The Marrow of Tradition

“Stay here beside her, major. I shall not he needed for an hour yet. Meanwhile I’ll go downstairs and snatch a bit of sleep, or talk to old Jane.”

The night was hot and sultry. Though the windows of the chamber were wide open, and the muslin curtains looped back, not a breath of air was stirring. Only the shrill chirp of the cicada and the muffled croaking of the frogs in some distant marsh broke the night silence. The heavy scent of magnolias, overpowering even the strong smell of drugs in the sickroom, suggested death and funeral wreaths, sorrow and tears, the long home, the last sleep. The major shivered with apprehension as the slender hand which he held in his own contracted nervously and in a spasm of pain clutched his fingers with a viselike grip.

Major Carteret, though dressed in brown linen, had thrown off his coat for greater comfort. The stifling heat, in spite of the palm-leaf fan which he plied mechanically, was scarcely less oppressive than his own thoughts. Long ago, while yet a mere boy in years, he had come back from Appomattox to find his family, one of the oldest and proudest in the state, hopelessly impoverished by the war⁠—even their ancestral home swallowed up in the common ruin. His elder brother had sacrificed his life on the bloody altar of the lost cause, and his father, broken and chagrined, died not many years later, leaving the major the last of his line.

Having finished this pleasant ceremony, which left him with a comfortable sense of his new dignity, the major turned to his desk. It had been much neglected during the week, and more than one matter claimed his attention; but as typical of the new trend of his thoughts, the first subject he took up was one bearing upon the future of his son. Quite obviously the career of a Carteret must not be left to chance⁠—it must be planned and worked out with a due sense of the value of good blood.

There lay upon his desk a letter from a well-known promoter, offering the major an investment which promised large returns, though several years must elapse before the enterprise could be put upon a paying basis. The element of time, however, was not immediately important. The Morning Chronicle provided him an ample income. The money available for this investment was part of his wife’s patrimony. It was invested in a local cotton mill, which was paying ten percent, but this was a beggarly return compared with the immense profits promised by the offered investment⁠—profits which would enable his son, upon reaching manhood, to take a place in the world commensurate with the dignity of his ancestors, one of whom, only a few generations removed, had owned an estate of ninety thousand acres of land and six thousand slaves.

This letter having been disposed of by an answer accepting the offer, the major took up his pen to write an editorial. Public affairs in the state were not going to his satisfaction.

“All passengers,” he announced, “will please transfer to the day coaches ahead. The sleeper has a hot box, and must be switched off here.”

Dr. Burns and Miller obeyed the order, the former leading the way into the coach immediately in front of the sleeping-car.

“Let’s sit here, Miller,” he said, having selected a seat near the rear of the car and deposited his suitcase in a rack. “It’s on the shady side.”

Miller stood a moment hesitatingly, but finally took the seat indicated, and a few minutes later the journey was again resumed.

When the train conductor made his round after leaving the station, he paused at the seat occupied by the two doctors, glanced interrogatively at Miller, and then spoke to Dr. Burns, who sat in the end of the seat nearest the aisle.

“This man is with you?” he asked, indicating Miller with a slight side movement of his head, and a keen glance in his direction.

“Certainly,” replied Dr. Burns curtly, and with some surprise. “Don’t you see that he is?”

The conductor passed on. Miller paid no apparent attention to this little interlude, though no syllable had escaped him. He resumed the conversation where it had been broken off, but nevertheless followed with his eyes the conductor, who stopped at a seat near the forward end of the car, and engaged in conversation with a man whom Miller had not hitherto noticed.

As this passenger turned his head and looked back toward Miller, the latter saw a broad-shouldered, burly white man, and recognized in his square-cut jaw, his coarse, firm mouth, and the

“Lemme see,” said Josh reflectively, “ef I kin ’member w’at did become er him! Oh, yes, I ’member now! Dey tuck him ter de Marine Horspittle in 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 de way ’long de street. I didn’ wan’ ter kill de man, fer he might have somebody dependin’ on ’im, an’ I knows how dat’d be ter dem. But no man kin call me a damn low-down nigger and keep on enjoyin’ good health right along.”

“It was considerate of you to spare his life,” said Miller dryly, “but you’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’ll be a lynching, or a funeral. You’d better be peaceable and endure a little injustice, rather than run the risk of a sudden and violent death.”

“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 ter die at the same time, er a little befo’. I be’n takin’ my own time ’bout killin’ ’im; I ain’ be’n crowdin’ de man, but I’ll be ready after a w’ile, an’ den he kin look out!”

“And I suppose you’re merely keeping in practice on these other fellows who come your way. When I get your arm dressed, you’d better leave town till that fellow’s boat sails; it may save you the expense of a trial and three months in the chain-gang. But this talk about killing a man is all nonsense.

“Carteret,” exclaimed Mr. Delamere, “what is all this talk about lynching my man for murder and robbery and criminal assault? It’s perfectly absurd! The man was raised by me; he has lived in my house forty years. He has been honest, faithful, and trustworthy. He would no more be capable of this crime than you would, or my grandson Tom. Sandy has too much respect for the family to do anything that would reflect disgrace upon it.”

“My dear Mr. Delamere,” asked Carteret, with an indulgent smile, “how could a negro possibly reflect discredit upon a white family? I should really like to know.”

“How, sir? A white family raised him. Like all the negroes, he has been clay in the hands of the white people. They are what we have made them, or permitted them to become.”

“We are not God, Mr. Delamere! We do not claim to have created these⁠—masterpieces.”

“No; but we thought to overrule God’s laws, and we enslaved these people for our greed, and sought to escape the manstealer’s curse by laying to our souls the flattering unction that we were making of barbarous negroes civilized and Christian men. If we did not, if instead of making them Christians we have made some of them brutes, we have only ourselves to blame, and if these prey upon society, it is our just punishment! But my negroes, Carteret, were well raised and well behaved. This man is innocent of this offense, I solemnly affirm, and I want your aid to secure his safety until a fair trial can be had.”