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.