Tom McDaniel grinned. He said to Wolfe, “He’ll hang himself!”
“You think so?”
“Oh, hell, Jim—people love the judge around here. He’s a public idol, and you know it. Everybody knows it wasn’t his fault about the ruling!”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Well, anyway; the Quill and Pen—that’s really stretching it.”
“I’m not so sure of that, either,” James Wolfe said, in a rather grim voice. “Don’t forget, Tom: ‘You can fool some of the people all of the time . . .’ ”
“. . . so what did the judge do? He instructed the county school board to proceed with reasonable expedition to comply with the rule to desegregate. In spite of the complete disapproval of the PTA, in spite of the protests of the Farragut County Society for Constitutional Government, in spite of petitions presented by Verne Shipman, one of Caxton’s leading citizens, and Thomas McDaniel, the editor of the Caxton Messenger—Jedge Abe Silver went right ahead and ordered integration for Caxton High School, at a date no later than fall, 1956.
“Mayor Harry Satterly could have stopped it, but he didn’t have the guts to, because he knew the powers that were and are behind Silver. He knew how much his skin was worth.
“The Governor could have stopped it in a second, but I don’t have to tell you about him; I hope I don’t, anyway.
“And the principal of the high school, Harley Paton—he could have brought the whole mess to a screaming halt. But he’s too lily-livered to do the right thing.”
“That’s a dirty lie!” A young man in a T-shirt and blue jeans walked up to the lower step and glared at Adam Cramer. “The principal done everything he could!”
“Did he? Did he close down the school and refuse to open it until the rights of the town were restored?”
“No, he didn’t do that. But—”
“Did he bring the students together and tell them to stay away?”
“Hell, he couldn’t do that.”
“No,” Adam Cramer said, smiling condescendingly. “No; he couldn’t do that. It would take courage. It would mean risking his fine job and that fat pay-check!”
The young man bunched his fists, reddened, and when someone shouted, “Git on away, let ’im speak his piece, kid!” walked back into the crowd.
“Just a moment,” Adam Cramer said. “I know that Harley Paton has a lot of friends. And if I were here for any other purpose than to bring the truth, I’d be smart enough to leave him alone. Wouldn’t I? Now I don’t say that the principal of Caxton High is necessarily a dishonest man. I merely say, and the facts bring this out, that he is a weak man. And weakness is no more to be tolerated than dishonesty—not when we have our children’s future at stake, leastwise! I warned you that the truth would be bitter. It always is. But I ain’t going to quit just because I’ve touched a sore point. No, sir. There’s a whole lot of sore points that are going to be touched before I’m through!”
“Keep talking,” Lorenzo Niesen called. “We’re listening.”
“All right. Now, you may think that the problem is simply whether or not we’re going to allow twelve Negroes to go to our school; but that’s only a small, small part of it. I’m in a position to know because I’ve been with an organization that’s studied the whole thing. You don’t see the forest for the trees, my friends; believe me. The real problem, whether you like it or not, is whether you’re going to sit back and let desegregation spread throughout the entire South. . . .”
Verne Shipman stood on the sidewalk, hidden behind the rusted lawn cannon, and listened to Adam Cramer. He listened to the same speech he’d heard earlier, the same statistics, and he observed that the people who comprised the crowd were listening also. Intently. Which, of course, they ought to do, for the words made sense.
However, there was yet no mention of money. No word about the joining of this organization and the parting with hard-earned funds.
I will listen, he thought, but that will be the test.
“. . . and it’s an indisputable fact,” Adam Cramer spoke on, “that there could be no other result. The Negroes will literally, and I do mean literally, control the South. The vote will be theirs. You’ll have black mayors and black policemen (like they do in New York and Chicago already!) and like as not, a black governor; and black doctors to deliver your babies—if they find the time, that is—and that’s the way it’ll be. Did you even stop to think about that when you let those twelve enter your white school? Did you?”
