CENTRAL CITY was the county seat of Smith County. The morning after
the murder of Bud Ware, Kenneth went down to the County Court House
to file his report on the death. It was a two-story building,
originally of red brick but now of a faded brownish red through the
rains and sun of many years. It sat back from the street about fifty
feet and was surrounded by a yard covered here and there with bits
of grass but for the most part clear of all vegetation, its red soil
trampled by many feet on "co't day." The steps were worn thin
through much wear of heavy boots. On either side of the small
landing at the top, there hung a bulletin board on which were pasted
or tacked yellow notices of sheriff's sales, rewards for the arrest
of criminals, and other court documents. The floor of the dark and
narrow hallway was stained a reddish colour by the mud and dust from
the feet of those who had entered the building. Just inside the
doorway, on either side, were rectangular boxes filled with sawdust
for the convenience of those of a tobacco-chewing disposition, which
included most of the male population. The condition of the floor
around the boxes seemed to indicate that only a few of these had
realized for what purpose the boxes had been placed there. Over all
was a liberal coating of the dust that had blown in the door and
windows.
Entering the office of the County Health Commissioner, Kenneth found
that dignitary in his shirtsleeves, feet comfortably placed on top
of his desk.
"Good morning, Mr. Lane. I've come to make a report of a death."
At the sound of Kenneth's voice, County Commissioner of Health Henry
Lane turned in his chair without moving his feet to see who it was
that had entered. Long, lanky, a two days' growth of red beard on
his face, Mr. Lane removed the corn-cob pipe from his mouth with a
rising and falling of a prominent Adam's apple. Seeing that his
visitor was only a Negro, he replaced his pipe in his mouth and,
between several jerky puffs to get it going again, querulously
replied:
"Can't you see I'm busy? Why don't you save up them repo'ts till you
git a passel of them, and then bring ‘em in? Got no time t' be
writin' up niggers' deaths, anyhow. Ev'ry time I turn ‘round, some
nigger's gittin' carved up or shot or somepin'.".
"I understand it's the law, Mr. Lane, that deaths of anybody, white
or coloured, must be reported by the physician at once."
"Drat the law. That's fo' white folks."
He drew himself out of his chair with great reluctance and ambled
over to the counter, drawing to him a pad and pencil as he turned
towards Kenneth.
"What nigger's dead now?" he inquired.
"Bud Ware, who lived at 79 Butler Street," replied Kenneth.
"How'd he die?" was the next question.
"Shot through the abdomen."
"Know who shot him?"
"Yes. George Parker."
"Th' hell you say! And you come in here to repo't it?"
Kenneth was somewhat startled at the ferocity of the Commissioner's
expression, which had replaced that of laziness and resentment at
being disturbed. "I thought it my duty …" he began.
Lane spat disgustedly.
"Duty, Hell! You're a God-damned fool and one of these damned
niggers that's always causin' trouble ‘round here. I always said
eddication spoiled a nigger and, by God, you prove it. Lemme tell
you somepin'—you'd better remember s'long's you stay ‘round these
parts. When you hear anything 'bout a white man havin' trouble with
a nigger, you'd better keep your mouth shet. They's lots of niggers
been lynched for less'n you said this mornin'. Ain't you got sense
enough t' know you hadn't any business comin' in here t' tell me
‘bout Mr. Parker? Don't you know his brother's sheriff? If y' aint,
goin' up No'th tuk away what li'l' sense you might've had befo' you
went."
Kenneth stood silent, a deep red flush suffusing his face, while the
official continued his vituperative tirade. His fists, thrust deep
into his pockets, were Elenched until they hurt, but he did not feel
the pain. He longed to take that long, yellow, unshaven neck in his
hands and twist it until Lane's eyes popped out and his face turned
black. He knew it would be suicide if he did it. He realized now
that he had done an unwise thing in telling Lane who had killed Bud
Ware—he should have remembered and said that he did not know. If he
was going to stay in the South, he would have to remember these
things.
When Lane had paused for breath, Kenneth bade him good morning and
left the room. As he went down the steps, he heard Lane shouting
after him:
"You'd better not lemme hear o'you doin' any talkin' ‘bout this. If
y' do, you'll fin' yo'self bein' paid a visit one o' these nights by
the Kluxers!"
Hardly had Kenneth left the court house before Lane rushed as fast
as his natural indolence would permit him into the office of Sheriff
Robert Parker—known throughout the county as "She'f Bob." Lane was
so indignant he spluttered in trying to speak. The sheriff looked at
him amusedly and counselled:
"Ca'm yo'self, Henry. What's eatin' you?"
