by Horace McCoy
Slower and slower the cars moved ahead, and presently he had to stop hugging the right side of the road so tightly, because he was beginning to pass parked automobiles. He wondered, suddenly (and was a little panicky because he hadn't thought about it before) if they would ask him for a card. That was probably the reason the automobiles were slowing down so much; there was somebody up ahead stopping the cars, asking to see membership cards. The more he thought about this the more convinced he was that this was what was happening. He wished now he'd thought to ask McGonagill for Wren's card. But that wouldn't have helped much; hell, the man who was asking for cards would certainly know he wasn't Sam Wren. And what if McGonagill had double-crossed him and told them he was coming. Look out for a guy named Mike Dolan. Six-footer, black hair, driving an old Chevrolet roadster. He's out to expose you. Look out for him. Be sure and stop all cars. What if McGonagill had crossed him up? Oh, Bud wouldn't do a thing like that, his conscious mind said. No! his subconscious mind said. Better not trust him too far. But, hell, his conscious mind said he's my friend. I helped him get elected, I helped his kid get a scholarship in college, I started all that All-American publicity myself. I even wrote letters to Christy Walsh and Grant Rice and Corum and those guys. Bud's honest. He's on the level. Better not trust him too far, his subconscious mind said. Better park the car somewhere and get your bearings.
'That's a good idea,' Dolan said to himself.
He passed up a couple of parking places, trying to make up his mind to stop, and by the time he had decided he had passed them. In a moment he found a hole and twisted in and parked the car, turning out the lights before he cut off the motor.
He slid out the far door on the side away from the road. Up ahead he could see the lights of cars being parked in an open field. When his eyes had become adjusted to the gloom (there was no moon) he saw several men standing beside their parked cars slipping on their robes. This cheered him so much he felt like shouting. He didn't need a membership card after all. He hurriedly opened his bundle and put on the robe and adjusted the helmet. He was astonished to learn how much difference these two simple pieces of cloth made on his emotions. The minute he had them on, his heart stopped jerking and his breathing became easier. He felt absolutely safe in this anonymity. He even smiled to himself under the helmet. It was amazing. He felt that he had made a great discovery: that this was why men conceal themselves in robes and ride the night. They feel absolutely safe.
He walked up the side of the road, towards the front...
In an open spot in a field, in a wide clearing, there was a great group of black-robed figures, several hundred of them, barely distinguishable in the darkness of the night. This was the old flying-field, the war-time flying-field, which had long since been abandoned. There was a single large hangar remaining, and through the cracks and apertures Dolan could see lights shining... he walked slowly over to the hangar.
The doors were open and he saw that there were several hundred robed figures inside standing around. At the side of one wall was a raised platform, crudely built, with a dozen or more chairs, the kind funeral parlors use.
He walked past the doors to the other side. Here there were a number of cars, thirty-five or forty, parked beside the hangar in precise rows—expensive cars: sedans, phaetons, coupes. These plainly belonged to important people. He strolled down past them... and at the end of the hangar, where the road came into the old flying-field, there were two men, in their robes, acting as traffic marshals, protecting this restricted parking area from the rank-and-file members. Dolan reflected for a moment on the irony of this discrimination in an organization whose number one article was Equality. Under his robe he took out a folded wad of paper and a pencil and began copying down the license plates of the expensive cars. He could not see what he was doing, but he had plenty of room in which to write, and he was very careful to copy the numbers accurately.
... A whistle blew somewhere behind him, and at once there was a general movement towards the front of the hangar. He looked at his strap-watch. A few minutes to twelve. He walked along with the others, feeling elated about the license plates. It would be a very simple matter now to find out who some of the Crusaders were.
The inside of the hangar was crowded, and the robed figures continued to pour through the big doors. Dolan pushed along towards the centre to a position almost directly in front of the raised platform. Seven men were on the platform now, looking down, and another one was going up the steps. Eight men. They wore robes and helmets, identical with the hundreds of men below them except for various insignia on the forehead of their helmets, little symbols in white, marks of rank. They resembled Greek letters, but they were so small, and Dolan was so far away, that he could not make them out.
The officers on the platform whispered among themselves for a few minutes, and then there was another shrill whistle from the edge of the assembly. One of the officers signaled with his hand and the big doors scraped and squeaked shut. Instantly the hum of conversation among the hundreds of men died down. The officer who had signaled with his hand took a step forward on the platform, facing the men below, and extended his hand in a Hitler-gesture. Now there was dead silence. The officer raised his hand, like a baton, whipped it downward, nodding his head sharply:
'My country, 'tis of thee' they sang,
'Sweet land of liberty
Of thee I sing.
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills,
From every mountain-side,
Let freedom ring!'
The song swelled in a great burst of emotion and then died.
Every eye was on the men on the platform. Another officer stepped forward, made a Hitler-gesture and then jerked his head forward, bowing it. Dolan was aware that all around him the members were bowing their heads, and he lowered his too, but not so much that he couldn't see out of the tops of his eyes what went on on the platform ... the officials had their heads bowed, too.
