Free The Scribe by Matthew Guinn Page B

work of watching four nights now, paired silent as creepers for most of it, in the shadows of Negro Atlanta’s most prosperous quarters—haunting its saloons and dry goods stores, cobblers, outfitters, smitheries, milliners. In that span of time Canby had been vouchsafed by Underwood throughout what the men on the force probably still called Darktown, past quizzical stares and terse exchanges and into back rooms and alleys—had in fact dined several times with the younger man, watching in bemused silence as Underwood bent his head in prayer before each meal of collards or fatback pork.
    For most of the time Canby had been the only white man in sight. And the killings had, for the moment at least, ceased.
    They sat now dry under the eaves of Atlanta University’s South Hall, watching as the university’s chaplain—also a lesser bishop of Atlanta’s First African Methodist Episcopal Church—bolted the front door of his campus parsonage andsnuffed the lights of its lower story in preparation for bed. The day before, the chaplain had been featured on the second page of the Constitution , quoted in one of Henry Grady’s newfangled “interviews” as he voiced his support for the I.C.E. and urged Atlanta’s Negro population to swell its attendance numbers. He had spent most of this evening, however, behind a locked door at Mamie O’Donnell’s bordello in the company of a mulatto girl called Misty. Now, with the chaplain presumably ascending the stairs to join his sleeping wife, Canby and Underwood crouched under their eave, each shaking his head almost in time with the dripping rain.
    â€œI thought surely our man would show himself tonight,” Canby said. He glanced at his pocket watch and noted ruefully that the hour had slipped past midnight.
    â€œAin’t right,” Underwood muttered for perhaps the dozenth time in the past few hours. “Not for a preacher.”
    â€œWhat do you know of preachers and their private hours?”
    â€œEnough to know they ain’t supposed to lie with whores,” Underwood said quickly, then added, “sir.”
    Canby tried to gauge the level of anger in Underwood’s voice, the intensity of his disdain—whether it was of a measure with the controlled fury that had been loosed in Alonzo Lewis’s shop or L. J. Dempsey’s office. If it held any of the sadistic rage he had seen vented in Mamie O’Donnell’s rooms the last week. He could not be sure. Casually, Canby said, “‘For some are false apostles, deceitful workers masquerading as apostles of Christ.’”
    Underwood stared at Canby as though the cistern beside him had spoken. After a moment he said, “‘Yet no wonder, for even Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.’”
    â€œThe words of Saint Paul himself.”
    â€œYes,” Underwood said. “Corinthians. Didn’t take you for a religious man, Mister Canby.”
    â€œI’m not. I think of Paul as a holy fool. But my father did not. And so we read the epistles together. And both testaments, old and new. He was a minister. Methodist, in fact.”
    â€œDidn’t mean no offense by what I said . . .”
    â€œNone taken. My father was a good man.”
    â€œBut you didn’t cotton to his faith.”
    â€œHis faith did not save him.” He looked at Underwood, saw the intensity with which the black man was looking at him. “Underwood, you believe what you like. It’s not my place to tell you otherwise. But I saw no angels in the war, no devils, either. I think it’s a bygone way of looking at the world, reading signs and portents all around. For me, this,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the ground beneath him, “is enough.”
    â€œYou lost your faith.”
    Canby looked out over the campus as the rain redoubled its intensity. The creek behind the privies and the stables was beginning to flow