Part 12
Hamilton was very white, a nervous smile about the corners of his mouth. Mrs. Hamilton gave his arm a little pat:
“Everything will be all right.”
Robert was conscious of her watching him as he hurried up the walk and into the doorway. He could see the patterns of the stone blocks and the lines made by the moss. The branch of an oak tree hung over him and he heard birds chirping in the rustling foliage. Life seemed to pause, to hang between the ticking of a watch. He heard insects humming.
The operator was reading the message, mechanically, by syllables, so that they barely made sense. But he understood. The operation had been successful! He ran out of the house excitedly, waving his arms and sputtering. His mother understood. They both talked excitedly for a moment without listening to each other.
“I knew it would be all right. I knew it would be all right,” Mrs. Hamilton was repeating over and over again.
“Let’s have some one over here tonight,” said Robert excitedly. “Didn’t we use to know some one named McCall?”
“McCall?”
“Or something like that? I must call up Margaret.”
“You don’t mean the McFallons?”
“Yes, I haven’t seen them since I came back. Don’t they come here any more?”
Mrs. Hamilton looked down.
“No, Robert,” she said quietly.
“But I thought you used to be such good friends.”
He ran into the house to telephone Margaret. He had an impulse to run about the city spreading the news, when he recalled that no one knew who McCall was or had the least interest in him.
“I’m going to have some fellows over tonight,” he sang out to his mother. “Is it all right?”
“I’ll be only too glad.”
“I think I’ll call up Jack Perry. He’s back now and Tom McBride, I haven’t seen them in an age. And, of course, Howard Pinkney isn’t such a bad scout.”
“Yes, Howard is a fine chap.”
“You--you haven’t anything against the others have you--Jack and Tom?” Hamilton had perceived something in her praise of Howard that might have been interpreted as a criticism of them.
“No, not against them.” Mrs. Hamilton was silent for a moment. She stooped down to pluck off a dry leaf, then rose and brushed back a wisp of loose hair. “But I thought you were going to join the Tribe.”
“Yes, Tuesday night.”
“Well, don’t you know that they’re Catholics?”
“Who, the Perrys and the McBrides?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t thought about it at all, but what if they are? McCall is a Catholic, too.”
“Well, you know, dear, that Catholics can’t belong to the Trick Track Tribe.”
“Well, what of it? I can’t belong to the Knights of Columbus. But I think Mr. Perry and Jack both belong. Yes, I remember they do. That never kept them from inviting us. No, that’s impossible. Why some of our most prominent men here are Catholics. Half, say a third anyway, of the Corinth Club are Catholics. What’s belonging to a lodge got to do with it anyway?”
“Well, you may call them, dear, if you wish. Certainly I have no objections. Personally I should be glad to have both Mrs. Perry and Mrs. McBride over. But--well, you call them.”
Hamilton frowned. As he kept growing older he kept bumping into stronger and more surprising prejudices. At three he had learned of the existence of that line between the whites and the blacks. At seven he learned the sharp distinction between the rich and the poor. Next it had been Jew and Gentile. For a few years he had almost forgotten about these social barriers. Now came the most surprising one of all, the most difficult to understand.
Jack Perry and Tom McBride were both at home--it was nearly six--and expressed their delight at the invitation. The Perrys were out of the city, but Tom would ask his parents to come.
“I told you they’d come,” said Robert to his mother. “It’s almost time for dinner. They’re coming a little after eight.”
Mrs. Hamilton looked surprised.
“I don’t know where you could have gotten such an idea, mother. Why, how is it possible?” He tried to tell her what was in his mind. The war. The country united to win. The allied soldiers of many different nations and races and religions. And the armistice only signed a few months ago. But, of course, she knew all that.
