Glimmers of Change (39 page)

Moses looked around for an escape route as some of the soldiers grabbed Nelson and held him back. He saw the anger in the policemen’s eyes fade into fear as they recognized how vastly outnumbered they were. They began to back up and retreat down the road.

Moses remained where he was, watching as a few of the soldiers followed on their heels. The rest of the soldiers followed but stayed back further. He groaned as one of them rushed forward and shoved one of the policeman, but the policemen, evidently realizing they couldn’t win against such a large group, kept moving.

“Stone them!” one soldier hollered.

“Let me at them with my club!” another yelled.

Moses watched helplessly, knowing he could do nothing to stop whatever was going to happen. Even if they had been his own men from his old unit, and he had the ability to command them, they were too drunk to listen to reason.

When the four policemen reached the bayou bridge, Moses began to relax a little, hoping the incident would end with yelling and shoving. He stiffened when he saw one of the soldiers in the rear of the group pull out a pistol and fire it into the air.

The one shot prompted other soldiers to pull out their pistols and fire into the air.

As Moses watched, the policemen, certain they were being fired on, stopped abruptly, pulling their pistols as they turned. He bit back an oath as they leveled their pistols and began to fire.

“They’re firing at us!” a soldier hollered, lowering his pistol and aiming at the policemen. Within moments, twenty of the soldiers were firing at the Irish officers, cursing as they surged forward.

One of the policemen crumpled under the fire.

The shooting stopped quickly. As the whitish powder smoke began to dissipate, Moses could see two of the policemen fleeing up South Street, turning onto Causey, and continuing northward. He was quite certain they were headed to the police station downtown to gather reinforcements. A few of the soldiers ran after them, but most of them, sobered by what had happened, stayed where they were.

Only one of the policemen had stayed with the downed officer. Moses couldn’t help but feel admiration for the man who had not run. He could tell by the amount of blood that the wounded officer was badly hurt. The one who had stayed with him looked around frantically for help. No one made a move to help them, but neither did the soldiers seem to have any intention of hurting them.

Moses gazed at the walls of the fort longingly and then moved toward the bridge. He knew his size would make him seem menacing. The policeman watched him approach, his eyes narrow with both anger and fear. “Let me help you get him off the bridge,” Moses called as soon as he was close enough to be heard.

The policeman stared at him suspiciously but didn’t move to draw his gun.

Another black man who had been watching from the sidewalk stepped forward. “Let’s get him into the grocery store until the doctor can be called.”

Moses stepped forward. “I’m sorry this happened. At least let us help him now.”

The policeman finally nodded, relief mixing with his anger and fear.

Moses and the bystander stepped forward and lifted the wounded policeman. Moses winced when he saw bone protruding from the hole in his pants. The bullet had shattered his thighbone. “You have to get him help quickly,” he snapped. “You have to stop the bleeding.”

“Just get him into the grocery store,” the policeman growled, his eyes widening with new fear as a crowd of black soldiers re-emerged from the street.

Moses helped lay the man down carefully and then left quickly. His thoughts were churning. Years of pent up emotion and hatred had reached the boiling point in Memphis. He had done what he could to help. Now all he wanted to do was return to the relative safety of the fort. He thought briefly of trying to locate Robert and Matthew, but he instinctively knew it was not safe for any black man to be on the streets.

He had just started toward the fort when more of the soldiers who had followed the policemen came running around the corner.

“We done killed us a policeman!” one hollered, brandishing a police billy club covered with blood. A few howled their approval, but most of the soldiers exchanged uneasy looks.

Roy appeared at Moses’s side. “We got to get out of here,” he said urgently.

Moses nodded grimly. “We’ve got to get back to the fort,” he said urgently. “The police will be back with reinforcements. It’s going to get bad.”

Roy nodded, waving his arm and yelling. “Everyone get out of here! Head back to the fort!”

Moses was relieved when he saw one of the unit’s former officers, Lieutenant B.F. Baker, appear and start calling out orders. “Everyone back to the fort,” Baker called. A few of the men ignored him, but most followed him to the front gate of Fort Pickering.

Moses took his first easy breath when they were behind the closed gates, but he knew it was just a matter of time before violence exploded again. The police were certain to retaliate now that one of their own had been killed. Many of the soldiers from the Third were still in the streets. His gut told him they would catch the worst of it, but he knew it would be nothing but foolishness to venture out again.

He hurried to the top of the fort walls. Soon the walls were lined with soldiers peering over to watch the action in the streets below.

Matthew, Robert, Peter and Crandall were eating an early dinner about five o’clock when they saw a crush of people moving down the street toward South Memphis. They knew from the angry expressions that something bad had happened. Exchanging anxious looks, they pushed back from the table, and rushed out of the restaurant.

Robert grabbed the arm of one passerby. “What has happened?”

“The niggers are rioting,” the man sputtered, his eyes wild with anger.

