At some time on a Wednesday morning a time bomb was set in the church. It exploded at two in the afternoon, during a wedding rehearsal. The bridegroom-to-be was killed; blood came from his body in crimson, radiant spurts. The minister was injured slightly. The bride was physically unhurt, although she had fainted from shock at the roar of the explosion and the sight of her fiancé killed in such a fashion before her eyes, and it was assumed at first that she too was dead. When she was taken to the hospital, she could not speak for twelve hours, but later she was all right—or as all right as anyone could be after such an experience.
Although it was a Negro church, the town was in an uproar. Newspaper and television photographers and reporters suddenly appeared, though none of them had ever heard of the town of Hilton before. Immediately the eldermen of the church and other responsible civic leaders, both Negro and white, decided on a protest march, to start in Hilton and go to the state capitol in Atlanta, a hundred miles away.
That summer Jim Gray, of Stillwater, a hamlet two miles from Hilton, had thought much of marches, sit-ins, lock-ins, and he was just waiting for an opportunity to participate in any civil rights demonstration. He saw the ruined church on the eleven-o’clock television news and decided to wait no longer. It was announced that the march would start the next morning. Therefore, on that morning the family in the small Southern town of Stillwater ate an early, helter-skelter breakfast because James Gray, the seventeen-year-old son of the family, was going to march. The well-to-do white family was facing a time of confusion, acrimony and discord about civil rights, and now James, at the center of this confusion and turmoil, was leaving for the unknown. The swirl of words—“equal rights for Negroes,” “voter registration,” “desegregation” and even that ugly word “miscegenation”—was muted now that the hour had come.
The Grays’ home was a comfortable Victorian house that had belonged to the family for about a century. There were last-minute instructions and counterinstructions. Couldn’t James drop in and visit his old aunt Helen who lived in Winton, practically right next door to Atlanta? She was so devoted to him, and had told everyone that he was her sole heir.
“No,” James said firmly. “No visits to any relatives.” He added proudly, “I am acting as part of a body.”
His father said, “As a rule, I don’t believe in civil rights, as you know, Jim. But after this atrocity . . . Even though it was a colored church, it was property, and property is the foundation of America. I just wish to hell there weren’t such a risk in all these marches.”
The grandfather said, “In all of history, when people have been dissatisfied they’ve gone to the streets. Look at the American Revolution, the French Revolution, the Russian Revolution . . .”
But even as he spoke the elder James took his son’s hand and grasped it hard—desperately hard. “Good luck, Jim. My Jimmy boy.”
Kathleen Gray heard his words gratefully, for in the last few months the relationship between father and son had gone unhappily awry. Lately they had been calling each other, rather stiffly, “James” and “Father.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be all right.” He added to them all, “Don’t you folks worry.”
The grandfather, who usually had his meals in bed, was sharing the family breakfast that morning—although he had not even touched his baked apple, which he usually enjoyed. Erect and stiff with pain and anxiety, he spoke in the high, thin voice of an old man of eighty-seven years.
“But you remember this, James Gray—if anything happens to you on that march, it will be a grief your parents will never, never recover from, let alone me. These marches are always dangerous. Remember that, Jim. That’s all I can say.”
“I know, Grandpa.” Jim got up from the table. “Really, I’ve got to go.”
His sister Caroline handed a knapsack to him. Harassed and hurried, he asked impatiently, “What’s this?”
“Just a lunch and some things that might come in handy.”
“Take it,” his mother said. “Caroline has already packed it and I’m sure everything in it is practical. There’s your sleeping bag too,” she added.
Hurry, hurry—rush, rush. His heart vaulted in his chest. Then finally, finally, after farewell hugs, he ran from the house to get the seven-o’clock bus that would take him to Hilton. With a jump in his heart, he felt it might even take him to glory.
Once in the bus everything seemed queer—ordinary, but somehow queer. He couldn’t spot a soul who looked like a Freedom Marcher. He went to the back seat of the bus and put his knapsack beside him. For some reason he’d expected something marvelous to happen as soon as he left home, but here were just ordinary people on an ordinary bus. Nobody had the glamour and dusty bravery of a Freedom Marcher.