The minuscule festive note that had marked the beginning of the meeting was now instantly dissolved. Bart Carey and Phil Dongen wore deep frowns, and Rev. Lorenzo Niesen was shaking his head up and down, up and down, signifying rage.
“Some of us did!” Carey said, in a husky, thickly accented voice.
“I know,” Adam Cramer granted. “The Farragut County Federation for Constitutional Government was a step in the right direction. But it didn’t accomplish much because the liars have done their jobs well. They’ve made you think your hands are tied. You couldn’t afford fancy lawyers, so you failed. But, Mr. Carey, I’m not talking specifically to you or to those like yourself who have worked to fight this thing. I’m talking to the people who are still confused, in the dark, who haven’t fully realized or understood or grasped the meaning of this here ruling. To those, Mr. Carey, who have been soft and who have trusted the government to do right by them. It’s a natural thing, you understand. We all love our country, and it’s natural to believe that the people who run it are a hundred per cent square. But our great senator from Wisconsin showed us, I think, how wrong that view happens to be. He proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are skunks and rats and vermin in the government! Didn’t he?”
“That’s right!” shouted Lorenzo Niesen. “That’s right. God bless the senator!”
“Yes,” Adam Cramer said. “Amen to that, sir. We know now that there are men with fine titles and with great power, wonderful power, who are doing their level best to sell our country out to the Communists. And it’s these men, folks, and nobody else, who’re cramming integration down your throats. There isn’t any question in the world about that.”
Slowly Adam Cramer’s voice was rising in pitch. Perspiration was running down his face, staining his collar, but he did not make any effort to wipe it away.
“Here’s something,” he said, “I’ll bet you all don’t know. In interpreting the school decisions of May 17, 1954 and May 31, 1955, by the United States Supreme Court, Judge John J. Parker of the Fourth Circuit Court of the United States, speaking in the case—” he removed a note from his breast pocket—“of Briggs versus Elliot, said: ‘. . . it is important that we point out exactly what the Supreme Court has decided and what it has not decided in this case. It has not decided that the Federal Courts are to take over and regulate the public schools of the states. It has not decided that the states must mix persons of different races in the schools or must require them to attend schools or must deprive them of the right of choosing the schools they attend. What it has decided, and all it has decided, is that a state may not deny to any person on account of race the right to attend any school that it maintains. This, under the decision of the Supreme Court, the state may not do directly or indirectly; but if the schools which it maintains are open to children of all races, no violation of the Constitution is involved even though the children of different races voluntarily attend different schools, as they attend different churches. Nothing in the Constitution or in the decision of the Supreme Court takes away from the people freedom to choose the schools they attend. The Constitution, in other words, does not require integration. . . .’
“You get that, people? ‘The Constitution does not require integration!’ That’s an accurate record of a legal statement. A judge with a sense of justice and fairness said it. But I’m just a-wondering if Abraham Silver mentioned those little teeny things to you. Did he?
“We’ve got to follow the big law, the ruling and all that; except, I’ll say it again, l
oud and clear, and you listen, every one of you listen: The Constitution don’t require integration!”
Adam Cramer stopped talking. His voice had risen sharply on the last five words; now angry silence filled the air above the courthouse lawn.
He continued, almost in a whisper: “Now I’ll tell you what this whole long thing is about. It isn’t about integration at all—in spite of what that would mean, and I’ve showed you, I hope, what it would mean. It isn’t about the Negroes or having anything against them, either. I don’t, any more than you people do. No: the real issue at stake here, friends, is the issue of States’ rights. That’s what it comes to. According to the Constitution, each state in the union is supposed to have local control of itself, isn’t that so? That’s supposed to be the point of a democratic government. Look at Article One, Section Eight, Paragraph Five, of the U. S. Constitution. Read over your government books in the library. States’ rights is the whole meaning behind America—local control of purchasing power, local control of state and county politics, local control of schools. Okay! Now, you let the Federal Government step in and start to give orders—like they’re doing now—and you may think it’s just a step toward socialism, but that ain’t so. It’s a step toward communism! The Soviet Union—Russia!—works just that way. A couple of the big boys decide that so much tax is to be levied in every town, or they decide the Siberians are going to share the schools with the whites—or whatever—and nobody can open their mouth. Why? Because in Communist Russia, no one single county has any rights of its own. It can’t veto any judgments or stop any orders. It can’t do anything but sit there and take it.