Mr. Hamilton had been called out of town on business and they ate alone. There was joy in Robert’s heart. McCall would be able to see. He must write him immediately and send Dorothy the poem. The telephone bell ringing, broke into his thoughts. It was Tom. His parents had made another engagement for the evening of which he had known nothing and like a dutiful son he would be obliged to accompany them. Tomorrow night he would also be engaged. But he’d see him some other time. Robert was turning away when the bell rang again. It was Jack Perry. He had phoned before but the line was busy. He had suddenly remembered that he had an engagement with someone. With whom? Why, with Tom McBride.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Jack?” asked Robert.
“Nothing,” said Jack. “I simply forgot for the moment. By the way, I understand that you’ve joined the Trick Track Tribe.”
“No, not yet.” Was Jack trying to pump him? He remembered suddenly that joining the Tribe was supposed to be a secret. Jack’s voice became hard over the phone, hard and formally polite.
“Mr. McBride and I are going to attend the Knights of Columbus, a little business meeting. Tell Pinkney and Griffith and the Rev. Mr. Lister that. A Knights of Columbus meeting. Goodbye.”
“But listen, old man--”
It was too late. Perry had rung off. He returned to the table crestfallen and repeated his conversation to his mother.
“The Knights of Columbus!” she said. “You see they were right!”
“Who were right?”
“Howard and Mr. Griffith. They were over here almost six months ago, just before dad joined the Tribe. They were arguing about the power of the Knights of Columbus. It was hard to believe all they said, but they brought proofs of their activities.”
“What activities? I don’t believe it. Why, at camp, I used to be in the K. C. hut as much as the Y. M. C. A. And now they’re starting schools for the ex-service men.”
“It’s an organization to control politics in the United States for the benefit of the Catholic church.”
Robert laughed.
“Mother, do you really believe that? Who’s the governor of our state? He’s a Protestant. Who’s the mayor of our city? Another Protestant. Who are our aldermen? Mostly Protestants--a few Catholics.”
“Ask Dad about the Catholic problem when he comes back, or Howard,” suggested Mrs. Hamilton. “Really, Robert, I don’t know much about it, except from what I’ve heard at the discussions. Of course, there are secrets that dad cannot tell me. But I know that since he joined the Tribe we haven’t associated with any Catholics. Some very fine people, too. Some of my best friends.”
She sighed and looked thoughtfully down at the tablecloth.
“Dad wouldn’t go over to the Perrys after he joined and he always managed to stay away when they came here. I have nothing against them. But you know how it is.”
“Is it that way all over Corinth?” asked Robert. “I haven’t noticed. Yes, I have. There haven’t been any Catholics at most of the functions. And there did seem to be some dissention at the club. There’s no sense to it. It’s got to stop. Why should a fellow risk his life in Europe fighting for democracy and come home to find his own town torn up by the most undemocratic barriers in the world--religion.
“We’re forming an organization--that is the veterans of the war--a democratic organization where every one is on the same footing as every one else. Even rank means nothing there. The private has the same rights and privileges as the general. Race, social position, religion--all these distinctions have been swept away. The American Legion is for all who have been in the service. Why, it doesn’t even matter whether they enlisted or were drafted! That’s real Americanism. But Pinkney keeps talking about the Tribe’s campaign for Americanism. There must be some mistake somewhere. If the Knights of Columbus are going into politics and stirring up religious prejudice, it’s got to stop. I don’t know exactly what Pinkney means by white supremacy, aside from the supremacy it naturally has, and I don’t see the necessity of a society standing for pure womanhood--why that’s part of every man’s religion, of every social and moral law in the world!--but I do know what Americanism means. I can see that it’s needed here and I’m going into the Tribe because I believe a powerful organization like that can help spread it!”
XXIV
Late Tuesday night Robert was picked up at a street corner which had been designated, by an automobile filled with white-robed and hooded figures. The Tribesman beside him placed his finger on his lips and the journey was made in silence. It was a fantastic ride, through the dimly lighted streets, then through the shadowy suburbs, into the country. There was a full moon and under it the earth looked a grotesque thing of shadows--a phantasy in black and white.
As they left the city, Robert noticed other cars, with similar loads of hooded figures, ahead and behind them, all moving silently and without lights. Within a half hour they had reached a large field, the fences guarding which had been pulled down, and in the center of which a circle of cars was being parked under the silent direction of Tribesmen.
