The rioting begun on Sunday fanned into a race struggle all the
smoldering passions and hatreds that the Armistice had once suppressed.
White men of fifty different creeds, nationalities and politics,
who had begun by hating the unreasoning hatred of the Hun for the
un-Teutonic, and who had grown intolerant of the arrogant intolerance
of the blond beast, suddenly flared into fury against the blacks.
Blacks had disappeared from the streets except in their own belt,
around which howled and stormed the white mob. This was no case of
punishing the blacks who precipitated the first attack on the beach,
but of punishing _all_ blacks. The cry was not “Get the nigger!” but
“Get the niggers!” Difference of color, blackness, was the sole object
of the crowd’s fury.
On their side, the blacks fought against whiteness. They had begun by
stoning, not the white man who had thrown the first stone, but all the
whites upon whom they could lay their black hands. In gangs they had
waylaid and assaulted any one they met, regardless of age and of sex,
because he was white. The black child who had been so cruelly murdered
had become a symbol to them of all the suffering of the colored at the
hands of the white. All that they had undergone under the lash and
the knife in the Congo--the fruitful colony of gallant Belgium--all
that they had borne in slave marts, on cotton plantations, in dismal
swamps, at the whipping-post, on the faggot pile--all the concentrated
injustice of the ages, all the intolerance of bleeding centuries, lay
in the sacrifice of this beloved pickaninny. Out of injustice and
tolerance had sprung an answering injustice and intolerance. And now in
answer to it the white mob screamed without.
Gangs of whites and blacks filled the streets, attacked with rocks,
bricks, knives and bullets. Snipers picked off their foe from the top
windows of brick tenements. Motor trucks, manned by armed bands,
plunged through the crowded streets, showering bullets. Firebrands
burned a hundred buildings and attempted to destroy the entire Negro
district. Three thousand men, women and children were rendered
homeless. By Monday night twenty-five blacks and whites had sobbed out
their lives in the battle of color, their bodies lay on the marble
slabs of the public morgue--a sacrifice to the God of Intolerance.
In Tuesday’s paper Robert read about the rioting and heard unconfirmed
details, horrible exaggerations, from the lips of excited men who stood
around the lobby. Robert felt glad that he no longer belonged to the
Tribe. Though the riots were no part of the Tribe’s work, still they
showed Robert the danger of organizing on the basis of hatred. In a way
he had known this all the time, but now his talks with Father Callahan,
with McCall and the Levins had indelibly impressed it upon him. He
felt himself nearer to his mental state of mind immediately after
the termination of the War--when the American ideal of forbearance,
indulgence, charity, had electrified a world--than he had ever been
since. Democracy. Yes, democracy, that was it.
Robert decided to wait until he received a reply to his telegram of
resignation before notifying Freeman, grew impatient as the morning
wore on and finally determined to rid himself of his impatience by
walking. It was hot and choking and sooty--not at all the Chicago of
which he had dreamed when he was in Georgia. It was impossible to get
used to Chicago. It was hot, but not like Corinth. It was hard to
breathe. On Michigan avenue, however, in spite of the smoke from the
lines of trains that ran along the shore, one could at least see Lake
Michigan, stretching calmly out to the horizon in the golden sunlight,
bearing proud white steamers and occasional sails--and the only restful
thing, it seemed, in the whole feverish metropolis. And so he walked,
past the Art Institute, to the north where workingmen high above were
placing blocks of dazzling white terra cotta on a tall tower that rose
just beyond the bridge at a curve in the boulevard.
He wondered how it would feel to stand perched there high above the
city--with its swarming traffic, its noise and soot, its passions and
hatreds--God peering down on the world he had fashioned. He looked at
his watch--it was almost eleven--and decided to return to his hotel.
McCall was waiting for him.
“I noticed a couple of telegrams in your box,” he said.
“A couple?” Robert wondered why there should be two. He opened the
first. It was from Griffith, a mixture of threat and Tribal mystery. He
could imagine Griffith grinning while he wrote it, wracking his brain
to coin something staggering, and satisfied with his work. It read:
“We know what we are doing. Remember your oath. Death to the faithless
is necessary to preserve faith in the deathless.”
The second telegram was briefer:
“Have learned all. Am returning ring. Margaret.”
Margaret! She, too, had turned against him. He remembered her outburst
of anger at home, when he had discussed resigning from the Tribe.
