Taylor walked over to him.
“Is yuh gonna tell the white folks on us?”
Deacon Smith did not answer.
“Talk, Brother Smith!” said Taylor. “Tell us whut yuh mean!”
“Ah means whut Ah means!” said Deacon Smith; and he clamped his teeth tight, sat again, crossed his legs, folded his arms and stared at the blank wall.
Taylor swallowed and looked at the floor. Lawd, Ah don know whut t do! Ah wish this wuz over…. This niggers gonna tell on us! Hes gonna tell the white folks sos he kin stan in wid em….
“Brother Smith….” began Taylor.
The door opened and Jimmy stepped into the room.
“Say, Pa!”
“Whut yuh wan, son?”
“Somebodys out front t see yuh. Theys in a car. Theys white folks.”
“Scuse me, Brothers,” said Taylor. “Ahll be right back.”
“Wes gonna set right here till yuh git back,” said Deacon Smith.
When outside the door, Taylor turned to Jimmy.
“Who is they, Jimmy? How come they wouldnt come in?”
“Ah dunno, Pa. The car drove up jus as Ah wuz comin thu the gate. They white men. They said fer yuh t come right out.”
“Awright. N, son, yuh bettah go see bout yo ma.”
“Whuts the mattah?”
“Shes jus upset erbout the demonstration.”
“Is they gonna march, Pa?”
“Ah reckon so.”
“Is many gonna be out?”
“Ah dunno, son. Ah hope so. Yuh bettah go see erbout yo ma now.”
“Yessuh.”
“Yuh tell them boys whut Ah tol yuh?”
“Yessuh.”
Taylor paused at the front door and peeped out from behind a curtain. In front of his gate was a long black car. Who kin tha be? For a moment he thought the mayor had come back. But his cars grey…. He opened the door and walked slowly down the steps. Lawd, mabbe we oughtnt go thu wid this demonstration aftah all? We might all be sorry ef somebodys killed in the mawnin…. He walked along a flower-bordered path that smelt of violets and magnolias. Dust rested filmily on tree leaves. The sun was almost gone. As he came to the car a white face looked out.
“You Taylor?”
“Yessuh,” answered Taylor, smiling.
The rear door of the car opened and the white man stepped to the ground.
“So youre Taylor, hunh?”
“Yessuh,” said Taylor again, still smiling, but puzzled. “Kin Ah be of service t yuh, suh?”
Taylor saw it coming, but could do nothing. He remembered afterward that he had wanted to ask, Whut yuh doin? The blow caught him flush on the point of the jaw, sending him flying backward. His head struck the edge of the runningboard; a flash of red shot before his eyes. He rolled, face downward, into a bed of thick violets. Dazed, he turned his head, trying to speak. He felt a hand grab the back of his collar and jerk him up.
“Get in the car, nigger!”
“Say, whut yuh….”
“Shut up and get in the car, Goddam you!”
A blow came to his right eye. There were three white men now. They lifted him and rammed him down on the floor in the back of the car.
“Say, yuh cant do this!”
“Get your Goddam mouth shut, you bastard!”
A hard palm slapped him straight across his face. He struggled up, protesting.
“You….”
The heel of a shoe came hard into his solar plexus. He doubled up, like a jackknife. His breath left, and he was rigid, half-paralyzed.
“You think you can run this whole Goddam town, don’t you? You think a nigger can run over white folks and get away with it?”
He lay still, barely breathing, looking at blurred white faces in the semi-darkness of the roaring car.
VIII
The moment he tried to tell the direction in which the car was moving he knew he had waited too long. He remembered dimly that they had turned corners at least three times. He lay with closed eyes and wondered what they were going to do with him. She gonna be worried t death, he thought, thinking of May. And then he thought of Jimmy and said to himself, Ah hope he don go n ack a fool now…. The numbness which had deadened most of his stomach and chest was leaving. He felt sweat on his back and forehead. The car slowed, turned; then it ran fast again. He knew by the way the rocks crunched beneath the humming rubber tires that they were speeding over gravel. Whut roads this? He could not tell. There were so many gravel roads leading out of town. He tried to recall how long he had lain there half-paralyzed from that kick in the solar plexus. He was confused; it might have been five minutes or it might have been an hour. The car slowed again, turning. He smelt the strong scent of a burning cigarette and heard the toll of a far off church bell. The car stopped; he heard the sound of other cars, gears shifting and motors throbbing. We mus be at some crossroads. But he could not guess which one. He had an impulse to call for help. But there would not be any use in his doing that now. Mabbe they white folks anyhow. He would be better off as he was; even six white men were better than a mob of white men. The car was speeding again, lurching. He smelt dust, clay dust. Then he heard a hard, rasping voice:
“How is he?”