The day was cloudless, and the air that came through the open bus windows was fresh and pure. At the next stop a young colored boy (quickly Jim’s thoughts corrected those damned Uncle Tom words to “Negro”) about Jim’s own age entered, and stumbling with the sway of the bus, looked carefully at every passenger until he lurched his way to the place next to Jim. He stumbled over Jim as the bus swayed, but did not ask his pardon. He just sat there, stiff and apart, with a paper sack in his lap. He stared openly at Jim, and at the knapsack at Jim’s side.
“You goin’ far?” he finally asked.
Jim answered shortly, “Yep.”
They looked at each other. Jim Gray was tall for his age. His hair was blond. In the past he had suffered because his nose was turned up—although he had not thought about his looks for several months. He had deep gray eyes and he was very clean. He was dressed as he imagined Freedom Marchers would be dressed—in blue jeans, plaid shirt, sneakers and white sweat socks.
The other boy was very dark, with freshly shaved hair and a look of pride and eagerness in his eyes—but a look of fear also. He too was dressed in jeans and a clean shirt, and he had a fresh handkerchief that flowed from his pocket.
“I goin’ a long way too. I goin’ to Atlanta.”
Jim couldn’t help but say, “So am I.”
The other boy was opening his paper bag, and Jim saw in it a loblolly of cornpone and fatback squashed together. The boy took it out and gobbled it. Then he turned to Jim’s knapsack and poked it.
“What’s in this here?”
“Dunno. Haven’t opened it.”
“Le’s open it.”
“At my convenience,” Jim said.
But already the boy had his hands on it and was opening it.
“Why, you so-and-so!” Jim said. “That’s mine.”
“Go on and open it, then,” the boy said.
Feeling he was acting against his principles, Jim opened the knapsack and saw, among other things, a lunch, toothbrush and tooth paste and several letters.
Letters! he thought. What the hell.
The letters were addressed to his mother at Stillwater; curious, he opened the top one. It was a note that said, “Dearest Jim, I know you can’t write on the march, but just send me a fern or leaf or anything you see along the road so that I’ll know you are all right. It may sound silly of me, but I do want to hear from you—so just send little signs on your way and mail them whenever you can. Your devoted Mother.” All the other envelopes were addressed to her and ready to mail.
Jim’s sleeping bag caught the other boy’s attention.
“What’s that?”
Jim told him.
The boy kept poking at it.
“Foam rubber,” Jim said.
“Come in handy, sleeping on the ground.”
“You ever slept on the ground?” Jim asked, and suddenly he had a dreadful premonition.
“No, but I goin’ to. I a Freedom Marcher.”
It was a shock to Jim. This nosy, pushy, greedy kid a Freedom Marcher? But he said politely, “I am too. Shake.” They shook hands.
“My name’s Jim Gray.”
“I Odum Wilson. How many sleep in that bag?”
“One,” said Jim, very loudly and firm
ly.
After a moment Odum said, “I thirsty. Where’s the water on this bus?”
“Go to the bus driver and tell him to let you off at the next gas station.”
“Him? I ain’t speakin’ to him.”
Jim pushed him toward the front of the bus and told the driver to let Odum off. While they waited for him, Jim sat down in a front seat, and when Odum reappeared he sat next to Jim.
The bus driver turned and said, “Niggers to the rear.”
“I ain’t no nigger—I a Freedom Marcher.”
“One word from you and I’ll put you off this bus.”
Jim said, “Haven’t you heard about the Federal law? Negroes can ride in any seat in any public conveyance.”
“There ain’t no such law down here. I’ll put you both off.”
“And you’ll be fired,” said Jim.
He had never quarreled before with a public official, and his voice quavered a little, but he was proud of himself.
Odum looked at him with new respect.
“We’re within our rights,” Jim said to the driver, “and we’re going to sit up front here whether you like it or not.”
“You won’t be there long,” the driver said. “We get to Hilton in ten minutes.”
Jim said only, “Let us out at the First Baptist Zion Church.”
