Part 13

“Now, I suppose this may interfere with your plans about getting married. You are still young. I was thirty myself when I married mother. The world is still before you. There’s no hurry. Some day I know you will want to choose your road. If you care to take up a profession, there’s plenty to send you through. If you’re interested in business, I may still have some influence and, perhaps, a little cash, although all I have is tied up. As for myself, I’m too old to go into a new business now. I was nearly forty when you were born.”

“Of course I’ll want to do something now,” said Robert.

“You might talk it over with Pinkney. He’s a factor in Corinth today. He’s talked to me about you several times.”

“He seems to be interested in the Tribe mainly.”

“Yes, Robert, there are many influential Corinthians interested in the Tribe. It’s their hobby. I--I don’t know. I joined, of course. I think its objects are splendid, commendable, in fact. But after you’ve seen ten or twelve initiations the glamor wears off. Perhaps I shouldn’t talk to you like this. But you’re my son and you’ll understand. The ceremonial is not for us. It’s to impress others. And I’m a bit of a skeptic about any organization of human beings. Perhaps this may work the miracle. I hope it can. If you can prove useful in propagating its message, so much the better. Patriotism. Regard for laws. Chivalry. White supremacy. They’re all fine ideals.”

“Yes, they are, governor.”

“If you can prove valuable now to the Tribe, because of your personality or war experience or whatever it is, you will win the friendship of the most influential men in Corinth. This work will simply be a stepping stone. Pinkney’s a young man. He lacks certain qualities you have. He may not be all that you or I would seek in our ideal man, but he has brains enough to appreciate you. With the family name, the slight financial assistance I can give you and the good will of the best element of Corinth, the future is anything you care to make it. I don’t want you to be merely a successful man, but success is not to be despised and it may prove the open sesame to the life that we planned.”

“Yes, governor, I understand.”

They stood up. Robert had never quite understood his father before, it seemed. Smiling to the last. Well, he could be like that too.

XXVI

Robert found Pinkney, hat on head, about to leave the office.

“Come along,” he said, “you’re just in time. I’m going to the Tribe office. I’ll introduce you to the Sublime Headman--Joseph Andrew Lister.” Together they descended to the street.

“Lister? I heard the name at the concilium. Who is he otherwise? Is he a Corinthian?”

“Lister?--have a cigar, Robert. He’s the Rev. Mr. Lister, a very distinguished minister. Let me see. I think he was a Methodist divine. But he has given up his clerical work, he told me, to devote all his time to the Tribe. It was his idea, in fact. He began recruiting members in about 1915 or so and laid the foundation. The office is only a few blocks down.”

“I thought,” said Robert, “the initiation ceremony had a sort of ecclesiastical flavor. It was very impressive though. I dreamed about it all night.”

“Did you?” Pinkney grinned. “Lister and Griffith devised it. Lister is the man with the ideal of solidifying the best element in this country; while Griffith is the practical man. He really made it. He works out all the plans. He is really quite a capable fellow.”

They crossed the street, Pinkney, with his slightly annoying habit of politeness, or excessive friendliness, holding Hamilton’s arm and helping him. A persistent newsboy thrust a paper before him and Pinkney bought two copies.

“Want one? I have mine delivered at the office every day, but--”

Robert glanced at the streamer headline and discovered the meaning of what the newsboy had been shouting. A half-dozen masked men had taken a Negro from his place of employment in Corinth, driven him far into the country and tarred and feathered him. Members of the Trick Track Tribe were suspected. Howard’s cheeks were flushed and he moistened his lips with his tongue.

“Look at that,” said Robert, “they’re accusing the Tribe.”

“Oh, the police are friendly. The chief is one of us. There’s no danger. Whenever something like this happens, the Tribe is naturally blamed anyway. And if members of the Tribe did do it, no one would tell. There’s been altogether too much lawlessness among the niggers lately. The courts are cluttered with them. It should be a good lesson for them.”

“But isn’t this lawlessness?”

“The Tribe has its own law and metes out its own justice. You’ll see. You’ve taken only your first degree. You haven’t learned about the tribunal. It’s the fairest, justest institution in the United States. It fortifies the ordinary methods of law enforcement and insures justice to every one whose case is brought before it. If a man is condemned by it, be sure he is guilty.”

Robert noticed that Howard had not said that the Tribe had or had not been responsible for the affair. Yet he had vindicated it. There was a peculiar thing about the oath, too, or one of them: a person was permitted to deny a fact or even to falsify in defense of the Tribe. A phrase he had heard somewhere popped into his mind: “A good dose of tar taken externally with lots of feathers.”

Howard was detailing the offenses of the Negroes of Corinth. Of the entire black race. Of the colored races. What had they to do with this one individual human being who had been punished by these superior white men? Well, perhaps this man was guilty. The newspaper story hinted that the victim had distributed among his fellow Negroes white mule, a poisonous whiskey that incited the drinkers to violence--when it did not paralyze them, more or less permanently. After all, what was the law, but an institution to maintain justice? It was an instrument of man. It functioned through men. What difference was there fundamentally if men in long white gowns and masks sentenced you or a judge with a white wig and black robes or men in business suits! As long as the man was really guilty. And ordinary justice often lagged, allowed the criminal to escape, failed to impress its lesson on others.

“Oh, it was probably a good lesson at that,” said Robert.