“O.K.”
“Keep im quiet!”
“O.K.”
He said nothing. He began to wonder how many of them were in the car. Yes, he should have been watching for something like this. They been threatenin me fer a long time. Now this is it. The car was gradually slowing with that long slow slowing preceding a final stop. He felt the rubber tires turning over rough ground; his head rocked from side to side, hitting against the lower back of the front seat. Then the car stopped; the motor stopped; for a moment there was complete silence. Then he heard wind sighing in trees. Wes out in the country somewhere. In the woods, he thought.
“O.K.?”
“O.K.!”
He heard a door open.
“C mon, nigger! Get up and watch yourself!”
He pulled up and caught a glimpse of starry sky. As his feet hit the ground his head began to ache. He had lain cramped so long the blood had left his limbs; he took a step, kicking out his legs to restore circulation. His arms were grabbed from behind and he felt the pressure of a kneecap in the center of his spine. He gasped and reeled backward.
“Where you think youre going?”
He rested on his knees, his body full of pain. He heard a car door slam.
“Awright, nigger! Lets go! Straight ahead!”
He got up and twisted his head about to see who had spoken. He saw four blurred white faces and then they were blotted out. He reeled backward again, his head striking the ground. A pain knotted in his temple.
“Get up, nigger! Keep your eyes in front, and walk, Goddammit!”
He pulled up and limped off, his head down. Mabbe they gonna shoot me? His feet and the feet behind him made a soft cush-cush in the dew-wet grass and leaves.
“Aw right, nigger!”
He stopped. Slowly he raised his eyes; he saw a tall white man holding a plaited leather whip in his hand, hitting it gently against his trousers’ leg.
“You know what this is, nigger?”
He said nothing.
“Wont talk, hunh? Well, this is a nigger-lesson!”
The whip flashed in faint starlight. The blow numbed his lips. He tasted blood.
“You know what this is? Im asking you again, nigger?”
“Nawsuh,” he whispered.
“This is a nigger-whip!”
The leather whacked across his shoulders.
“Mistah, Ah ain done nothin!”
“Aw, naw! You aint done nothing! You aint never done a Goddam thing, have you?” White men were standing close around him now. “All you ever do is play around with Reds, dont you? All you ever do is get crowds of niggers together to threaten white folks, dont you? When we get through with you tonight youll know how to stay in a niggers place! C mon! Get that Goddam vest off!
”
He did not move. The whip wrapped itself around his neck, leaving a ring of fire.
“You want me to beat it off you?”
He pulled off the vest and held it in his hands.
“C mon! Get that shirt and undershirt off!”
He stripped to his waist and stood trembling. A night wind cooled his sweaty body; he was conscious of his back as he had never been before, conscious of every square inch of black skin there. One of the white men walked off a few paces and stopped.
“Bring im over here!”
“O.K.!”
They guided him with prods and kicks.
“On your knees, nigger!”
He did not move. Again his arms were caught from behind and a kneecap came into the center of his back. Breathless, he dropped, his hands and knees cooling in the wet grass. He lifted his fingers to feel his swelling lips; he felt his wrists being grabbed and carried around the trunk of a tree. He held stiffly and struggled against a rope.
“Let go!”
His arms went limp. He rested his face against a cold tree-trunk. A rope cut into his wrists. They tied his feet together, drawing the rope tight about his ankles. He looked around; they stood watching.
“Well, nigger, what do you know?”
“Nothin, suh.”
“Youre a preacher, aint you?”
“Yessuh.”
“Well, lets hear you pray some!”
