“I graduated from Tuskegee three years ago. My old mother worked herself almost to death to keep me in school, and I came back here determined to earn enough money to let her rest the balance of her life. But she and my father had been living all their lives just like Mr. Tucker here, and they didn’t have anything to give me a start. So I went to work on shares, taking that thirty acres that joins on to Mr. Tucker’s farm on the South. I took this land that wasn’t thought to be any good, because it had been exhausted through overworking it year after year. I bought some new ploughs and fixed it up fine. I thought I could put the things I learned at Tuskegee into practice and in a couple of years pay off all I owed. But instead of doing that, I’m getting deeper in debt every year. I rent my place from Ed Stewart and he knows that I know he’s cheating and robbing and lying to me, but when I try to show him where he is wrong in his figures, all he does is to get mad and start to cussing me and telling me that if I don’t keep a civil tongue in my head, the Ku Klux Klan will be hearing about this ‘sassy young nigger Tracy’ and I’ll wish I had kept my mouth shut. I’m getting sick of the whole thing, too. If it wasn’t for the old folks, I expect I’d ’a’ started something long ago. They are all talking about me being a dangerous character out my way already. Say I’m too ‘uppity’ and I need to be taught a lesson to show me that ‘niggers must stay in their places.’ ”
Tracy finished speaking in a tone that was almost a shout. It could be seen that he was very near the breaking-point from brooding over the wrongs he had suffered.
Mr. Phillips, who had said nothing, broke in with a question.
“Tom, why don’t you move away from Ed Stewart’s place if he doesn’t treat you right?”
Tracy replied bitterly:
“Yes, suppose I tried to leave, what would happen? The same day I left, Sheriff Parker would come and get me. They’d put me on trial for jumping my contract and fine me. Old Stewart would be in court to testify against me. He’d pay my fine and then I’d have to go back to Stewart’s place and work a year or two for nothing, paying off the fine. A fat chance I’ve got with the cards all stacked against me!”
Mr. Young, of the Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church, nodded assent to Tracy’s statement.
“Brother Tracy’s right. Look at what happened to Jeff Anderson down near Valdosta last spring. He ran away and got to Detroit where he had a good job working in an automobile plant. They swore out a warrant against him for stealing, brought him back, and the last I heard of him he was back down there working out a three-hundred-dollar fine. No, Brother Phillips, you’ve been reading the law that applies to white folks—not to us coloured people.”
James Swann’s story was along the same lines as the others. The seven men entered into a discussion of ways and means of taking some action which would alleviate conditions before the harvesting of the crop which was now in the ground. One suggestion after another was offered, only to be as quickly discarded because of local difficulties. Midnight came, with no decision reached. When it became apparent that nothing would be settled, Kenneth was chosen with Mr. Wilson and Mr. Phillips to work out some plan to be reported at the meeting to be held one week later.
IX
There was being held another meeting the same night. Two miles from Central City, to the North, was a natural auditorium, an amphitheatre formed by three hills. In this place a meeting alfresco was in progress. Though the place was far enough from the road to be reasonably free from prying intruders, sentinels paced the narrow roads that led to the place of assemblage. Skeleton-like pine-trees formed an additional barrier to the lonely spot, making as they did a natural fringe atop the three hills.
There was no moon. Light was furnished by pine torches fastened in some instances to trees, in others borne aloft by members of the gathering. About three hundred men were ranged in a circle around a rudely carved cross stuck in the ground. Each man was garbed in a long white robe reaching to his feet. On the left breast of each hood was a cross with other strange figures. Over the head of each man was a cowl with holes for eyelets. It was a meeting of Central City Klan, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Realm of Georgia. The Exalted Cyclops, whose voice bore a remarkable likeness to that of Sheriff Parker, was initiating new members into the mysteries of the order. He held in his hand a sheet from which he was reading the oath which the “aliens” repeated after him with their right hands upraised. Whether through fright or excitement or because the night air was chilly, the voices of the embryo “knights” had a strange quaver in them. Around them, rank on rank, stood the Klansmen, who followed the ceremony closely.
“… will willingly conform—to all regulations, usages, and requirements—of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan—which do now exist—or which may hereafter—be enacted—and will render—at all times—loyal respect, and steadfast support—to the Imperial Authority of same. …”
The droning voices ended the monotonous recital. The flickering torches gave forth a weird light that was lost in
