“I concur completely,” he said, eyes still on my résumé. “Now if I can just get you to convince Captain Cockburn of that. The Yarmouth will never be fit to chug off if he has his way. But he has his boys working hard. Whether or not they’re making any progress is another thing altogether. They certainly don’t have your education.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I myself was schooled in London—Birkbeck College. I never received a degree, but what I learned on my own surpassed anything any college could have ever taught me. Some of these Negroes walking around with their fancy university degrees nailed to their foreheads for everyone to see make me sick. Attending a college does not make a man educated. So tell me, what do you know of me?”
“I know that you own a ship and that it needs work,” I said. “I also know that you’re head of this UNIA, and I’ve read an article or two about your association. But in short, I know little. I’m not a political man.”
“Sometimes,” he said, “the less a man knows about you, the more useful he can be to you.”
Garvey hadn’t made much eye contact with me. He kept his head down, reading my résumé. There was a vanity to the man that was overwhelming, plus an obvious insecurity about his education.
“I have been in this country for three years,” he said. “I watched those colored soldiers march up Fifth Avenue as people lined the streets to welcome them home from that white man’s war, and I can honestly say, American Negroes need a different kind of education, a street one. They had no business bleeding in that white man’s war. The street education I received in Jamaica was enough to teach me that.”
I now knew it was going to require a Herculean effort to convince him that I didn’t hold any strong political beliefs that opposed him. The only way I could curry favor with him was to become a piece of clay he could mold. It would be similar to the buffoonish role I’d played with Hoover.
“Is there a Mrs. Temple?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I intend to wed the little lady who just left this office. She helped me start the UNIA. And now, it’s beginning to thrive. As soon as we can get the Yarmouth in mint condition, it will set sail—first to the West Indies, and later, to the Motherland. We will ship and trade goods and provide leisure travel for our people. They won’t have to travel as second-class citizens anymore, and if they so choose, can see the Caribbean, Europe, and Africa.”
He sat there with such pride. His intentions to sail to Africa were obviously sincere.
“Please don’t think I’ve forgotten why you’re here, Sidney. I want you to come visit the ship and survey the work that’s being done. We will then sit down and you can tell me if you feel it’s sufficient or whether there need to be changes made—changes I would hire you to make, assuming I agree with your recommendations. Reverend Eason likes you. That’s enough for me right now. He’s a smart man—smart enough to part ways with the NAACP and join me. He’s provided great counsel to me regarding that idiot assistant district attorney—Edwin Kilroe.
“Kilroe has done everything possible to derail my business ventures. He’s an evil, Irish-Catholic S.O.B. You’d think he’d be more kind to me considering my own Catholic faith. And I certainly know who brought me to his attention. Ever since I met W. E. B. Du Bois when he came to Jamaica four years back, he’s felt threatened by me, and I know he’s in cahoots with Kilroe.”
He was still looking down and seemed unaware that he was saying more than he should. As far as he knew I could have been from the NAACP. I could have been from Kilroe’s office. And, of course, I could have been a government spy. But then again, maybe he didn’t care—was comfortable with me going right back to these people and sharing what he had said. Perhaps he was revealing so much of his inner thinking because he wanted to gauge my reaction. But I showed none. What I really believed was that he couldn’t help himself—had so much pent-up frustration that it just poured out of him, regardless of his company. He had gotten my attention with this Kilroe individual. I would need to find out more about him.
“The fact that you are not from New York is a good thing,” he said. “You’ve spent all of your adult life in Vermont of all places—hardly a hotbed for black politics. You could call that place ‘Whiteville.’ But you’re not tainted by all of these ambitious, unethical New York coloreds. You’re at the perfect age to begin learning—forming your political philosophy.”
He hadn’t even asked where I’d grown up, failing to realize or even consider that I, like most Americans of color, was from a ghetto. He’d instantly formed an inaccurate opinion of me.
“I will have the reverend ring you once I decide when to have you survey the Yarmouth. Right now I must ready myself for Chicago. That pathetic newspaper editor, Robert Abbott, has been attacking me in the press. He has Chicago Negroes thinking I’m trying to swindle them out of their money.”
