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There is the Jew, the German, Irishman, Bourbon Aristocrat and "poor bocra." The deacon, the minister of the gospel, the thug and murderer. No one looking upon this strangely assorted gathering in a Southern community would for a moment question its significance. Only when politics and the race question are being discussed is such a gathering possible in the South.
The old man straightened up, pointed skyward. "Lowd deliver yunna bocra when yer call befo' de bar. Dese niggers ain't su'prise at po' white trash; dey do enyting. But yunna fus class white fo'ks " "Well, Guy," broke in the Mayor, "it was hard for us to resort to such, but it was in self-defense." "Self-defense! self-defense!" repeated the old man.
Another long finger shake. "Yuna Nigger uman tell um, yuna runnin' yuna tongue in de kitchen, yuna runnin' yer tongue in de street. Now, instid ov de bocra bein' in de street in dey nite gown, yuna gwine ter be thar wid nuttin' on. Don't you no dat we ain't bin able ter by er gun er ounce powder in munts, an' de bocra got cannon an ebry ting. See how he'pliss yer is?
"When po' nigger han bin tie, an' yunna bocra got eberyt'ing gun, cannon an' all de am-nition, an' beside dat, de town full wid strange trash frum all ober de country to crush dem? Some er dese men I sees shootin' an' killin', dars men an' umen livin' er my race dat nussed an' tuk keer er dem w'en dey bin little.
"Well, what are Negroes saying about the uprising, Guy?" The old man shrugged his shoulders, and shook his index finger at the Mayor. "Le' me tell yo', Kurnel, you na Wilmin'ton rich bocra, dun throw yo' number an' los'; hear me? Ef enybody gone tell me dat dese people I bin raise wid, who bin called de bes' bocra in de worl' would go an' kick up all dis ere devil, I'd er tole um No."
To him work was degrading, and only for "niggers" to do. A squatter upon the property of others, his sole belongings consisted of fishing tackle, guns, a house full of children, and a yard full of dogs. In Virginia, North and South Carolina he is known as "Poor Bocra," "Poor Tackie."
Now yuna go home, an' quit so much ta'k. Keep cool fer dese bocra pisen." Uncle Guy walked slowly on and the women dispersed. Those who read the newspaper accounts of that terrible massacre know full well just how true was the prophecy of this old citizen. Doubtless he looks back over it now as a catastrophe beyond his expectations or dreams. The Massacre.
"De ole boy is gwine to tun heself loose in dis yer town soon; fer I see um in de bery eye ob dese bocra. I can't buy um, but see how de bocra go in an git um. Niggah, hit's time ter look er bout," and Uncle Ephraim slowly walked up Front Street towards Morrow's. The Meeting In The Wigwam. Three months have passed since the events narrated in the preceeding chapters.
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