KENNETH was late in reaching the meeting-place that night. When he
arrived he found all there waiting for him. Besides himself and
Mr. Wilson were the Reverend Richard Young, pastor of Bethel African
Methodist Episcopal Church, and Herbert Phillips, Jane's father.
There were also three men from the farming district whom Kenneth did
not know, but who were introduced as Tom Tracy, Hiram Tucker, and
James Swann.
Mr. Wilson opened the meeting after the introductions had been
completed.
"Brothers, we've met here this evenin' to talk over some way we can
he'p these brothers who live out in the country and who ain't been
able to get an honest settlement from the folks they's been farmin'
for. I'm going to ask Brother Tucker to tell us just how things are
with the folks out his way. Brother Tucker."
"Brother" Tucker rose and stood by the table around which they were
seated and on which flickered an oil lamp. He was a man between
fifty and sixty years of age, of medium height and thick-set. His
black skin was wrinkled with age and toil. His hands, as they rested
on the table in front of him, were gnarled and hardened through a
lifetime of ploughing and hoeing and the other hard work of farm
life. It was Mr. Tucker's face, however, which attracted interest.
Out of the rolls of skin there shone two kindly, docile eyes. One
gained the impression that these eyes had seen tragedies on top of
tragedies, as indeed they had, and their owner had been taught by
dire necessity to look upon them in a philosophic and pacifist
manner. One remembered a biblical description: "He was a man of
sorrows and acquainted with grief." Kenneth, as he looked at him,
felt that Socrates and Aristotle and Jesus Christ must have had eyes
like Brother Tucker's. His impression was heightened by Mr. Tucker's
hair. Of a snowy whiteness, his head bald on top, his hair formed a
circle around his head that reminded Kenneth of the picture-cards
used at Sunday school when he was a boy, where the saints had crowns
of light hovering over their heads. The only difference was that
Mr. Tucker's halo seemed to be a bit more firmly and closely
attached than those of the saints, which he remembered always seemed
to be poised perilously in mid-air. He had often wondered, as he
gazed intently at the pictures, what would have happened had a
strong gust of wind come suddenly upon the saints, and blown their
haloes away.
Mr. Tucker began speaking slowly, in the manner of one of few words
and as one unused to talking in public.
"Brudders, me ‘n' Brudder Tracy, and Brudder Swann ast Reverend
Wilson here to let us come t' town some time and talk over with you
gent'men a li'l' trouble we's been havin'. Y' see, all of us folks
out dat way wuks on shares like dis. We makes a ‘greement wif de
landlord to wuk one year or mo'. He fu'nishes de lan' and we puts de
crap in de soil, wuks it, and den gathers it. We's sposed to ‘vide
it share and share alike wif de landlord but it doan wuk out dat
way. If us cullud folks ain't got money enough to buy our seed and
fert'lizer and food and the clo'es we needs du'in' de year, we is
allowed t' take up dese things at de sto'. Den when we goes to
settle up after de cott'n and cawn's done laid by, de sto' man who
wuks in wif de landlord won't giv' us no bill for whut we done
bought but jes' gives us a li'l piece of paper wif de words on it:
"Balance Due."
He paused to wipe the perspiration from his face caused by the
unusual experience of speaking at such length. He continued:
"An' dat ain't all. W'en we starts to pickin' our cotton, dey doan
let us ca'y it to de gin and weigh it ourself. De lan'lord send his
wagons down in de fiel' and as fas' as we picks it, dey loads it on
de wagons and takes it away. Dey doan let us know how much it weighs
or how much dey sells it for. Dey jus' tells us it weighs any ‘mount
de lan'lord wants to tell us, and dey says dey sol' it at any price
dey set. W'en we comes to settle up for de year, dey ‘ducts de
balance due' from what we's got comin' t'us from our share of de
craps. I's been wukin' for nigh on to six years for Mr. Taylor out
near Ashland and ev'y year I goes deeper in debt dan de year befo'.
Las' year I raised mo' dan twenty-fo' bales of cott'n dat weighed
mo' dan five hundred poun's each. My boy Tom whut's been t' school
figgered out dat at eighten cents a poun'—and dat's de price de
paper said cott'n sol' at las' year—I oughter got mo' dan a thousan'
dollars for my share. An' dat ain't all neither. Dey was nearly
twelve tons of cott'n seed dat was wuth ‘bout two hundred and fo'ty
dollars. An'den dey was mo' dan three hundred bush'ls of cawn at a
dollar'n a ha'f a bush'l dat makes fo' hundred and fifty dollars
mo'. All dat t'gether makes nearly three thousan' dollars an' I
oughter got ‘bout fifteen hundred dollars fo' my share."