“You may think I’m getting off the point, or being a little farfetched, but you’re wrong! Friends, the eyes of the world are on Caxton. I’ve been in Washington, D.C., and I know that to be true. You all are the country’s test tube, the guinea pig! That’s why I say you’ve got the future, not only of Caxton, but of America in your hands!”
Lucy Egan nudged Ella secretively and smiled. “Boy,” she said, “he is really some talker. I mean, he honestly is.”
Ella had been listening with a peculiar mixture of pride and uneasiness, and the truth was, she did not know whether to be pleased or displeased. Tom had not seen her yet, for which she was, oddly, grateful (there being no reason to be grateful); he and Mr. Wolfe and some of the others, a few, did not appear to be very happy with the speech Adam Cramer was making, though most of the people were. You could see that.
“Sort of, if you squint, like Marlon Brando,” Lucy Egan said, squinting. “Like, mean. A little.”
It made no particular sense to Ella, the speech. This dry type of thing that her father and Gramp were always talking about, that was always in the newspapers these days, mostly bored her, and she would have gone back home (where, she supposed, she ought to be, anyway) except that the speaker was Adam Cramer. And she knew, sensed, that she would be seeing him again soon.
“He’s really getting them worked up,” Lucy Egan said. “There hasn’t been anything like this in Caxton in I don’t know how long. Don’t you think he looks a little like Brando?”
“Kind of,” Ella said.
“Did he kiss you good night?” Lucy Egan asked suddenly.
Ella hesitated, noting the anxiousness in her friend’s eyes. Then she said: “Sure.”
“Boy. I don’t guess there was anything else, like.”
“Oh, Lucy, come on.”
“There was?”
“No, no.”
“A lot of what you say makes sense,” James Wolfe said, stepping forward during a dramatic pause. “And certainly we all agree with you that this ruling was ill-considered. But it is a ruling, and can’t be abrogated. I assure you we’ve tried everything.”
“Who are you, sir?” Adam Cramer asked.
“My name is Wolfe, James Wolfe. I’m a lawyer. I spoke personally, you may be interested to know, with Judge Silver, and I’d like to correct you on at least one point. You’re giving the impression that a district judge has authority to overrule a federal ruling. That’s entirely wrong.” James Wolfe turned toward the crowd. “The judge had absolutely no choice in the matter. As a matter off the record, he doesn’t think any more of the decision than we do.”
“Abraham Silver is a clever man, Mr. Wolfe. You’d have to have studied the situation and all of its ramifications to understand that, as we do. We—”
“Just a moment. Just a moment. As it happens, Mr. Cramer, I and a group of other qualified men have studied the situation. It’s all very clear-cut. The Judge Parker quote that you take such stock in is ridiculous as applied to conditions in Caxton. Unless you propose to subrogate legal action with illegal action, I can’t see that you’ve presented anything in the form of a positive idea.”
Adam Cramer smiled tolerantly.
“As it happens, Mr. Wolfe,” he said, “I do have ideas. And they’re absolutely legal. They take courage and daring, now, I’ll tell you all that right off the bat. But they’re legitimate.”
“All right, then, let’s have them.”
“First, I want to get one thing clear.” Adam Cramer spoke distinctly, addressing himself to the entire assemblage. “Do you people want nigras in your school? Answer yes or no!”
There was a roar from the crowd. “No!”
“No,” Adam Cramer said, and smiled. “Fine. Now, are you willing to fight this thing down to the last ditch and keep fighting until it’s conquered?”
Another roar, like a giant wave: “Yes!”
