Crow

by Barbara Wright

  “I will not,” he said firmly but politely. “My name is Jack Thomas. I have a matter of the utmost urgency to discuss with Mr. Waddell. Would you be so kind as to give him the message?”

  She closed the door and locked it, then retreated. Through the glass window in the front door, I looked into a small room between the porch and hallway—a kind of intermediate porch. On the floor was an elaborate mosaic in a star pattern. Beyond that, I could see through the leaded glass of the second front door into a wood-paneled hall. The walls looked like shadow-box frames set side by side, row upon row, but in the middle, where the picture would normally be, was plain dark wood. The house was fancier than the Gilchrists’, where Mama worked.

  While we waited on the porch, I reached into my pocket and felt something foreign. I slipped it out and saw that it was a pouch made from flour sacking and puffed out with dried herbs, a nest of hair, and small twigs, or maybe even bones. I quickly returned it to my pocket and smiled. Boo Nanny had sent along protection. It was our secret.

  Before long, a bearded man in a bright red corduroy vest came out on the porch and closed the door behind him. I felt my heart go icy. I recognized the man. It was Daddy’s nemesis, the man who had stood on the steps of Thalian Hall and said that the Cape Fear River would be choked with black carcasses. The man’s cold gray eyes stared at us.

  “What do you mean, Jack, terrifying my wife? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I’m sorry, Alfred. That was not my intention.”

  The white man’s white beard trembled with anger at something Daddy said, but I didn’t know what. Daddy continued: “I had to get an important message to you this morning. The lawyer we entrusted with delivering the response from the Negro citizens was met by an angry mob. He became frightened and posted our response instead of bringing it to your door. You will not receive the document by the seven-thirty deadline.”

  “That is most unfortunate.” He scowled. “We had a deadline for a reason.”

  “Yes, but you’ll agree the circumstances were unavoidable. The document should be at your house with the morning mail. Will you please alert all parties that need to be informed?”

  He nodded, but did not look happy.

  “You should also know that Alexander Manly left town several days ago, under threat of violence. He is no longer in the city,” Daddy said.

  “Preposterous,” Mr. Waddell said. “The railroads, wharf, and roads were all surrounded by guards.”

  “Be that as it may, he is gone, I assure you.”

  “Then Wilmington has rid itself of the vilest slanderer in North Carolina.”

  I squeezed the pouch of herbs in my pocket to steady my trembling hand.

  “I beg you most respectfully to convey to your men that the Negro community is in no way responsible for, nor do we in any way condone, the editorial Mr. Manly wrote.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” he said.

  “People are riled up. Fears and emotions are high. The pot needs no more fuel to set it boiling,” Daddy said.

  “Are you telling me what to do?” Mr. Waddell said.

  “No, I’m only stating what we both know to be true. Good day,” he said.

  I was relieved when Mr. Waddell went back inside and we put some distance between us.

  “Daddy, why did that man get so worked up when you said you were sorry?”

  “I called him by his first name. He thought I was acting above my station.”

  We walked in silence and turned left on Market Street, where the houses got smaller and smaller the farther away from the river you went. At Seventh Street, where Daddy usually turned off to go to his work, I tried to convince him to let me go the rest of the way by myself. We compromised, and he walked with me a few blocks farther east on Market but let me turn and go the last block by myself.

  Midmorning, I was playing shinny outside at first recess when I heard crowd noises like a baseball game coming over the trees, in the direction of downtown. Curious, I dropped my stick and slipped away from the playground.

  A slight rise in Market Street prevented me from seeing anything, but a great racket of cheering, whistles, and shouts filled the air. I walked toward the river, and soon, several blocks down, I saw a mass of white men walking toward me. A parade, I thought, but as I got to the corner of Eighth Street I saw that many were carrying guns and swords. The men in the front marched in military fashion, eight abreast. Farther back, the organization fell apart, and the men crowded randomly in the street. As they proceeded down Market, men streamed from off porches and side streets to join them.