Robert and the members of his party dismounted and crossed the field to a thickly-wooded glade, at the edge of which a narrow path was faintly visible in the moonlight. Other candidates joined him until there were perhaps one hundred. These were formed into a long column by means of whispers and gestures. It was exactly midnight by Robert’s wrist watch when suddenly a tall figure in white, bearing aloft a fiery cross, appeared. He marched to the head of the column, the light of the rood casting a ruddy reflection on the upturned faces of the initiates and on the figures in white and causing the shadows to dance back and forth grotesquely. As the bearer of the fiery cross moved slowly forward, the neophytes in groups of ten, each conducted by a Tribesman, followed along the path in the grove, which now gleamed and faded before their footsteps.
It was an awe-inspiring sight. Hamilton was carried back to his childhood, to his first fear of shadows and spectres. Weird ghost stories flickered through his mind. He remembered strange rites of primitive peoples--the initiation of headhunters into their bloody mysteries, of the fearful Thugs, of the secret societies of the Bantus. The shadows clutched about him and the blaze of light flamed up and down ahead.
He had proceeded perhaps fifty feet, when he was suddenly aware of a hooded figure standing motionless beside the path, a grim sentinel, peering at him through the slits in his mask. Fifty feet farther, at a bend in the path, stood another sentinel. They had passed six of these silent figures in white, when the winding column was brought to a sudden halt. The bearer of the cross was being questioned by a guardian. His voice rang through the grove:
“What if any of your party should prove a traitor?”
The reply came in a deep, solemn voice to the hushed initiates:
“He would be immediately banished in disgrace from the Fourth Dimension without fear or favor, conscience would tenaciously torment him, remorse repeatedly revile him, and direful things would befall him.”
Again the questioner:
“Does he know this?”
And again the rejoinder:
“All this he knows. He has heard and he must heed.”
A countersign was given, the guard stepped back, and the column moved forward. Hamilton found himself in a clearing, from the center of which rose a rude altar and about which hundreds of hooded Tribesmen stood massed. The bearer of the fiery cross circled the clearing. The groups of neophytes followed.
The white forms, the flickering light, all had confused Hamilton and he now perceived that the Tribesmen were standing in a double rank, through which he was marching. Four times the group stopped before a Tribesman, who sat exalted on a high chair or rock--exactly what, it was too dark to see--and harangued them. There were questions about obedience, about secrecy, about fidelity, about tribal fealty. Robert was too confused to hear all the questions or to understand those he heard.
The groups of neophytes had once more become a line. The bearer of the fiery rood stalked behind the altar and thrust the flaming emblem in the ground. It was the sole light. A masked figure stepped forward and held out his hand:
“Always remember that to keep the oath means to you, honor, happiness and life; but to violate it means disgrace, dishonor and _death_.” It was a voice of frenzy. The flames and shadows danced weirdly. The moon gleamed through the black trees. The silent Tribesmen peered through the slits in their hoods.
“You will place your left hand over your heart and raise your right hand to heaven.”
Robert obeyed and, in chorus with the other initiates, repeated the words of the oath:
“I, in the presence of God and man, most solemnly pledge, promise and swear”--and so forth to the end. It was an oath of obedience to the sublime authority of the Tribe and to the head of the Tribe, Joseph Andrew Lister.
Then the oath of secrecy, in which the candidates swore that they would rather die than divulge any of the secrets.
Next an oath to work for the good of the Tribe in spite of personal or other conflicting motives.
Last of all an oath of fealty to the Tribe, of protection of members.
“I swear that I will keep secure to myself a secret of a Tribesman when same is committed to me in the sacred bond of Tribal fealty--the crime of violating THIS solemn oath, treason against the United States of America, rape and malicious murder alone excepted.” Malicious murder? What could that mean? Why the qualification of murder? For a fleeting moment Robert was puzzled. But he went on mechanically with the oath.
