The Colonel had brought his own food with him and merely paid the restaurant to cook it. Alongside his heaping plate stood a tall bourbon whisky highball.
The colored people, watching the Colonel shovel grits, eggs and sausage into his mouth and chomp off a hunk of biscuit, felt nostalgic. But when they saw him cover all his food with a thick layer of sorghum molasses, many felt absolutely homesick.
“I wouldn’t mind going down home for dinner ever day,” one joker said. “But I wouldn’t want to stay overnight.”
“Baby, seeing that scoff makes my stomach feel lak my throat is cut,” another replied.
Bill Davis, the clean-cut young man who was Reverend O’Malley’s recruiting agent, entered the Back-to-the-Southland office as Colonel Calhoun was taking an oversize mouthful of grits, eggs and sausage mixed with molasses. He paused before the Colonel’s desk, erect and purposeful.
“Colonel Calhoun, I am Mister Davis,” he said. “I represent the Back-to-Africa movement of Reverend O’Malley’s. I want a word with you.”
The Colonel looked up at Bill Davis through cold blue eyes, continuing to chew slowly and deliberately like a camel chewing its cud. But he took much longer in hisappraisal than he had done with Barry Waterfield. When he had finished chewing, he washed his mouth with a sip from his bourbon highball, cleared his throat and said, “Come back in half an hour, after I’ve et my breakfast.”
“What I have to say to you I’m going to say now,” Bill Davis said.
The Colonel looked up at him again. The blond young man who had been standing in the background moved closer. The young colored men at their desks in the rear became nervous.
“Well, what can I do for you … er … what did you say your name was?” the Colonel said.
“My name is
Mister
Davis, and I’ll make it short and sweet.
Get out of town
!”
The blond young man started around the desk and Bill Davis got set to hit him, but the Colonel waved him back.
“Is that all you got to say, my boy?”
“That’s all, and I’m not your boy,” Bill Davis said.
“Then you’ve said it,” the Colonel said and deliberately beganeating again.
When Bill emerged, the black people parted to let him pass. They didn’t know what he had said to the Colonel, but whatever it was they were for him. He had stood right up to that ol’ white man and tol’ him something to his teeth. They respected him.
A half-hour later the pickets moved in. They marched up and down Seventh Avenue, holding aloft a Back-to-Africa banner and carrying placards reading:
Goddamn White Man GO! GO! GO! Black Man STAY! STAY! STAY!
There were twenty-five in the picket line and two or three hundred followers. The pickets formed a circle in front of the Back-to-the-Southland office and chanted as they marched, “Go, white man, go while you can.… Go, white man, go while you can.…” Bill Davis stood to one side between two elderly colored men.
Colored people poured into the vicinity from far and wide, overflowed the sidewalks and spilled into the street. Traffic was stopped. The atmosphere grew tense, pregnant with premonition. A black youth ran forward with a brick to hurl through the plate-glass window. A Back-to-Africa follower grabbed him and took it away. “None of that, son, we’re peaceful,” he said.
“What for?” the youth asked.
The man couldn’t answer.
Suddenly the air was filled with the distant wailing of the sirens, sounding at first like the faint wailing of banshees, growing ever louder as the police cruisers roared nearer, like souls escaped from hell.
The first cruiser ploughed through the mob and shrieked to a stop on the wrong side of the street. Two uniformed white cops hit the pavement with pistols drawn, shouting, “Get back! Get off the street! Clear the street!” Then another cruiser plowed through the mob and shrieked to a stop.… Then a third.… Then a fourth.… Then a fifth. Out came the white cops,
The colored people, watching the Colonel shovel grits, eggs and sausage into his mouth and chomp off a hunk of biscuit, felt nostalgic. But when they saw him cover all his food with a thick layer of sorghum molasses, many felt absolutely homesick.
“I wouldn’t mind going down home for dinner ever day,” one joker said. “But I wouldn’t want to stay overnight.”
“Baby, seeing that scoff makes my stomach feel lak my throat is cut,” another replied.
Bill Davis, the clean-cut young man who was Reverend O’Malley’s recruiting agent, entered the Back-to-the-Southland office as Colonel Calhoun was taking an oversize mouthful of grits, eggs and sausage mixed with molasses. He paused before the Colonel’s desk, erect and purposeful.
“Colonel Calhoun, I am Mister Davis,” he said. “I represent the Back-to-Africa movement of Reverend O’Malley’s. I want a word with you.”
The Colonel looked up at Bill Davis through cold blue eyes, continuing to chew slowly and deliberately like a camel chewing its cud. But he took much longer in hisappraisal than he had done with Barry Waterfield. When he had finished chewing, he washed his mouth with a sip from his bourbon highball, cleared his throat and said, “Come back in half an hour, after I’ve et my breakfast.”
“What I have to say to you I’m going to say now,” Bill Davis said.
The Colonel looked up at him again. The blond young man who had been standing in the background moved closer. The young colored men at their desks in the rear became nervous.
“Well, what can I do for you … er … what did you say your name was?” the Colonel said.
“My name is
Mister
Davis, and I’ll make it short and sweet.
Get out of town
!”
The blond young man started around the desk and Bill Davis got set to hit him, but the Colonel waved him back.
“Is that all you got to say, my boy?”
“That’s all, and I’m not your boy,” Bill Davis said.
“Then you’ve said it,” the Colonel said and deliberately beganeating again.
When Bill emerged, the black people parted to let him pass. They didn’t know what he had said to the Colonel, but whatever it was they were for him. He had stood right up to that ol’ white man and tol’ him something to his teeth. They respected him.
A half-hour later the pickets moved in. They marched up and down Seventh Avenue, holding aloft a Back-to-Africa banner and carrying placards reading:
Goddamn White Man GO! GO! GO! Black Man STAY! STAY! STAY!
There were twenty-five in the picket line and two or three hundred followers. The pickets formed a circle in front of the Back-to-the-Southland office and chanted as they marched, “Go, white man, go while you can.… Go, white man, go while you can.…” Bill Davis stood to one side between two elderly colored men.
Colored people poured into the vicinity from far and wide, overflowed the sidewalks and spilled into the street. Traffic was stopped. The atmosphere grew tense, pregnant with premonition. A black youth ran forward with a brick to hurl through the plate-glass window. A Back-to-Africa follower grabbed him and took it away. “None of that, son, we’re peaceful,” he said.
“What for?” the youth asked.
The man couldn’t answer.
Suddenly the air was filled with the distant wailing of the sirens, sounding at first like the faint wailing of banshees, growing ever louder as the police cruisers roared nearer, like souls escaped from hell.
The first cruiser ploughed through the mob and shrieked to a stop on the wrong side of the street. Two uniformed white cops hit the pavement with pistols drawn, shouting, “Get back! Get off the street! Clear the street!” Then another cruiser plowed through the mob and shrieked to a stop.… Then a third.… Then a fourth.… Then a fifth. Out came the white cops,
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