It was the last week in June and hot. No rain for a fortnight, a
blistering sun and the clay roads leading to Corinth were baked to
a bricklike hardness. Black gardeners perspired to keep their lawns
green, the leaves of trees looked dry and yellowish, the wealthy began
moving north. Robert longed for Chicago and Lake Michigan. Out of
deference to Margaret and his parents he had postponed his departure
until after the Fourth. There had been farewell luncheons and parties
in his honor. He had spoken before the local Rotary club. And, crowning
glory, he was now to make one of the Fourth of July addresses at
Peachtree Park! Griffith, at first eager to have Robert off, saw the
advantage to the Tribal cause in having their new Grand Bogey appear in
public, and heartily approved.
When Griffith called to inform Robert that 500 Tribesmen were to parade
through the little village of Carthage that afternoon, Robert begged
off. His real reason was, first, because it was hot and, second,
because he had paraded enough in the army. It was all right for Pinkney
and Griffith to trot around in sepulchral robes and masks, but after
a man has marched some thousands of miles more or less in military
formations and taken part in a hundred regimental parades, guard mounts
and what not, the novelty wears off.
“I’m working on my speech,” Robert offered a gray lie. It was partly
true.
“Oh, fine, fine!” You could see Griffith nodding, through the phone.
“That’s all right. Make it a good one! It’s more important.” He
explained the object of the parade. It was simply to impress with the
power of the Tribe the half hundred Negroes who lived in the village
and of whom some white folk had made complaint. What had they done?
They were acting up. A few had been drinking. One had been caught
stealing. Some of the young bucks appeared to be loafing, hanging
around the streets without having anything to do. Oh, yes, they had
been punished, and without any waste of time, by the judge. But it was
feared that if they got too gay, something more serious might happen.
The mulattoes especially were feared. They were naturally bad. This
would simply be a reminder, a salutary warning. An ounce of prevention,
you know.
Then, shortly before six, Margaret had called up, all excitement.
“Have you heard about the parade at Carthage?”
“Yes, why?”
“Why didn’t you go? It was wonderful! So solemn and majestic, like a
troop of knights going forth in the defense of womanhood.”
No, indeed! She had not gone. She had heard about it from Pinkney.
Pinkney, in fact, had wondered why Robert wasn’t taking more active
interest in the Tribal matters. Robert was nettled.
“I’ve been working on my speech.”
“Oh.” Then some details of how frightened the Negroes had been, and
“Marjorie and Betty are coming over tonight. Would you care to--? No,
well then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night!”
Robert spent the evening reading patriotic addresses, making notes of
the more striking passages, wondering about Margaret and drinking ice
water. His parents’ voices drifted pleasantly up to him from the porch
through the open windows.
He yawned and looked out. He was becoming restless. Through the heavily
scented trees the moon glimmered and a faint breeze stirred. He
remembered that he had not sent the poem to Dorothy as he had intended
and decided to take it with him. The vines in front of the window
swished softly.
He shut his book, turned off the light and went downstairs.
“I’m going out for a little ride,” he said. “I’ll be back early. But
don’t sit up for me.”
“All right, son.”
Driving along the country roads, at any rate, would be cooler than
sitting up there. Phrases from the speeches he had read ran through his
mind. It was good to see the long road, silver in the moonlight, unwind
before him. The wind soothed him, coolly. He stepped on the accelerator
and reveled in the sensation of flying through the night. The yellow
lights of Carthage twinkled ahead and he slowed up. He bumped across
a plank bridge. Then a mill, a church, some dreary shops. Shanties.
The sinister jail. What were so many people doing in the street? Their
voices were buzzing. Shouting. He slowed down.
“Hey, they all goin’,” someone yelled. A tall, lanky form leaned
excitedly over the side of the car. His voice twanged. It was an old
face, wrinkled, and his goatee went up and down.
“Who’s gone?” Robert stopped his car.
