Authors: Walter J. Boyne
Little Rock, Arkansas/September 20, 1957
As much as he had hated the clerical work he had done in Chicago, he could not shake the habit, and Weissman spent almost every morning in the Little Rock public library going over the newspapers of the past two years, gleaning information bit by bit from it about the Klan and, by inference, about Josten. It was easy to see how tension had been building, how feelings were hardening. The letters to the editor columns two years before had rarely mentioned racial topics; now more than half dealt with the issue of race. Some made him wince, for they called for concentration camps for the Negroes as a solution.
There were a number of routine references to Klan meetings and to the half-dozen cross burnings that had occurred in the state. But the past few months showed something else that was almost certainly Klan activity, although the Klan was never alluded to in connection with the incidents. There had been a series of confrontations between whites and Negroes—fistfights, traffic accidents, shovings, all petty things, but all with an unusual twist. The Negroes seemed to come out on top in almost every case, and there were no arrests. He thought he understood the pattern, but he was not certain.
It surprised him how the governor was handling the crisis—fulminating to his own constituency as if he were a new Jefferson Davis, but then apparently delighted to be seen meeting with the President, shaking hands with Negro reporters, grinning into the cameras. And Eisenhower himself! For a man with a good German name he certainly vacillated.
The afternoons were equally profitable and more enjoyable for Weissman. After an early lunch—he skipped breakfast, unable to handle the standard Little Rock fare of greasy eggs, bacon, and grits—he would drive to the hills surrounding Pine Bluff. He'd found an abandoned barn and parked inside, carefully replacing the broken door so that his car wasn't visible from the road. Then a stiff climb straight up over the hill behind the barn let him infiltrate the Klan compound. The lack of security was pathetic; there were always guards at the main gate, and a fence ran around most of the compound, but there was nothing to keep a determined visitor out. Most of the Klan members worked during the day. During the week there wasn't much activity until after six in the evening. Weissman found a spot in a dense grove of pines only a hundred yards from his quarry. He had already seen Josten twice, both times entering a large converted bus that, judging by the array of antennae, served him as both a home and headquarters.
The problem was that it was a difficult shot, even if he was now, after all his practice, truly worthy of being called Weissman the Marksman. He'd brought a special hunting rifle and telescopic sight with him. But Josten inevitably drove up to the bus in his car, parked it, and hopped the few short steps to the bus. He was vulnerable for a brief interval as he unlocked the door, but it only took him a moment, and a tree limb impeded Weissman's view. He considered chancing a shot through the car's windshield as it drove up, but was reluctant to do so—if he missed, Josten would be too wary, and he'd never have another chance—or be able to face them back in Chicago.
It was evident that there was someone important inside the bus, for Josten had on both occasions brought presents of some sort—flowers, boxes with ribbons. It was as if he had Rapunzel in there, with her long hair. Who could it be? His lover?
He found the answer and a great deal more information by accident when he went through the contents of the trash barrel outside the bus that night. Waiting until eleven, he had crept to the barrel and rifled through it, packing the smaller pieces of paper inside his coat, leaving the boxes and wrappings. When he got back to the car, he used his flashlight to see that he had two basic kinds of documents: receipts and draft orders for the Klan. Josten seemed to be calling it the Storm Klan.
"Wonder where he got that from?" Weissman thought, as he scanned the receipts first—clothes, makeup, toys, even some lingerie. Josten was clearly buying for a woman and two children. And he was planning, in great detail, a riot for the morning of September 23rd, a joint mission between the "Storm Klan" and the National guard. Interesting! The details were there, some things left unspecified, the names of some of the Storm Klan units left blank, but it was evident that there was going to be combined action against the Negroes. In Germany, they called it a pogrom. What was it here? A lynching party?
Saundra weltered in discontent. Here she was in the thick of things, and the leadership she had supported with virtually her entire wealth was nowhere to be seen. Instead, it was the NAACP leading the fight, and doing it well. She found herself helping the people Dr. King called reactionary and too tied in with big business. She was beginning to wonder if Fred Peterson had not been right all along.