He said nothing. The whip lashed across his bare back, whick! He flinched and struggled against the rope that cut his wrists to the bone. The leather thong hummed again, whick! and his spine arched inward, like a taut bow.
“Goddam your black soul, pray!”
He twisted his face around, pleading:
“Please, Mistah! Don whip me! Ah ain done nothin….”
Another lash came across his half-turned cheek, whick! He jerked around and sheltered his face against the tree-trunk. The lash hit his back, whick!
“Hit that black bastard, Bob!”
“Let me have that whip!”
“Naw, wait a minute!”
He said nothing. He clenched his teeth, his whole body quivering and waiting. A split second after each blow his body would lurch, as though absorbing the shock.
“You going to pray? You want me to beat you till you cant pray?”
He said nothing. He was expecting each blow now; he could almost feel them before they came, stinging, burning. Each flick came straight on his back and left a streak of fire, a streak that merged with the last streak, making his whole back a sheet of living flame. He felt his strength ebbing; he could not clench his teeth any more. His mouth hung open.
“Let me have it, Bob?”
“Naw, its my turn!”
There was a pause. Then the blows came again; the pain burned its way into his body, wave upon wave. It seemed that when he held his muscles taut the blows hurt less; but he could not hold taut long. Each blow weakened him; each blow told him that soon he would give out. Warm blood seeped into his trousers, ran down his thighs. He felt he could not stand it any longer; he held his breath, his lungs swelling. Then he sagged, his back a leaping agony of fire; leaping as of itself, as though it were his but he could not control it any longer. The weight of his body rested on his arms; his head dropped to one side.
“Ahhlll pppprray,” he sobbed.
“Pray, then! Goddam you, pray!”
He tried to get his breath, tried to form words, hearing trees sighing somewhere. The thong flicked again, whick!
“Aint you going to pray!”
“Yyyyyessuh….”
He struggled to draw enough air into his lungs to make his words sound.
“Ooour Fffather….”
The whip cut hard, whick! pouring fire and fire again.
“Have mercy, Lawd!” he screamed.
“Pray, nigger! Pray like you mean it!”
“…wwwhich aaaaart in hheaven…hhhallowed bbe Tttthy nname….” The whip struck, whick! “Ahm prayin, Mmmmistah!”
“Goddam your black heart, pray!”
“…Tttthine kkkindom ccome…Ttthy wwill bbe ddddone….”
He sobbed, his breath leaving his lungs, going out from him, not wanting to stay to give sound to his words. The whip brought more fire and he could not stand it any longer; his heart seemed about to burst. He screamed, stretched his knees out and twisted his arms till he lay sideways, half on his stomach. The whip came into his stomach, whick! He turned over; it came on his back again, whick! He stopped struggling and hung limply, his weight suspended on arms he could not feel. Then fire flamed over all his body; he stiffened, glaring upward, wild-eyed.
“Whats the matter, nigger? You hurt?”
“Awright, kill me! Tie me n kill me! Yuh white trash cowards, kill me!”
“Youre tough, aint you? Just wait! We’ll kill you, you black sonofabitch!”
“Lemme have that whip!”
“C mon, now! Its my turn!”
“Give me that whip, Ellis!”
He was taut, but not feeling the effort to be taut.
“We’ll git yuh white trash some day! So hep me Gawd, we’ll git yuh!”
The whip stopped.
“Say that again, Goddam you!”
The whip lashed, whick! but there was no streak of fire now; there was only one sheet of pain stretching all over his body, leaping, jumping, blazing in his flesh.
“Say it!”
He relaxed and closed his eyes. He stretched his legs out, slowly, not listening, not waiting for the whip to fall. say it whick! say it whick! say it whick! He groaned. Then he dropped his head and could not feel any more.
