Black No More Page 17

  —

  Through the crisp, autumn night air sped Fisher’s big tri-motored plane, headed southwest to the safety of Mexico. Reclining in a large, comfortable deck chair was Helen Fisher, calm and at peace with the world. In a hammock near her was her little brown son, Matthew, Junior. Beside her, holding her hand, was Matthew. Up front near the pilot, Bunny and Givens were playing Conquian. Behind them sat the nurse and Dr. Brocker, silently gazing out of the window at the twinkling lights of the Gulf Coast. Old lady Givens snored in the rear of the ship.

  “Damn!” muttered Givens, as Bunny threw down his last spread and won the third consecutive game. “I sure wish I’d had time to grab some jack before we pulled out o’ Atlanta. Ain’t got but five dollars and fifty-three cents to my name.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Old Timer,” Bunny laughed. “I don’t think we left over a thousand bucks in the treasury. See that steel box over there? Well, that ain’t got nothin’ in it but bucks and more bucks. Not a bill smaller than a grand.”

  “Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun,” blurted the Imperial Grand Wizard. “That boy thinks o’ everything.”

  But Givens was greatly depressed, much more so than the others. He had really believed all that he had preached about white supremacy, race purity and the menace of the alien, the Catholic, the Modernist and the Jew. He had always been sincere in his prejudices.

  When they arrived at the Valbuena Air Field outside Mexico City, a messenger brought Bunny a telegram.

  “You better thank your stars you got away from there, Matt,” he grinned, handing his friend the telegram. “See what my gal says?”

  Matthew glanced over the message and handed it to Givens without comment. It read:

  Hope you arrive safely Stop Senator Kretin lynched in Union Station Stop Snobbcraft and Buggerie reported in flight Stop Goosie and Gump almost unanimously reëlected Stop Government has declared martial law until disturbances stop Stop When can I come?

  MADELINE SCRANTON.

  “Who’s this Scranton broad?” queried Matthew in a whisper, cutting a precautionary glance at his wife.

  “A sweet Georgia brown,” exclaimed Bunny enthusiastically.

  “No!” gasped Matthew, incredulous.

  “She ain’t no Caucasian!” Bunny replied.

  “She must be the last black gal in the country,” Matthew remarked, glancing enviously at his friend. “How come she didn’t get white, too?”

  “Well,” Bunny replied, a slight hint of pride in his voice. “She’s a race patriot. She’s funny that way.”

  “Well, for cryin’ out loud!” exclaimed Matthew, scratching his head and sort of half grinning in a bewildered way. “What kind o’ sheba is that?”

  Old man Givens came over to where they were standing, the telegram in his hand and an expression of serenity now on his face.

  “Boys,” he announced, “it looks like it’s healthier down here right now than it is back there in Georgia.”

  “Looks like it’s healthier?” mocked Bunny. “Brother, you know damn well it’s healthier!”

  THIRTEEN

  Toward eleven o’clock on the evening before election day, a long, low roadster swept up to the door of a stately country home near Richmond, Va., crunched to a stop, the lights were extinguished and two men, one tall and angular, the other huge and stout, catapulted from the car. Without wasting words, they raced around the house and down a small driveway to a rambling shed in a level field about three hundred yards to the rear. Breathless, they halted before the door and beat upon it excitedly.

  “Open up there, Frazier!” ordered Snobbcraft, for it was he. “Open that door.” There was no answer. The only reply was the chirping of crickets and the rustle of branches.

  “He must not be here,” said Dr. Buggerie, glancing fearfully over his shoulder and wiping a perspiring brow with a damp handkerchief.

  “The damned rascal had better be here,” thundered the Democratic candidate for Vice-President, beating again on the door. “I telephoned him two hours ago to be ready.”

  As he spoke someone unlocked the door and rolled it aside an inch or two.

  “Is that you, Mr. Snobbcraft?” asked a sleepy voice from the darkness within.

  “Open that damned door, you fool,” barked Snobbcraft. “Didn’t I tell you to have that plane ready when we got here? Why don’t you do as you’re told?” He and Dr. Buggerie helped slide the great doors back. The man Frazier snapped on the lights, revealing within a big, three-motored plane with an automobile nestling under each of its wings.