“They shot down a policeman,” another man offered as he moved with the crowd. “The policemen have sworn revenge. They are going to shoot down the damned niggers!” His eyes glittered with satisfaction. “It’s about time something was done. The police aren’t going on their own. We’re going to help them!”

Robert and the other men remained on the sidewalk, watching with dismay as the crowd grew to hundreds of white people. With what he could tell from appearances and accents, all of them appeared to be working-class Irish. And all of them seemed to have guns.

“It’s beginning,” Matthew said grimly.

Robert nodded. “Moses is down there.” His stomach clenched at the thought of something happening to him. The man who had once saved his life and had since become his good friend, was about to be in grave danger. He shook his head. “We should have left yesterday like we planned in the beginning.”

Matthew sighed regretfully. “I’m afraid you’re right. I wish I hadn’t agreed to Eaton’s request to stay longer.”

“We all agreed to it,” Robert said quickly. “No one is to blame.” He turned stared in the direction of the fort. “We can’t leave Moses down there on his own,” he said grimly.

“This crowd is waiting for the police to lead them,” Matthew said urgently, his eyes scanning the street. “Perhaps we can get there first and find Moses.”

Peter nodded. “Go,” he said urgently. “Crandall and I will find Eaton. If anyone will know the truth of what is going on, it will be him. We’ll connect at our hotel later. I’m sure Eaton won’t return home tonight, so you might as well stay with us.”

Robert turned and started running. He felt Matthew fall in beside him as they dodged wagons and traffic, intent on making it to South Memphis before the bloodthirsty crowd did. When they turned onto Causey Street, they encountered another large crowd of police and white citizens surging south.

“That’s Chief Garrett,” Matthew gasped. “Perhaps he can maintain control.”

It took Robert only moments of watching the crowd to realize they were looking at anything but a cohesive, disciplined force. He shook his head, forcing himself to run faster. “They’re in no mood to take orders,” he snapped. “They are out of control.”

Suddenly he saw two black men heading toward them, lunch pails swinging in their hands, obviously coming home from work. Robert opened his mouth to yell a warning, but it was too late. Several of the police rushed toward the men who were staring back at them with wide, frightened eyes. The men turned to run, but the crowd fell on them like wild dogs. They attacked them with their billy clubs and pistols, clubbing them until both men fell on the street.

“Kill every nigger,” one of the policemen shouted. “No matter who — man or woman!”

Robert watched the violence grimly. “We should help them,” he muttered, feeling sick at the sight of the men’s battered faces.

Matthew grabbed his arm firmly. “Help will come. We have to reach Moses. This has just turned from an angry crowd into a homicidal mob. There will be no stopping them now.”

Robert took a deep breath and started running again. It was to their benefit that the crowd assumed they were part of them. Now he could only hope they would outrun them. He groaned when many of the men in the mob pulled out pistols and began firing bullets in every direction, but he kept running. “Do what I do,” he hollered back to Matthew, dodging and feinting as he moved down the street, hampered by the mud, but managing to stay at the front of the crowd. He pushed back terrifying flashes of the battlefield, focusing on the need to reach Moses.

Robert slowed and looked around wildly as the mob approached the intersection of South Street and Rayburn. The area was crowded with black people merely going about their business. Surely they had heard the guns. Why were they calmly moving down the street? He watched the expressions on their faces melt into fear and confusion when the firing resumed. Every black person in sight turned and began to run down Rayburn, many of them heading across the eastern branch of the bayou. “Run!” he whispered urgently. He turned to Matthew. “What is the fastest way to the fort? I’m hoping Moses expected trouble and has gone there.”

Just as Matthew pointed west down South Street, Robert saw a man burst from the grocery store on the southwest corner of the intersection. “Isn’t that the man you interviewed a couple days ago?” he asked.

Matthew nodded. “John Pendergrast. He’s the Irishman who owns that grocery store. He’s looking for trouble,” he added grimly. “He told me he’s been prepared for trouble ever since some blacks tried to burgle his store. He ran them off, but now that there is a mob, he will be dangerous. He’s been looking for payback for months.”

Robert turned to run toward the fort, but something held him in place. He watched as Pendergrast followed the crowd of rioters and the blacks who were fleeing. The grocer advanced on a man running about twenty feet in front of the rest of the mob, almost directly across from where Robert and Matthew were standing. Pendergrast raised his pistol, aimed, and shot the fleeing man in the back of his head. Robert groaned as the man pitched face forward into the street.

Pendergrast rushed forward with a triumphant expression, grabbed his victim’s arm, and rolled him over. “Blast it!” he muttered. “I am sorry I shot this man. I thought he was a no-good nigger man.”

“Idiot!” Matthew exclaimed. “He just shot Henry Dunn. He’s a fireman. I met him when I went by one of the fire stations with Eaton.”

Pendergrast looked up wildly. “Them niggers will pay for this,” he growled.

Robert stood frozen in place as he watched Pendergrast run toward the bayou, advancing on a short black man in army uniform. Evidently the grocer had decided more violence was the way to atone for his murderous mistake.