The Fire in the Flint

it believes in purity. What was that phrase the Ku Kluxers used so much⁠—“preservation of the sanctity of the home, protection of the purity of womanhood”? Yes, that was it. Suppose the races of the two principals had been reversed⁠—that Bud Ware had been caught with George Parker’s wife. Why, the whole town would have turned out to burn Bud at the stake. Weren’t coloured women considered human⁠—wasn’t their virtue as dear to them as to white women? Nancy and Bud weren’t of much good to the community but if Bud wanted his wife kept inviolate, hadn’t he as much right to guard her person as George Parker to protect his wife and two daughters? Again he felt himself up against a blind wall in which there was no gate, and which was too high to climb. He had determined to stay out of reach of the long arms of the octopus they called the race problem⁠—but he felt himself slowly being drawn into its insidious embrace.

VII

Central City was the county seat of Smith County. The morning after the murder of Bud Ware, Kenneth went down to the County Court House to file his report on the death. It was a two-story building, originally of red brick but now of a faded brownish red through the rains and sun of many years. It sat back from the street about fifty feet and was surrounded by a yard covered here and there with bits of grass but for the most part clear of all vegetation, its red soil trampled by many feet on “co’t day.” The steps were worn thin through much wear of heavy boots. On either side of the small landing at the top, there hung a bulletin board on which were pasted or tacked yellow notices of sheriff’s sales, rewards for the arrest of criminals, and other court documents. The floor of the dark and narrow hallway was stained a reddish colour by the mud and dust from the feet of those who had entered the building. Just inside the doorway, on either side, were rectangular boxes filled with sawdust for the convenience of those of a tobacco-chewing disposition, which included most of the male population. The condition of the floor around the boxes seemed to indicate that only a few of these had realized for what purpose the boxes had been placed there. Over all was a liberal coating of the dust that had blown in the door and windows.

Entering the office of the County Health Commissioner, Kenneth found that dignitary in his shirtsleeves, feet comfortably placed on top of his desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Lane. I’ve come to make a report of a death.”

At the sound of Kenneth’s voice, County Commissioner of Health Henry Lane turned in his chair without moving his feet to see who it was that had entered. Long, lanky, a two days’ growth of red beard on his face, Mr. Lane removed the corncob pipe from his mouth with a rising and falling of a prominent Adam’s apple. Seeing that his visitor was only a Negro, he replaced his pipe in his mouth and, between several jerky puffs to get it going again, querulously replied:

“Can’t you see I’m busy? Why don’t you save up them repo’ts till you git a passel of them, and then bring ’em in? Got no time t’ be writin’ up niggers’ deaths, anyhow. Ev’ry time I turn ’round, some nigger’s gittin’ carved up or shot or somepin’.”

“I understand it’s the law, Mr. Lane, that deaths of anybody, white or coloured, must be reported by the physician at once.”

“Drat the law. That’s fo’ white folks.”

He drew himself out of his chair with great reluctance and ambled over to the counter, drawing to him a pad and pencil as he turned towards Kenneth.

“What nigger’s dead now?” he inquired.

“Bud Ware, who lived at 79 Butler Street,” replied Kenneth.

“How’d he die?” was the next question.

“Shot through the abdomen.”

“Know who shot him?”

“Yes. George Parker.”

“Th’ hell you say! And you come in here to repo’t it?”

Kenneth was somewhat startled at the ferocity of the Commissioner’s expression, which had replaced that of laziness and resentment at being disturbed. “I thought it my duty⁠ ⁠…” he began.

Lane spat disgustedly.

“Duty, Hell! You’re a Goddamned fool and one of these damned niggers that’s always causin’ trouble ’round here. I always said eddication spoiled a nigger and, by God, you prove it. Lemme tell you somepin’⁠—you’d better remember s’long’s you stay ’round these parts. When you hear anything ’bout a white man havin’ trouble with a nigger, you’d better keep your mouth shet. They’s lots of niggers been lynched for less’n you said this mornin’. Ain’t you got sense enough t’ know you hadn’t any business comin’ in here t’ tell me ’bout Mr. Parker? Don’t you know his brother’s sheriff? If y’ aint, goin’ up No’th tuk away what li’l’ sense you might’ve had befo’ you went.”

Kenneth stood silent, a deep red flush suffusing his face, while the official continued his vituperative tirade. His fists, thrust deep into his pockets, were Elenched until they hurt, but he did not feel the pain. He longed to take that long, yellow, unshaven neck in his hands and twist it until Lane’s eyes popped out and his face turned black. He knew it would be suicide if he did it. He realized now that he had done an unwise thing in telling Lane who had killed Bud Ware⁠—he should have remembered and said that he did not know. If he was going to stay in the South, he would have to remember these things.

When Lane had paused for breath, Kenneth bade him good morning and left the room. As he went down the steps, he heard Lane shouting after him:

“You’d better not lemme hear o’you doin’ any talkin’ ’bout this. If y’ do, you’ll fin’ yo’self bein’ paid a visit one o’ these nights by the Kluxers!”

Hardly had Kenneth left the court house before