Free and Other Stories

FREE AND OTHER STORIES

odd longing filled his heart, a sense of comradeship lost, of some friend he knew missing. When he opened his eyes again he seemed to realize something more of what had been happening, but it was fading, fading.

At his feet lay the plain and the ants with whom he had recently been – or so he thought. Yes, there, only a few feet away in the parched grass, was an arid spot, over-run with insects. He gazed upon it, in amazement, searching for the details of a lost world. Now, as he saw, coming closer, a giant battle was in progress, such a one, for instance, as that in which he had been engaged in his dream. The ground was strewn with dead ants. Thousands upon thousands were sawing and striking at each other quite in the manner in which he had dreamed. What was this? – a revelation of the spirit and significance of a lesser life or of his own – or what? And what was life if the strange passions, moods and necessities which conditioned him here could condition those there on so minute a plane?

“Why, I was there,” he said dazedly and a little dreamfully, “a little while ago. I died there – or as well as died there – in my dream. At least I woke out of it into this or sank from that into this.”

Stooping closer he could see where lines were drawn, how in places the forces raged in confusion, and the field was cluttered with the dead. At one moment an odd mad enthusiasm such as he had experienced in his dream-world lay hold of him, and he looked for the advantage of the Shining Slave Makers – the blacks – as he thought of the two warring hosts as against the reds. But finding it not, the mood passed, and he stood gazing, lost in wonder. What a strange world! he thought. What worlds within worlds, all apparently full of

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The reporter raised his eyes as he finished. What a terrible crime! What evil people there were in the world! No doubt such a creature ought to be lynched, and that quickly.

“You had better go out there, Davies,” said the city editor. “It looks as if something might come of that. A lynching up here would be a big thing. There’s never been one in this state.”

Davies smiled. He was always pleased to be sent out of town. It was a mark of appreciation. The city editor rarely sent any of the other men on these big stories. What a nice ride he would have!

As he went along, however, a few minutes later he began to meditate on this. Perhaps, as the city editor had suggested, he might be compelled to witness an actual lynching. That was by no means so pleasant in itself. In his fixed code of rewards and punishments he had no particular place for lynchings, even for crimes of the nature described, especially if he had to witness the lynching. It was too horrible a kind of reward or punishment. Once, in line of duty, he had been compelled to witness a hanging, and that had made him sick – deathly so – even though carried out as a part of the due process of law of his day and place. Now, as he looked at this fine day and his excellent clothes, he was not so sure that this was a worthwhile assignment. Why should he always be selected for such things – just because he could write? There were others – lots of men on the staff. He began to hope as he went along that nothing really serious would come of it, that they would catch the man before he got there and put him in jail – or, if the worst had to be – painful thought! – that it would be all over by the time he got there. Let’s see – the telegram had been filed at nine

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FREE AND OTHER STORIES

a.m. It was now one-thirty and would be three by the time he got out there, all of that. That would give them time enough, and then, if all were well, or ill, as it were, he could just gather the details of the crime and the – aftermath – and return. The mere thought of an approaching lynching troubled him greatly, and the farther he went the less he liked it.

He found the village of Pleasant Valley a very small affair indeed, just a few dozen houses nestling between green slopes of low hills, with one small business corner and a rambling array of lanes. One or two merchants of K – , the city from which he had just arrived, lived out here, but otherwise it was very rural. He took notes of the whiteness of the little houses, the shimmering beauty of the small stream one had to cross in going from the depot. At the one main corner a few men were gathered about a typical village barroom. Davies headed for this as being the most likely source of information.

In mingling with this company at first he said nothing about his being a newspaper man, being very doubtful as to its effect upon them, their freedom of speech and manner.

The whole company was apparently tense with interest in the crime which still remained unpunished, seemingly craving excitement and desirous of seeing something done about it. No such opportunity to work up wrath and vent their stored-up animal propensities had probably occurred here in years. He took this occasion to inquire into the exact details of the attack, where it had occurred, where the Whitakers lived. Then, seeing that mere talk prevailed here, he went away thinking that he had best find out for himself how the victim was. As yet she had not been described, and it was necessary to know a little something about her. Accordingly, he sought an old

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THEODORE DREISER

man who kept a stable in the village, and procured a horse. No carriage was to be had. Davies was not an excellent rider, but he made a shift of it. The Whitaker home was not so very far away – about four miles out – and before long he was knocking at its front door, set back a hundred feet from the rough country road.

