The Marrow of Tradition

by Charles W. Chesnutt

  XII

  ANOTHER SOUTHERN PRODUCT

  One morning shortly after the opening of the hospital, while Dr. Millerwas making his early rounds, a new patient walked in with a smile on hisface and a broken arm hanging limply by his side. Miller recognized inhim a black giant by the name of Josh Green, who for many years hadworked on the docks for Miller's father,--and simultaneously identifiedhim as the dust-begrimed negro who had stolen a ride to Wellington onthe trucks of a passenger car.

  "Well, Josh," asked the doctor, as he examined the fracture, "how didyou get this? Been fighting again?"

  "No, suh, I don' s'pose you could ha'dly call it a fight. One er demdagoes off'n a Souf American boat gimme some er his jaw, an' I give 'ima back answer, an' here I is wid a broken arm. He got holt er abelayin'-pin befo' I could hit 'im."

  "What became of the other man?" demanded Miller suspiciously. Heperceived, from the indifference with which Josh bore the manipulationof the fractured limb, that such an accident need not have interferedseriously with the use of the remaining arm, and he knew that Josh had areputation for absolute fearlessness.

  "Lemme see," said Josh reflectively, "ef I kin 'member w'at _did_ becomeer him! Oh, yes, I 'member now! Dey tuck him ter de Marine Horspittlein de amberlance, 'cause his leg wuz broke, an' I reckon somethin' must'a' accident'ly hit 'im in de jaw, fer he wuz scatt'rin' teeth all deway 'long de street. I didn' wan' ter kill de man, fer he might havesomebody dependin' on 'im, an' I knows how dat'd be ter dem. But no mankin call me a damn' low-down nigger and keep on enjoyin' good healthright along."

  "It was considerate of you to spare his life," said Miller dryly, "butyou'll hit the wrong man some day. These are bad times for bad negroes.You'll get into a quarrel with a white man, and at the end of it there'llbe a lynching, or a funeral. You'd better be peaceable and endure alittle injustice, rather than run the risk of a sudden and violentdeath."

  "I expec's ter die a vi'lent death in a quarrel wid a w'ite man,"replied Josh, in a matter-of-fact tone, "an' fu'thermo', he's gwine terdie at the same time, er a little befo'. I be'n takin' my own time 'boutkillin' 'im; I ain' be'n crowdin' de man, but I'll be ready after aw'ile, an' den he kin look out!"

  "And I suppose you're merely keeping in practice on these other fellowswho come your way. When I get your arm dressed, you'd better leave towntill that fellow's boat sails; it may save you the expense of a trialand three months in the chain-gang. But this talk about killing a man isall nonsense. What has any man in this town done to you, that you shouldthirst for his blood?"

  "No, suh, it ain' nonsense,--it's straight, solem' fac'. I'm gwine terkill dat man as sho' as I'm settin' in dis cheer; an' dey ain' nobodykin say I ain' got a right ter kill 'im. Does you 'member de Ku-Klux?""Yes, but I was a child at the time, and recollect very little aboutthem. It is a page of history which most people are glad to forget."

  "Yas, suh; I was a chile, too, but I wuz right in it, an' so I 'membersmo' erbout it 'n you does. My mammy an' daddy lived 'bout ten miles f'mhere, up de river. One night a crowd er w'ite men come ter ou' house an'tuck my daddy out an' shot 'im ter death, an' skeered my mammy so sheain' be'n herse'f f'm dat day ter dis. I wa'n't mo' 'n ten years ole atde time, an' w'en my mammy seed de w'ite men comin', she tol' me terrun. I hid in de bushes an' seen de whole thing, an' it wuz branded onmy mem'ry, suh, like a red-hot iron bran's de skin. De w'ite folks hadmasks on, but one of 'em fell off,--he wuz de boss, he wuz de head man,an' tol' de res' w'at ter do,--an' I seen his face. It wuz a easy faceter 'member; an' I swo' den, 'way down deep in my hea't, little ez Iwuz, dat some day er 'nother I'd kill dat man. I ain't never had nodoubt erbout it; it's jus' w'at I'm livin' fer, an' I know I ain' gwineter die till I've done it. Some lives fer one thing an' some feranother, but dat's my job. I ain' be'n in no has'e, fer I'm not oleyit, an' dat man is in good health. I'd like ter see a little er deworl' befo' I takes chances on leavin' it sudden; an', mo'over,somebody's got ter take keer er de ole 'oman. But her time'll come someer dese days, an den _his_ time'll be come--an' prob'ly mine. But Iain' keerin' 'bout myse'f: w'en I git thoo wid him, it won' make nodiff'ence 'bout me."

  Josh was evidently in dead earnest. Miller recalled, very vividly, theexpression he had seen twice on his patient's face, during the journeyto Wellington.