She turned to her hostess, Lucy Tate, whose stepdaughter was one of the nine students being kept from entering Central High School by the National Guard. The house was tiny, two rooms; they shared a bathroom with the family next door. Yet Lucy kept it spotless, the worn furniture dusted and polished, pictures of family in frames on the wall. It was much like the home Saundra's mother had kept for her years ago, except Lucy exuded a cheerful hopefulness her poor mother had totally lacked.
"Lucy, what happens now that the governor has pulled the National Guard out?"
The older woman looked at her quizzically. This pretty woman from the West was mighty generous with her money, but she didn't seem to have a hold on things. It was as if she were
playing
believer instead of
being
one.
"Lordy, I don't know. In a way I was happy they was there, they kept the mob happy by keeping the children out. Now, widdem gone, who knows, who knows."
Lucy poured coffee into thick china mugs, cracked from long years of restaurant use. She looked at Saundra closely, forgetting her own problems for the moment. "You're mighty unhappy; want to tell me about it?"
Saundra drew her legs up under her on the tired old couch, its plaid upholstery covered with a cottonball-tufted throw. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do here. I thought the Southern Christian Leadership Conference would be in the forefront of the fight."
Lucy took out a package of cigarettes, looked at them wistfully, and put them away. "I'm giving up smoking till my stepdaughter is enrolled." Reaching out, she gently took Saundra's hand. "Honey, this business doesn't suit Dr. King's style; he reckons he's better off to stay in the background. First of all, this here's a legal fight, and that's what the N Double A does best. But it's a fight that could get bloody in the next minute, and that's not for the good doctor." Her brow furrowed and she went on, "He's smart, because they's things going on I don't like; the white folks are getting ready to trick us somehow."
"Why do you say that?"
"Little things. They been baiting us for a few months now, dangling things out, letting us win a few little battles. I 'spect we'll see why soon. But Dr. King wants to be the only one in the spotlight; he can't do that here, not wiffout crowding the chillun out."
Saundra sipped her coffee, knowing that much of her discontent was in being sent here without a real job to do; she had contributed a large sum of money, probably larger than anyone else in the movement—she expected to be in Dr. King's outer circle, at least, if not at his side. Instead she was operating almost on her own, even disbursing her money to the NAACP people.
"Honey, you're not setting your cap for Martin Luther King, is you?
Lucy's tone was kindly, but firmly inquisitive. She repeated, "Is you?" and Saundra felt compelled to answer truthfully.
"I think maybe I am—I know I shouldn't, but I can't help myself."
Lucy Tate locked her arms across her huge bosom, shaking her head and groaning. "Uh-uh, you listen to me, child. He's a mighty powerful man, and he's got a mighty powerful way with women. Lots of women want to be his woman. But he's got a mission, and no woman is going to stop that. You married, ain't you?"
Nodding, Saundra realized that Lucy was a warrior, engaged in the fight; she had to be listened to.
Relentless, Lucy went on. "You got you a good man, he's working hard, doing things, don't you go fooling around eyeing Dr. King. Dr. King, he's got a mission—and it ain't you."
Saundra hung her head, wondering if she could be as totally foolish, as totally misguided as she felt at that moment.
Fitzpatrick had just finished installing another UHF radio set in his now-pristine C-45. With the whirlwind energy a military outfit always throws into an illegal but worthwhile project, the National Guard crew had changed the engines, painted the plane in Air Guard colors, reupholstered the inside in a soft gray leather the governor liked, and even painted the tires like whitewalls.
"This thing's got more radios on it than the
Columbine."
"That's exactly right; when the governor visited Eisenhower in Newport last week, Ike told him to get all his airplanes outfitted with radios so he could be reached at all times."
"How long is this school business going to go on?"
"Until the niggers stop trying to integrate, simple as that. But I think we're going to see some action in the next day or two."
"That stupid Klan business?"
"It's not so stupid, Fitz. These guys aren't like the guys in sheets you saw in the old newsreels. I hate to say it, but Josten has them better trained, better disciplined than the Guard."
"What the hell's going to happen?"
