BOB was packing for his journey to Cambridge, whistling cheerfully
the while. It was certainly great to be going away up to Boston to
school. All his life he had wanted to live there for a while where
he could learn the things which he knew of only at second hand now.
He pictured in his mind how he would arrange his life at school.
There'd be none of the kiddish pranks he had read about that college
boys did. He was too old for that. He had seen too much of the seamy
and sordid side of life to waste his time playing. He'd study every
minute he could. He'd make a record in scholarship that would make
his mother and Mamie and Kenneth proud of him. He'd go to summer
school so as to finish the rest of his college course in two years
instead of three. And then, law school. By jiminy, he'd be the best
lawyer there was! Not the best coloured lawyer. The best lawyer!
Never did youth have more brilliant dreams of life than Bob. He
paused at the sound which came from downstairs through the
half-opened door. It couldn't be in Ken's office, for he had gone to
Atlanta with Mrs. Tucker that morning. It sounded like crying—as one
would cry who had suffered some great bereavement or terrible
misfortune. He went out in the hall and leaned over the balustrade,
the better to find out what was the matter.
It was Mamie and his mother. He looked puzzled, for he could think
of nothing to make Mamie cry that way. His mother was trying to
soothe and calm her as Mamie told her the cause of her weeping. Bob
crept down the stairs as softly as he could to hear.
Mamie between sobs was telling her mother of some accident that had
befallen her.
"I had been—to Ewing's Store and that Jim Archer—and Charley
Allen—and two or three other white boys—that hang around Ewing's
Store—said nasty things to me when I came out—I hurried home they
must have followed me."
Here she broke down again while her mother crooned softly to her,
pleading with her not to cry so hard. Mamie choked back her sobs and
went on. Bob's face became terrible to see. He hung there on the
steps almost breathless, waiting, and dreading what he felt was
coming.
"At that old field-near the railroad—they jumped out—and grabbed me
oh, my God! My God! Why didn't they kill me? Why didn't they kill
me?" Mamie's screams were horrible to hear. "Then—oh, God! God help
me!"
For a minute Bob stood there as one frozen to the spot. Then a
blind, unreasoning fury filled him. He ran up the stairs to
Kenneth's room and got the revolver he knew Kenneth kept there.
Without hat or coat he ran down the stairs. Out the door and down
the street. Mamie and her mother were roused by his action. Mamie,
lying on the floor with her head in her mother's lap, her clothes
torn and bloody, her face and body bruised, struggled to her feet.
She ran to the open door through which Bob had disappeared. An even
greater terror, if such was possible, was on her face.
"Bob! Bob! Come back! Come back!" she cried in ever louder cries.
"Bob! Bob!"
But Bob was too far away to hear her.
In front of Ewing's Store there sat a group of nine or ten men and
boys. They were gathered around one who seemed to be relating a
highly interesting and humorous story. Every few minutes there'd be
a loud laugh and a slapping of each other on the back. Suddenly,
silence. A hatless and coatless figure was running down the street
toward them. The group opened as its members started to scatter. In
the middle of it there stood Jim Archer and Charley Allen. The
former had been telling the story.
Bob walked straight up to Jim Archer, whose face had turned even
paler than its usual pasty colour. He turned to run but it was too
late. Without saying a word, his eyes burning with a deadly hatred,
Bob raised the revolver he had in his hand and fired once—twice—into
Archer's breast. Charley Allen rushed upon Bob to overpower him. He
met head-on the two bullets that came to meet him, and fell gasping
and coughing on the ground at Bob's feet.
The rest of the crowd had fled.
Without hurrying, Bob stepped into a Ford delivery truck that had
been left at the curb, its engine running. Before the crowd which
with miraculous suddenness filled the street could stop him, he
drove straight down Lee Street, turned into Oglethorpe Avenue, and
headed for the country beyond the town. …
Three miles out of town the Ford spluttered, coughed, shook
mightily, and stopped. Its gasolene tank was empty. Shoving it into
the underbrush on the side of the road, far enough to be out of
sight, Bob ran on. If he could only get across country as far as the
railroad going North, he might be able to get to Macon, where he
could hide. When the excitement died down, he could go on farther
North. Perhaps he could eventually reach Canada. He fought his way
through brushes, across vast fields of cotton that seemed to have no
end. Near midnight he could go no farther. He had eaten nothing
since breakfast—he had been too excited over his packing to eat any
dinner. Bitterly he thought of the change a few hours had brought
forth. Twelve hours before, he had been eagerly planning to leave
for school. Now, his sister ruined, he a murderer twice over—fleeing
for his life! He hoped that he had killed both of them! It would be
too ironical a fate for them to live. … He thought for a moment of
what would happen if they caught him. He put the thought away from
him. God, that was too terrible! Mustn't think of that! I'll lose my
nerve. …
What was that? Lord, he must have fallen asleep! What is that? Dogs?
Bloodhounds! Great God!
I must get away! How did they get away from bloodhounds in books?
That was it! Water!
He'd find a stream and wade in it. Then the damned dogs would lose
the scent.
The thought of water reminded him suddenly that he was
thirsty—terribly thirsty. God, but his throat was dry! Felt like ten
thousand hot needles were sticking in it!