Garvey began intensely writing, as if noting something he wanted to remember. “This,” he said, “coming from a man who makes all of his money advertising ways for our people to lighten their skin and straighten their hair. When I finish with him, no one will buy his paper, though it will be aptly named. His paper is the Chicago Defender and he’ll be doing nothing but defending himself against me.”
He looked up at me with a slight look of displeasure. “It has been good meeting you, Mr. Vermont.”
I stood, reached across the desk, and shook his hand. His grip was firm and quick and he immediately returned to his writing. I exited his office, made my way down the steps, and headed for my car. Then I drove to the office and phoned the BOI telegraph operator.
“Code and location please,” she said.
“Code name . . . Q3Z . . . stop. Harlem, New York . . . stop.”
“Cleared. Proceed for input.”
“Initial contact with Marcus Garvey . . . stop. Marcus Garvey officially purchased ship four days prior to today . . . stop. Ship name is Yarmouth . . . stop. Spelled: Y-A-R-M-O-U-T-H . . . stop. Marcus Garvey currently reviewing Agent Q3Z resume . . . stop. Marcus Garvey not satisfied with current Yarmouth engineers . . . stop. Agent Q3Z to survey condition of Yarmouth per Garvey’s request. . . stop. Date of requested survey still unknown . . . stop. Update on said survey forthcoming. End.”
10
EASON AND FERRIS WERE THERE WAITING OUTSIDE OF COOKIE’S THE following day when I drove up. And before I could even get out, they walked up and hopped in. I noticed a familiar face getting into a car across the way. It was Agent James Wormley Jones. We began to move and he followed.
“You’re gonna take Broadway quite a ways,” said Eason, “until you get to Thirteenth Street. We’re heading to 138 West Thirteenth Street. The brother that invited us to lunch, Brother Hubert Harrison, helps edit the Negro World. But he mostly be out in them streets, up on that soapbox, hollerin’ to the world. Ol’ Hubert is the one who showed Marcus how to preach from that box.”
“So what is it you do, William?” I asked Mr. Ferris, who was sitting in the backseat. I was asking, but my eyes were on the black vehicle behind us with agent Jones inside. Why the hell is he tailing me?
“I like to refer to myself as an author, minister, and scholar,” answered William. “I also help edit the Negro World for Mr. Garvey.”
“Brother Ferris is being way too doggone humble,” said Eason. “This is a man who graduated from Yale in . . . What year, Brother Ferris?”
“1895.”
“That’s right,” said Eason. “Then the brother received a master’s degree from Harvard in journalism. Ain’t a lot a Negroes runnin’ round them schools. Only man I know as smart as Brother Ferris is Hubert. Hubert been around plenty of white folks.”
William was smiling, amused by Eason’s praise of him. He was a distinguished-acting man, and now I knew why. His voice was quiet, his stature small, and his disposition gentle. He started telling me more about his background.
“After Harvard,” said William, “I wrote a book, Typical Negro Trait
s, in 1908. I also worked with Willy Du Bois and the Niagara Movement.”
“You took part in the Niagara Movement?” I asked.
“Yes. It called for opposition to racial segregation, and it was also a movement designed to push back against the philosophy of Booker T. Washington, who was angling for accommodation, pushing for Negroes to accept and make the most of their weak position within the American social system. First meeting took place near Niagara Falls. It was one heck of a group—led by Du Bois.”
“Willy Du Bois started out as such a strong brother,” said Eason. “It was Booker T. who most fighting brothers and sisters saw as weak, submissive, and passive. But after Booker T. died a few years back, aggressive Negroes thought Du Bois would become even louder, more defiant. I remember when he once said so powerfully, ‘We want full manhood suffrage and we want it now . . . we are men . . . we want to be treated as men . . . and we shall win.’ Du Bois had folks in a frenzy.”
“He certainly did,” said William.