“They all. They bin skeered stiff, a’ter them Tribesmen p’raded through
town this a’ternoon. Every blessed last one of them damned niggers
packed up thayr belongings and skip’d. Wall, good riddance of ’em!”
Other villagers came up excitedly.
“The only wan who misses ’em is the real estater who rented ’em thayr
shanties,” someone laughed shrilly.
“They all packed up an’ git.”
“Hurry up, mister, and you all kin see ’em. They’re just adown the road
a piece. Reckon they’ll be goin’ to Colby and they’re sneakin’ in a’
night so the whites don’ see ’em.” The crowd laughed.
Robert sounded his siren, the crowd gave way, talking and laughing, and
he pushed slowly through the straggling main street into the country
again. A mile away, at the top of a crest, he came upon the last of the
column--a fleshy, gray-haired mammy with a basket full of household
utensils on her head. One arm was raised to support it, while the
other held a cane with which she felt her way. Beside her another old
woman waddled, an infant in her arms and a pickaninny of perhaps three
trailing at her ragged skirt.
They were taking the cross-road and now the whole ragged, pathetic
procession could be seen at the top of the crest, from the tall,
broad-shouldered bucks guarding the mule carts in the front to the two
old women in the rear. The moon, round and bright, fell on their exodus
and painted them into a column of shadows, with bowed heads, moving
slowly onward. The fence rails of a field were down. Robert dimmed his
lights, parked his car beside the road, jumped out and cut across the
field to a clump of bushes. The mules thudded slowly, switching their
flanks, along the clay. Harness slapped from side to side, wagon wheels
creaked. In the wagons were stoves, beds, the heavier articles of
furniture and the sick. Everyone carried something--enormous bundles,
worn suitcases. A tattered youth in overalls and undershirt, staggered
beneath a soldier’s haversack and roll, piled high and strapped to
his shoulders, and pulled a toy express wagon filled with rattling
kitchenware.
Stolid men with brown faces and fear in their eyes. Weeping women. A
ragged preacher moaning at the top of his voice and invoking “De Lor’
Jehovah.” Sorrowful, musical voices responding. Children crying. A
woman moaning. A pregnant woman, with set mouth, pulling a mulatto
child by the hand. A child with high nose and thin lips, but bearing
the brand of Canaan--woolly hair and dark skin. There they marched,
black, brown, yellow--negroes and mulattoes--their entire wealth
wrapped in these rude bundles.
The mulatto child. It haunted him. Soft, wondering eyes in the
moonlight, looking up at its mother. An idea, a grotesque idea, came to
Robert. What mob had howled about the faggot pile of the father of this
half-breed child? What white-robed knights had paraded before his door
in warning? No! He had been white. And, a horrible thought, perhaps
some white father, sometime, somewhere, unknowingly, of course, had
paraded in warning before the home of his half-breed son or, it was
conceivable, had kindled the flames about his brown limbs! Moonlight
and the shadows moving on.
A tall, straight-shouldered negro leaned forward against a push cart,
overflowing with bedding and on top of which rode a gray-haired,
sobbing woman. He was comforting her, crooning to her as one might to a
terrified child. His eyes turned toward the row of bushes and a memory
burned in Robert’s brain. Who was it? Where had he seen him? Was it?
Was it the black who had saved his life? The pale light fell full on
his features--the high cheek bones, the slightly thickened lips. No,
thank God! No, it was not Williams. No, it was not Williams!
Robert turned, ran back across the field and jumped into his car
without looking around. What if it had been Williams? Why couldn’t it
have been? He sped through the village. The crowd had dispersed into
smaller groups that gossiped in doorways and porches.
The east room was lit when Robert drove the car into the garage.
Laughing voices drifted out to him. He stole up the back way into
his room. He wanted to be alone. The moon sent moving black masses
interlaced with silver upon the walls. Robert hurriedly switched on
the lights. As the door closed, a paper on the table rose and fell.
