“No, suh, it ain’ nonsense—it’s straight, solem’ fac’. I’m gwine ter kill dat man as sho’ as I’m settin’ in dis cheer; an’ dey ain’ nobody kin say I ain’ got a right ter kill ’im. Does you ’member de Ku-Klux?”
“Yes, but I was a child at the time, and recollect very little about them. It is a page of history which most people are glad to forget.”
“Yas, suh; I was a chile, too, but I wuz right in it, an’ so I ’members mo’ erbout it ’n you does. My mammy an’ daddy lived ’bout ten miles f’m here, up de river. One night a crowd er w’ite men come ter ou’ house an’ tuck my daddy out an’ shot ’im ter death, an’ skeered my mammy so she ain’ be’n herse’f f’m dat day ter dis. I wa’n’t mo’ ’n ten years ole at de time, an’ w’en my mammy seed de w’ite men comin’, she tol’ me ter run. I hid in de bushes an’ seen de whole thing, an’ it wuz branded on my mem’ry, suh, like a red-hot iron bran’s de skin. De w’ite folks had masks on, but one of ’em fell off—he wuz de boss, he wuz de head man, an’ tol’ de res’ w’at ter do—an’ I seen his face. It wuz a easy face ter ’member; an’ I swo’ den, ’way down deep in my hea’t, little ez I wuz, dat some day er ’nother I’d kill dat man. I ain’t never had no doubt erbout it; it’s jus’ w’at I’m livin’ fer, an’ I know I ain’ gwine ter die till I’ve done it. Some lives fer one thing an’ some fer another, but dat’s my job. I ain’ be’n in no has’e, fer I’m not ole yit, an’ dat man is in good health. I’d like ter see a little er de worl’ befo’ I takes chances on leavin’ it sudden; an’, mo’over, somebody’s got ter take keer er de ole ’oman. But her time’ll come some er dese days, an den his time’ll be come—an’ prob’ly mine. But I ain’ keerin’ ’bout myse’f: w’en I git thoo wid him, it won’ make no diff’ence ’bout me.”
Josh was evidently in dead earnest. Miller recalled, very vividly, the expression he had seen twice on his patient’s face, during the journey to Wellington.
He had often seen Josh’s mother, old Aunt Milly—“Silly Milly,” the children called her—wandering aimlessly about the street, muttering to herself incoherently. He had felt a certain childish awe at the sight of one of God’s creatures who had lost the light of reason, and he had always vaguely understood that she was the victim of human cruelty, though he had dated it farther back into the past. This was his first knowledge of the real facts of the case.
He realized, too, for a moment, the continuity of life, how inseparably the present is woven with the past, how certainly the future will be but the outcome of the present. He had supposed this old wound healed. The negroes were not a vindictive people. If, swayed by passion or emotion, they sometimes gave way to gusts of rage, these were of brief duration. Absorbed in the contemplation of their doubtful present and their uncertain future, they gave little thought to the past—it was a dark story, which they would willingly forget. He knew the timeworn explanation that the Ku-Klux movement, in the main, was merely an ebullition of boyish spirits, begun to amuse young white men by playing upon the fears and superstitions of ignorant negroes. Here, however, was its tragic side—the old wound still bleeding, the fruit of one tragedy, the seed of another. He could not approve of Josh’s application of the Mosaic law of revenge, and yet the incident was not without significance. Here was a negro who could remember an injury, who could shape his life to a definite purpose, if not a high or holy one. When his race reached the point where they would resent a wrong, there was hope that they might soon attain the stage where they would try, and, if need be, die, to defend a right. This man, too, had a purpose in life, and was willing to die that he might accomplish it. Miller was willing to give up his life to a cause. Would he be equally willing, he asked himself, to die for it? Miller had no prophetic instinct to tell him how soon he would have the opportunity to answer his own question. But he could not encourage Josh to carry out this dark and revengeful purpose. Every worthy consideration required him to dissuade his patient from such a desperate course.
“You had better put away these murderous fancies, Josh,” he said seriously. “The Bible says that we should ‘forgive our enemies, bless them that curse us, and do good to them that despitefully use us.’ ”
“Yas, suh, I’ve l’arnt all dat in Sunday-school, an’ I’ve heared de preachers say it time an’ time ag’in. But it ’pears ter me dat dis fergitfulniss an’ fergivniss is mighty one-sided. De w’ite folks don’ fergive nothin’ de niggers does. Dey got up de Ku-Klux, dey said, on ’count er de kyarpit-baggers. Dey be’n talkin’ ’bout de kyarpit-baggers ever sence, an’ dey ’pears ter fergot all ’bout de Ku-Klux. But I ain’ fergot. De niggers is be’n train’ ter fergiveniss; an’ fer fear dey might fergit how ter fergive, de w’ite folks gives ’em somethin’ new ev’y now an’ den, ter practice on. A w’ite man kin do w’at he wants ter a nigger, but de minute de nigger gits back at ’im, up goes de nigger, an’ don’ come down tell somebody cuts ’im down. If a nigger gits a’ office, er
