XXXVI
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 punishingallblacks. 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 theCongo—the fruitful colony of gallantBelgium—all that they had borne in slave marts, on cotton plantations, in dismal swamps, at the whipping-post, on the faggotpile—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. Motortrucks, 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 publicmorgue—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 theWar—when the American ideal of forbearance, indulgence, charity, had electrified aworld—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 andsooty—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 occasionalsails—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 thecity—with its swarming traffic, its noise and soot, its passions andhatreds—God peering down on the world he had fashioned. He looked at hiswatch—it was almosteleven—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 againstPinkney—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, thisistough. 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 ofit—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 youmean—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—Splendidgirl—Beautiful—Nice chap—”
They drifted down to Washington street and into a little restaurant. Robert noticed thename—Ye Pot andKettle—paintedunder 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 wasempty—the office force was still atlunch—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’smind. 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 stepsand—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.