  “I-I kinda fell asleep waitin’ for you, Mr. Snobbcraft,” Frazier apologized, “but everything’s ready.”

  “All right, man,” shouted the president of the Anglo-Saxon Association, “let’s get away from here then. This is a matter of life and death. You ought to have had the plane outside and all warmed up to go.”

  “Yes sir,” the man mumbled meekly, busying himself.

  “These damned, stupid, poor white trash!” growled Snobbcraft, glaring balefully at the departing aviator.

  “D-D-Don’t antagonize him,” muttered Buggerie. “He’s our only chance to get away.”

  “Shut up, fool! If it hadn’t been for you and your damned fool statistics we wouldn’t be in this fix.”

  “You wanted them, didn’t you?” whined the statistician in defense.

  “Well, I didn’t tell you to leave that damned summary where anybody could get hold of it.” Snobbcraft replied, reproachfully. “That was the most stupid thing I ever heard of.”

  Buggerie opened his mouth to reply but said nothing. He just glared at Snobbcraft who glared back at him. The two men presented a disheveled appearance. The Vice-Presidential candidate was haggard, hatless, collarless and still wore his smoking jacket. The eminent statistician and author of The Incidence of Psittacosis among the Hiphopa Indians of the Amazon Valley and Its Relation to Life Insurance Rates in the United States looked far from dignified with no necktie, canvas breeches, no socks and wearing a shooting jacket he had snatched from a closet on his way out of the house. He had forgotten his thick spectacles and his bulging eyes were red and watery. They paced impatiently back and forth, glancing first at the swiftly working Frazier and then down the long driveway toward the glowing city.

  Ten minutes they waited while Frazier went over the plane to see that all was well. Then they helped him roll the huge metal bird out of the hangar and onto the field. Gratefully they climbed inside and fell exhausted on the soft-cushioned seats.

  “Well, that sure is a relief,” gasped the ponderous Buggerie, mopping his brow.

  “Wait until we get in the air,” growled Snobbcraft. “Anything’s liable to happen after that mob tonight. I was never so humiliated in my life. The idea of that gang of poor white trash crowding up my steps and yelling nigger. It was disgraceful.”

  “Yes, it was terrible,” agreed Buggerie. “It’s a good thing they didn’t go in the rear where your car was. We wouldn’t have been able to get away.”

  “I thought there would be a demonstration,” said Snobbcraft, some of his old sureness returning, “that’s why I ’phoned Frazier to get ready. . . . Oh, it’s a damned shame to be run out of your own home in this way!”

  He glared balefully at the statistician who averted his gaze.

  “All ready, sir,” announced Frazier, “where are we headed?”

  “To my ranch in Chihuahua, and hurry up,” snapped Snobbcraft.

  “But—But we ain’t got enough gas to go that far,” said Frazier. “I-I-You didn’t say you wanted to go to Mexico, Boss.”

  Snobbcraft stared incredulously at the man. His rage was so great that he could not speak for a moment or two. Then he launched into a stream of curses that would have delighted a pirate captain, while the unfortunate aviator gaped indecisively.

  In the midst of this
diatribe, the sound of automobile horns and klaxons rent the air, punctuated by shouts and pistol shots. The three men in the plane saw coming down the road from the city a bobbing stream of headlights. Already the cavalcade was almost to the gate of the Snobbcraft country estate.

  “Come on, get out of here,” gasped Snobbcraft. “We’ll get some gas farther down the line. Hurry up!”

  Dr. Buggerie, speechless and purple with fear, pushed the aviator out of the plane. The fellow gave the propeller a whirl, jumped back into the cabin, took the controls and the great machine rolled out across the field.

  They had started none too soon. The automobile cavalcade was already coming up the driveway. The drone of the motor drowned out the sound of the approaching mob but the two fearful men saw several flashes that betokened pistol shots. Several of the automobiles took out across the field in the wake of the plane. They seemed to gain on it. Snobbcraft and Buggerie gazed nervously ahead. They were almost at the end of the field and the plane had not yet taken to the air. The pursuing automobiles drew closer. There were several more flashes from firearms. A bullet tore through the side of the cabin. Simultaneously Snobbcraft and Buggerie fell to the floor.