“Yes. Fine!” Adam Cramer raised his hands, and the people were quiet. “Well, I’m willing to work with you. Maybe you want to know why. After all, I’m not a Southerner. I wasn’t born in Caxton. But I am an American, friends, and I love my country—and I am ready to give up my life, if that be necessary, to see that my country stays free, white and American!”
Phillip Dongen, who had seldom been moved to such emotional heights, led off the applause. It was a frantic drum roll.
“Friends, listen to me for a minute.” The young man’s voice was soft again. It rose and fell, the words were soothing, or sharp as gunfire. “Please. Mr. Wolfe, over there, has mentioned something about keeping the attack legal. As far as I’m concerned, something is legal or illegal depending on whether it’s right or wrong. If nine old crows in black robes tell me that breathing is against the law, I’m not going to feel like a criminal every time I take a breath. The way I see it, the people make the laws, hear? The people!”
The car, bearing an out-of-county license plate, swung slowly onto George Street from the highway. It was a 1939 Ford, caked with dust and rusty, loud with the groans of dry metal. It had come a long way. The five people within were limp with the heat, silent and incurious. Only a small part of their minds, like icebergs, were above the conscious level of thought.
Ginger Beauchamp did not move the gear lever from high as they commenced the hill, nor was he concerned with the misfires and rattles that followed. His foot was numb on the accelerator pedal. He could think only of getting through the seventy miles that remained, of falling, exhausted, onto the cot. There was no damn sense to visiting his mother. She didn’t appreciate it. If she was so anxious to see him, why didn’t she ever try to be a little nice? he thought.
Well, she’s old.
I say I ain’t going to make this drive no more, but I am. And Harriet will want to come along and bring Willie and Shirley and Pete.
Now, damn. If I could just go myself, then maybe it wouldn’t be so damn bad. But I can’t. She don’t just want to see me, she wants to see the kids. And—
Ginger Beauchamp saw the people gathered on the lawn in front of the courthouse and slowed down.
“What is it?” Harriet said. She opened her eyes, but did not move.
“Nothin’. Go back to sleep, get you plenty of sleep.”
He glared at his wife and swore that next week he would make her learn to drive. That would take some of the strain off. Then he could sleep a
little, too.
“What is it, Ginger?”
“Nothin’, I said.”
The car moved slowly, still coughing and gasping with its heavy load. The overhead traffic light turned red. Ginger pumped the brakes three times and put the gear lever in neutral.
Sure a lot of people.
He started to close his eyes, briefly, when out of the engine noise and murmur of the crowd, he heard a sharp, high voice.
“Hey-a, look!”
Then another voice, also high-pitched: “Git ’em, now. Come on!”
Ginger looked around and saw a group of young boys sprinting across the street toward his car. They were white boys.
What the hell, now, he thought.
“Ginger, it’s green, Ginger.”
He hesitated only a moment; then, when he saw the running people and heard what they were yelling, he put his foot down, hard, on the accelerator.
But he had forgotten to take the car out of gear. The engine roared, ineffectively.
“You niggers, hey. Wait a second, don’t you run off, don’t you do that!”
Suddenly, the street in front of him was blocked with people. They surrounded the car in a cautious circle, only the young ones coming close.
“What’s the trouble?” Ginger asked.
“No trouble,” a boy in T-shirt and levis answered. “You looking for trouble?”
“No, I ain’t looking for no trouble,” Ginger said. The exhaustion had left him. Harriet was staring, getting ready to cry. The children were asleep. “We just goin’ on to Hollister.”
“Oh, you jes’ a-goin’ on to Hollister? How do we know that?”
One of the boys put his hands on the window frame and began rocking the car.
“Don’t do that now,” Ginger said. He was a thin man; his bones poked into his dark black skin like tentpoles. But the muscles in his arms were hard; years of lifting heavy boxes had made them that way.
“Sweet Jesus,” Harriet Beauchamp said. She had begun to tremble.
“Hush,” Ginger said.
Another boy leaped on the opposite running board, and the rocking got worse.
The Intruder Page 11