  Mr. Waddell was in the lead, carrying a Winchester rifle. I recognized him by his red vest. Instantly I knew that this was not a parade. Angry shouts rose from the crowd: “String up Manly!” “Rid the city of the pest!”

  With horror, I realized they were headed for the Record.

  I ducked behind a camellia bush and watched to see if the white mob would turn onto Seventh and march into the black neighborhood, where the narrow shotgun houses with tin roofs were built close together. Sure enough, the procession rounded the corner, with Mr. Waddell in the lead. At the sight of the marchers, Negro women screamed and herded their little ones inside.

  I knew I had to reach Daddy before the mob did. Sprinting through the backyards of the houses that faced Seventh Street, I leaped over fences, dodged outhouses and wells, scattered chickens, and set dogs to barking.

  Once I got to Love and Charity Hall, I dashed up the stairs to the Record offices. Daddy was at his desk editing copy. Gasping for air, I tried to tell him what I’d seen.

  “Slow down. Catch your breath,” he said.

  “There’s no time. A mob’s coming. Hundreds and hundreds of them, and they all have guns. That Waddell man is in the lead. They’re coming down Seventh. Quick. Look out the window. They’ll be here any minute.”

  By this time, some of the staff had gathered around. I was hot and sweaty from running, and hung my jacket on the coatrack.

  “There’s reason to be alarmed, but not alarmist,” Daddy said calmly. “Let me go check.”

  I followed him and several members of the staff to the window, and we looked down the street. Far from exaggerating, I had underestimated the crowd. It trailed back for blocks.

  When the front line reached the Record, Mr. Waddell raised his Winchester and called for the men to stop.

  “Get back,” Daddy said, herding the half dozen men to the center of the room.

  Through the window we heard shouts: “Fumigate the city with the Record!” “Lynch Manly!” “Hand him over! We’ll give him justice he deserves!” There were also cries of “Save our womanhood!” and “Give up the nigger!”

  Men raised their guns angrily, but no one fired.

  Daddy remained calm, and that helped soothe the frayed nerves of the other men—the office manager, a pressman, a few typesetters, and a reporter.

  “They’ve come for our editor,” Daddy said.

  “But he’s left town,” the reporter said.

  “The crowd doesn’t know that,” Daddy said.

  “But you told Mr. Waddell this morning,” I said.

  “Evidently he did not relay that information to the mob.”

  “Go out and tell them he’s gone,” the reporter said. “Reason with them.”

  “You’s crazy in de head. They out for blood. They gone kill us poor folk,” the typesetter said, shaking.

  “I’ve devoted my life to reason and it’s done no good,” Daddy said. “You can’t reason across the table from hatred.”

  There was a banging at the double doors that led to the outside staircase.

  “What we gone do?” one of the typesetters said. His eyes widened in an unmistakable display of terror.

  The battering and shouts at the door continued. Daddy spoke in an urgent but steady voice. “James, I’m putting you in charge of getting everyone to the supply room,” he said to the pressman. “Keep Moses with you. I’m goin
g to help the ladies downstairs. They must be in a state. We’ll get through this. Now go! Time is of the essence.”

  He went down the interior stairs, and the pressman herded the employees into the back supply room, where the newsprint was stored. I was last in line. Before I could leave, the front door splintered and the mob surged in. I crawled under a desk and wrapped myself into a small package with my arms around my knees. I could feel my heart thumping rapidly against my thighs. In the room, there were angry shouts. Desks were overturned. Glass crashed.

  I was afraid that my hiding place would be toppled over like the others, so I crawled on all fours to the coatrack. Peeking from behind the jackets, I saw a man put on Mr. Manly’s beaver hat and do a loose-jointed dance. Framed photographs were heaved out through the window. A typewriter followed.

  A dozen men gathered around the printing press and, groaning under the weight, carried the big, burly black brute out the double doors, maneuvered it onto the banister, and tipped it over. Cheers erupted from the crowd outside as the press crashed to the ground.

  A man took the butt of his shotgun and smashed the lanterns hanging on the wall. Clear liquid dripped down and pooled on the floor.

