Glimmers of Change (42 page)

Moses wanted to block out what he was hearing, but he knew the time had come to stop hiding.

“There are certainly a lot of blacks who helped abolition become a reality,” Hopkins continued, “but those were northern blacks. It’s time for the southern blacks to show they are not what white people think they are.” His voice shifted as he looked Moses squarely in the eyes. “I’ve been watching the men of the Third, Moses. They are looking to you for answers.”

“What makes you say that?” Moses protested, not wanting to hear it but needing an answer.

“I heard Roy and Harry talking one day about the stories you told them on the train. The other men were eating it up. They need to believe they can be more than what they hear from everyone. The Union let them fight in the war, but now that the war is over, they are being treated as inferior. The Civil Rights Act passed, but you and I both know that is just a first step. It is going to take black men and women willing to fight against a lot of prejudice to turn things around.”

“I run a plantation in Virginia,” Moses said weakly. “My work is back there.” Even in the midst of hearing his voice, he knew he was coming to the end of his denial. Anger battled with acceptance. He was tired of fighting for the right to live. Would it ever end?

Hopkins gazed at him for a long moment. “I been roughed up a few times because of my views about black people. There’s a lot of good people all over this country, but there are still too many who want to be controlled by hatred and prejudice. I’m willing to take the consequences of my beliefs, but big change isn’t going to come from what
white
people do. People won’t change until they see blacks from the South destroying their perceptions.” He took a deep breath. “It’s going to take a lot of courage for the freed slaves to do that. It’s also going to take strong leaders who can make people believe they can do more than they believe they can do. Leaders who will give them the courage to take action. From what I can tell, you’re one of those leaders, Moses. I understand why you don’t want to do it, but…” He let his voice trail off, but the message in his eyes was clear.

Moses stood in silence. He nodded slowly, recognizing the moment when he ceased fighting the battle he had been engaged in since the end of the war. He felt Matthew and Robert’s eyes on him. He could see by the looks on their faces that they realized the shift that had just occurred.

“I’ve got to get back to the barracks,” Moses said firmly. He reached out and grasped Hopkins’s hand. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Moses watched as a group of men huddled together in the corner, talking furiously but keeping their voices very low. Roy and the others had still not returned. He knew the only thing keeping the other men from joining the fray was a lack of weapons.

One man raised his voice loudly enough to be heard. “Our old weapons be stored in the fort’s armory. Since they ain’t paid us, I reckon them guns and the ammo belong to us.”

“That’s right!” another man cried.

Moses stepped forward. “They have guards around the armory,” he warned. He had seen them move into position after he left Robert and Matthew. He had thought about staying with his friends, but the compulsion to be with the soldiers was still strong. “You won’t get past them.”

“You watch us!” one of the men cried. “My family be out there with no protection. If the army ain’t gonna go take care of them, it’s up to us!”

“We must have our guns!” one man cried.

Other men took up the cry. “We must have our guns!”

Moses shook his head, following at a distance as twenty or so men rushed out to descend on the armory. It was just as he predicted. A party of troops stood guard in front of the armory with their loaded muskets and fixed bayonets. Captain Thomas Durnin of the Sixteenth Brigade stood to the side. Moses was close enough to hear the quiet order he gave his troops.

“Fire.”

Moses was relieved to see the muskets were pointed well over the heads of the raiding soldiers, but the sound of the bullets whizzing over their heads was enough to stop them. They jolted to a stop, exchanging wild looks. Moses held his breath and then stepped forward.

“There is another way,” he said firmly. “You won’t help your families if you’re shot for trying to steal government supplies, or if you’re thrown in the brigade. Go back to the barracks.”

Growling angrily, they turned back to the barracks. Durnin exchanged a long look with Moses and then motioned for his men to lower their guns.

The gate to the fort swung open. The hundred or so soldiers who had left earlier came striding back in, boasting of all they had done.

Roy approached Moses. “They’re gone,” he announced. “We done run them off!”

Moses had one question. “How bad is it out there?”

Roy scowled. “It’s bad. I seen dozens of people lying in the road and heard about lots more folks who were hurt before they hid inside.”

“Do you think they’ll be back?”

Roy shook his head. “Nah. We scared them off. I reckon the whole thing be over.”

Moses nodded, but he knew Roy was wrong. His gut told him there was plenty of trouble ahead.

Peter and Crandall were approaching their hotel in the heart of downtown when rioting broke out afresh. Mobs of white people seemed to coalesce spontaneously, joining together to shoot or beat every black person they caught.

“There is not one black person resisting,” Peter muttered, his heart pounding with fresh fear as he wondered if they could make it back to the hotel.

“What good would it do?” Crandall demanded. “They’re so outnumbered they know it won’t do any good.”

