Streets of Fire

EIGHT

Scores of police cars had lined the streets off Fourth Avenue by the time Ben arrived. The black-and-whites of the Birmingham police mingled with the gray-and-blacks from the Highway Patrol and an assortment of vehicles from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. On the closest side streets, paddy wagons and school buses were parked one after another for almost as far as he could see, all of them manned by troopers with automatic carbines and double-barreled shotguns. They stood tensely along the otherwise deserted sidewalks, smoking cigarettes and staring off toward the avenue as if looking for the first dark whirl of a tornado.

On the avenue itself, police blockades had been set up near the entrance to Sixteenth Street, and uniformed patrolmen stood behind them, their legs spread wide apart, their lead-tipped leather truncheons already in their hands. There was no traffic, not a single civilian car, and the sidewalks on either side of the street were entirely deserted. Only a few yards away, Ben could see the Chief dashing here and there, shouting commands, deploying his troops, and generally overseeing the entire operation. His short, stocky frame darted in and out of the sunlight, and wherever he went, his men stiffened suddenly, as if coming to attention. Luther followed close behind him, along with an assortment of officials from the front office, all of them under the solitary protection, or so it seemed to Ben, of Teddy Langley.

‘So you finally made it down here, Ben,’ Charlie Breedlove said as he stepped up beside him.

‘No need to hurry,’ Ben said casually.

‘None at all,’ Breedlove said. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and lit one. ‘You’ve not been on riot detail before, have you?’

Ben shook his head.

‘Why is that, Ben?’

‘I guess they needed somebody to keep watch on other things,’ Ben said.

‘Probably didn’t think they needed you before now,’ Breedlove said. ‘But you know how it is. Things build up. Things get hotter and hotter. It’s been doing that now for a long time.’

Ben nodded.

‘So today they figure to put a stop to it once and for all.’

Ben looked at him. ‘You think they can?’

Breedlove shrugged. ‘Who knows. They got King back with them.’ He shook his head. ‘They should never have let him out of jail.’

Ben glanced back toward the avenue. The dark-gray pavement seemed to bake sullenly under the morning sun. At the far end of the street, up a slight incline, he could see eight or ten motorcycle patrolmen take up their positions several yards beyond the barricades.

Breedlove glanced at his watch. ‘They should be coming over the hill anytime. Harry radioed in that they left the church about fifteen minutes ago.’ He winked gaily. ‘Singing their little song, you know.’ He spat onto the street. ‘But it could be a little different today. Today they just might get themselves “overcome” a little.’

A few yards away, the Chief darted back into the street, his short, fat legs pumping fiercely across the steaming pavement.

‘You know what I think about the Chief?’ Breedlove said as he watched him. ‘I think he’s loving every minute of this.’ He laughed. ‘You know, one of those New York-type reporters came up to him this morning at City Hall, says he wants to ask the Chief a question or two about the situation here.’ He laughed lightly. ‘And you know what the Chief said? He said, “First, I don’t talk to no New York reporters, but I’ll tell you one thing. They’s three things wrong with this country: Communism, Socialism and Journalism.”’ He shook his head happily, relishing the tale. ‘And he was loving it, loving every minute of it.’

Harry Daniels stepped up beside Breedlove, his eyes fixed on the wide gray boulevard.

‘Well, you made it over here pretty fast,’ Breedlove said to him.

Daniels peered down toward the end of the avenue. ‘They’re just over the hill,’ he said. ‘It’s all kids, nothing but kids.’

Breedlove looked at him wonderingly. ‘Nothing but kids?’

‘That’s right,’ Daniels said. He pulled a small pamphlet from his coat pocket. ‘They were handing these things out in all the nigger schools yesterday.’

Breedlove took it from his hands and glared at it. It was a call for the schoolchildren to join the march to City Hall.

‘Don’t that beat all,’ Breedlove said as he handed the pamphlet to Ben.

Ben glanced at it casually, then handed it back.

‘These people,’ Daniels said disgustedly. ‘I tell you, Charlie, they don’t care what they do. They figured we were ready for them this time, and so they decided that they’d just send the kids after us.’ He leaned forward slightly and looked at Ben. ‘I bet you there’s not one of them over eighteen years old, and most of them are a lot younger than that. I’m talking about school kids, fourth- and fifth- and sixth-graders, and such as that.’

Breedlove’s mouth curled downward. ‘Shit.’