  At last the ship rose, cleared the trees at the end of the field and began to attain altitude. The two men took deep breaths of relief, rose and flung themselves on the richly upholstered seats.

  A terrible stench suddenly became noticeable to the two passengers and the aviator. The latter looked inquiringly over his shoulder; Snobbcraft and Buggerie, their noses wrinkled and their foreheads corrugated, glanced suspiciously at each other. Both moved uneasily in their seats and looks of guilt succeeded those of accusation. Snobbcraft retreated precipitously to the rear cabin while the statistician flung open several windows and then followed the Vice-Presidential candidate.

  Fifteen minutes later two bundles were tossed out of the window of the rear cabin and the two passengers, looking sheepish but much relieved, resumed their seats. Snobbcraft was wearing a suit of brown dungarees belonging to Frazier while his scientific friend had wedged himself into a pair of white trousers usually worn by Snobbcraft’s valet. Frazier turned, saw them, and grinned.

  Hour after hour the plane winged its way through the night. Going a hundred miles an hour it passed town after town. About dawn, as they were passing over Meridian, Mississippi, the motor began to miss.

  “What’s the matter there?” Snobbcraft inquired nervously into the pilot’s ear.

  “The gas is runnin’ low,” Frazier replied grimly. “We’ll have to land pretty soon.”

  “No, no, not in Mississippi!” gasped Buggerie, growing purple with apprehension. “They’ll lynch us if they find out who we are.”

  “Well, we can’t stay up here much longer,” the pilot warned.

  Snobbcraft bit his lip and thought furiously. It was true they would be taking a chance by landing anywhere in the South, let alone in Mississippi, but what could they do? The motor was missing more frequently and Frazier had cut down their speed to save gasoline. They were just idling along. The pilot looked back at Snobbcraft inquiringly.

  “By God, we’re in a fix now,” said the president of the Anglo-Saxon Association. Then he brightened with a sudden idea. “We could hide in the rear cabin while Frazier gets gasoline,” he suggested.

  “Suppose somebody looks in the rear cabin?” queried Buggerie, dolefully, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his white trousers. “There’s bound to be a lot of curious people about when a big plane like this lands in a farming district.”

  As he spoke his left hand encountered something hard in the pocket. It felt like a box of salve. He withdrew it curiously. It was a box of shoe polish which the valet doubtless used on Snobbcraft’s footgear. He looked at it aimlessly and was about to thrust it back into the pocket when he had a brilliant idea.

  “Look here, Snobbcraft,” he cried excitedly, his rheumy eyes popping out of his head farther than usual. “This is just the thing.”

  “What do you mean?” asked his friend, eyeing the little tin box.

  “Well,” explained the scientist, “you know real niggers are scarce now and nobody would think of bothering a couple of them, even in Mississippi. They’d probably be a curiosity.”

  “What are you getting at, man?”

  “This: we can put this blacking on our head, face, neck and hands, and no one will take us for Snobbcraft and Buggerie. Frazier can tell anybody that inquires that we’re two darkies he’s taking out of the country, or something like that. Then, after we get our gas and start off again, we can wash the stuff off with gasoline. It’s our only chance, Arthur. If we go down like we are, they’ll kill us sure.”

  Snobbcraft pursed his lips and pondered the proposition for a moment. It was indeed, he saw, their only chance to effectively escape detection.

  “All right,” he agreed, “let’s hurry up. This ship won’t stay up much longer.”

  Industriously they daubed each other’s head, neck, face, chest, hands and arms with the shoe polish. In five minutes they closely resembled a brace of mammy singers. Snobbcraft hurriedly instructed Frazier.

  The plane slowly circled to the ground. The region was slightly rolling and there was no good landing place. There could be no delay, however, so Frazier did his best. The big ship bumped over logs and through weeds, heading straight for a clump of trees. Quickly the pilot steered it to the left only to send it head first into a ditch. The plane turned completely over, one wing was entirely smashed and Frazier, caught in the wreckage under the engine, cried feebly for help for a few moments and then lay still.

