I stumbled down the dark hallway to where a light came through an open door, and was met by Dr. Heartwell, who clasped me warmly by the hand and led me inside, still holding tightly to my hand. There were three other Negro men in the room, and they sat around two card tables that had been pushed together, on metal folding chairs. A gray-haired Negro woman, who was wearing a heavy cloth coat with an unidentifiable fur collar, despite the heat, sat to one side of the conference table. Both of her shoes had been slit at the great toe, and large bunions protruded through the gaps.
Dr. Heartwell introduced me to the other ministers present, and they each solemnly shook my hand. Evidently, this was a grave, clandestine meeting, and I kept my voice lowered to the same conspiratorial pitch as the rest of them. I was wary of this holy little group. My experience with ministers had been limited to a few Unitarian sermons years ago, to my recent contact with Abbott Dover, and to the brief meeting earlier that afternoon with Dr. Heartwell. The good bald Abbott at Orangeville had stated that all ministers were phoneys, or words to that effect. In a way, he had reaffirmed my own personal opinion of this profession, and my own actions, sermons, and activity since getting my own church had really convinced me. I was a phoney minister, but none of the laymen I had met could tell the difference. Could these four intelligent looking Negro ministers tell the difference? Or were they phoney too?
Dr. Heartwell sat at the head of the low tables. Seated next to him, was the minister of the Afro-American Christian Church, a neat wiry man with a thin pinched face and no lips. His name was Dr. Harry David. Across the table from Dr. David sat the Right Reverend Jason McCroy, Pastor of the Church of the Divine Spirit. He was a heavy-jowled man of forty-odd, wearing a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on a black cord attached to the lapel of a black frock coat. When he talked he punctuated the end of each sentence with a thump of his forefinger on the card table.
Opposite me was the last minister of the Colored Church League, a young Negro in his twenties with a face the color of faded yellow parchment. A thin wisp of a black mustache rode his wide upper lip like a wet and clinging dust mote. He had the simple title of Reverend Warren Hutto and was without a church of his own. Dr. Heartwell had introduced him as his assistant, and "my good right arm."
Dr. Heartwell drummed on the card table with his fingers. "We don't know what exactly will come from this meeting, Reverend Springer, but before we start, I want you to listen to Mrs. Bessie Langdale's story. We have all heard it; she is a member of my church in good standing, and her story is truthful"
It was a sad story. Bessie told it hesitantly, and once she cried for a few moments before she could continue. Bessie had gone downtown that morning to buy some material to make drapes for her oldest married daughter. She hadn't been able to find what she wanted and she had gone everywhere under the sun, walking all over town. She had picked up a few toys for her grandson, Robert, in Kresses, and then she had waited for the bus. After her exhausting day in town, she had been lucky enough to find a seat on the bus next to the window. Now the seat was in the back, but not all of the way to the back. But this was all right at first. Negroes sit from the rear to the front and white people sit from the front to the rear. After a few stops, however, the bus began to get crowded, and a white man wanted to sit in the empty aisle seat. According to law, the white man had priority on seating, and was not allowed to sit beside a Negro. The bus driver had said to her, "Get up Auntie, this gentleman wants to sit down." Bessie was very tired and she didn't know what made her do such a thing because it wasn't like her at all. She was a Christian, God-fearing, law-abiding woman, and she had followed the law and had done right for all of her sixty-three years on God's green earth. But it just didn't seem right. Here was this empty seat, going to waste, and she would have to stand up, tired as she was, so this white man could sit down. Maybe, if there hadn't been that empty seat going to waste, she would have got up when the bus driver told her to, but the thought of giving up her seat when it wasn't necessary had just been too much for a body to take. She had told the driver, "No. I won't get up!" Everything had happened so fast then she could hardly recollect what did happen. The driver stopped, a policeman dragged her out of the seat, and shoved her into a police car, and she was booked at the police station. She was supposed to appear in court the next morning for committing a misdemeanor and disturbing the peace.
That was the story and it took Bessie some time to tell it.
It was obviously the truth. I believed it. But what did they want me to do?
"Did they give you your bus fare back, Mrs. Langdale?" I asked.
"No, sir! Nothin'."
"I have no further questions." I sat back in my chair and lit a cigarette. Smoking displeased Dr. Harry David; I could tell by his eyes.