'Oh! Gawd, our Heavenly Father,'
the preacher, the chaplain, said, nodding his head sharply:
'We ask your blessing on this assembly tonight; let Thy wisdom continue to impress itself on these Crusaders, these noble namesakes of medieval pilgrims who went forth across the Red Sea to do battle with the black infidels who desecrated Thy temples; help us to be strong and brave and strike terror to the hearts of Thine enemies. Amen.'
The preacher, the chaplain, jerked his head up and stepped back. The assembly sighed audibly. Dolan smiled under his helmet, wondering how many of them knew the preacher, the chaplain, had muffed a couple of facts and a couple of words; and then the first officer, the interlocutor, stepped forward, standing still, waiting for the men to stop shifting. He finally held up his hand.
'A-a-at Ease!' he hollered.
The command boomed and rolled around the sheet-metal hangar.
'Crusaders,' he said, 'tonight marks the seventh meeting of this great organization. Day by day we are meeting the situations that we set out to correct, day by day we are achieving results. Day by day our ranks are being swelled by red-blooded Americans who come to us because they are sick and tired of the present method of law-enforcement, and because there are certain phases of every-day life over which the law and the courts have no control. America for Americans!'
'America for Americans!' roared the mob.
The officer made another quick Hitler-salute.
One of the other officers on the platform handed him a paper and he held it in front of him.
'Crusaders,' he said, 'Bulletin Number Seven. It is hereby ordered that an immediate boycott of the Zellerwein Brewery be put into effect. Reason: When members of the committee for the support of Otto Henry for Senator approached Mr. Zellerwein and asked for contributions and his help in lining up his one thousand employees, Mr. Zellerwein refused, threatened bodily harm to members of the committee. Although a naturalized American, Mr. Zellerwein was born in a foreign country, and his ideas on good gover
nment naturally are subversive. The following stores and business houses also are ordered boycotted for good and sufficient reasons: The Midway Market, 1215 Endicott Boulevard; Mossman's Restaurant, 415 Sixth Street; Grayson's Dry Goods Store, on Southern Avenue—'
He paused as another officer came over to him and whispered something.
'I am informed,' he said, turning to the assembly, 'that three members of the Crusaders are employed at Grayson's. I want these three men to send the committee a full report on what the nature of their jobs is, how much money they earn, the size of their families, and how much money they have in the savings bank for emergencies. The committee will try to place these men in a store that is favorable for our cause. The boycott list will be available after the meeting is over, and I want every man here to memorize the names and addresses of the stores and positively do no business with them in any respect under threat of punishment. The three men who work at Grayson's may continue there until further notified by the committee.
'And now—Abraham Washington!' he barked, turning his head.
There was a movement below the platform, the dull sounds of scuffling feet, and then the wails of a man. In a moment two Crusaders went up the steps half-dragging a Negro man of about fifty years. They took him to the platform and turned him loose, stepping back. The Negro took a look at those hundreds of robed figures below him and started moaning. You could not understand what he was saying.
The officer looked at him.
'Abraham Washington!' he said. 'You have been heard to condemn the present system of county relief many times. You are a disorganizer—'
'Boss man, boss man,' the Negro said, 'I didn't mean it. Boss man, I swear to God I didn't mean it. I all is—'
'You have been disturbing the Negro people of your neighborhood, inciting them to protest. The Crusaders See All Know All. You bear the names of two great immortal Americans—and we are going to teach you how to respect them—'
'Boss man, boss man—'
'Negroes must be taught to stay in their places. This lesson we are going to teach you will not be fatal—but if you do not keep your mouth shut you will be hanged next time from the rafters of this building.'
'Tar and feathers!' the officer roared.
'Ay-ay-ay-ay!' the Crusaders yelled, applauding.
Two more Crusaders started up the steps, followed by a third one. They carried an ordinary wash-tub between them, with heavy cloths run through the handles so they would not burn their hands. The bottom of the tub was blackened by some. The man behind carried a large sack and a big kalsomining brush. They proceeded to the middle of the platform and stopped.
'Undress him,' the officer ordered.
Abraham Washington, the Negro, offered no resistance. He was rolling his head, moaning.
'I could take a shot at those bastards right now,' Dolan said to himself, feeling his gun. 'I could pick off six of them—'
The Crusaders who had brought up the tar and feathers finally got the Negro's clothes off, all but his shoes and socks. Dolan could see the muscles trembling and jerking under the black skin.
The officer made another Hitler-salute. One Crusader stuck the brush in the tar and started swabbing the Negro, who was still rolling his head, moaning, but not actually crying out. When the swabbing was finished, two of the Crusaders reached into the sack and took out handfuls of feathers, throwing them on the Negro. There was a shower of feathers ... and gradually the black body disappeared, and the symmetry of a human form disappeared and the Negro more and more resembled some grotesque bird. The chief officer himself delivered the coup-de-grace. He shoved the brush into the tar, slapped it across the Negro's face, then took a double-handful of feathers and shoved them at his head.
'Take him away,' he said.
The Crusaders turned Abraham Washington around and started him down the steps ... the others picked up the tub and brush and followed. The other Crusaders, standing below the platform, hollered and applauded ... and in a moment everything was calm and peaceful again.