Daniels shook his head. ‘King’s one smart nigger. They wouldn’t have a brain without him.’

‘Yeah,’ Breedlove said grimly, ‘they wouldn’t have a thing without him.’ He tossed his cigarette angrily into the street. ‘But I’ll tell you one goddamn thing, Harry. Kid or no kid, I’m going to handle them the same.’ He curled his hand into a fist. ‘I going to give back double whatever I get.’ He glanced at Ben. ‘What about you, Ben?’

‘I’ll do what the Chief said,’ Ben told him. ‘I’ll protect myself.’

Breedlove’s eyes squeezed together slowly. ‘That’s what we all have to do,’ he said, ‘protect ourselves.’ He glanced toward Daniels and smiled. ‘Right, Harry?’

Daniels nodded determinedly. ‘Absolutely.’

For a moment the three of them stood silently together, staring up the avenue and along the small grocery stores, poolhalls and flophouses that lined it on either side. The Chief was now moving toward them with Luther and Teddy Langley racing breathlessly beside him.

He stopped only a few feet away and motioned for a group of troopers to form themselves into a line across the avenue.

‘We’re going to stop them right here,’ he shouted. ‘Now line up! Line up! I want you all to stand shoulder to shoulder!’

The troopers moved out into the street and formed a straight gray line across it. When they had formed their ranks, the Chief paced back and forth in front of them.

‘Now I want you to know that the people of Birmingham are proud to have you here today,’ he said loudly. And ever-body in this city owes a debt to Colonel Lingo for bringing you in to help with this ridiculous situation.’ He smiled gratefully for a moment, then the smile disappeared suddenly, as if a hard wind had blown it from his face. Now I want to make something clear to you gentlemen.’ He pointed to the ground and raked the tip of his shoe across the pavement. ‘This is like the Alamo, gentlemen, and this is the line we are drawing in the dust.’ He paused, and dug his fists into his sides. ‘And don’t you let one Nigra pass it. Not one solitary Nigra.’ He pulled a small green notebook from his jacket pocket. Ben recognized it instantly as the one he’d turned in to Luther. ‘You know what King said to his people at the church?’ he asked. He flipped through the notebook and began to read: ‘“They know how to handle violence, but they don’t know how to handle nonviolence. It confuses them. They don’t know how to deal with it.”’ He closed the notebook and stared angrily at the troopers. ‘Well, bullshit, gentlemen. We know how to handle violence, all right. And by God we know how to handle violence that just looks like nonviolence.’ He pointed to the left where a group of reporters stood clustered together beneath the tattered green awning of a barbecue parlor. ‘Now these marches and demonstrations, they may look like nonviolence to people who don’t know any better,’ he cried, ‘but we know what it really is, and we know how to handle it.’ He returned the notebook to his jacket. ‘Do your duty as God gives you the wisdom to see your duty. And do it with pride, gentlemen, pride in your city, your state, your governor and your God.’ He paused a moment, eyeing each man in the line. ‘Are there any questions?’

Some of the troopers shifted uneasily on their feet, but no one spoke.

‘Very well, then,’ the Chief said. He clicked his heels together, saluted them, and then rushed off” toward the cooler shades of Kelly Ingram Park.

Luther and Teddy Langley remained at the Chief’s side, and from across the street Ben could see them nodding vigorously as he spoke to them, waving his arms right and left, deploying his men up and down the length of the park and sending squads of others out along the steaming brick side streets and parking lots.

‘Old Dynamite Teddy,’ Daniels said. ‘He’s always sucking up to the Chief.’ He looked at Breedlove. ‘You know they almost got him for some schoolhouse bombings in Tennessee.’

Breedlove smiled. ‘Teddy? Is that a fact?’

‘Actually locked him up one time for about an hour or two.’

‘Whereabouts?’ Breedlove asked.

‘Right here in Birmingham.’

‘When was that, Harry?’

‘Back when Big Jim was governor.’

Breedlove scratched his chin. ‘You reckon he’s been doing stuff like that around here lately?’

‘If the Chief wants him to,’ Daniels said without hesitation. ‘He’ll do anything the Chief says, that’s for sure.’

Ben’s eyes drifted over toward the park. Several squads of troopers were marching double-time across the southern end of the park, their feet kicking up a low, grayish-brown dust. Beyond them he could see a convoy of school buses as it nosed its way up the length of the far end of the park. The Chief’s white tank headed the procession, as if clearing away enemy positions.