But how had she learned of his resignation? Who--? Ah! Robert had
an intuition. Pinkney. Pinkney, of course. Pinkney, who had wanted
Margaret all the time. Pinkney, who had induced him to join the Tribe
and undertake the organization of the middle West. He could see it all.
Pinkney, with his fresh, pink cheeks, bursting into the Forsythe home,
with the announcement that Hamilton had turned traitor to the South, to
one hundred per cent Americanism, to the Constitution, to the sanctity
of the home, to the dozen other glittering formulae that masked the
crude program of racial and religious persecution. Robert felt anger,
anger against Margaret, but principally against Pinkney--and relief.
He handed the telegrams to McCall, one by one.
“You may use the first one,” he said.
“I wouldn’t let that worry you. They’ll probably send you a few notes
of warning, with pictures of skulls and cross bones. There’s a story in
The Times this morning about--” His eyes took in the second telegram.
“Why--why, old man, this _is_ tough. Have you quarreled?”
Robert told him of Margaret’s fanatic enthusiasm for the Tribe,
especially its mission of protecting the home. As he did so, he felt
the blow to his pride. He was glad of it--yet to be jilted!
“Protecting the home, eh!” exploded McCall. “Why more than half the
men drafted from the South had the clap. Oh, I beg your pardon, Ham. I
forgot for a moment. Oh, well, we’re almost as bad here. Probably worse
in Chicago. But at least we don’t go round posing as home protectors.”
“Oh, well,” said Robert, with a little shrug of the shoulders, “I don’t
know. I don’t feel crushed, but it--”
His thoughts somehow jumped to Dorothy and his heart beat faster.
“Crushed!” McCall slapped him on the back. “That’s the luckiest thing
in the world for you. Why, you’re still young. You know, you’ll be a
long time married. I thought that I was the only sensible person left.”
“What do you mean--only sensible person?”
“You know what I told you about Levin and Miss Meadows.”
“Levin. Dorothy!”
“Sure, at the Press Club, that first day. No, by George, I was called
away before I had a chance. You know they met in France. It’s one of
those war romances. He a doctor and she a nurse in the same hospital.
Of course, it’s not a regular engagement. His father is orthodox and--”
McCall’s voice went on. Robert heard it in snatches. He remembered
Dorothy speaking about religious tolerance, about intermarriage. No,
that would make no difference with her. And Levin, too. His mouth felt
dry. He was talking at random? “Yes--Splendid girl--Beautiful--Nice
chap--”
They drifted down to Washington street and into a little restaurant.
Robert noticed the name--Ye Pot and Kettle--painted under a picture of
a large, old-fashioned pot, on the window.
“Thought it would be a little quieter here,” McCall was saying.
“Yes.” He looked at the menu. A waitress was proclaiming the merits of
the day’s specialties. He ordered something. He was conscious of a buzz
of voices and the sound of plates and cutlery.
“What’s the matter? You look pale.” McCall leaned forward, his face
anxious. “Aren’t you hungry? Better take some coffee. It’ll do you
good.”
“No, I’m not very hungry,” he said, but sipped the coffee. “I’m going
to the office.”
“It’s only twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll walk around a while.”
They walked slowly around the grim, gray city hall.
Robert shook off his weariness. Outside the entrance to the office
building they paused. McCall lit a cigarette.
“I’ve got to interview some one at the Palmer House,” he said, throwing
away the match. “Want a pill? Meet me there as soon as you’re through.
There’s some sort of a conference going on.”
“All right. In the lobby.”
The outer office of the Dearborn Statistical Bureau was empty--the
office force was still at lunch--but Freeman, in his shirt sleeves, was
bending over his desk in his private sanctum. Robert entered.
“I’ve resigned--” he began.
Freeman stood up, a sneer on his face.
“Yes, I got a telegram, telling me you’d quit. Well, there was another
fellow who also quit.” He shoved over the morning paper. One of the
stories on the second page was marked. It told of a former Grand Bogey
of the Tribe who had committed suicide after receiving threatening
letters. As Robert read, he could hear Freeman breathing and felt that
he was pulling himself together. He looked up.
“Well--”
“You damned coward, quitting now because you’re afraid of a few coons!”
“What!” Robert bit his lips and felt the muscles of his arms and legs
suddenly tighten.
“You heard me! You didn’t resign before. You waited until this nigger
trouble began and then you quit. I said you were a damned coward!”