“I’m from the Times,” he said to the tall, raw-boned woman who opened the door, with an attempt at being impressive. His position as reporter in this matter was a little dubious; he might be welcome, and he might not. Then he asked if this were Mrs. Whitaker, and how Miss Whitaker was by now.

“She’s doing very well,” answered the woman, who seemed decidedly stern, if repressed and nervous, a Spartan type. “Won’t you come in? She’s rather feverish, but the doctor says she’ll probably be all right later on.” She said no more.

Davies acknowledged the invitation by entering. He was very anxious to see the girl, but she was sleeping under the influence of an opiate, and he did not care to press the matter at once.

“When did this happen?” he asked.

“About eight o’clock this morning,” said the woman.

“She started to go over to our next door neighbor here, Mr. Edmonds, and this negro met her. We didn’t know anything about it until she came crying through the gate and dropped down in here.”

“Were you the first one to meet her?” asked Davies.

“Yes, I was the only one,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “The men had all gone to the fields.”

Davies listened to more of the details, the type and history of the man, and then rose to go. Before doing so he was allowed

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FREE AND OTHER STORIES

to have a look at the girl, who was still sleeping. She was young and rather pretty. In the yard he met a country man who was just coming to get home news. The latter imparted more information.

“They’re lookin’ all around south of here,” he said, speaking of a crowd which was supposed to be searching. “I expect they’ll make short work of him if they get him. He can’t get away very well, for he’s on foot, wherever he is. The sheriff’s after him too, with a deputy or two, I believe. He’ll be tryin’ to save him an’ take him over to Clayton, but I don’t believe he’ll be able to do it, not if the crowd catches him first.”

So, thought Davies, he would probably have to witness a lynching after all. The prospect was most unhappy.

“Does any one know where this negro lived?” he asked heavily, a growing sense of his duty weighing upon him.

“Oh, right down here a little way,” replied the farmer. “Jeff Ingalls was his name. We all know him around here. He worked for one and another of the farmers hereabouts, and don’t appear to have had such a bad record, either, except for drinkin’ a little now and then. Miss Ada recognized him, all right. You follow this road to the next crossing and turn to the right. It’s a little log house that sets back off the road – something like that one you see down the lane there, only it’s got lots o’ chips scattered about.”

Davies decided to go there first, but changed his mind. It was growing late, and he thought he had better return to the village. Perhaps by now developments in connection with the sheriff or the posse were to be learned.

Accordingly, he rode back and put the horse in the hands of its owner, hoping that all had been concluded and that he

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might learn of it here. At the principal corner much the same company was still present, arguing, fomenting, gesticulating. They seemed parts of different companies that earlier in the day had been out searching. He wondered what they had been doing since, and then decided to ingratiate himself by telling them he had just come from the Whitakers and what he had learned there of the present condition of the girl and the movements of the sheriff.

Just then a young farmer came galloping up. He was coatless, hatless, breathless.

“They’ve got him!” he shouted excitedly. “They’ve got him!”

A chorus of “whos,” “wheres” and “whens” greeted this information as the crowd gathered about the rider.

“Why, Mathews caught him up here at his own house!” exclaimed the latter, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. “He must ‘a’ gone back there for something. Mathews’s takin’ him over to Clayton, so they think, but they don’t project he’ll ever get there. They’re after him now, but Mathews says he’ll shoot the first man that tries to take him away.”

“Which way’d he go?” exclaimed the men in chorus, stirring as if to make an attack.

“’Cross Sellers’ Lane,” said the rider. “The boys think he’s goin’ by way of Baldwin.”

“Whoopee!” yelled one of the listeners. “We’ll get him away from him, all right! Are you goin’, Sam?”

“You bet!” said the latter. “Wait’ll I get my horse!”

“Lord!” thought Davies. “To think of being (perforce) one of a lynching party – a hired spectator!”

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