“I most solemnly assert and affirm that to the government of the United States of America and any state thereof of which I may become a resident I sacredly swear an unqualified allegiance above any other and every kind of government in the whole world. I here and now pledge my life, my property, my vote and my sacred honor to uphold its flag, its Constitution and its constitutional laws and will protect, defend and enforce same unto death.
“I swear that I will most zealously and valiantly shield and preserve by any and all justifiable means and methods (justifiable? Again a question came into Robert’s mind. But he dismissed it.) the sacred constitutional rights and privileges of free public schools, free speech, free press, separation of church and state, liberty, white supremacy, just laws and the pursuit of happiness against any encroachment of any nature by any person, persons, political party or parties, religious sect or people, native, naturalized or foreign, of any race, color, creed, lineage or tongue whatsoever.”
The head of the Tribe, himself, who had previously impressed on the candidates the sacredness of the oath now took from the altar a water bottle. Robert noticed, for the first time, that, beside the bottle, the altar held also an American flag, a Bible and a dagger.
“With this transparent, life-giving, powerful, God-given fluid,” he began, his voice rising and falling in even cadences, “more precious and far more significant than all the sacred oils of the ancients, I set you apart from the men of your daily association to the great and honorable task you have voluntarily allotted yourselves as citizens of the Fourth Dimension, Hunters of the Trick Track Tribe. You will kneel upon your right knee.”
Robert felt as though he were in the midst of some weird nightmare. He had had that impression all evening. Now it seemed deepened--the figures in white, the darkness, the eerie moon, the gleaming cross, the shadows. But what was happening now, or about to happen, seemed too utterly unreal. It was like one of those points in a dream where the dreamer cries out “I am only dreaming,” and strives desperately to awake. It could not be possible! Still the Tribal Head held the water bottle. Was he about to perform a baptismal rite? Robert had no particularly delicate religious scruples. Still, the burlesquing of the sacrament of baptism shocked his sensibilities. He would have been equally shocked if someone had trampled on the American flag--if someone had cruelly trampled on the flag of any other nation. It was fanatical. Robert was conscious of a quartette, somewhere far away, singing a hymn in low, yet distinct tones. Something about “Home, country and tribe.” He noticed that he was kneeling with the hundred other candidates.
The voice of the Tribal Head rose:
“I dedicate you in body, in mind, in spirit and in life to the holy service of our country and our tribe, our home, each other and humanity.”
He advanced and poured a few drops of water on each candidate’s neck.
“In body,” Hamilton heard him say as a drop fell on his back; “in mind,” a few drops fell on his head; “in spirit,” the officer sprinkled a few drops on his own hand and tossed them upward; “in life.” He moved his hand in a circle above the candidates’ heads. The baptism was ended. Officers and Tribesmen fell on their knees and prayed.
The fiery cross flickered above them. The black shadows danced faster. A cloud obscured the moon. Robert was a Tribesman.
XXV
It was the day after his initiation into the Tribe. Robert had slept late, the strange ceremony having run incessantly through his mind in a series of shadowy dreams. Words of the oaths had repeated themselves, the Tribal hymn, the threat of death to the disloyal: “Remember that to keep this oath means honor, happiness, and life; but to violate it means disgrace, dishonor and death. (Then, ironically)--May honor, happiness and life be yours.”
The ceremony had been impressive. It had impressed with an idea of primal power--the power of men, freed from all shackles, and united by a pure, strong, simple faith. Christianity. Racial purity. Patriotism. Womanhood. Ideals which it was well to raise up, to fight for if necessary. And Americanism. Through such an organization of men of common birth, religion and ideals, everything could be accomplished. Yes, he was proud of being a Tribesman!
Last night the baptism ritual had shocked him, but now the towering seriousness of the Tribe justified it. Exactly how the Tribe meant to function Robert did not know. Doubtless it would be explained to him later. He was eager to know. Griffith had given some hint at Pinkney’s office. He wished to know and to serve. Someone had said something about the Knights of Columbus trying to control politics. But that had been his mother. Yet she had overheard others, Tribesmen, talking about it. Could that be true? Could so un-American a thing be crushed by the Tribe?
