Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [84]
They’d said the Pledge of Allegiance, modifying it to read “One Aryan nation under God.” Now Jasper addressed them from in front of the massive stone fireplace. A large flag with a swastika hung above him. He was impassioned, red in the face, hands trembling as he attempted to instill in them the courage to stand up to whatever was in store.
“We are God’s blessed and courageous martyrs,” he yelled, “whose sacrifice will ensure us a permanent place on the right hand of Jesus Christ himself, the white man’s savior and protector. We have right on our side, God’s blessing in our fight against the evil forces out there.”
He scanned the room. Some of the men shouted agreement with what he said, others sat passively. The children’s faces mirrored their confusion and fright, which was to be expected, Jasper reasoned. But it was the women in whom he was most interested. His wife, June, stood proudly next to him, a deer rifle in her hands, hatred written on her face. He noticed that some of the other wives appeared staunch and ready. But not all. Patty, the young woman with the eleven-year-old son who’d recently traveled to the ranch with her husband from Southern California, stood near the door, arms wrapped about herself, lips pursed tight. Her son pressed against her side, abject fear in his eyes. Her husband had been dispatched by Jasper to be one of the armed lookouts.
Jasper directed his next words at mother and son.
“As long as this alien evil occupies our beloved land, hate is our law and revenge our duty.”
Hands went up in the Nazi salute.
“Saint and martyr rule from the tomb of greatness,” he shouted, paraphrasing Blake, then turned to O. Henry: “There is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr’s life!” O. Henry’s irony was missing. He switched back to Blake, reading from a handwritten card: “The bitter groan of the martyr’s woe is an arrow from the Almighty’s bow.”
More salutes and shouts of encouragement. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the young woman by the door.
“We will fight the Jews and blacks who send armed men to our door this night, lay down our lives for that cause we believe in with all our hearts and souls. We have thousands of brothers and sisters across the land who watch us in our moment of truth and who stand ready to take up arms to further our cause. We have been called by Jesus himself to this place and time to take a stand and to let our white brethren know that we are willing to die for white Christian justice.”
Jasper stepped down from his faux pulpit and went from person to person, delivering heavy-handed slaps on backs and kisses on the women’s cheeks. He turned to the frightened newcomer, Patty, but saw only her back as she and her son left the room. Jasper followed and watched as they stumbled down the porch steps and ran in the direction of the main gate, two hundred yards away, she holding his hand and pulling him along behind, falling herself and struggling to her feet. Jasper pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt, pushed ON and barked, “Stop that woman headed for the gate. Stop her, damn it!”
Joe Harris and other special agents stood outside the gate at the forward surveillance post.
“Who’s that?” Harris asked as the woman and her boy came into view, their frantic flight bathed in light from the huge, truck-mounted spots.
“They’re headed for the gate,” an agent said.
Harris and others watched as Patty and her son continued to close the gap between themselves and freedom. He and other agents left the surveillance post and started to run to the gate, where two of Jasper’s armed men watched the mother and son approach. Jasper’s voice crackled from their walkie-talkies: “Stop that woman!”
Mother and son were within fifty feet of the gate when the sentries decided to take action. Ignoring the armed federal force, they stepped into the light with the intention of grabbing the runaways.
“Let them go,” Harris shouted, trying to override the pulsating music from the speakers. “Don’t interfere