  Shaken up and bruised, the two passengers managed to crawl out of the cabin window to safety. Dolefully they stood in the Mississippi sunlight, surveying the wreckage and looking questioningly at each other.

  “Well,” whined Dr. Buggerie, rubbing one large sore buttock, “what now?”

  “Shut up,” growled Snobbcraft. “If it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t be here.”

  —

  Happy Hill, Mississippi, was all aflutter. For some days it had been preparing for the great, open-air revival of the True Faith Christ Lovers’ Church. The faithful for miles around were expected to attend the services scheduled for the afternoon of Election Day and which all hoped would last well into the night.

  This section of the state had been untouched by the troubles through which the rest of the South had gone as a result of the activities of Black-No-More, Incorporated. The people for miles around were with very few exceptions old residents and thence known to be genuine blue-blooded Caucasians for as far back as any resident could remember which was at least fifty years. The people were proud of this fact. They were more proud, however, of the fact that Happy Hill was the home and birthplace of the True Faith Christ Lovers’ Church, which made the prodigious boast of being the most truly Fundamentalist of all the Christian sects in the United States. Other things of which the community might have boasted were its inordinately high illiteracy rate and its lynching record—but these things were seldom mentioned, although no one was ashamed of them. Certain things are taken for granted everywhere.

  Long before the United States had rid themselves of their Negroes through the good but unsolicited offices of Dr. Junius Crookman, Happy Hill had not only rid itself of what few Negroes had resided in its vicinity but of all itinerant blackamoors who lucklessly came through the place. Ever since the Civil War, when the proud and courageous forefathers of the Caucasian inhabitants had vigorously resisted all efforts to draft them into the Confederate Army, there had been a sign nailed over the general store and post office reading NIGER REDE & RUN. IF U CAN’T REDE, RUN ENEYHOWE. The literate denizens of Happy Hill would sometimes stand off and spell out the words with the pride that usually accompanies erudition.

  The method by which Happy Hill discouraged blackamoors who sought the hospitality of the place was
simple: the offending Ethiopian was either hung or shot and then broiled. Across from the general store and post office was a large iron post about five feet high. On it all blacks were burned. Down one side of it was a long line of nicks made with hammer and chisel. Each nick stood for a Negro dispatched. This post was one of the landmarks of the community and was pointed out to visitors with pardonable civic pride by local boosters. Sage old fellows frequently remarked between expectorations of tobacco juice that the only Negro problem in Happy Hill was the difficulty of getting hold of a sufficient number of the Sons or Daughters of Ham to lighten the dullness of the place.

  Quite naturally the news that all Negroes had disappeared, not only from their state but from the entire country, had been received with sincere regret by the inhabitants of Happy Hill. They envisioned the passing of an old, established custom. Now there was nothing left to stimulate them but the old time religion and the clandestine sex orgies that invariably and immediately followed the great revival meetings.

  So the simple country folk had turned to religion with renewed ardor. There were several churches in the country, Methodist, Baptist, Campbellite and, of course, Holy Roller. The latter, indeed, had the largest membership. But the people, eager for something new, found all of the old churches too tame. They wanted a faith with more punch to it; a faith that would fittingly accompany the fierce corn liquor which all consumed, albeit they were all confirmed Prohibitionists.

  Whenever and wherever there is a social need, some agency arises to supply it. The needs of Happy Hill were no exception. One day, several weeks previously, there had come to the community one Rev. Alex McPhule who claimed to be the founder of a new faith, a true faith, that would save all from the machinations of the Evil One. The other churches, he averred, had failed. The other churches had grown soft and were flirting with atheism and Modernism which, according to Rev. McPhule, were the same thing. An angel of God had visited him one summer evening in Meridian, he told them, when he was down sick in bed as the result of his sinning ways, and had told him to reform and go forth into the world and preach the true faith of Christ’s love. He had promised to do so, of course, and then the angel had placed the palm of his right hand on Rev. McPhule’s forehead and all of the sickness and misery had departed.