Robert took a step forward. Freeman’s huge fists were clenched. He knew
that he was white and trembling.
“You take that back!”
Freeman took a single step to one side, so that the desk no longer
stood between them. His lips were frozen in a sneer. The corners of
his eye-lids were drawn down. He looked straight, unflinchingly into
Robert’s eyes.
Robert felt the blood pounding in his temples and rushing from his
heart through his limbs, and with a sudden movement, that was almost
a leap, he drove his right fist with all his strength at Freeman’s
chin. The latter skilfully threw his left forearm across his face and
slightly ducked, slightly tilted his head to one side. Robert’s fist
struck his opponent’s forearm and the top of his skull, and a sharp
pain shivered through his wrist.
“Ah.” Freeman’s teeth were bared. He was terribly cool. He collected
himself and sprang forward. Robert was thinking of his chest. The
blow caught him high on the side of the head and sent him backward
into the door, which crashed shut. Robert covered. His right hand was
useless. His chest! His face and solar plexus had to be protected.
It was impossible to protect all of them and still fight. He decided
to wait, head down, forearms forming a shield. He saw an opening and
jabbed suddenly with his left. Freeman’s head snapped back and a stream
of blood issued from the corner of his mouth. Robert fiercely lashed
out again at the same spot and Freeman fell blindly into a clinch. His
weight was forcing Robert slowly backward toward the door. He tried to
free himself. Freeman held on desperately and tried to backheel him.
Slowly something that he had learned came into Robert’s mind.
Something his wrestling instructor had told him at Harvard. “If you
ever get into a free-for-all--” What was it? His head was whirling. He
was being pressed back. If he could only use his right arm. Freeman
suddenly backed off and in that instant Robert remembered. He drove the
heel of his left hand full at Freeman’s chin, the fingers spread out
across his face. Freeman straightened up and threw up his hands. Like
a flash Robert had fallen on one knee, tackled his adversary about the
ankles, thrown him over his shoulder like a sack of wheat, staggered
about in a circle for a few steps and--dropped him. Freeman struck
the floor on the back of his head with a crash and lay stunned for a
second. Robert staggered back against the wall. Freeman had backheeled
him. It was fair. His right hand was helpless. He saw Freeman rise
slowly, shake his head and lunge heavily forward. Robert grinned. He
ducked under the outstretched arm and struck straight out at the pit
of his stomach with his left. Freeman collapsed and lay in a heap,
his collar loosened, his tie twisted around his neck, his hair and
face dripping with perspiration, the corner of his mouth swollen and
streaked with red.
A voice outside in the hall: “What’s going on there!” Footsteps in the
office. “Anybody there?” Silence. The footsteps retreating. Freeman
raised his head. Robert bent down and pushed it back and sat astride
his chest.
“Am I a coward?”
“Let up, you damned--”
Robert shoved his head back with his open hand.
“Am I a coward?”
Freeman gurgled. His face was red. Robert withdrew his hand.
“Am I--” His hand clutched forward.
“No.”
“Am I a coward to quit a bunch of men who fight in the dark? Am I a
coward when I know that I’ll be threatened with death for resigning?”
“No. Let me up.”
Freeman’s face was red. He was panting.
“Shake hands first and say we’re friends!”
“What?”
“Shake hands and say we’re friends!”
Freeman looked startled, as though he were talking to a mad man, but
held up his hand.
“Now before I let you up.” He shifted his position forward a trifle and
Freeman winced. “Before I let you up, listen to this: I quit because I
learned that the Tribe’s stuff about the Jews and the Catholics is all
bunk. I was a damn fool. But when I was shown, I did the square thing.
I quit. Now you’re going to do exactly what I tell you. You’re going to
see the same persons I saw. And if they convince you, you’re going to
quit, too. Is that agreed?”
“Yes. Let me up for God’s sake. I’m choking.”
“First shake on it.”
They shook. Robert sprang to his feet and helped Freeman to his.
“I haven’t a damned thing against you, Freeman. In fact, I always liked
you. There’s nothing personal about this, excepting you called me
something that we don’t call friends where I come from.”
Together they brushed off Freeman’s trousers.
“The stenographer is back,” said Robert. “I’ll send her for collars and
court plaster. Never mind, I’ll pay.”
Fifteen minutes later, washed, combed, in clean collars and with
Freeman’s cut lip neatly concealed by plaster, they set out to find
McCall.