The officer stepped forward and saluted.
'America for Americans!'
'America for Americans !' they answered.
Dolan did not say anything. His lips were pressed tightly together.
'Arnold Smith!' the officer called.
Arnold Smith climbed the stairs, surrounded by three Crusaders, the guards. He was about forty, dressed in cheap clothes, a little good-looking. His face was sullen.
'Face the Crusaders,' the officer said.
Arnold Smith turned, facing the assembly. Dolan was studying his face. There was no sign of emotion, only that dark, sullen mask.
'Three times you have been warned by the committee on morals,' the officer said. 'You are notorious—'
'Men,' Arnold Smith said quietly, addressing the assembly, 'this fellow is wrong—'
'Shut up!' the officer barked.
'I don't know what's going to happen to me,' Arnold Smith said to him, still in a quiet tone, 'but I'm going to explain what happened. Men,' he continued, 'I admit I knocked up a girl. I paid for the operation. Just like a lot of you fellows have done. Only she happened to be the sister of—'
The guards grabbed him, slapping their hands over his mouth. Arnold Smith made no effort to free himself. The guards continued to hold him.
'This man,' the official said, 'is a menace to every young girl in the Bay Shore district. He has been warned three times to reform, let women alone. He has disregarded every warning. This, Crusaders, is the very situation we were organized to meet. The law can do nothing to this man, although he is guilty of loose morals. We must teach him a lesson—'
'Ay-ay-ay-ay!' they roared.
The officer gestured with his hand. Two other officers quickly stepped forward. One of them held a small black satchel. He opened it, took out a can and an ether mask. Two other officers moved out a small table. Arnold Smith was pulled towards the table. Suddenly he saw what was about to happen, and with a tremendous surge he threw off the guards and stood free, a look of horror on his face. He hesitated, looking about, then leaped from the platform into the crowd.
There was pandemonium in front of Dolan.
'All right, all right,' the officer on the platform said, holding out his hands, trying to quiet them. 'He'll be handled. Bring him up here,' he shouted.
Several men took Arnold Smith back up the steps, overpowering him. They bent him down on the table, still holding him, and the officer slapped the mask over his nose and started pouring out the ether... and in a couple of minutes Arnold Smith had ceased to struggle. The Crusaders stepped back, coming down the stairs to their places in the crowd.
'Now, you shall see what happens to men who menace the morals of this community,' the officer said. 'Severe punishment, yes. But absolutely necessary to protect our homes—to protect your own sisters—'
He nodded to the officer with the satchel, and the entire staff of Crusaders on the platform crowded around the table, hiding it from the sight of the crowd. Behind the bodies, Dolan could see the officer moving his arms ... and several times he caught the reflection of the overhead light on the scalpel...
Dolan said nothing to himself, thought nothing. His brain was a cold mass of cells. He knew it would be preposterous to try to stop this. It would be suicide. He started moving towards the doors, shifting his position a foot at a time, so as not to attract attention. But nobody noticed him. They were too interested in what was happening on the platform.
* * * * *
Bishop shook his head, biting his lip.
'“My country 'tis of thee,”' he said. 'My God, this is incredible. You can't write this story, Mike. Nobody'll believe it—'
'They'll believe it when I produce Arnold Smith—'
'How're you going to find him if he's not in the phone book? It's a cinch they wouldn't risk putting him in a hospital.'
'I'll find him. I'll comb that goddam Bay Shore district from top to bottom. I'll find him, all right—'
'My God!' Bishop said again, sighing, rubbing his hand over his face. 'I marvel that you didn't shoot 'em down—goddam sonofabitching sadists. That's what your capitalism does to men—makes swine of 'em. Well—maybe I won't live to see it, but I'll die happy knowing that the movement is on the way—'
'This'll give you a real bang,' Dolan said, handing him a list.
Bishop read a few names and addresses and looked up.
'What are these?'
'The leaders of The Crusaders—'
'How'd you get 'em?'
'Poetic justice. They had a special parking place by the hangar, and I saw a lot of expensive cars there and I wrote down the license plates. First thing this morning I went to police headquarters and looked 'em up in the book. And there they are—'
Bishop was astonished.
'You sonofabitch!' he said.
'Go on. Read the rest of them—'
Bishop finished reading the list, gasping.
'It's a Blue Book. It's a Who's Who—'
'That'll look good in print, won't it?'
'My God, yes. It'll do as much damage as an air raid—Boy, you had an inspiration when you copied those licenses.'
'That was lucky. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time. It was not until this morning that it dawned on me. Look. You make a copy of that list and stash it away. I'm going out to try to find Arnold Smith—'
'How about me going with you?'
'No—'
'All right, I'm not going to argue with you. But I suppose you know that every day we get closer to the blow-off. Remember Carlisle—'
'I'm not worried about Carlisle. Not now'
'All right. I wish you would keep in touch with us by phone. So we would have a rough idea of where you were—'
'I will. When Myra comes tell her to get that society dope together. We may go to press a couple of days early—'
'Sure. Say, what happened to your head? Where's the bandage?'