For in the hearts of all true Southerners there exists an affection that is almost akin to love or devotion for the “old fashioned darkies,” many of whom possessed “white hearts” in black bodies.

C H A P T E R   F O U R T E E N

Wednesday, November 9

THEY WERE HEADED OUT Seventh Street toward Castle Hayne Road, Alex and Frank Manly. They wore their Sunday suits for traveling. Alex huddled into the turned-up collar of his Prince Albert, his brushed gray derby pulled low on his forehead. Frank wore a charcoal greatcoat and scarf against the damp chill. His slouch hat was pulled down over the tops of his ears. Both men wore gloves.

Out of sight under the buggy seat, each had stowed his single portmanteau, packed with all he would take from the city. Frank kept insisting they could come back in a few weeks or months, when things had calmed down, but Alex didn’t believe it. The buggy was open to the air, but the top was raised, giving the illusion of protection from the cold.

Far off, the carillon at St. James Church sounded one o’clock. There was no hurry—they had four hours to make the train at Castle Hayne. They must not seem to be running away, or else they would excite the suspicion of one of the vigilante groups that systematically patrolled the streets.

Alex was brooding. He understood that he was at the end of something, but he could not imagine a future. The night lay ahead, black and formless. Exile. He mused out loud, “Lately, we always seem to be doing one thing and pretending we’re doing another.”

Frank said, “Well, ain’t that all the fashion?”

“All the same, I don’t care for sneaking around in the dead of night, just to be able to do what I’ve got a perfect right to do already. That’s nigger stuff. That’s the kind of life we’ve been trying to outgrow for a hundred and fifty years. I want a life out in the daylight. I want to look people in the eye, say what’s on my mind.”

“You’ve done plenty of that, little brother. Why do you think we’re out here in the open on a bone-cold night dodging white men with guns that want to lynch us?”

“Proves my point exactly. You can go so far, then they pull back on the leash.”

“If I ever catch up with that boy Jeffries,” Frank said, “I’m gonna yank his leash but good.”

“He was just speaking his mind.” If it was Jeffries who wrote it, Alex thought. It had been such a guaranteed provocation.

“Somebody put him up to it,” Frank said. “I’d like to know who.”