His legs and thighs ached. He dragged them along like a paralysed
man. He thought petulantly of a paralysed man he had seen once in
Atlanta. What was his name? Bill? No, that wasn't it. Jim? No, not
that either. Some sort of a name like that.
Wonder how Mamie was? Mamie? Who's Mamie? What had happened to her?
He racked his brain to remember. At last he gave it up. No use
trying. Old—old—brain don't work right.
Wonder what's the matter with it?
His delirious brain was suddenly cleared by an ominous baying close
at hand. Those damned dogs again. They'd never take him alive! He
felt in his pockets to see if the gun was still there. It was. He
felt in the other pocket to count the cartridges there while he ran.
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight! All there! Seven for the
mob! One—for—Bob!
An old barn suddenly loomed up before him in the rapidly approaching
light of dawn. He dragged himself into it and barred the door. Not
much protection! But—a little! Just a little! Better'n none! He sat
down on an old box by the door, There was a knot-hole farther over.
He dragged the box in front of it. Reloaded the revolver.
One—two—three—four cartridges! Two that hadn't been used! That left
six in the gun! And four more! Listen! The dogs sound like they're
near!
There they are! He wouldn't waste his precious bullets on dogs! Oh,
no! He'd save them for the human dogs! God damn 'em! He'd show 'em a
"damned nigger" knew how to die! Like a man! Here they come! God,
but it was tough to have to die! Just when life seemed so sweet!
Wonder who'd sit in his seat at Harvard! Hope a coloured boy'd get
it! Harvard seemed so far away from where he was! Looked like it was
as far's the moon! Might as well be for him!
Look at 'em spreading out! Whyn't they come up like men and get him?
There's Jim Archer's brother! Bang! Got him! Look at 'im squirm!
That's two Archers won't run after coloured girls any more! Bang!
Damn it, I missed 'im! Can't waste 'em like that! Got to be more
careful! Must take better aim next time! Bang! Bang! Hell, I missed
again! Nope! Got one of 'em!
One—two—three—four gone! Six left! Five for the "Crackers"! One for
me! Bang! Bang!
Got another! Must reload! One—two—three four! Nearly all gone!
Five—ten—fifteen minutes to live! Why did they pick on Mamie?
Whyn't they take one of those girls that live in those houses on
Butler Street? That's always running around after men? Why'd they
bother a nice girl like Mamie?
Bang! Listen at 'im howl? That's music for you! Listen to the damn
"Peck" squalling!
What's th' matter? Looks like they've gone! Wonder if I can make a
run for it? Th' damn cowards! Fifty—one hundred—a thousand—five
thousand—to one! That's the way "Crackers" always fight coloured
folks! Never heard yet of one "Cracker" fighting one Negro! Have to
have thousan' to kill one little fellow like Bob Harper!
Smoke? Can't be smoke! Yes, it is! Goin' t' burn me up! Bang! Bang!
Got one of 'em!
My God! Only one bullet left! Never take him alive! Lynch him! Might
burn him! Burned coloured boy last month 'n Texas! Better not let
'em get him! Good-bye, everybody! Good-bye!
Good-bye! Good⸺ Bang …
It was some time after Bob had died before the posse dared enter the
barn which by this time was burning rapidly. They feared the
cessation of firing was only a ruse to draw them into the open. At
last, after riddling the burning structure with bullets, a few of
the more daring cautiously approached the barn, entered, and found
Bob's body. After the bullet from his own gun had entered his head,
killing him instantly, his body had fallen backwards from the box on
which he had been sitting. His legs were resting on the box, his
thighs vertical, his body on the floor and his head slightly tilted
forward as it rested against a cow-stall. His arms were widespread.
The empty revolver lay some ten feet away, where he had flung it as
he fell backwards. His face was peaceful. On it was a sardonic smile
as though he laughed in death at cheating the howling pack of the
satisfaction of killing him.
The mob dragged the body hastily into the open. The roof of the old
barn was about to fall in. Before dragging it forth, they had taken
no chances. A hundred shots were fired into the dead body. Partly in
anger at being cheated of the joy of killing him themselves. They
tied it to the rear axle of a Ford. Howling, shouting gleefully, the
voice of the pack after the kill, they drove rapidly back to town,
the dead body, riddled and torn, bumping grotesquely over the holes
in the road. …
Back to the public square. In the open space before the Confederate
Monument, wood and excelsior had been piled. Near by stood cans of
kerosene. On the crude pyre they threw the body. Saturated it and
the wood with oil. A match applied. In the early morning sunlight
the fire leaped higher and higher. Mingled with the flames and smoke
the exulting cries of those who had done their duty—they had avenged
and upheld white civilization. …
The flames died down. Women, tiny boys and girls, old men and young
stood by, a strange light on their faces. They sniffed eagerly the
odour of burning human flesh which was becoming more and more faint.
… Into the dying flames darted a boy of twelve. Out he came,
laughing hoarsely, triumphantly exhibiting a charred bone he had
secured, blackened and crisp. … Another rushed in. … Another. …
Another. … Here a rib. … There an armbone. … A louder cry. … The
skull. … Good boy! Johnny! … We'll put that on the mantelpiece at
home. … Five dollars for it, Johnny! … Nothin' doin'! … Goin' to
keep it myself! …
The show ended. The crowd dispersed. Home to breakfast.