"Bob, d'you know George shot and killed a nigger buck over in
‘Darktown' yestiddy mornin' named Ware?" Lane finally managed to get
out.
"Yeh. What about it? George tol me about it las' night," was the
sheriff's easy reply.
"Well, that nigger doctor Harper who's been up No'th studyin' and
come back here las' fall, come into my office this mornin' to repo't
it, and he had the gall t' tell me George done it."
"Th' black bastard! What th' hell's he got to do with it?"
"Said it was his duty. You bet I tol him good an' plenty where he
got off at. Guess he won't come in here repo'tin' no more
‘accidents' like George run into."
Sheriff Parker's face had assumed the colour of an overripe tomato
as he jumped to his feet and banged his right fist on the table with
a resounding thwack.
"I'll keep my eye on that nigger," he promised. "His daddy was as
good a nigger as ever I did see, but they ain't no way o'tellin'
what these young bucks'll do. Roy Ewing was saying only this mornin'
that Bob, that nigger doctor's kid brother, was tellin' him the
other day that he'd have to stop them boys ‘roun' the sto' from
botherin' with th' nigger gals when they pass by. Humph! They ain't
no nigger gal that's pure after she's reached fo'teen years ol'.
Yep, I'll jus' kep my eye on those boys, and the first chance I git,
I'll⸺!"
His eyes narrowed in malevolent fashion as he left his threat
unuttered.
In the meantime, Kenneth had gone home. He hesitated to talk the
matter over with Bob or tell him what had happened to Bud Ware or
what had taken place at the court house that morning. Bob was so
hot-headed and insults made him angry so easily, he was afraid of
what might be the outcome if Bob knew what had occurred. He would
breathe a deep sigh of relief when Bob left in the fall to go back
to er school. Up in Atlanta there wouldn't be so many chances for
Bob to run up against these white people and, besides, Bob's studies
would keep him busy, leaving little time to brood over the
indignities he had suffered. Kenneth determined that when Bob had
finished his course at Atlanta University, he would urge him to go
to Columbia University or Haryard and study law, and then settle
down in some Northern city. It wouldn't do for Bob to come back as
he had done to Central City. Sooner or later Bob's fiery temper
would give way.
He wondered to whom he could turn to talk this thing out. He felt
that if he didn't have a chance soon to unburden his soul to
somebody, he would go insane. He thought of his mother. No, that
wouldn't do. His mother had enough to worry about without taking his
burdens on her shoulders.
Mamie? No, she wouldn't do either. She had no business knowing about
the sordidness of the affair of Bud Ware and Nancy and George
Parker. All her life she had been sheltered and kept away, as much
as is possible in a Southern town, from the viciousness and filth
and brutality of the race relations of the town.
Mr. Wilson, the clergyman? He was ignorant and coarse, but he had
lived in South Georgia all his life and he would know better what to
do than anybody else. He determined to go and talk with Mr. Wilson
that evening as soon as he was free. He had hardly made the decision
when Mr. Wilson non himself entered the reception room and called
out to Kenneth as he sat in his office:
"Good mawnin', Brudder Harper. It certainly has done my heart good
to see you attendin' chu'ch ev'ry Sunday with your folks. Mos' of
these young men and women, as soon's they get some learning, thinks
they's too good to ‘tend chu'ch. But, as I says to them all th'
time, th' Lawd ain't goin' t' bless none of them, even if they is
educated, if they don't keep close to Him."
Kenneth rose and showed his visitor to a seat. He did so with an
inward repugnance as the coarseness of the man repelled him.
Mr. Wilson seemed always overheated even in the coldest weather, and
his face shone with a greasiness that seemed to indicate that his
body excreted oil instead of perspiration. Yet, perhaps this man
could give him some ray of no light, if there was any to be had.
He told Mr. Wilson of his experiences of the past two days. The
preacher's eyes widened with a mild surprise and the unctuous,
benevolent mask which he wore most of his waking hours seemed to
drop rapidly as he heard Kenneth through to the end without comment.
At the same time he dropped his illiterate speech much to Kenneth's
surprise, when he finally spoke.
"Dr. Harper, I've been watching you since you came back here. I knew
that you were trying to keep away from this trouble that's always
going on around here. That's just why I came here to-day. Your case
is a hard one, but it's small to what a lot of these others are
feeling. I have asked a number of the more sensible coloured men to
meet at any house to-night. I think it would be a good thing to talk
over these things and try to find a way to avoid any trouble."
Kenneth looked at him in surprise, not at the idea of holding a
meeting, but at the language the man was using.
