Glimmers of Change (68 page)

“I think we should get out of here.”

“It’s too late, Ben,” Matthew snapped, suddenly wishing he could be anywhere but in this building. His gut told him he was standing inside a trap.

“What’s that kid doing?” Ben asked, leaning further forward.

Matthew watched as a white teenage boy moved toward the black crowd. He could hear him yelling taunts and curses. He sucked in his breath when he saw several black men holding sticks threateningly advance toward him. The boy retreated, but only until he reached a pile of bricks being used to construct a house. He grabbed a brick in each hand and turned toward the blacks defiantly, his face twisted with rage. Matthew felt a glimmer of relief when he saw a policeman come up behind the boy and pull him back, but he groaned when he saw several of the black men run up to the pile of bricks and begin throwing them into the white crowd.

“The fools,” Ben muttered. “Don’t they know they can’t last against a crowd of armed white men? They are setting up the rest of the blacks for massacre,” he growled.

Matthew watched in horror as he saw a black man pull a gun and fire.

That one shot was all that was needed to light the fuse of the bomb.

A cluster of blacks surged toward the windows in the hall to stare down on the street below. “Here they come!” one of the men yelled.

The white crowd rushed toward the Institute, firing as they came. The black men standing behind the pile of bricks, armed with pistols, retaliated with shots of their own. Matthew could only see the clash of colors as they met, the gunfire splitting the air. The festive crowd in front of the Institute fell silent. Several women screamed for their children and began to run, dashing through dark alleys that led to a parallel road.

Matthew almost couldn’t believe it when the whites fell back. His throat tightened when he saw three black men lying in pools of blood on the street. The injured white men were carried off by their friends. No one dared attempt to rescue the blacks who had fallen.

As Matthew watched, he saw agitated movement in the white crowd, but for the moment they were staying in place. His gaze turned to the black crowd staring up at the building with frightened faces.

“Why don’t they leave?” Ben muttered.

“They can’t,” a black man answered in a frightened voice. He motioned toward the other end of Dryades where another crowd of armed whites was gathering. “They ain’t got nowhere to go.”

“They can go through the alleys,” Matthew responded, but he knew most of the crowd probably didn’t know about that escape route. He still harbored a grasping hope that somehow this could all end without massive bloodshed. His hopes died when he saw a line of policemen advancing toward the Institute about fifteen minutes later. The alarm system had worked. They had been summoned. It sickened him that he had no confidence the men would simply restore order. He had heard too much. He could tell New Orleans’s
unarmed
police force was heavily armed.

He also acknowledged there were blacks in the crowd who were helping to ignite the fury. If they had held their fire, it’s possible the whole thing could have ended with jeers and taunts. Matthew knew most of the several hundred blacks crowded into the street and clustered in the hall had no desire for violence. They simply wanted to be free. A few hot-headed men had insisted on lighting the fuse. The white policemen were only too willing to let the bomb explode.

He groaned as a shot rang out from the black crowd. Twenty policemen immediately formed a military-style skirmish line, rifles drawn, as they advanced down the streets, their faces filled with a satisfied rage.

More black gunfire broke out as the shooters raced from one doorway to the next in their attempt to avoid the police. In spite of the fact that whites blocked both ends of the street, terrified blacks turned to flee. Many of them managed to race across the Commons, disappearing into alleys and shadows.

“Run!” Matthew whispered. “Run!” They may be heading straight into more trouble, but at least they would have a chance to escape.

Dryades Street was now empty, except for the three black bodies hit by the earlier gunfight. A line of police kept the white crowd back.

“I think they’re going to keep it under control,” Ben crowed.

Matthew, watching the policemen as they spread out and surrounded the Institute, felt his gut tighten into a hard knot. He fought not to believe what he saw in their faces, but everything he had heard came roaring back into his mind. “Get ready, Ben,” he said grimly. “Those policemen are coming for us.” He knew that being white wouldn’t protect them.

“Get back!” Matthew yelled. “Get away from the windows!”

Ben looked at him as if he were crazy. “These are the
police
, Matthew. They are coming in to stop the convention, but surely they are going to protect us.”

Matthew didn’t have time to correct him. He pushed many of the black men away from the window, but one rushed past him, eager to see what was happening below. Moments later a shot rang out, shattering the window just above the man’s head. The man stumbled back, his face a shocked mask.

Cries broke out among the crowd of more than one hundred blacks as more gunfire shattered windows. “What should we do?” one yelled. “We have no means of defense!” another hollered. Prayers and hymns rose from among the terrified chaos.

Cutler, one of the leaders of the convention, leaped up onto the platform and waved his arms. “You blacks must go home! There will only be trouble if you stay!”

Matthew was horrified. Did Cutler not realize he was sending the blacks to their death, or did he just not care? He knew Cutler believed the blacks’ presence would give the police reason to attack the hall. With them gone, he probably believed they would just take the convention leaders into custody. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking about the results of the blacks going out into the streets, but Matthew had a sick certainty that he just didn’t care. Cutler’s focus was on self-protection.