Tucker stopped again and shifted his feet while Tracy and Swann
nodded agreement with his statements.
"Las' year me ‘n' my wife said we wuz gwine t' get along without
spendin' no mo' money at de sto' dan we had to, so's we could get
out of debt. We wukked ha'd and all our chillen we made wuk in de
fiel's too. My boy Tom kept account of ev'ything we bought at de
sto', and when de year ended he figgered it up an' he foun' we'd
done spent jus' even fo' hundred dollars. But when we goes to make a
settlement at de end of de year, Mr. Taylor said he sol our cott'n
at eight cent a poun' and didn'have but sev'n hundred and
thutty-five dollars comin' to us. An' den he claim we tuk up ‘leven
hundred dollars wuth of stuff at de sto' which he done paid for, so
that leave me owin' him three hundred ‘n' sixty-five dollars dat I
got to wuk out next year."
His face took on a dejected look as though the load had become
almost too heavy to bear. His voice took on at the same time a
plaintive and discouraged tone.
"An' when you adds on dat three hundred dollars dat Mr. Taylor says
I owed him from las' year, dat makes neah'ly sev'n hundred dollars I
owes, and it doan look like I's evah goin't git out of debt. An' I
thought we wuz goin' to be able to sen' Tom and Sally and Mirandy t'
Tuskegee dis year off de ‘leven hundred dollars I thought I wuz
gwine t' make."
The discouraged air changed to one of greater courage and
determination. His voice rose in his resentment and excitement.
"Now I's tiahed of all dis cheatin' an' lyin'! Mr. Taylor mus' take
me for a fool if he thinks I'm gwine stan' for dis way of doin'
things all de time. I stahted to tell him dat I knew he wuz cheatin'
me in Janua'y w'en he give me dat statemen', but den I ‘membered
whut happen t' Joe Todd two years ago w'en he tol' dat ol' man
Stanton dat he wukked for, de same thing. W'en ol' man stahted thit
Joe, Joe hit him fust and run. Dey came one night and call Joe to
his do' and tuk him down in de swamp an' de nex' mawnin' dey foun'
Joe full of bullets, hangin' to a tree. De paper say Joe done spoke
insultin' to a white ‘oman, but all de cullud folks, an' de white
too, know dat Joe ain't nevah even seen no white 'oman dat day. Dey
knew dat if dey say he ‘sulted a white 'oman, de folks up Nawth
won't crit'cize dem for lynchin' a nigger down here in Georgy. So I
jus' kep' my mouth close'. Now we wants t' know if dey ain't
somethin' we c'n do t' make dese white folks we wuks for stop
cheatin' an' robbin' us po' cullud folks."
He sat down, evidently greatly relieved at finishing a task so
arduous. Kenneth had listened in amazement to the story of
exploitation, crudely told, yet with a simplicity that was
convincing and eloquent. Having lived in the South all his life, he
naturally was not unaware of the abuses under the "share-cropping"
or "tenant-farming" system in the South, but it had never been
brought home to him so forcefully how close at hand and how
oppressive and dishonest the system really was. No wonder the South
lynched, disfranchised, Jim-Crowed the Negro, he reflected. If the
Negro had a yote and a voice in the local government of affairs,
most of these bankers and merchants and landowners would have to go
to work for the first time in their lives instead of waxing fat on
the toil of humble Negroes like Hiram Tucker. He turned to Tucker to
get further information on the system.
"Mr. Tucker, have you and the other folks like you ever thought of
trying to get loans from the Federal Government through the banks
they have established to aid farmers in buying land and raising
their crops?"
"Oh, yes, Doc. Soon's they started lendin' money to farmers, I
'plied for a loan to buy me a li'l' place dat I wuz gwine t' wuk an'
pay for off whut I raised. But dey tol' me dey didn' have no funds
t' lento niggers an' dat dey already done loaned all dey had to de
white farmers. W'en I ast dem to put my name down on de lis' to get
a loan when some mo' money came in, dey tol me dat it wa'n't no use
‘cause dey already had so many white folks' names down on de lis'
dat dey nevah would come to de cullud folks."
"Did you think about writing to Washington and telling them that
they were discriminating against Negro farmers?" questioned Kenneth.