"You be at the house tonight at nine o'clock sharp. We're having a briefing on the next three days' activities. You're going to see some real action."
Dixon and Ruddick were worried about the governor. The meeting with Eisenhower had gone badly, with the President accusing him of being the first man to use the armed forces of the state to oppose the federal government since the Civil War. The governor had come back raving about a federal plot to have him dragged off in chains and put in jail.
Now the two of them were waiting for Josten to arrive. Ruddick didn't want to believe the rumors he'd heard from Baker that Josten had somehow gone across the country and kidnapped his wife and was holding her at the Pine Bluff Klaven—and that three of the young Storm Klanners had disappeared. If it was true, Josten would have to go, and soon—but it couldn't be until after the showdown.
He felt more comfortable with the intelligence his own people had gathered. For a few dollars, he had been able to get loyal coloreds to go to where the Negroes were meeting, nose around and see what was happening. There was some surprising news—one of the women leaders, who was supposed to be passing out lots of money, was named Marshall and was married to a Negro pilot back west. It had to be the same person; there wouldn't be two nigger pilots named Marshall. He was the man who'd caused the trouble in Cleveland, right before Bob was killed, who'd made Bob so mad that he raced when he shouldn't have. Now he had to find out if the man was here, too, with her, and where they were living. When the balloon went up, he just might be able to get some revenge.
Josten came in, eyes sparkling, sweating, wringing his hands. Ruddick surveyed the room; of the people there, only Ginny and this new man, Fitzpatrick, seemed to sense that anything was wrong. The rest, including Stupid Stan, as he'd come to call him privately, seemed as excited as if they were at a high school prep rally.
Ginny had supplied Dixon Price with a drink. He gulped it down, signaled for another, and said, "We're going to have to implement our plan on the morning of the twenty-third. The governor's going to distance himself by going to a conference at Sea Island. He wants everything to happen while he's gone. He's got to have some space to maneuver if things go wrong."
Price looked around belligerently, as if someone might question him; instead he got a series of nods, for it made sense.
"Remember, we want a big riot, lots of heads broken, white and black. But the governor wants me to control how it goes." He turned to Coleman. "Stan, have you got a radio that can reach him at Sea Island?"
"Is he going down in his C-47?"
"Plans to."
"Fine. We have ARC-21 radios in the C-45 now. We can talk to him direct, if he's in the airplane, or his pilots can relay what we say by phone. Will that do?"
"I'll check with him. I want you and Colonel Josten here airborne, over the scene, so that you can stop it if things get too rough. I'll be on board with you, so I can talk to the governor."
Josten interjected. "Things might not get rough enough."
Price grinned, a rare sight. "You're right, that may be the main problem, if they don't resist. In any event, we've got to have enough blood shed to let the governor come back, declare martial law, and shut down the schools if he has to."
Ruddick resented Price telling Josten to be in the airplane—his rightful position. "I was planning to be in the airplane, Dixon."
His old friend shook his head. "No, Milo, I want you on the ground, with your eyes on things close up. You know our people better than anyone, and you may have to have some of them rough up some white people, too, just to get the blood."
Appeased, Ruddick said, "Well, I've got a panel truck fitted out with radios. You and I can stay in touch."
Ruddick felt the new plan was satisfactory, much like they'd been thinking about all along. But somehow he'd hoped to have better people to execute it with. Josten had been a jewel until the past few weeks. He'd become progressively more preoccupied, more fatalistic. What would he be like when the chips were down? And Stan . . . the man was at least consistent: he never failed to disappoint.
Coleman had a large map of the city pinned to the wall and a telescoping aluminum pointer that he toyed with constantly, pulling it in and out. Now he tapped the map authoritatively.
"Colonel Josten, please feel free to jump in at any time. We've simplified the plan since our last meeting. It was just too dangerous to have the Klan and the Guard facing each other, with the niggers in between. We are going to form up here"—he tapped a large red A located just northwest of Adams Field, the commercial airport—"this is the old football field on the edge of darkytown, where the Storm Klanners and the Klan will muster.