  Another man sprinkled a large can of kerosene over the papers that littered the floor.

  “Who’s got a match?” he said. I burrowed farther into the coats.

  “Stop. We’ve done what we’ve come to do. Let’s get out of here,” one man said.

  “Someone’s got to finish this off.”

  “Out! Quick! This place is gonna blow!”

  Footsteps thundered toward the door, then silence. After a while, I heard the faintest crackle at the other end of the room, like the kindling tepee that started off Boo Nanny’s morning fire under the laundry kettle. I stayed behind the coats until I was sure that all the white men had gone. When I emerged from my hiding place, a cold salt breeze came through the broken glass and lifted the small tongues of orange in the corner, causing them to grow. In a flash, flames zipped along the line of spilled kerosene and nipped at the newspapers that were scattered everywhere.

  Fire climbed the wall with amazing speed and lapped at the rafters, following the wet kerosene tracks on the wall. Soon the fire reached the ceiling. Then the far end of the building burst into flames.

  Paralyzed with fear, I watched the flames consume the paper and wood. When movement came back to my limbs, I started toward the supply room in the back. At that moment, I heard a sound like the crack of thunder, and a rafter engulfed in orange crashed down on the coatrack, narrowly missing me. Now I was surrounded by shooting fountains of fire.

  Trapped, I searched for other exits. The front door, in full flame, was out of the question. The other way was blocked by the fallen roof. The room filled rapidly with smoke. My eyes teared up, and I started coughing. I was feeling light-headed and disoriented. Around me the flapping flames sounded like clothes on a line in a heavy wind. Through the smoke, someone called my name.

  It was Daddy. He had come back for me but couldn’t see me. I tried to answer, but like the dream I sometimes had, I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Fear had robbed my vocal cords of their abilities.

  I saw a typewriter on the desk. In desperation, I returned the carriage by way of the silver lever and a small ding came out. I began some wild two-fingered typing, returning the carriage over and over, hoping the sound would signal my whereabouts. I felt my legs buckle, and before I hit the ground, I was out.

  When I came to, I found my cheek against Daddy’s back. He had slung me over his shoulder like a sack of yams. He carried me outside and placed me on the lawn between Love and Charity Hall and St. Luke’s Baptist Church. He held a tin cup of water to my lips.

  His eyes were wet, and at first I thought the smoke had gotten to him. But his shoulders shook and he hugged me tight, and I started crying, too, more scared than ever now that the danger had passed.

  “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d lost you,” he said.

  Soon he regained his composure and took a sip of water himself.

  The second floor of the building was now in full flame. Fist-sized chunks of soot floated in the air like so many crows. Glowing sprays of embers shot toward the church. Ashes, like moths, flew skyward.

  Some white men were on the roofs of the surrounding houses, beating at the fire with jackets and blankets. Most milled about in the street, watching the building burn.

  The printing press lay on its head, burrowed into the sand, mangled and misshapen like a wrecked locomotive. All the things that couldn’t burn—typewriters, the printing press—had been tossed outside. The things that could burn—wooden desks, newsprint—were inside, feeding the hungry plumes of red, yellow, and orange that competed with each other over which could reach highest into the sky.

  “Where are the fire trucks? The alarm sounded a while ago.” The voice belonged to one of the Negroes who huddled together near the steps of the church, amid the larger crowd of armed white men.

  “They’s stopped at Sixth and Castle. I seed ’em. Those horses champing at the bit and the boys doing all they can to hold them back.”

  “That doesn’t sound right. I know those boys. That’s the finest Negro fire unit in the city,” Daddy said.

  “Old Tuck Savage was sent by the fire chief to hold ’em back. That’s what I heared. They wants to make good and sure this place burns to the ground afore letting ’em through.”

  Daddy stood up, furious. “I’ll see about that.”

  “What you gots a mind to do?”

  “I don’t care if those firemen are black or white. They’re professionals. The only color they hate is red. It goes against the grain for them to stand by and let a fire burn.”

