Part 14

Robert, he judged, did not know all about the Tribe, but he must take some of its mission on faith. No doubt he knew its main objects. White supremacy. Noah had begot Shem, Ham and Japheth. God had created men, black and white--the white to be supreme, the black to be ruled. The purity of womanhood. Men and women who feared God and who kept His commandments. Patriotism. Something about money changers in the Temple.

Griffith, whose quick eye had been traveling back and forth between the minister and Robert, leaned forward and pointed his finger at the desk.

“It’s this way, Hamilton,” he said. “Pinkney has probably told you and I’ve said something about it--we’re planning our big drive, to expand simultaneously all over the country. We need men of standing to organize branches. We want to hit the big places in the North. Chicago and St. Louis are important centers now, because a lot of niggers have been imported there during the war. Chicago seems to be the logical center for the Middle West. We’ve had a man there for a few weeks looking over the field, and we’d like--that is, we would be delighted to have you accept a position as a Grand Bogey--that’s a district manager. You’d work out of Chicago. There’s an office there now under a different name--the Dearborn Statistical Bureau.”

Pinkney rose.

“Well, I simply wanted to bring Captain Hamilton here. I don’t suppose you need me any more.” They didn’t, thanked him profusely, and he left. The Headman listened to Griffith for a while and then turned to another desk, where he worked over some papers.

Robert was to employ lesser Bogeys or sales managers under him--division Bogeys for states, regimental for cities.

“Now,” Griffith coughed and looked uneasy. “As for the matter of compensation. We realize that no matter how inspired a person’s motives may be, he can’t do his best work without remuneration. So I’ve devised a plan whereby our sales managers, that is our Bogeys, are able to carry on their splendid work and at the same time make a good thing of it.”

Mr. Lister looked up from his work, pursed his lips together and nodded importantly.

“The laborer is worthy of his reward,” he said.

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” agreed Griffith.

The reward was to be fifty cents for each new member. The initiation fee was $10.00. Of this the Bogey who actually sold the membership, or rather, gained the recruit, kept $4.00, the division Bogey kept $1.00 and the Grand Bogey fifty cents. Of course, the Grand Bogey would have twenty or thirty lesser Bogeys working under him, and although the recompense on each sale, or rather new membership--Griffith _would_ drift back into the terminology of salesmanship--would be less, his total profits would be greater. Thus out of the $10.00, more than half, or $5.50, would go to the various Bogeys, and $4.50 was to be forwarded to the Commander Bogey, who was Griffith. If Robert actually sold the memberships himself, he would keep the other Bogey’s share. Then there was the mask, which was sold for $6.50, and the horse robe, $14.00; water for the initiation ceremony, at $10.00 a quart, and so forth, all of which brought their share of profit.

Robert wondered whether Pinkney was familiar with all these financial details of the organization, whether his father knew about it, whether the other citizens of Corinth who had discussed it so glowingly as a sort of new church sprung up. Well, one had to be practical. The main thing was to get a number of Americans united in a common purpose, and it took money to do these things. The contractors who had undertaken the undoubtedly patriotic work of building the army cantonments during the war had made profits. There was no use being a sentimentalist. Even the directors of charity drives received compensation for their work--often handsome compensation--and who could deny that raising money for charity was a good thing. True, if the Hamilton Corporation had not failed, Robert would not have accepted the position as Grand Bogey, except, perhaps, without compensation. But now he must be practical. He had been in Chicago only once before in his life, as a boy, and it would be interesting to see it again. It had changed a great deal. And then, too, he would have a chance to see McCall and Levin. Dorothy, too!

“I suppose you’ll join the American Legion,” said Griffith.

“Yes. We’re just forming a post here, but I suppose I might as well join in Chicago now.”

“Fine,” said Griffith. “This is a military organization, you see. We want to get that element into it. How soon can you leave?”

Robert considered.

“Almost any time. There is nothing really to hinder me at all. In a week, say, if you want me to.”

“The sooner the better. I’ll have Mrs. Ward fix you up with a supply of propaganda materials. I see you’ve got a copy of The Clarion. Of course, you understand, The Clarion’s published by The Clarion Publishing Company. But it’s all good stuff. Read the article about the Catholics.”

“Is that true about the Knights of Columbus trying to control politics in this country?”