“But the way I see it,” said Eason, “—and this is only me talking—Brother Du Bois softened after Booker T. passed. There was an important, very brief moment immediately after Booker’s death that needed to be seized by Du Bois. But it was not. That left a big hole for another strong, outspoken leader to fill. And that’s when Garvey stepped into that void. Colored folks was clamoring for a powerful, almost instigative voice.”
“Instigative?” I asked, still eyeing Agent Jones in the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” continued Eason. “Don’t get me wrong, I was with the NAACP, and God as my witness, I love and respect Brother Du Bois. But I’m in a fightin’ mood, not a political mood. Brother Du Bois is a master at that political game. I want to scream, not whisper—want to jump, not sit down—want to run, not walk. Brother Garvey is the one in a screamin’, jumpin’, and runnin’ kinda mood. Can I get an amen, Brother Ferris?”
“Amen.”
I listened closely but wanted to ask Eason what good screaming did if a man was screaming the wrong message—what good jumping did if he continued to hit his head on the same old concrete ceiling—what good running did if he was heading for a cliff? I held my tongue.
Eason’s poet friend and three others were already sipping their sodas at a table right in the middle of the restaurant when the three of us entered. Eason casually led Ferris and me past the patrons. They appeared oblivious to our entrance. Still, the seven of us were the only coloreds in this particular eatery, and it was standing room only.
“You’re late,” said a coffee-skinned man in a gray suit fitted nicely to his compact build. He was smart-looking with his thick-rimmed eyeglasses and sounded refined with his West Indian accent.
“Brother Hubert Harrison, it’s nice to see you,” said Eason, as the two shook and we took our seats.
“What in God’s name were you thinkin’ havin’ us meet here?” asked Eason, who was sternly surveying the place.
“This wasn’t my idea,” said Hubert, turning and pointing to the well-built man sitting to his left. “Blame it on the genius poet. This is who I was telling you about. This is Claude McKay. And these two spooked cockerels are my friends Clarence Jolly and Oliver Mayberry.”
Wearing slacks and a white T-shirt, the mustached McKay just sat there grinning from ear to ear, as if he were pleased as all get-out that he had chosen a place that would make most coloreds more than uncomfortable. In the case of Oliver and Clarence, he’d certainly done just that.
“Not gonna be no trouble in this place now is there?” asked Eason.
“That’s what I was wondering,” said Clarence.
“Me too,” said the fidgety Oliver.
Mr. McKay, who looked to be in his thirties, bent over chuckling. I couldn’t help but see the playfulness in his personality. It was as if he had set the entire event up as a ruse.
“They know me here,” said McKay, still giggling. “You’re in Greenwich Village.” His Jamaican accent was slight. He put his arm around Oliver’s shoulder and then lightly pinched the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, my West Indian brother. I’ve eaten here before.”
“Good,” said Oliver, scanning the place along with me, except I was looking for Agent Jones.
“You boys need a hanky to wipe the sweat from your brows?” McKay asked. He offered a white handkerchief to Clarence, who declined. McKay chuckled again.
“Do you know that woman there, Claude?” asked Oliver. We all slowly turned to a table about ten feet over to the left. A well-dressed old woman was staring at us as if we’d stolen something. She had an irksome look on her face, completely ignoring the younger woman across from her—perhaps her daughter.
“Uh, I believe she’s the wife of the local police chief,” McKay said. “He’s a cantankerous old boar. Can’t stand coloreds comin’ up in the local diners.”
Oliver looked at him with trepidation. All of us but Clarence figured McKay was pulling Oliver’s leg.
“Reckon we ought to head on out of here,” said Clarence. The woman stood and walked toward the back of the diner.
“That might not be such a bad idea,” said McKay, now displaying a panicked expression. “She prolly headin’ to the payphone to ring up that old cob roller a hers. He mean as all get out! Liked to had me up in jail last month.”
Oliver panicked. “I’ll go first,” he said, standing to head out.
