Glimmers of Change (41 page)

Peter and Crandall, standing just outside City Hall, watched as the aldermen spilled out of the building. They had seen the mayor, obviously drunk, stumble inside just as the meeting was about to start twenty minutes earlier.

“They’re leaving already?” Peter asked with surprise. “Certainly they had a lot to talk about since their city is being torn apart by rioters.”

Crandall stepped in front of one of the alderman. “Is there anything you can tell us, sir?”

The alderman’s eyes flashed. “I can tell you our mayor is a drunken idiot,” he snapped. “He tried to form us into a posse.” His eyes narrowed with disgust. “His response to the peril in our city is to lead a little force of city aldermen to South Memphis to deal with the unrest. Imagine!”

“Has there been a request made to General Stoneman?” Peter asked. He knew Stoneman, a prominent cavalry commander during the war, had only taken over as the head of all military personnel a few months earlier in January. His offices on Promenade Street were a long way from the fort. His research had shown Stoneman was determined to protect the freedmen from gross abuse, but the general had little confidence in the blacks’ capacity for productive citizenship, and he was far more critical of the black troops.

“He has declined to help,” the alderman said briefly, his eyes sparkling with disdain.

“Declined to help?” Peter echoed. “How can he do that?” His mind race as he considered the implications of no military assistance.

The alderman sighed. “Our relationship with the army has not been the best. We have told them repeatedly that we are capable of handling our own affairs. Now that we need them, we have been told to prove our ability to do what we say we can do.” He shrugged with frustration. “Even if he was willing to help, the remaining forces under his control consist of only a hundred eighty-five men. They are barely larger than our police department.”

“So what is going to be done to stop the violence?” Peter asked carefully. He chose not to make the observation that it was the Memphis police
causing
the violence. They could hardly be counted on to
stop
it.

The alderman stared at him for a long moment, shook his head, and walked away.

A noise in the distance caught Peter’s attention. “There is more rioting on Beale Street!”

Crandall nodded. “We’ve done all we can do tonight,” he said uneasily. “We should go back to our hotel.”

Peter considered this. He knew Crandall was right, but he shook his head firmly. “I can’t report what we don’t see. I’ll meet you back at the hotel later.” He didn’t say that he was also looking for Robert and Matthew in the madness. He turned and walked toward the sound of gunfire. Crandall heaved a heavy sigh and followed him.

When Peter and Crandall broke out onto Beale Street, they saw pockets of police and white citizens attacking black people whose only crime had been leaving their homes. Peter was sure they were simply unaware of the violence in South Memphis.

“The poor devils,” Peter said between gritted teeth, as he saw one man attempting to flee the mob by running into a grocery store grabbed and beaten viciously before he could escape. The man finally managed to break free and run into the store. Peter hoped he would escape through the back.

Moments later he saw a black man emerge from a building’s basement, carrying a pan. He hurried toward him to warn him of the danger, but before he could get close enough to even holler a warning, he saw a dozen men pounce on him, beating him in the head. The man fought desperately to escape, but a club blow to the head dropped him to his knees. Another blow felled him completely. Peter groaned as the man collapsed into a gutter and lay lifeless.

He watched helplessly as the mob continued to beat him, egged on by a larger crowd of white men and boys who were content to merely watch. “Shoot him!” one of the watchers yelled maniacally.

Peter gaped in horror when one of the policemen pulled out his pistol and fired a bullet into the hapless man at close range. He heard the man groan loudly.

The policeman laughed and turned away. “Let’s go find us another one, boys!”

Peter clenched his fists and began to move forward, jerking to a stop when one of the policemen turned around, walked back, and casually fired another shot into the man’s body, laughing gleefully as the black man emitted another loud groan.

Peter waited several minutes, making sure the crowd wasn’t going to return. He was not going to leave the man in the gutter. He knew he was putting himself in danger, but he was beyond caring. If he couldn’t stop the violence, at least he could do something to help the victims.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Crandall whispered frantically, gazing around wildly into the shadows.

Peter hesitated, wondering if he shouldn’t just go back to his hotel. Surely there was nothing that could be done to save the man lying in the gutter. A sudden movement caught his attention. He tensed himself for another attack, but all he saw was a tiny black woman run to the man’s side. She looked frantically up and down the street and then knelt by the victim, who was obviously her husband. She rested her hand on his chest and leaned close to speak to him before she simply cradled his bloody head in her hands and bowed her head. Sobs shook her shoulders, convulsing her slight frame.

Peter moved forward with determination, hesitating again when he realized he wasn’t alone on the street. Three other white men appeared from the shadows and walked up to where the woman knelt beside her husband.

“We ought to finish off this nigger,” one growled.

The woman froze, not lifting her head to acknowledge them. Peter was sure that at that moment she was wishing they would kill her as well.

“Why waste a bullet?” another of the men said dismissively. “They killed him once. Why kill him again? The nigger women ain’t worth our ammunition. We got other niggers waiting for our bullets.”