His notes for the Fourth of July oration. Land of freedom. Washington,
Jefferson, Jackson. Independence of tyranny.--It must be hell to be a
nigger.
It was too gruesome to tell about at the breakfast table the next
morning, but in the afternoon Robert described the flight of the
Negroes of Carthage. They were walking about in the garden.
“My God, dad, if I had ever known what was coming, I’d never have
joined the Tribe!”
“Well, son, the Tribe wasn’t really responsible. They simply wanted
to warn the Negroes to be careful, to be law-abiding. They thought
that they would be impressed, but I’m sure that even Griffith didn’t
imagine anything like that.”
“But, God, it was horrible, weird, like something out of the dark ages.
Even a slave-owner wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“No, certainly not, no decent man would. But, Bob, they didn’t mean
it. They wanted to prevent something worse. There have been too many
lynchings in Corinth lately and we want to prevent that.”
Robert’s face was flushed.
“Dad, I don’t know. This is simply one example, just one example of
what the Tribe means. We have our tribunal. We decide a man’s guilt.
But we’re all in masks. We’re--we’re a tribe. Not a law court. We may
try to be, but we’re dealing with justice like savages. Our courts may
be slow, imperfect; but anyway, they keep us from being a mob like
that, or a tribe. Think of the hundreds of years during which human
wisdom has built up our laws and our court procedure.” He was conscious
of footsteps coming up the walk. “Why do we need any other tribunal
than our own courts? Why do we need a Tribe to try men? It’s natural
that the Tribal concilium should be swayed by prejudices and fears and
hatreds. In the courts, justice is regulated by laws, by precedent, by
the wisdom of ages. In the Tribe, it is the moment’s sentiment--right
or wrong--sympathy or hate or revenge. Tribesmen may think they’re
impartial, but they’re men, acting with only their own wisdom, often
acting unwisely, sometimes cruelly. I--I think that I’ll resign from
the Tribe!”
His father cleared his throat and held up his hand. Robert looked
around. It was Margaret, dark eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed, hands
clenched.
“So you will resign from the Tribe?” She tossed back her head. Her
voice was clear, impassioned. “You will turn against the only force
that can preserve the white South and white America from the alien? I
thought you were a soldier. Don’t you see where your duty lies?”
“But Margaret, I’m not opposing--”
“You are,” she cried. “If you are not with the Tribe in its crusade,
you are against it. It was the same way in the war. You were either a
one hundred per cent American or you weren’t an American. And now you
are either for one hundred per cent Christian, white civilization or
against it.”
“Why--where--?”
She went on: “The Trick Track Tribe is only a test. It shows how you
stand. Don’t ask me how I know. Someone--yes, Howard--said the Tribe
is going to show exactly where every man in the South stands. Every
man who isn’t a member by the time the drive is over, isn’t a member
for some good reason--and it isn’t a reason to be proud of.” Her voice
choked. She raised her hands and began fumbling at the engagement
ring, then suddenly let them fall again, her fists still clenched. Her
nostrils quivered. Robert could hear her breathing.
“I--I don’t want my husband to belong to the class that isn’t--isn’t--”
Her voice broke. She turned suddenly and hurried up the walk into the
house.
“Why--why?” Robert stared after her. What had he said? What had he
done? Was resigning from the Tribe some form of treason or heresy--or
infidelity?
The older man laughed.
“She’s got a temper, regular daughter of Dixie!”
“But did I say anything to make her flare up like that? Can’t a man
quit an organization if he wants to?”
“I guess not. Not if you want Margaret.”
“But what has that got to do with me--with us? It’s--it’s unreasonable!”
“Oh, well, when you have as many gray hairs as I have, you’ll
learn that the most reasonable thing to expect of a woman is
unreasonableness. Suit your own conscience. But--” he put his arm on
his son’s shoulder, “but don’t take it so hard. Just think it over.”