by Ginny Dye
Matthew listened intently. Philadelphia, New York, and Boston had similar systems to alert fire houses of a blaze. They were actually quite ingenious. The New Orleans alarm system consisted of sixty-five signal stations — cast iron, cottage-shaped boxes attached to the sides of houses, telegraph poles, or gas lamps. They were connected to the central office in the First District police station behind City Hall by a circuit of telegraph lines stretched overhead between tall poles. Normally, the boxes were locked, but every watchman and policeman had a key. If they spotted smoke, they would run to the nearest box, unlock it and turn a crank inside to sound the alarm.
Turning the crank sent a signal to the central station indicating the district and box number from which the signal had come. The telegraph operator at the central station would then use a keyboard to activate any, or all, of the thirteen large bells located strategically throughout the city. Matthew knew most of them were on the steeples of prominent churches.
New Orleans was divided into nine fire districts. If the originating box was, for instance, number five in district three, the alarm bells would strike three times. Using another control, the central operator could send a second command to all of the signal boxes in the appropriate district. This command would cause a small bell inside each box to tap out the location of the signal box from which the initial alarm was sounded. Firemen were directed to the appropriate district by large alarm bells. Once they got there, they would be directed to the location of the fire by listening to the small bell inside of the signal boxes.
“I thought the alarm system was just for the fire departments,” the man protested.
The older man smiled smugly. “It was obvious Chief Adams needed a way to summon his forces quickly should trouble arise. They have enabled the system to alert the police by using twelve strikes of the alarm bells. It won’t be confused with a real fire alarm, but it will make sure our boys are there to take care of things.”
Matthew tensed, hearing more in the man’s voice than he was saying.
The other man must have thought so, too. “Do you know more than you are telling me?”
The older man shrugged. “I would just make sure you avoid that area tomorrow. I’m sending my wife and children out of the city tonight.”
“Why?” The younger man was obviously alarmed. “This isn’t even the real convention. They’re just meeting to find out how many more delegates they need to be able to even have the convention.”
“And what do you know about that?” the older man asked sharply, his eyes narrowing with anger. “Are you one of the radical nigger lovers?” His voice dripped with suspicion.
“No, of course not!” the other man insisted. “I’m all for doing whatever it takes to keep the niggers from having the vote, but I also realize that if things get out of hand, the city could go under martial law. Is that what you want?”
“That won’t happen,” the older man scoffed. “President Johnson is on our side. He knows we have to take care of things our own way down here. Just because we can’t force all the niggers back to the plantations, it doesn’t mean we can’t still control things.”
The other man sounded doubtful. “What about the Civil Rights Act? What about the Fourteenth Amendment? I hate what is happening in our state as much as you do, but what if we lose control and they put us back under military law? What if things go terribly wrong and it opens the door for the Radical Republicans to gain control of the Congress? President Johnson will lose his ability to control things.”
“That won’t happen,” the older man insisted again. He suddenly seemed to notice Matthew leaning slightly in their direction so that he wouldn’t miss anything of what they were saying. His lips snapped shut as he scowled at Matthew.
Matthew reached down to pick up the napkin he had let slip from his lap, gave them a pleasant smile, and then went back to drinking the iced tea his server had placed in front of him. He kept his face neutral, but his thoughts were spinning.
The tension had been growing for years. Perhaps it was simply not possible to defuse the racial bomb that was going to go off in New Orleans the next day.
Chapter Thirty
Matthew was already sweating profusely as he took up a position next to a window on the second floor of the Mechanics Building. The imposing brick building was four stories high, but was actually only three stories because the middle hall was two stories tall. The cavernous hall was flanked on either side by tall windows that reached almost to the ceiling. Two large doors that opened outward onto the landing provided an entrance at one end. At the opposite end was a raised platform. A low rail in front of it divided the room into two unequal parts. Business was conducted inside the rail, while spectators stood or sat in the larger area outside.
Matthew glanced out at the growing crowd of black people and then turned back to what was going on inside the hall. The area behind the rail was populated with delegates sitting in chairs, waiting for the convention to start. There were three tables on the platform arranged into a horseshoe shape. Judge Howell, president of the convention, sat behind the table in the center. The table to the right had his secretary and assistants. The third table was populated with journalists, both local and visiting.
The larger area was slowly filling up with more men. Most were black, but there were white supporters scattered among them.
Matthew had opted to stand at the window so he could see what was going on outside. He wanted to be able to see what was going on because he was convinced the trouble would start on the streets. His concern grew as the number of black people milling around on Dryades Street in front of the building swelled. The atmosphere was festive, but he could feel the danger in the air as hundreds of black men, women, and children, dressed in their Sunday best sang and chanted about their right to vote.
Looking past the crowd of black supporters, he could see a group of white men gathered less than half a block away. He thought about the prediction of the man he had eavesdropped on the previous day. He could tell by the expressions on the men’s faces that they were looking for trouble.
Howell had been forced to delay the start of the meeting by an hour because there were not enough delegates to form a quorum. Matthew had not paid attention to how they planned on fixing that because his attention had been focused on what was happening outside. He just knew Howell had left the room, promising to return when more delegates arrived. Matthew assumed he was downstairs in the governor’s office.
His attention was pulled outside again when he saw another group of black men, one of them defiantly waving an American flag, moving down Canal Street. Their faces were set with determination and courage, and their military bearing said they were Union veterans. Matthew stiffened when he heard three young white men jeer at the flag bearer, their voices rising above the noise. The flag bearer’s response was to wave the flag defiantly. Two of the men leaped down from the sidewalk and tried to seize the colors, but they were beaten back, crawling back on their hands and knees as the group pushed on.
Suddenly Matthew heard the pop of gunfire, but the group didn’t falter. The drummers leading the procession beat the long roll just as they had during the war to rally the troops on the field of battle. “Fall in boys!” they cried. “Rally, boys!” The last of the marchers cleared the line of white men, their faces triumphant as they took their place in front of the hall.
Matthew continued to watch the white men, his stomach sinking when he saw their rage stiffen into cold purpose.
The supporters greeted the procession with exuberant excitement. The black veterans gave three cheers, and the crowd cheered in return. The flag bearer leaped to the top of the steps of the institute and waved the flag defiantly at the whites on Canal. The cheers grew louder.
As Matthew continued to watch, he realized some of the men in the crowd were acting drunk. He had seen bottles and canteens being passed around freely. He bit back a groan, knowing things could easily get out of hand. Suddenly a black man ran do
wn the steps of the Institute into the crowd. Matthew couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it was obvious by the man’s gestures that he was trying to get the crowd to be quiet and go away. Their response was to cheer louder. Another man came down from the stairs and tried to convince them to leave. He got the same response.
“This thing is going to explode.”
Matthew glanced at a reporter from the Boston Globe. He didn’t bother to deny it. The atmosphere was so tense and inflammatory that it would take hardly anything to provoke an explosion.
“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.