"Yas, suh, we done dat too. But dey wrote us back dat de onliest way
any loan could be made was th'u' de local agents, so dat didn't come
to nuthin'."
"But, good Lord, they can't discriminate in that way against you
without something being done about it!" was Kenneth's indignant
comment.
Tucker looked at him with a wan smile that was almost pitying at the
ignorance of the younger man. His voice became paternal.
"Son, dat's jes' zactly like de man whut wuz in jail and his frien'
come by and ast him whut dey put him in jail for. When de man in
jail tol' him whut he wuz ‘cused of, de man on de outside said: 'Dey
can't put you in jail for dat! De man dat was lookin' out at him
th'u' de bars laughed and said: ‘But I'se in jail!' An' dat's de way
‘tis wif de cullud folks in de Souf. Dey's lots of things dey can't
do to 'em but dese white folks does it jes' de same. I reckon you
got a lot of things t' learn yet, Doc, spite of goin' up Nawth t'
study."
Kenneth felt properly rebuked by this humble man who, though
illiterate, was far from being ignorant. He joined in, but not very
heartily, at the general laughter at Tucker's homely sally.
Mr. Wilson, as acting chairman, ended the discussion by calling on
Tom Tracy. Tracy was a much younger man than Tucker and was about
Kenneth's age. Tall, well built, intelligent looking, his dark brown
face had worn a scowl of discontent and resentment while Tucker had
been talking. He began talking in a clear voice that but poorly
masked the bitterness he felt but which he tried to keep out of his
voice. Older men like Mr. Tucker were always quick to rebuke any
sign of "uppishness" in the younger generation.
"I graduated from Tuskegee three years ago. My old mother worked
herself almost to death to keep me in school, and I came back here
determined to earn enough money to let her rest the balance of her
life. But she and my father had been living all their lives just
like Mr. Tucker here, and they didn't have anything to give me a
start. So I went to work on shares, taking that thirty acres that
joins on to Mr. Tucker's farm on the South. I took this land that
wasn't thought to be any good, because it had been exhausted through
overworking it year after year. I bought some new ploughs and fixed
it up fine. I thought I could put the things I learned at Tuskegee
into practice and in a couple of years pay off all I owed. But
instead of doing that, I'm getting deeper in debt every year. I rent
my place from Ed Stewart and he knows that I know he's cheating and
robbing and lying to me, but when I try to show him where he is
wrong in his figures, all he does is to get mad and start to cussing
me and telling me that if I don't keep a civil tongue in my head,
the Ku Klux Klan will be hearing about this ‘sassy young nigger
Tracy' and I'll wish I had kept my mouth shut. I'm getting sick of
the whole thing, too. If it wasn't for the old folks, I expect I'd
‘a' started something long ago. They are all talking about me being
a dangerous character out my way already. Say I'm too ‘uppity' and I
need to be taught a lesson to show me that ‘niggers must stay in
their places.'"
Tracy finished speaking in a tone that was almost a shout. It could
be seen that he was very near the breaking-point from brooding over
the wrongs he had suffered.
Mr. Phillips, who had said nothing, broke in with a question.
"Tom, why don't you move away from Ed Stewart's place if he doesn't
treat you right?"
Tracy replied bitterly:
"Yes, suppose I tried to leave, what would happen? The same day I
left, Sheriff Parker would come and get me. They'd put me on trial
for jumping my contract and fine me. Old Stewart would be in court
to testify against me. He'd pay my fine and then I'd have to go back
to Stewart's place and work a year or two for nothing, paying off
the fine. A fat chance I've got with the cards all stacked against
me!"
Mr. Young, of the Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church, nodded
assent to Tracy's statement.
"Brother Tracy's right. Look at what happened to Jeff Anderson down
near Valdosta last spring. He ran away and got to Detroit where he
had a good job working in an automobile plant. They swore out a
warrant against him for stealing, brought him back, and the last I
heard of him he was back down there working out a
three-hundred-dollar fine. No, Brother Phillips, you've been reading
the law that applies to white folks—not to us coloured people."
James Swann's story was along the same lines as the others. The
seven men entered into a discussion of ways and means of taking some
action which would alleviate conditions before the harvesting of the
crop which was now in the ground. One suggestion after another was
offered, only to be as quickly discarded because of local
difficulties. Midnight came, with no decision reached. When it
became apparent that nothing would be settled, Kenneth was chosen
with Mr. Wilson and Mr. Phillips to work out some plan to be
reported at the meeting to be held one week later.