Suddenly the Chief was in the street again, yelling through an electric megaphone. ‘Get ready now, gentlemen,’ he cried. ‘Here they come!’

Almost at that instant a line of marchers crested the hill at the end of the avenue and then proceeded slowly down the street. Their placards flapped loudly in the summer wind, snapping in the air like distant gunshots.

‘Take up your positions,’ the Chief shouted.

Another line of troopers moved in front of the first, while others marched forward in ragged flanks, their once-straight lines now breaking awkwardly around police cars, trees, telephone poles, until their ranks finally dissolved entirely into a jaggedly moving chaos of gray uniforms and gently waving nightsticks.

‘You there, up ahead!’ the Chief screamed. ‘You will not be permitted to continue this march.’

The single line of marchers continued forward at their same languid pace, flowing slowly, like a dark syrup, over the hill and down the avenue.

‘I repeat,’ the Chief yelled. ‘You will not be permitted to continue this march. You will not be permitted to reach City Hall.’ His voice, high and metallic, echoed from the surrounding buildings and rebounded into the shadowy park. ‘You will not he permitted to continue this march. Do you understand? Turn around. Turn back.’

But the marchers continued forward, some silently, some singing and clapping their hands. The breeze billowed out their skirts and blouses and rippled through the torn cloth awnings which stretched out toward the avenue.

‘Halt!’ the Chief screamed now at the top of his voice.

But the marchers moved onward, their long dark line lengthening steadily as one pair after another crested the gently rounded hill.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Luther breathed softly as he stepped up behind Ben. ‘What are we going to do about this?’

‘We’ve all got our orders,’ Breedlove replied crisply.

Daniels nodded. ‘That’s right. Let’s go.’

Ben felt himself swept forward with them as they moved in between the two lines of troopers. He could now see the faces of the first marchers, two young women in light-blue skirts and white blouses, their eyes staring straight ahead, their faces utterly expressionless.

The Chief retreated before them, now silent, sullen, walking backward slowly as he motioned the troopers forward.

Then he abruptly wheeled around. ‘You are under arrest,’ he shouted as he stepped briskly out of their line of march and strode angrily back into the park, where he stopped, let the megaphone drop from his hand, folded his arms over his chest and waited.

The first line of troopers stiffened as the first wave of marchers approached it. Some of them began slapping their nightsticks into their hands, while others shifted uneasily from one foot to the next, as if preparing themselves to receive a burst of violent wind.

Ben stood near the middle of the street, while Breedlove and Daniels took up positions at the far end of the line. Luther lingered near Ben for a moment, then moved to the left where he stood beside T. G. Hollis, his thumbs in his belt, his eyes fixed on the line of march.

At the instant the first marchers reached the line, the troopers stepped forward, took them one by one by the arms and began rushing them double-time toward the paddy wagons and school buses which crowded the side streets and stretched out along the edges of the park. A great roar rose from the line of march as more and more of them were pushed and pulled forward, the troopers tugging wildly at their arms or shoving them along with the ends of their nightsticks.

Ben stepped forward and looked helplessly toward the hill. The last of the marchers had crested it, and behind them there was nothing but the flat gray of the street. He could feel a terrible relief sweep over him at the knowledge that it would soon be over, and he allowed himself to relax a little, simply to stand and watch as the last of the demonstrators were hustled into the waiting vans and school buses. To his right, he could sec Breedlove and Daniels as they pushed and pulled at a skinny young girl. A few yards beyond them, Teddy Langley was shoving a tall, lanky boy, poking his nightstick into his kidneys to move him along.

Ben flinched away, stepped back slightly and watched as the last of the line was broken by the troopers and hauled roughly across the park. He could hear the tumult in the distance as the marchers were tossed into the paddy wagons or shoved, half-stumbling, through the rubber-lined doors of the school buses. The air around him filled with the grinding engines of the vans and buses as they began to pull away, weaving slowly left and right, as if trying to throw off an intolerable burden. Everywhere, the troopers were laughing and joking as they gathered together in small gray knots. The Chief strode proudly among them, shaking their hands or slapping them affectionately on the back. In the background, the sounds of the engines and their accompanying sirens died away, and a sudden quietness drifted down over the park and the avenue, one that was broken only by the occasional clatter of a police radio or some muffled shout which seemed to come from far away.