When the bus stopped at the church, Jim eagerly scanned the little crowd gathered there. Each person seemed to him a beloved person just because he was there. These were the Freedom Marchers!
There was Miss Rosa Culpepper, his English teacher at the senior high school, who was fond of saying she “took the bull by the horns!” A town character, Miss Rosa often puzzled the students by assigning compositions on anything they wanted to write about.
“Anything?” they would ask.
“Yes, any doggone thing. Excuse my language.”
Miss Rosa had lived with Miss Minerva Wilcox for many years. Miss Minerva was the advanced-arithmetic teacher, and they had shared an apartment famous for its handsome antique furniture from both their families. Miss Minerva was plagued with migraine headaches, and finally Miss Rosa had suggested that she go to a psychiatrist in Atlanta. This had hurt Miss Minerva’s feelings deeply; she felt that her friend not only was minimizing the reality of her headaches, but also thought she was somehow queer.
“A psychiatrist, indeed!”
Minerva had moved out abruptly, taking with her all her own furniture.
In a glow of fellowship, Jim mingled with the gathered marchers. They all greeted one another with special warmth, although most of them were unknown to each other. Then Jim saw Janet Batson, Miss Rosa Culpepper’s niece. He and Janet had been school friends since eighth grade, but then, with a quiet wonder, Jim had fallen in love with Janet this past winter. For a long time she had pretended not to notice, but lately she seemed to be returning his glances.
It was not until Jim had scanned all the people that he looked at the bombed church.
The blood of the slain bridegroom had been scrubbed away. Even at this hour a woman was cleaning the littered inside of the church. All the windows had been shattered; a stained-glass window of Jesus with the crown of thorns on His head had been smashed from the waist down. The window had been the pride and joy of the First Baptist Zion Church.
At eight o’clock the church bell sounded with a somber resonance, and the March began. The marchers walked four abreast toward the main street of Hilton, which was part of Route 15 to Atlanta.
The Reverend George Thompson, pastor of the Episcopal church, the Reverend Berrel Miller, pastor of the bombed church, Dr. Harry Farrell, one of the town’s physicians, and Miss Rosa Culpepper marched together at the head. The others fell in behind.
Jim marched beside Janet. On his other side, very closely next to him, was Odum Wilson. They were in the second line of marchers, and Jim asked, “How many miles are we expected to cover a day?”
“ ’Round thirty-five,” Miss Rosa said, but the Reverend Mr. Miller said, “Twenty at the most, ma’am, I figure.”
They were marching for the same cause, of course, but each marcher had come to it in his own way. Behind him, Jim heard a girl’s voice asking Odum, “How you get away?”
“My Maw whupped me, but I here.”
Janet’s family had raised a great to-do. She told Jim some of the details. It was, of course, Miss Rosa’s doing that she was here. Miss Rosa had said that it would be a wholesome and democratic experience for Janet, who had, to her mind, always been too sheltered.
“Besides,” Miss Rosa had added, “it’s something Christ would thoroughly approve of.”
Fred Batson, Janet’s father, took up the collection every Sunday at the Episcopal church, but he was unimpressed. More than that, he was annoyed by Aunt Rosa’s words.
Miss Rosa had added reassuringly, “I’ll be there, Mr. Thompson will be there, as well as other ministers and pillars of the church. She’ll be thoroughly chaperoned.”
Fred Batson had burst forth, “By Negro bucks!”
“Better than any date she has in your own parlor! Besides, I’m sure Jim Gray will be there, and certainly he would let nothing happen to her.”
Aunt Rosa was held in awe by all the members of the family—and particularly by Janet’s mother, who was still a little bit afraid of her sister—and hence she usually made the decisions in the family. Besides this, she was rich. She had invested a small legacy wisely, and it was Aunt Rosa who took Janet to Atlanta twice a year on a clothes-buying expedition and Aunt Rosa who had offered to send her to college next year. All these things, together with Janet’s own pleading, had won Janet permission to go.
The first hour was one of release and joy. But after two hours the sun beat down and seemed to burn into their skulls. They all were tired and their feet were hurting by the time Mr. Thompson said, “We’ll take a rest now.”
