Robert turned, ran back across the field and jumped into his car without looking around. What if it had been Williams? Why couldn’t it have been? He sped through the village. The crowd had dispersed into smaller groups that gossiped in doorways and porches.
The east room was lit when Robert drove the car into the garage. Laughing voices drifted out to him. He stole up the back way into his room. He wanted to be alone. The moon sent moving black masses interlaced with silver upon the walls. Robert hurriedly switched on the lights. As the door closed, a paper on the table rose and fell. His notes for the Fourth of July oration. Land of freedom. Washington, Jefferson, Jackson. Independence of tyranny.—It must be hell to be a nigger.
It was too gruesome to tell about at the breakfast table the next morning, but in the afternoon Robert described the flight of the Negroes of Carthage. They were walking about in the garden.
“My God, dad, if I had ever known what was coming, I’d never have joined the Tribe!”
“Well, son, the Tribe wasn’t really responsible. They simply wanted to warn the Negroes to be careful, to be law-abiding. They thought that they would be impressed, but I’m sure that even Griffith didn’t imagine anything like that.”
“But, God, it was horrible, weird, like something out of the dark ages. Even a slave-owner wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“No, certainly not, no decent man would. But, Bob, they didn’t mean it. They wanted to prevent something worse. There have been too many lynchings in Corinth lately and we want to prevent that.”
Robert’s face was flushed.
“Dad, I don’t know. This is simply one example, just one example of what the Tribe means. We have our tribunal. We decide a man’s guilt. But we’re all in masks. We’re—we’re a tribe. Not a law court. We may try to be, but we’re dealing with justice like savages. Our courts may be slow, imperfect; but anyway, they keep us from being a mob like that, or a tribe. Think of the hundreds of years during which human wisdom has built up our laws and our court procedure.” He was conscious of footsteps coming up the walk. “Why do we need any other tribunal than our own courts? Why do we need a Tribe to try men? It’s natural that the Tribal concilium should be swayed by prejudices and fears and hatreds. In the courts, justice is regulated by laws, by precedent, by the wisdom of ages. In the Tribe, it is the moment’s sentiment—right or wrong—sympathy or hate or revenge. Tribesmen may think they’re impartial, but they’re men, acting with only their own wisdom, often acting unwisely, sometimes cruelly. I—I think that I’ll resign from the Tribe!”
His father cleared his throat and held up his hand. Robert looked around. It was Margaret, dark eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed, hands clenched.