  He had often seen Josh's mother, old Aunt Milly,--"Silly Milly," thechildren called her,--wandering aimlessly about the street, muttering toherself incoherently. He had felt a certain childish awe at the sight ofone of God's creatures who had lost the light of reason, and he hadalways vaguely understood that she was the victim of human cruelty,though he had dated it farther back into the past. This was his firstknowledge of the real facts of the case.

  He realized, too, for a moment, the continuity of life, how inseparablythe present is woven with the past, how certainly the future will be butthe outcome of the present. He had supposed this old wound healed. Thenegroes were not a vindictive people. If, swayed by passion or emotion,they sometimes gave way to gusts of rage, these were of brief duration.Absorbed in the contemplation of their doubtful present and theiruncertain future, they gave little thought to the past,--it was a darkstory, which they would willingly forget. He knew the timewornexplanation that the Ku-Klux movement, in the main, was merely anebullition of boyish spirits, begun to amuse young white men by playingupon the fears and superstitions of ignorant negroes. Here, however, wasits tragic side,--the old wound still bleeding, the fruit of onetragedy, the seed of another. He could not approve of Josh's applicationof the Mosaic law of revenge, and yet the incident was not withoutsignificance. Here was a negro who could remember an injury, who couldshape his life to a definite purpose, if not a high or holy one. Whenhis race reached the point where they would resent a wrong, there washope that they might soon attain the stage where they would try, and, ifneed be, die, to defend a right. This man, too, had a purpose in life,and was willing to die that he might accomplish it. Miller was willingto give up his life to a cause. Would he be equally willing, he askedhimself, to die for it? Miller had no prophetic instinct to tell him howsoon he would have the opportunity to answer his own question. But hecould not encourage Josh to carry out this dark and revengeful purpose.Every worthy consideration required him to dissuade his patient fromsuch a desperate course.

  "You had better put away these murderous fancies, Josh," he saidseriously. "The Bible says that we should 'forgive our enemies, blessthem that curse us, and do good to them that despitefully use us.'"

  "Yas, suh, I've l'arnt all dat in Sunday-school, an' I've heared depreachers say it time an' time ag'in. But it 'pears ter me dat disfergitfulniss an' fergivniss is mighty one-sided. De w'ite folks don'fergive nothin' de niggers does. Dey got up de Ku-Klux, dey said, on'count er de kyarpit-baggers. Dey be'n talkin' 'bout de kyarpit-baggersever sence, an' dey 'pears ter fergot all 'bout de Ku-Klux. But I ain'fergot. De niggers is be'n train' ter fergiveniss; an' fer fear deymight fergit how ter fergive, de w'ite folks gives 'em somethin' newev'y now an' den, ter practice on. A w'ite man kin do w'at he wants tera nigger, but de minute de nigger gits back at 'im, up goes de nigger,an' don' come down tell somebody cuts 'im down. If a nigger gits a'office, er de race 'pears ter be prosperin' too much, de w'ite folks upan' kills a few, so dat de res' kin keep on fergivin' an' bein' thankfuldat dey're lef alive. Don' talk ter me 'bout dese w'ite folks,--I knows'em, I does! Ef a nigger wants ter git down on his marrow-bones, an' eatdirt, an' call 'em 'marster,' _he's_ a good nigger, dere's room fer_him_. But I ain' no w'ite folks' nigger, I ain'. I don' call no man'marster.' I don' wan' nothin' but w'at I wo'k fer, but I wants all erdat. I never moles's no w'ite man, 'less 'n he moles's me fus'. But w'ende ole 'oman dies, doctuh, an' I gits a good chance at dat w'iteman,--dere ain' no use talkin', suh!--dere's gwine ter be a mix-up, an'a fune'al, er two fune'als--er may be mo', ef anybody is keerliss enoughto git in de way."

  "Josh," said the doctor, laying a cool hand on the other's brow, "you're feverish, and don't know what you're talking about.
I shouldn'tlet my mind dwell on such things, and you must keep quiet until this armis well, or you may never be able to hit any one with it again."

  Miller determined that when Josh got better he would talk to himseriously and dissuade him from this dangerous design. He had not askedthe name of Josh's enemy, but the look of murderous hate which thedust-begrimed tramp of the railway journey had cast at Captain GeorgeMcBane rendered any such question superfluous. McBane was probablydeserving of any evil fate which might befall him; but such a revengewould do no good, would right no wrong; while every such crime,committed by a colored man, would be imputed to the race, which wasalready staggering under a load of obloquy because, in the eyes of aprejudiced and undiscriminating public, it must answer as a whole forthe offenses of each separate individual. To die in defense of the rightwas heroic. To kill another for revenge was pitifully human and weak:"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," saith the Lord.