McKay grabbed the back of his suit jacket, pulling him back in his chair. “Sit yo skittish-actin’ self down. That old petticoat done gone to the washroom. She ain’t studyin’ us, fool!” He began clapping his hands demonstratively and laughing out loud.
So this was the man who’d written a poem that had colored America in awe? “If We Must Die” was making him famous, yet his playfulness and acting prowess made him equally suited for the stage.
“Look here, Claude,” said Hubert, “this is Reverend James Eason.” The two finally shook hands.
“And who are these two distinguished-lookin’ gents?” McKay asked.
“This is William Ferris, a good friend of Hubert’s and mine,” said Eason. “And this is my new friend, Sidney Temple.” There were more handshakes all around as, again, I casually looked to see if Agent Jones was anywhere in sight.
“Hubert said ya’ll came all the way down here just to meet little ol’ me,” said McKay. “That truly is a shame.”
“No it ain’t,” said Eason. “That poem you wrote got everyone over at the UNIA worked up, feelin’ good, stickin’ they chests out.”
“You done made Negroes proud, Claude,” said Hubert. “I must have wept the first time I read them words. ‘If We Must Die’ is ’bout to start a revolution.”
“Nah,” said Eason. “The revolution done started. ‘If We Must Die’ just the battle cry. Brother Garvey’s army is trainin’ and marchin’ to it. They puttin’ the words into action—ready to die today, tomorrow, or the day after.”
“The NAACP is also fond of your poem,” said William.
“Ah, shoot, they ain’t ’bout nothin’ but kowtowin’ to white folks,” said Eason.
“Now wait a minute, Reverend,” said William. “Willy Du Bois’s essay, ‘Returning Soldiers,’ is coming straight from the same place as ‘If We Must Die.’ Mr. McKay here and Willy are both talkin’ about fighting. Fightin’ is fightin’.”
“You see it that way, Claude?” asked Hubert.
“Yes I do. Angry Negroes just ain’t in the mood for the NAACP right now, that’s all.”
“Hard to put politics aside, though,” chimed Eason.
“Du Bois’s Souls of Black Folk is what initially stirred me politically when I first came to America,” said McKay. “I know how Hubert here feels about Du Bois. He’s already written about the brother’s supposed fall from grace.”
“Indeed,” said Hubert. “The editorial was called ‘The Descent of Dr. Du Bois.’ For him to have the audacity to ask us Negroes to put our grievances aside while the war was going on, and fight alongside t
he white man, really riled me up.”
“I don’t agree with Willy’s position on the war,” said William, “but I know where he was coming from. What he was asking us to do was help win a war that would decide whether every American—colored or white—would even have the chance to take another breath.”
“But the grievances he was asking us to put aside included lynching and segregation,” said Hubert. “Those are more than just grievances. And the lynching certainly continued during the war. The white man didn’t put anything aside.”
“Yes,” said William, “but not everyone here at home pauses during a war abroad in an effort to show a united America. A pig shall act as a pig. But Willy could argue that if we had lost the war, the five of us might not be sitting here talking about anything, including lynching, segregation, or beautiful poetry.”
“So we helped the white man win a war so he could continue to lynch us?” asked an angry Hubert.
“At least now we have a chance to change his mind,” said William. “That’s what Willy would argue. Besides, you don’t think the victorious Germans would have been happy to take the American white man’s place in hanging our colored behinds? And you have to understand something, Du Bois has a long-term plan and vision for the Negro—not an immediate one. I simply don’t share his patience. Why else do you think you and I are on the same team, Hubert?”
“Well,” said a joking Hubert, “I’d rather be hung by a German any day.”
We all laughed as the hostess approached. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “but is one of you the driver of a gray Baby Grand that’s parked across the way?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well,” she said, “we were just informed up front that it’s parked in a no-park zone. Would you be so kind as to move it? Sorry to interrupt.”
“Certainly,” I replied, getting up. “Be right back, gentlemen.”
They all nodded as I headed out. Parked right behind me was Agent Jones. As I approached he rolled down his window. “Take your time opening the door,” he said. “They can’t see us from this vantage point.”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 10