Robert found Mr. Hamilton walking up and down the porch, chewing the end of his cigar.
“That was a tremendous thing, governor,” said Robert, “I think the most tremendous thing in my life.
“I shall never forget it as long as I live. And I want to take an active interest in it. Now--”
He hesitated. Mr. Hamilton cleared his throat.
“Now,” Robert continued. “I’m ready to start in again. My wound is practically well, I’ve had a good rest and I mean to pitch in wherever I’m wanted.”
“I wanted you to have a good rest, Bob, before I told you. Let’s sit down over here on the bench. We’ve seen this moment coming a long time--mother and I--and we’ve shrunk from it. I suppose you’ve noticed a change here?”
Robert had. Little changes. Only Mammy Chloe and George were left of the five servants. Only one car. Only one horse. Little things like that. And then, he suddenly remembered, the office had been closed in New York.
“Oh, I thought,” he was going to say that they were economizing, “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I didn’t think about it at all.”
“Well, the war has made some men, but it’s broken me. Not completely, but--” he waved his cigar. “There’s enough for us to live on the rest of our lives--that is the three of us--although on a slightly reduced scale. Oh, there’s nothing to worry about. Only, only, it isn’t what I had planned for you.” His voice broke and he pretended to relight his cigar.
They had often talked over their plans. Robert was to learn the more important aspects of the business, eventually succeed his father as president, leaving the details, however, to a competent staff. His income would enable him to live according to his own ideas of life--to ride, to hunt, to fish, to play tennis, to acquire the easy culture that comes with leisure, to surround himself with a society of men and women of similar tastes and to patronize, perhaps even essay, the arts. The older Hamilton had been able, in a measure, to live in accordance with these ideas.
Now perhaps they would have to take an apartment and cut down their expenditures. There would be an income ample for all necessities--even for the best apartment in Corinth, for a reasonable amount of entertaining.
“But can’t anything be done? Can’t I pitch in--?”
Mr. Hamilton laughed and looked at his son kindly.
“You’ve used that expression twice today, Bob,” he said. “It’s not like pitching hay or even pitching for a baseball team. I know you’re willing. But the smashup came while you were still in France--right after the armistice. It’s not as though anyone can help at this stage of the game, like a pinch hitter.”
Robert wondered how his father could take the matter so lightly. He suddenly gripped his father’s hand and stammered:
“It’s great how you can smile through everything like that. It’s--!”
Mr. Hamilton patted his shoulder.
“Wait until you’re my age, son. My loss is really nothing. There are things tremendously more important than money. Health, love, friendship. The ability to appreciate this cigar or to tell a good drink or a good book from a poor one. Money is valuable only in buying that appreciation. I’ve tried to give you that--to give you an education and a viewpoint. And we still have enough money left to buy a few good cigars and drinks and books.”
Mr. Hamilton sketched the decline of the Hamilton corporation. It had never been as important as Robert had thought--there had always been heavily mortgaged properties, for instance. During the war, most of the hardwood lands had been sold and the money used to expand the cotton mills. In the spring of 1918 it seemed certain that the war would last at least another year and so a huge plant had been erected near Charleston. Prices were high, the work lagged, the expense was enormous. In order to insure a sufficient supply of cotton and to guard against continued increases in price, Hamilton had bought heavily for future delivery. The armistice had come. The bottom had fallen out of the market. The demand for cotton goods had ceased. There was no foreign market. Well, it was hopeless. Out of the mess there would be left perhaps $200,000, anyway $100,000. He had disposed of most of his stock at a small figure. A set of Yankees and Jews were in control.
“Whatever you do,” said Mr. Hamilton, looking at Robert steadily, “whatever you do, don’t gamble on the exchange. Poker is all right, within your means. It’s a gentleman’s game. Dice has an honorable origin and at least you get a chance to hold the dice once in a while. But on the stock market or exchange you never hold the dice. You’ll remember, won’t you?