Peter gritted his teeth, waited until they were out of range, and then moved forward before someone else appeared. The woman raised her head defiantly when he knelt down beside her. Her young face was twisted with deep anguish. “I am so sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to hurt you or your husband.” He swiveled his head. “We have to get him off the streets.” He scanned the man’s body. “His wounds are severe, but he is still alive. Let’s get him back into your home where he can get treatment.”

The woman stared at him. “Why are you helping me?” she asked faintly.

“Because all white people are not like the idiots tearing Memphis apart tonight,” Peter said kindly. He motioned to Crandall. Crandall ran forward, watching over his shoulder to make sure no more men were headed their direction. Peter knew the mob wouldn’t hesitate to turn on a white man with black sympathies.

Moving quickly, Peter and Crandall lifted the piteously wounded man as carefully as they could and carried him into his basement room. He was unconscious and covered with blood, but he was still breathing. They laid him down gently onto the rough mattress on the floor, noticing that the room, though simply furnished, was scrupulously clean. The smell of baking beans filled the air.

“My Archie was on his way to get some cornmeal for me,” the woman whispered sadly. “I sent him out to his death.”

“You had no way of knowing what was happening,” Peter said firmly. “Can you have someone go for a doctor?” he asked urgently. “He needs immediate care.”

The woman nodded. “My neighbor will go. He can slip out the back.” She stepped forward and gripped Peter’s right hand tightly. “Thank you.”

Peter nodded, his heart catching at the brave courage shining through her grief. “I’m truly sorry this has happened. I tried to warn him, but it was too late.”

The woman nodded. “This trouble done been brewing for a long time. It ain’t nothing we’re not used to. We done hoped it would be different once we was free, but trouble just seems to follow black folks.”

“It will change,” Peter said encouragingly, not sure if he believed his own words. Violence against blacks was only escalating now that freedom had come.

The woman looked at him with eyes both wise and knowing — eyes far too old for such a young face. “Will it? It gonna take a long time for this much hatred to change. I don’t reckon if change ever does come, that it gonna be in
my
lifetime.” She squeezed Peter’s hand and released it. “You’re a good man. Now get out of here. And don’t let nobody see you coming out of our home. There’s still a lot of hatred out there right now. It ain’t all been used up yet.”

Peter nodded and eased out the door, watching carefully from the shadows for many minutes before he and Crandall stepped out into the street and hurried toward their hotel.

Matthew, Robert and Moses followed the other gate guard to an empty barrack where they would stay for the night.

“He isn’t always like that,” the soldier said apologetically, his brown eyes shining sincerely beneath his thick thatch of brown hair. “Private Weathers isn’t a bad man.”

Matthew glanced at him. “Bigoted ignorance is not what we need in our country right now,” he said bluntly. “Especially not from the men who are supposed to be protecting the rights of the freedman. It is inexcusable.”

“You’re right,” the soldier said quickly. “I just wanted you to know he hasn’t always been like that.”

“What changed him?” Moses asked quietly. “Your name is Hopkins?”

“Yes, Larry Hopkins.” He paused, obviously searching for words. “Weathers has some cousins that ran a grocery store in Memphis. They were doing really well until they got robbed one night by some black fellows.”

“Let me guess,” Moses said heavily. “They were from the Third.”

Hopkins nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. The thing is,” he continued, “all the men took was some food…”

“To feed their families,” Moses finished for him, fully aware of how much the soldiers’ families were suffering because they had not been paid. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No,” Hopkins admitted, “but Weathers cousins went out of business shortly after that. They were already struggling but the robbery was the last straw. They closed their doors two weeks later.”

“And Weathers blames the soldiers,” Moses responded.

“Yes. His cousins went bankrupt and had to leave the city. Weathers wanted someone to take the blame.”

“Did he think about blaming the United States government for not paying the soldiers for six months?”

Hopkins met Moses’s eyes squarely. “It’s easier to blame someone you can take it out on.”

Moses nodded, a smile lighting his eyes in spite of everything he was feeling. “You’re a smart man.”

“I joined this fight to help free the slaves,” Hopkins replied. “My parents were some of the first to join the abolition movement. I was like everyone else who thought it would be a short war.” He frowned. “People change after years of death and destruction, Moses. Some think they are lucky to be alive. Others wish they had died along with their friends so that they don’t have to endure what is happening in our country now. Everyone is confused, but there are a lot of soldiers who just can’t make sense out of what is happening right now. They thought the end of the war would be the end of our problems.”

“And you?” Moses asked, watching him closely.

“I’m glad to be alive, but I know things aren’t going to change very fast.”

“What do you think will change it?” Moses asked, suddenly very much wanting to hear from this man with clear, thoughtful eyes.

Hopkins stared at him. “Black men who will step up to be leaders,” he said bluntly. “There aren’t enough of them.” He paused thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to do it if I were black, but I don’t see another way.”