Matthew watched as some of the blacks began to file reluctantly from the hall, their faces full of apprehension and fear as they glanced back. He took up his station by the window again, scanning the road to try and avoid gunfire. He was joined by the black men who had refused to leave. The police had sealed off both ends of Dryades Street and had now blocked the alleyways leading to the parallel road that served as an escape route for the rest of the crowd. When the black convention-goers reached the street, they stopped, staring back up at the building in confusion. They obviously didn’t know what to do.

Moments later, the lines of police and a large crowd of white civilians began to advance toward the Institute, yelling angrily as they pulled their weapons and began to fire.

“No!” Matthew yelled. Gunshots rose from the street like firecrackers as the whites fired into the crowd of unarmed black men. He watched in horror as men fell before the assault, blood darkening the bricked road.

The remaining men, almost all veterans, quickly broke into two groups and began fighting against the white advance. A few had pistols, but most fought back with bricks and stones. Slowly, they gave ground, retreating up the stairs until they were crowded into the vestibule of the Institute. The bullets continued to barrage them.

Matthew could no longer see the men, but he didn’t need to
see
what was happening. He already knew. He continued to watch, refusing to look away even as bullets shattered the windows of the hall. He had tried to stop this, but he had failed. Images of Memphis blurred together with the reality of dead men sprawled on the street below.

“Get away from the window!” Ben gasped, dragging him back through the shattered glass.

Matthew didn’t resist. He knew the battle was coming inside now.

Cutler jumped onto the platform, his arms waving frantically. “Everyone who is not armed come into the railed area,” he yelled. His face took on a greater panic when all but a dozen men moved forward, but he continued to shout orders. “You who are armed stay near the door. The rest of you must come forward and sit down. We are peacefully assembled. Sit down! Do not move.” His voice rang through the hall.

The crowd responded slowly, their faces twisted with shock and anger, but convention leaders moved among them, pleading and directing. Matthew joined his fellow journalists at the table and waited. The large double doors leading into the hall had been left open as evidence that the convention did not intend to resist.

It was only five minutes before three policemen appeared in the doorway, pistols drawn, their eyes flashing dangerously. Seven more men were behind them.

Without a word, the ten policemen moved forward and opened fire on the seated crowd.

Matthew could only stare as blacks slumped to the floor, screaming in pain.

“Don’t shoot!”

“We’ve done no harm!”

“We are peaceable!”

The policemen continued to fire, their faces cold with rage and hatred. Matthew couldn’t look away, knowing with a sick certainty that he was watching the future of his beloved country.

When the police retreated to reload, several of the blacks jumped up, pulled the doors shut, and began to pile chairs in front of them in a futile attempt to stop the attack. Matthew watched numbly, knowing that because the doors opened outward it would be impossible to stop the assault.

Cutler remained on the stage, imploring them to stay calm. “The military will be here soon. They will be here in a few minutes.” His eyes flashed with a desperate hope as his face revealed his horror.

Matthew stared at him, knowing the military was probably just receiving word of trouble. It would be hours before they would arrive. “Don’t count on it,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” Ben asked, his eyes glued to the set of double doors.

“They won’t be here for hours.” That was all Matthew had time to say before the police gathered outside tried to force the doors open again. There was a black man holding on to the handles with all his might, but when it became evident he couldn’t hold them closed, he turned and rushed back to the railing area.

J.D. O’Connell, a former state senator during Union occupation, stepped forward bravely, both hands outstretched, a white handkerchief in one hand to signify surrender. “I implore you men to cease firing,” he called. “These people do not wish to fight, and they have nothing to fight with. Every person in this room is prepared to surrender if the police will protect them.”

Matthew allowed himself a flicker of hope when the police officer and O’Connell shook hands. Would it end with all of them just being arrested? He watched as the former senator helped clear the chairs that were blocking the doors. His hope withered as he saw the cold calculation on the faces of the policemen who filed silently into the hall and formed a solid line across one end of it. He opened his mouth to yell a warning, but he was too late…

“We have them now, boys!” the officer yelled. “Give it to them!”

Once again the policemen opened fire, advancing further into the hall, emptying their revolvers as they came. More black men slumped to the ground, but the onslaught also ignited the decision to fight back. If they couldn’t surrender, they weren’t just going to sit on the ground and be massacred.

One man jumped up and used a heavy stick to club down an officer who had advanced almost to the rail with his pistol. A few of the spectators pulled out their own weapons and returned fire. Many more jumped up, grabbed broken chairs, and rushed toward the officers, their defiant yells filling the hall. The police withdrew quickly, stumbling down the stairs toward the vestibule.

Several members of the convention, still desperate to be saved, followed the police onto the landing. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

The response was almost immediate. An avalanche of bullets poured in through the windows. Matthew covered his head as shards of glass flew through the air. He knew more of the police must have taken up positions at the nearby Medical College to give them the vantage point. Most of the bullets went high and passed through the hall, but men still continued to fall.

Ben crawled over to Matthew, blood streaming from cuts on his face. “The military really isn’t coming?”

Matthew shook his head. “They were told to stay in their barracks. They’re probably on their way here, but it will take them hours to arrive.” He watched as one of the white spectators grabbed the United States flag standing by the platform, tied a white handkerchief to the tip of it and thrust it out through one of the shattered windows. His effort to signal surrender was greeted with another volley of gunshots.