"I hope you'll pardon me for asking so personal a question, Reverend
Wilson, but you don't talk now as I've always heard you before. Why,
your language now is that of an educated man, and before
you—you—talked like a—like a⸺"
Mr. Wilson laughed easily.
"There's a reason—in fact, there are two reasons why I talk like
that. The first is because of my own folks. Outside of you and your
folks, the Phil. lips family, and one or two more, all of my
congregation is made up of folks with little or no education.
They've all got good hard common sense, it's true. They'd have to
have that in order just to live in the South with things as they
are. But they don't want a preacher that's too far above them
they'll feel that they can't come to him and tell him their troubles
if he's too highfalutin. I try to get right down to my folks, feel
as they feel, suffer when they suffer, laugh with them when they
laugh, and talk with them in language they can understand."
Mr. Wilson smiled, almost to himself, as memories of contacts with
his lowly flock came to him.
"I remember when I first started preaching over at Valdosta. I was
just out of school and was filled up with the ambition to raise my
people out of their ignorance. I was determined I would free them
from a religion that didn't do anything for them but make them shout
and holler on Sunday. I was going to give them some modern religion
based on intelligence instead of just on feeling and emotion."
He chuckled throatily in recollecting the spiritual and religious
crusade on which he had based such exalted hopes.
"I preached to them and told them of Aristotle and Shakespeare and
Socrates. One Sunday, after I'd preached what I thought was a mighty
fine sermon, one old woman came up after the services and said to
me: "Brer Wilson, dat's a' right tellin' us ‘bout Shakespeare and
Homer and all dem other boys. But what we want is for you t' tell us
somethin' ‘bout Jesus!'"
Kenneth laughed with the preacher at the old woman's insistence on
his not straying from the religion to which they were used.
"I had to discard my high-flown theories and come down to my folks
if I wanted to do any good at all."
He continued:
"These same folks, however, don't want you to come down too close.
Like all people with little education, whether they're black, white,
or any other colour, they like to look up to their leaders. So I use
a few big words now and then which have a grand and rolling sound,
and they feel that I am even more wonderful because I do know how to
use big words but don't use them often."
He paused while Kenneth looked at this man and saw him in a new
light. He had known that Mr. Wilson, many years before coming to
Central City, had attended a theological seminary in Atlanta, and he
had wondered how a man could attend a school of theology of any
standing and yet use such poor English. It had never occurred to him
that it might be deliberate.
"And then there's another reason," continued Reverend Wilson. "The
white folks here are mighty suspicious of any Negro who has too much
learning, according to their standards. They figure he'll be
stirring up the Negroes to fighting back when any trouble arises. I
had to make a decision many years ago. I decided that somebody had
to help these poor coloured folks bear their burdens, and to comfort
and cheer them. I knew that if I came out and said the things I
thought and felt, I would either be taken out of my house some night
and lynched, or else I'd be run out of town. So I decided that I'd
smile and bear it and be what the white folks think they want—what
the coloured folks call a ‘white man's nigger.' It's been mighty
hard, but the Lord has given me the strength somehow or other to
stand it this far."
With his deliberately imperfect English, there had gone from the
preacher's face the subservient smile. Kenneth felt his heart
warming to this man. He found his feeling of distaste and repulsion
dissipating, now that the shell had been removed and he saw beneath
the surface. The simile of the protective device of the chameleon
came to his mind. Yes, the Negro in the South had many things in
common with the chameleon—he had to be able to change his colour
figuratively to suit the environment of the South in order to be
allowed to stay alive. His own trouble with the Parkers and Lane
seemed much more trivial now than before. He looked at Mr. Wilson
and asked:
"What's the purpose of this meeting to-night? How can I help,
Reverend Wilson?"
"It's like this. A good part of my congregation is made up of folks
who live out in the country. They've had a lot of trouble for years
getting honest settlements from the landlords on whose land they
work. Within the last five years, two of my members have been
lynched when they wouldn't stand for being cheated any longer. The
folks out there are in a pretty bad way, and they want us to advise
with them as to the best way to act. I haven't time to go into the
details now, but it'll all be taken up to-night. Can I count on your
being there? We need a man like you, with your education."
Kenneth deliberated several minutes before giving his answer. What
Mr. Wilson wanted him to do was just exactly what he had determined
not to do. But what harm could come from attending the meeting? If
he didn't want to take any part in the plans, he didn't have to.
Anyhow, it seemed that the more a man tried to keep away from the
race question, the mo more deeply involved he became in it. Might as
well do what little he could to help, if he didn't have to take too
prominent a part. He'd go anyway. He told Reverend Wilson they could
look for him that night.