not,” Hardouin said with an air of uncertainty. “I sincerely hope not.” The cadet stepped out of the taxi and watched it pull away from the curb.

The McDougal’s home was situated on the prestigious North side of Atlanta known as the Buckhead Coalition. An impressive three-story Victorian structure, the house featured a seductively inviting porch that encircled the entire house. The east side of the porch offered a half-dozen heavy white rocking chairs, while the west side, Mrs. McDougal’s favorite, allowed guests the option to sit on their choice of three white-wicker rockers or two matching wicker swings suspended from the ceiling. From there one could watch the sun pan across the sky, reflecting the whole way on the golden dome of the Georgia State Capitol building. The gingerbread trim along the roofline of the porch created a mood of relaxed elegance. It was somewhere on that porch that Colonel Hardouin Bender, III would make his appeal to become the McDougal’s son-in-law.

The time they had agreed upon was 4 p.m.—late in the day by some standards, but perfect for those who rose from the Sunday dinner table intent on enjoying the obligatory afternoon nap. Susannah’s parents would be refreshed and ready when the young suitor arrived.

As Hardouin stepped up onto the porch and knocked, he was quickly met by a rotund Negro maid dressed in a crisp white uniform. She opened the door, allowed him to enter, and promptly escorted him the porch on the west side of the house where she said the meeting would take place. Mr. and Mrs. McDougal, he was told, would join him shortly.

Hardouin walked to the edge of the porch and stood there with hands in his pockets and studied the Atlanta skyline that rose so impressively before him. He rehearsed one final time in his head the script he had put together on the train. As he did, it suddenly occurred to him that he had never actually spent any time alone with Susannah’s parents. She had always been there by his side. Today would be awkwardly different.

As he stood there he picked up the scent of fresh paint. He looked down and realized the porch floor had been recently painted. It was a slate gray and had a slight gloss to it. The smell of the paint, combined with his already nervous stomach, began to produce a bit of nausea. He suddenly heard a door open behind him and turned around just as the McDougals came to join him on the porch. After a handshake and hug, Hardouin was invited to sit down.

He chose one of the swings and sat down squarely in the middle. It emitted a faint creak as it assumed his weight, prompting Hardouin to glance up briefly at the porch ceiling. It had been painted as well.

“She’ll hold,” McDougal confidently predicted, not bothering to look. “Hung her myself,” he said again, flashing a broad toothy grin. His teeth were stained a deep yellowish-brown—an effect caused by his constant use of tobacco.

The McDougals sat down in the rockers, positioning them side-by-side, facing the swing. The meeting was formally underway.

Hardouin wasn’t altogether sure how much small talk to start with, but he knew he couldn’t just plunge immediately into the matter that had brought him all the way to Atlanta. Time-honored Southern protocol had to be observed, and appearing too anxious would be considered crude and in bad taste. As he opened his mouth to say something about how nice the porch looked, the door opened again and the Negro maid who had greeted him at the door emerged from the house. She was followed by another maid, also dressed in white and equally rotund. One carried a plate of freshly baked oatmeal cookies and a pitcher of cold lemonade; the other followed behind carrying three glasses on a tray. All three were quickly served and the maids disappeared back into the house. For a few moments they ate and drank in silence, clearly enjoying the warm Sunday afternoon.

Hardouin finally broke the silence. “I see you’ve been doing some painting out here. It looks really nice.”

Augustus MacDougal looked down at the...