Griffith laughed.

“Read some of the stuff we’ve prepared. There’s a pamphlet by Prof. Lorner that’s a knockout, positively a knockout. And you want to read the K. C. oath.”

Griffith and the Rev. Mr. Lister shook hands with him. Mrs. Ward was directed to get a complete Grand Bogey’s layout ready and a few pieces of literature were thrust into his hand.

“We’ll run you through the other degrees so you can qualify for a Grand Bogey,” said Griffith. “We’re getting another young captain--good family, good mixer--for New York. Keep your eyes peeled for recruits. Drop in again tomorrow at this time. And read this literature. It’s good ammunition.”

XXVII

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.”

XXVIII

Robert was on his way to Chicago, with his credentials as Grand Bogey of the Trick Track Tribe secure in his breast pocket. In a large, black leather bag were his propaganda supplies, booklets and cards about the black peril, the yellow peril, the political activities of the Knights of Columbus, the Jewish problem, the menace of foreign immigration. He had scarcely time to look at them. Most of his supplies had, of course, been sent by express directly to the office of the Dearborn Statistical Bureau.

Before leaving Corinth, Griffith and Lister had both given him a new conception of the scope of the Trick Track Tribe. Its sphere had been called the Fourth Dimension, because like the fourth dimension it was to be invisible to outsiders, yet it was to form a part of the entire political, economic and social fabric of the country. It was to support good government against bad, combat radicalism and immorality, uphold the best traditions of Anglo-Saxon civilization. The Bogeys were to go forth like knights of old, except that they were to work unseen, in the Fourth Dimension, fighting for God and their country.

Robert had been provided with a number of cards to distribute among his prospects--cards resembling those which he had received, with the motto _Non Silba Sed Anthra_ on them. Griffith had suggested that he begin proselytising on the train, and accordingly Robert studied his fellow passengers.

“Get the young fellows,” Griffith had advised. “As many of the ex-service men as you can and of fellows who weren’t drafted, but who would like to get in with men who were in the army. In the cities, of course, you’ll have to work systematically. First, get a few of the big guns: a big minister, a public official, a prominent business man. Then you can use their names in getting the rest. But on the train I’d try the young fellows.”

In the smoking car Robert tried to manipulate the conversation so as to sound the feelings of the men with whom he conversed. Everyone, of course, approved of such a generalization as Americanism, although each had his own solution of his idea of what that problem constituted.

“What we need is to get down to work and do less shouting,” was one choleric old gentleman’s rather vague recipe.

A drummer from Chicago--big cigar, diamond stickpin, dominant joviality and a talent for smutty stories--denounced the Bolsheviki--but his nose was Semitic and his name was something with a “son” on the end of it.

The thin, blond man with horn-rimmed spectacles--an advertising copywriter on his way back to Chicago from a vacation--said business was unusually good, it was simply a problem of going after it. None of them, in fact, had felt that the integrity of the American nation was being subverted. They were hopelessly optimistic.

When he referred to the Negro question, two men who were from the South began to take interest. One was an old gentleman--he seemed at least seventy-five--the other, a young man, perhaps Robert’s junior by three years, on his first trip north--to Louisville.

“That’s a real problem,” said the young man, taking part in the conversation for the first time that evening. “Some times I think they should all be shipped over to Africa--the whole bunch of ’em. Send ’em to Liberia. Africa’s the place for ’em all.”

He related an incident of how a Negro had stolen a hen from an uncle’s roost. A policeman, with a sense of humor, saw the darkey waddling down the street, suspiciously fat.

“Good-evening, Rastus,” said the policeman. “Nice evening.” It was the first time in his life that a policeman had ever said “good evening” to him, or, in fact, any white man.

“Yes, sah, pow’ful fine evenin’,” said the nigger uneasily, trying to conceal the hen, make a getaway and be polite to the guardian of the law at the same time.

“You’re looking fine,” said the policeman, playfully prodding him. “Wife’s cooking must agree with you.”

“Yes, pow’ful fine cooking. I gain thuty pound in one week. But I must be going home. I heah de poke chops frying on de pan and a-calling me. Good-night.”

At this moment the hen began to cackle.

“What’s that?” cried the patrolman.

“Tuck-tuck-a-wack!!”