They sat under a leafy oak tree and began to eat their lunches—all except Odum, who had eaten his on the bus. But seeing him standing around looking so hungry, the other marchers gave him some of their own lunches, thinking, What a nuisance!
They had stopped beside a brook, and after some discussion about whether the water was fit to drink, they all drank from it. Then the boys went farther down the brook, took off their clothes and plunged into the cool water. The girls waded and dunked their heads.
Refreshed, the marchers began to walk again.
They felt the heat of the sun even more in the broiling afternoon. They seldom looked around at the countryside, although the woods beside the road were beautiful with the multicolored greens of summer. They looked neither to the left nor to the right—just straight ahead, marching, marching, each thinking his own thoughts to the monotonous sound of tramping feet.
Miss Rosa was thinking of Minerva Wilcox, her friend of so many years, whom now she could not understand.
Jim was wondering about his choice of profession—he wanted to be either a doctor or a lawyer. Both would take such a long, long time. Would Janet wait? Thoughts of other boys in the senior class gnawed at him. He looked at Janet’s profile and her determined face. He wanted to say something tender to her, something unforgettable and infinitely dear. But there, with the marchers around, he could only ask anxiously, “Sure you got enough sunburn lotion on?”
She looked at him and said in a low voice, “What about you, honey?”
Her voice sang like music to him.
Imperceptibly they had been going downhill.
“Jim Gray!” Miss Rosa bawled. “Aren’t you an Eagle Scout?”
Jim had the fair complexion that colors easily, and he blushed as he answered, “Yes’m.”
“They teach map reading, I hope the good Lord, don’t they? We’re approaching Oogulfe Swamp, aren’t we?”
Jim didn’t have to look at a map. He knew the swamp was ahead.
In twenty minutes they saw the approaching gloom. Birds of prey circled overhead. Spanish moss hung from the gnarled branches of tre
es, swarms of mosquitoes attacked them and the damp air was fetid. Jim looked in his knapsack and found a map. The swamp was at least six miles long.
“My feets hurt,” said Odum. He was on the point of taking off his shoes when Jim warned him not to.
“There are rattlesnakes here.”
The swamp was beautiful as well as treacherous. Shadows, gloom and the sounds of eerie swamp birds unnerved the marchers. They all kept to the middle of the road, and finally the swamp was passed. They could see in the distance one of the foothills of the Appalachians, and soon they were marching uphill. The very air was purer now, and everybody was thinking about food.
“I gotta uncle owns a general store at Clairmont,” one of the marchers said.
“Hold on to him, for God’s sakes,” said Dr. Farrell. “Attention!” he went on in a cheerful voice. “It’s almost time for chow, and we have someone here whose uncle owns a country store in Clairmont.”
Jim looked at his map. Clairmont was only a mile away.
Their thoughts lifted. “I’m starved!” a girl said from the ranks. “Been starved.”
The leaders in the front ranks were in quiet discussion. Everyone had been warned against country stores, for they were often Klan hangouts. But if one of the marchers had an uncle . . . Miss Rosa scurried around to find the marcher who had the uncle.
“Is your uncle liberal?”
“How?” the marcher asked, puzzled.
“I mean,” she went on, “is he nice?”
The marcher was a young Negro who seemed to be deaf.
“Is he nice?” Miss Rosa repeated in a louder voice.
“He nice—ain’t he my uncle?”
There was more discussion in the front ranks, and finally Jim, the two ministers and Dr. Farrell were delegated to march ahead and buy food. Odum and the boy whose uncle owned the store were to go with them.
All the precautions were unnecessary. When Jacob Finney got the order for fifteen cans of stew, twelve boxes of cookies, doughnuts, thirty hot dogs, he was overwhelmed, but said only, “I’ll have to do a lot of scrounging.” He dug up a lot of food, including some canned stock he had thought he’d never get rid of. That was how it happened that three cans of red caviar were shared by the marchers at supper. Miss Rosa and George Thompson ate most of it, and Jim had his first taste of it.