IX
Moonlight pained his eyeballs and the rustle of tree leaves thundered in his ears. He seemed to have only a head that hurt, a back that blazed, and eyes that ached. In him was a feeling that some power had sucked him deep down into the black earth, had drained all strength from him. He was waiting for that power to go away so he could come back to life, to light. His eyes were half-open, but his lids did not move. He was thirsty; he licked his lips, wanting water. Then the thunder in his ears died, rolling away. He moved his hand and touched his forehead; his arm fell limply in the wet grass and he lay waiting to feel that he wanted to move. As his blood began to flow swiftly again he felt sweat breaking out over his body. It seemed he could hear a tiny, faraway sound whispering over and over like a voice in an empty room: Ah got fever…. His back rested on a bed of fire, the imprint of leaves and grass searing him with a scalding persistence. He turned over on his stomach and groaned. Then he jerked up, half-sitting. He was fully conscious now, fighting for his strength, remembering the curses, the prayer and the whip. The voice whispered again, this time louder: Ah gotta git home…. With fumbling fingers he untied the rope from his ankles and wrists. They didnt kill me, he thought. He stood up and the dark earth swayed and the stars blurred. Lawd, have mercy! He found himself on his knees; he had not known when he had started falling; he just found himself on his knees. Lawd, Ahm weak! He stood up again, more slowly this time, holding onto a tree. He would have to get his shirt; he could not go through the streets with a naked and bleeding back. He put one foot in front of the other with conscious effort, holding his body stiffly. Each slight twist of his shoulders sent a wave of liquid metal over him. In the grass at his feet his shirt was smeared like a white blur. He touched it; it was wet. He held it, instinctively fearing to put it on. When it did touch, his whole back blazed with a pain so intense that it seemed to glow white hot. No, he could not put it on now. Stiffly, he went among the trees, holding the shirt in his hands, looking at the ground.
He stopped at the edge of a dirt road, conscious of the cool steady stars and the fire that smoldered in his back. Whut roads this? He could not tell. Then he heard a clock striking so faintly that it seemed to be tolling in his own mind. He counted, Wun, Tuh…. Its tuh erclock, he thought. He could not stay here all night; he had to go in one direction or another. He watched the brow
n dusty road winding away in the darkness, like a twisting ribbon. Then he ducked his head, being seared again with fire and feeling a slight rush of air brush across his face. A small bird wheeled past his eyes and fluttered dizzily in the starlight. He watched it veer and dip, then crash softly into a tree limb. It fell to the ground, flapping tiny wings blindly. Then the bird twittered in fright and sailed straight upward into the starlight, vanishing. He walked northward, not going anywhere in particular, but walked northward because the bird had darted in that direction.
The road curved, turned to gravel, crunching under his shoes. This mus be the way, he thought. There were fences along the sides of the road now. He went faster, holding his legs stiffly to avoid pulling the muscles in his back. A church steeple loomed in the starlight, slender and faint. Yeah, thas Houstons church. N Ah gotta go thu a white neighborhood, he thought with despair. He saw houses, white, serene and cool in the night. Spose Ah go to Houston? Naw, hes white. White…. Even tho he preaches the gospel Ah preaches, he might not take me in…. He passed a small graveyard surrounded by a high iron picket fence. A white graveyard, he thought and snickered bitterly. Lawd Gawd in Heaven, even the dead cant be together! He stopped and held his shirt in his hands. He dreaded trying to put it on, but he had to. Ah cant go thu the streets like this. Gingerly, he draped the shirt over his shoulders; the whole mass of bruised and mangled flesh flamed, glowed white. With a convulsive movement he rammed his arms into the sleeves, thinking that the faster he did it the less pain there would be. The fire raged so he had a wild impulse to run, feeling that he would have no time then to suffer. But he could not run in a white neighborhood. To run would mean to be shot, for a burglar, or anything. Stiff-legged, he went down a road that turned from brown dust to black asphalt. Ahead street lamps glowed in round, rosy hazes.
Far down the shadow-dappled pavement he heard the sound of feet. He walked past a white man, then he listened to the white man’s footsteps dying away behind him. He stopped at a corner and held onto a telephone pole. It would be better to keep in the residential district than to go through town. He would be stopped and questioned in town surely. And jailed maybe. Three blocks later on a white boy came upon him so softly and suddenly that he started in panic. After the boy had gone he turned to look; he saw the boy turning, looking at him. He walked on hurriedly. A block later a white woman appeared. When she was some fifty feet away she crossed to the other side of the street. Hate tightened his throat, then he emptied his lungs in a short, silent, bitter laugh. Ah ain gonna bother yuh, white lady. Ah only wan t git home….