“Probably!” exclaimed Pinkney. “Why there’s no doubt about it. It will do more to restore law and order, to stop the selling of white mule than raiding a dozen stills. I know the niggers. You know them too, Hamilton. They’ll become frightened and quit.”

The Rev. Mr. Lister was in his private office in conference with Mr. Griffith and another gentleman, according to the rather plump, middle-aged woman who sat typing in the outer room. Pinkney introduced Robert to her. Her name was Mrs. Ward. She had pleasant, a trifle flirtatious, brown eyes, assisted Mr. Griffith in editing the Tribe paper and various pamphlets, and chewed gum.

“Seen the last copy of the Clarion?” she asked, with a smile, turning to reach for something.

“No, what’s that?” asked Robert.

Mrs. Ward and Pinkney informed him simultaneously that it was a propaganda weekly, Mrs. Ward with a coquettish shake of her finger and a somewhat more pronounced appearance of her double chin.

“Captain Hamilton has just been initiated,” explained Pinkney apologetically. “Mrs. Ward, here, is the brains of the Tribe.”

She laughed.

“Here it is,” she said, handing the magazine to Robert. “Aren’t men the flatterers? There’s a corker in this week about the Catholics. You wanna read it. Didja see last week’s Jew article, Mr. Pinkney? Griffith wrote ’em. There’s some swell stuff about the Inquisition. I don’t see where he reads so much.”

Hamilton glanced over the first page of The Clarion. There was an engraving of de Torquemada with the caption, “Do You Want Him Here?” beneath. But before he could read beyond the first paragraph--a series of queries, as to whether we wanted this or that medieval institution here--he became conscious of voices raised in the office of the Sublime Headman. First an impassioned, angry voice. The words were indistinguishable. Then the angry voice of the minister. Robert recognized the cadences, rolling in anger:

“To violate your oath means disgrace, dishonor and _death_.”

A door flew open. The voices ceased abruptly. A white-faced man strode out of the room. He stopped in embarrassment as he saw Pinkney, twisted his hat, screwed his lips into a smile and mumbled a greeting, then stumbled out of the room. Robert’s hands involuntarily crushed the copy of The Clarion. A buzzer sounded.

“Come in, gentlemen,” called a sunny voice.

“Walk right in there,” beamed Mrs. Ward, adjusting a new sheet in her typewriter. “He’s in there alone with Griffith now.”

The Rev. Mr. Lister was seated at a mahogany desk--a tall impressive figure in frock coat, wing collar and black cravat--a dignified and picturesque survival of, say, the middle of the nineteenth century, with a wavy mane parted at one side and brushed back from a high forehead; thin lips of the orator; intent pale blue eyes.

Joseph Andrew Lister had been an itinerant Methodist preacher and later organizer for a fraternal society, before the inspiration came to him to revive a secret society for the reformation of humanity and the establishment of a more perfect justice on earth. He had been born on a farm in northern Georgia and had been obliged to rise at four o’clock every morning to begin the day’s chores. He hated farm life and, having at the age of seven, attended an Evangelistic meeting, presided over by a fiery preacher, decided to find solace in religion.

His parents, who were very religious, and an uncle, who ran a small store in a neighboring town, scraped together enough to send Joseph through a seminary, where he applied himself with such zeal that he led all his classes. He knew both testaments almost by heart and found in them the epitome of all wisdom. When not studying he was continually composing sermons and delivering them, under his breath in his room, or aloud in the fields or on the street. At sixteen he come home on Sunday to preach at the church where he had been confirmed and which his parents attended, to their inexpressible pride.

He might have continued to serve as a minister, assisting his parents with the less arduous duties of the farm between sermons, had he not been induced to join a fraternal society in his thirty-fifth year. He suddenly got an insight into a new world. The idea of fraternal association and benevolence in a lay organization fired his imagination and he saw in it a greater field for spreading practical Christianity. The position of organizer, besides, was somewhat more remunerative, and so, when it was offered him, he abandoned the pulpit. He was fairly successful in gaining new members, won a reputation as a fiery talker and was looked upon as a person of superior learning and godliness among his associates. These qualities alone would not have sufficed to build up the Trick Track Tribe had not the more practical genius of Griffith pointed the way. Lister remained, however, the figurehead and mouthpiece of the organization which he had been unable to build, while Griffith, the guiding genius, remained more or less in the background.

“Good morning, brother Pinkney,” said the Rev. Mr. Lister in orotund tones. “Isn’t this one of our initiates? Ah, yes, Captain Hamilton. I am delighted to enroll you in our Tribe. ‘I have an errand to thee, O captain.’” He smiled. “The Tribe is a military organization, a mighty host. And we need captains to spread the word.”

The Headman shook hands warmly with both Hamilton and Pinkney. Griffith, who had been leaning back in a chair, arose and followed his example.

“Let us be seated.” Robert noticed how the Headman’s eyes glowed, how the corners of his lips turned down and how he habitually pressed the tips of his fingers together. A sincere man, a man fairly burning with religious zeal. “In recruiting this magnificent army that is to bear the message of the Trick Track Tribe to every portion of the continent, we are in need of captains, even as the Kings of Israel needed captains of their hundreds.”

He complimented Robert magnificently on fighting the hosts of the enemy and now girding up his loins again to renew the fight for godliness here.

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.