Just then Peter caught sight of United States Marshal Martin T. Ryder leaving the offices of the
Memphis Post
. He had met him the day before when he had gone by to talk to Eaton. Ryder had lived in Memphis for almost a decade, but he still was a devout Unionist and an active Republican. Eaton had warned him yesterday that he should consider himself a target if anything were to happen, but Ryder had laughed it off.

Peter moved forward to deliver another warning but was stopped when a carriage overturned in front of them. He bit back an oath as he jumped back just in time to keep from being hit.

The driver tried to halt his team, but the terrified horses bolted, pulling the carriage behind them as they plunged down the muddy road. Three white men savagely beating a black barely escaped being hit. The distraction gave the black man the opportunity to jump up and flee. Other whites gave chase, but another one eyed Marshal Ryder and moved forward with an angry sneer on his face.

Peter, every sense alert for danger, moved close enough to listen.

“I know who you are,” the man growled.

Ryder stood silently, returning his glare with a level look.

The man snarled now. “You and the rest of folks like you are responsible for stirring up the blacks. If it weren’t for you and them other Yankees coming down here and making the niggers think they are better than they are, this wouldn’t be happening. I reckon you ought to be killed for it. We have killed us a lot of niggers tonight, but they ain’t the only ones causing trouble.” He turned to the crowd of people that had formed. “You’re nothing but a damned Yankee abolitionist.” His voice rose to a fanatical pitch as he realized he had an audience. “You’re worse than a nigger!”

Peter hoped the incident would end with name calling, but as he began to move forward he saw the man grab his pistol and slam Ryder in the head with it. Ryder staggered but managed to stay on his feet. He saw Ryder begin to reach for his gun and then withdraw his hand. Peter understood. Ryder was afraid the man would shoot him if he went for his weapon.

“Well done!” Peter called loudly, clapping his hands together in applause. “It’s about time these Yankees get their due!”

He hid his smirk when the attacker turned to him, a gloating smile on his face. Ryder met Peter’s eyes over the man’s head. Ryder nodded his gratitude and quickly vaulted into his saddle, his horse breaking into a gallop immediately.

“Stop!” the man cried when he whipped around to find his quarry fleeing.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said soothingly. “You made your point. I reckon that Yankee will be in hiding for the rest of the night.” He was quite sure Ryder was on his way to disperse more information to the government, but he didn’t feel the need to point that out.

“You’re right,” the man said smugly. “Them Yankees ain’t nothing but cowards who think they can come down here and change the way we live. We’re teaching them a lesson today we should have taught them a long time ago.”

Peter nodded his agreement, somehow managing to hide his disdain, and continued down the street.

Crandall regarded him with admiration. “Quick thinking.”

“I met Ryder yesterday. He’s a good man. He has a wife and two kids that need him to come home.”

Peter and Crandall continued moving toward their hotel, slowly realizing the street was completely clear of black people. Surely the trouble would end since there was no one else to attack. There were still groups of white men milling around, but Peter hoped they would all go home soon.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Peter said wearily.

“I’m with you,” Crandall responded, his face reflecting his own fatigue. “Even with the warnings that this could happen, I wasn’t prepared for it to be this bad.” His eyes settled on two black men sprawled in the mud, their bodies glowing oddly under the nearly full moon shining down on them. “What will happen with them?”

Peter swallowed. “I’m hoping once the streets empty their friends and family will come out for them.” Suddenly, the reality of the situation was almost more than he could bear. Worry for Matthew, Robert, and Moses erupted. He jolted to a stop and stared in the direction of the fort. “Do you think they made it back?”

Crandall shook his head. “We won’t know until we get back to the hotel, but they are resourceful men.”

Peter heard the uncertainty in his voice but knew he was right. “Let’s go,” he said suddenly. “I need to know they’re okay.”

They were just blocks from their hotel when movement caught their attention. There was a part of Peter that wanted to ignore it. His bed was calling him, but the journalist in him couldn’t let it go. “What’s that?” he asked sharply.

“I suppose we have to find out,” Crandall replied reluctantly.

Peter managed a chuckle. “For someone who always seems to resist everything, you’re never anywhere but in the midst of the action.”

Crandall grinned. “It’s part of my strategy. I keep people off guard and then slip right in for the story.” His grin evaporated quickly, a look of alarm filling his face. “That’s Chief Garrett with a unit of his policemen.”

“They haven’t done enough damage already?” Peter snapped. He was just tired enough to throw all caution to the wind. Increasing his pace, he stepped up to the chief of police. “Hello, Chief Garrett.”

The chief, his eyes swinging through the night for signs of danger, blinked and then focused on him. “Hello, Peter,” he said distractedly. “I can’t talk right now.”

“I know you’re busy,” Peter replied. “Where are you headed?”

“South Memphis,” Garrett replied firmly. “I will not rest until the blacks are thoroughly under control.”

Peter gazed around. “You believe there is still danger? Every black downtown is off the streets.” He turned his eyes on the group of policemen, trying to choose his words carefully. “I understand things got a little out of control earlier today.”