  “Careful, now, Mr. Thomas. You’s all we gots.”

  Daddy bent down and patted me on the head. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and strode off.

  I was shivering. The sun had gone behind the clouds, and the sky threatened rain—exactly what we needed. But like the firemen, the rain held itself back. One of the Love Ladies brought a jacket and put it around me. It was a ladies’ jacket, pinched in at the waist with a little flounce below, but I was too cold to protest. What I really wanted was my jacket with Boo Nanny’s protective pouch in the pocket, but it had gone up in flames with the rest of the building.

  Before long, I heard a clanging bell. The crowd parted to make room for the horses that dashed madly up the street, pulling the steam engine behind. The large upright brass boiler chuffed black smoke from its stack, which mingled with the smoke in the air. The gleaming brass and nickel pumps reflected the fire in flashes and glints, like a sunset. Another pair of horses followed with the hook and ladder.

  Red was a color I had come to fear and despise, but the Negro firemen in their red firefighting togs were a welcome sight indeed. As they pulled up, gunfire crackled into the air. The firemen didn’t pay it any mind. Moving quickly and efficiently, they hooked the hoses to the fire hydrant and the steam engine, and the armed men did nothing to stop them. Two muscular firemen stood on either side of the hose, trying to control the weaving and jerking as a pressurized geyser of cold water shot toward the second floor, which by now was completely destroyed, with nothing but the north wall left standing. But the first floor and the surrounding buildings could be saved.

  Daddy returned, and together we watched the firemen battle the flames. By the time the fire was finally under control, the white crowd had thinned out considerably. Several dozen men posed in front of the smoldering remains, holding their weapons. The front line crouched down as a photographer set up his box on stilts and disappeared under the hood. With a poof, he added his own puff of smoke to the air and documented the moment for all to remember.

  Overhead, buzzards soared in the sky.

  “Stop by the Gilchrists’ and tell your mother to go home immediately. Then keep Boo Nanny out of the backyard. I want you all inside. Hurry. You don’t have much time,” Daddy said.
<
br />   “But school …”

  “Not today. There’s going to be trouble.”

  Surely he was not referring to the buzzards. But for whatever reason, on this one point, he and Boo Nanny were in perfect agreement.

  TWELVE

  Colonel Gilchrist’s house, where Mama worked, was on Third Street, closer to the wharf. I knocked on the back door and was surprised when a white woman answered. She had light hair and wore a Sunday dress on Thursday. Her skin was the color of a parsnip.

  “Sadie, there’s a poor little ragamuffin out back. See what he wants,” she said.

  Mama appeared behind the white woman and pulled me inside by the stove. She licked her thumb and furiously rubbed it across my cheek to get rid of the soot. “Miss Ellen, this be my boy, Moses,” she murmured, and looked down, ashamed.

  The white lady backed away from me as if separating herself from a bad smell.

  “Baby, what happened to you?” Mama whispered.

  “There was a fire at the Record. A mob burned it down,” I said, speaking fast. “Daddy says you need to go home right away.”

  “Honey, I can’t,” she said, glancing nervously at Mrs. Gilchrist.

  “Please, Mama. You have to,” I said, desperate. It was my responsibility to get her home. I had promised. “Daddy says there’s going to be trouble in the streets.”

  “Mercy me. There’s no cause for trouble,” said Mrs. Purse-Lipped Parsnip. “My husband was there. He said it was a procession of perfectly sober men. No one was injured. And they succeeded in ridding the city of that appalling Negro paper.”

  Clearly she didn’t know anything about our family. Ignoring her, I continued with Mama. “Daddy says it isn’t safe. He doesn’t want you on the street after dark.”

  Mama squeezed the hem of her apron in her fist and looked nervously at me, then at Mrs. Gilchrist. “Can I haves the afternoon off?”

  “But who will fix dinner and take care of Edward when he gets up from his nap?” Mrs. Gilchrist said.

  Mama looked miserable.

  “Sadie, you’re a good sort of Negro. You have served me faithfully, and I have no complaints about your work. But I can find another,” she said.