‘Well, looks like we did it,’ Breedlove said as he trudged across the street toward him.

Daniels walked along at his side, both men smiling broadly.

Breedloves eyes shot up toward the hill. ‘Kids or no kids, we kicked their ass.’

Daniels laughed happily. ‘Maybe we outsmarted them, Ben. What do you think?’

Ben did not answer. Instead, he turned back toward the deserted hill and casually lit a cigarette. The smoke billowed up before him in a thick white cloud. He raised his hand and batted at it, clearing away the air. The white haze tore apart instantly, and as it did so, he saw two figures move slowly over the hill, very young, holding hands, and behind them two more a little older, and behind them, two more, perhaps the same age, and then two more and two more and two more.

He snapped the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it on the street. He could hear the general talk and laughter of the troopers die away slowly, as one by one their attention was drawn toward the hill.

‘Form ranks!’ the Chief shouted.

Daniels and Breedlove whirled around.

Breedlove’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’

‘They’re trying it again,’ Daniels said, his eyes now fixed on the line of march.

Once again, the troopers formed themselves into two straight lines across the avenue.

The Chief marched out in front of them, lifted his megaphone, then stopped and slowly lowered it. He turned back toward the troopers and grinned. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘They don’t know English, anyway.’

The second wave hit only a few minutes later, and the troopers pulled and shoved them across the park and down the side streets. The sounds of near and distant sirens mingled with the shouts of the troopers, the singing of the marchers, the heavy wheeze of the engines as they started up again, pulled away, then returned again and again for yet another load.

For a time Ben simply stood, frozen in place, and watched the swirling tumult around him. Sirens now wailed continually, and beneath them, like the murmur of a drum, the steady beat of the troopers’ boots as one line after another rushed forward into the unending stream of children.

Then, suddenly, Luther was in his face, screaming wildly. ‘What the hell are you doing!’ His flabby jaws shook with rage and frustration. ‘Get going, goddammit!’ Then he raced away, almost falling over a small boy before he stopped himself, took the boy’s shoulder in his large beefy hand and pushed him into the park.

Ben moved toward the thinning ranks of troopers, his eyes desperately scanning the line of marchers. He saw a tall, slender boy of about nine years old, walked over to him, dug his fingers into the soft flesh of his shoulder and tugged him toward the park.

The boy moved forward without protest, clapping his hands and singing as he walked, his eyes straight ahead. At the school bus he turned, glanced at Ben, as if to record his face, then walked up the short steps and headed toward the rear of the bus.

Ben returned immediately to the line of march, took another child, this time a teenage girl, and began walking her toward the bus. All around them, the troopers were driving other demonstrators forward at a breakneck pace, pushing and shoving, until they often fell together, demonstrators and exhausted troopers lying in a tangled mass in the swirling dust of the park. The noise of the melee built steadily as the arrests continued, so that the orders of the commanders could barely be heard above the sirens, the engines, the cries of the demonstrators and troopers.

A third wave followed the second by only a few minutes, and the troopers formed ranks again, sweat now streaming down their faces, their uniforms wet beneath their arms and down their backs. The cries of the children rocked through the air, high and wailing, as the troopers stumbled forward, falling upon the demonstrators with a steadily building fury.

Ben seized a teenage boy in one hand and a teenage girl in the other and led them briskly through the park. He could feel his shirt wet against his back and chest, and the dust which now tumbled in thick, suffocating clouds burned his eyes and choked his throat. He could feel his fingers growing numb at their tips, and his legs now seemed to drag behind him like heavy weights rather than propel him forward. But still he trudged back and forth from the line of inarch to the buses, back and forth from the street to the paddy wagons, and after a time he seemed to be moving will-lessly, as if his body were no longer a part of him, but something different, distant and estranged, so that it required nothing to perform the incessantly repeated actions which it had learned during the long pull of the afternoon, learned as the sun mounted toward noon then fell toward evening. And hour followed hour as he took them, large and small, hostile or compliant, took them with whatever force their resistance required, tugged them along or pushed them forcefully, stood in the sweltering air until he knew they were securely in the buses or paddy wagons, and then returned, again and again, until at last there were no more, and he walked out into the torn and battle-weary park, into the still blue air of the evening, and pressed his back against a tree and let his legs give way beneath him, so that he slumped down onto the ground and let his face drop slowly into his open hands.