"Gentlemen," Dr. Heartwell began to make a speech, "this isn't a very pretty story. It is an ugly story—"
"Are you beginning the official meeting, Dr. Heartwell?" I interrupted.
"Yes, I am." He sounded annoyed.
"Then don't you gentlemen believe it would be well to start with a short prayer? I'm certain we'll all feel better with God."
"An excellent idea," chimed in Dr. David, with sharp, clipped syllables.
"All right," Dr. Heartwell said. "Dear God, Omnipotent Master with infinite wisdom, may You guide our thoughts and words this evening, and provide us with Your wisdom. For Yours is the power and the glory forever and forever, Amen. And it is a story that happens daily in Jax and in every southern city that knows the yoke of oppression, where brother does not recognize brother. We have all listened to Mrs. Langdale's story about the harsh treatment she received today, and as far as I am concerned, this is the breaking point. Something must be done." She sat down.
"What, exactly," I asked, "will happen to Mrs. Langdale when she goes to court tomorrow morning?"
"I can answer that," Reverend McCroy said. "The misdemeanor charge will be dropped, and she'll probably be fined ten dollars for disturbing the peace. Since the Supreme Court decision in our favor, the judges invariably change the charge to something other than a Jim Crow law." He thumped the card table with his thick forefinger.
"If it is money," I said, "I can certainly chip in a few dollars for her fine. But I believe you have something else in mind."
"Yes, we do." Dr. Heartwell said. "We were discussing the situation before you came, Reverend Springer. We were thinking that perhaps Mrs. Langdale should go to jail rather than pay her fine."
"That's great," I laughed, "just great! What will that accomplish for Mrs. Langdale? She'll spend ten days in jail cooking greens and grits for prisoners, and then she'll be released. From that time on there will be a jail record on file against this good woman for disturbing the peace. Is that what you want, gentlemen?"
"There is wisdom in your supposition, Reverend Springer," Dr. David said, "but don't you believe that some kind of moral protest is in order? Without publicity, we will never have our rights. The Supreme Court is on our side, but—"
"The Supreme Court is on everybody's side," I said flatly. "No, gentlemen, you won't achieve anything by letting Mrs. Langdale cook for the jailbirds. If you want to sacrifice someone to a cause, sacrifice yourselves! I'm with you. The Church of God's Flock believes that the white man and the black man can and will love one another if they are only given the chance. And as the pastor of the Church of God's Rock I am willing to fight for this belief. Let us take a lesson from some of the other southern cities that have won the bus segregation fight. It takes time. It takes money. It takes patience. And it takes love. No violence. Patient, passive resistance. You have an organization here called the Colored Church League. This name doesn't inspire me to resist anything, and it won't inspire anybody else either. Let's form a new group right now and call it the League For Love! We can appoint Mrs. Langdale as the honorary president, and have her speak at each Negro church in Jax, night after night. If they'll stand for it, we can have her make the same talk to the white churches in J
ax. To start off tomorrow with some publicity and a protest, all of us—Dr. Heartwell, Dr. David, Reverend McCroy, Reverend Hutto and myself—we'll ride the same bus and we'll sit in front. We won't move, and we'll let them arrest us. Tonight, right after this meeting, I can call the morning newspaper and announce our intentions. They'll print it because a protest by the major colored church ministers is news. The League For Love, gentlemen! And then, following our arrests, we'll organize a bus boycott right in this room. Organize car pools, assign the drivers, collect the funds and donations, organize nightly meetings in first one church and then another. But the key, gentlemen, is non-violence!"
I sat back. If these ministers were phoneys, and I believed they were, there would be some adroit hedgehopping in about one second. There was a dead silence around the table.
"I am fifty-three years old," Dr. David said quietly, "and I have a weak heart—"
"One out!" I laughed.
"But I am willing to spend the rest of my life in jail if it will help end segregation." Dr. David stared at me, and continued to speak in a clipped, quiet voice. "You are a white man, Reverend Springer, and you have nothing to lose in this fight. But you speak well, you think fast, and we need a man like you. I think your plan has merit. But despite your talk of nonviolence, there will be violence. Can we risk it? We are a hot-blooded race, and southern white men have generations of prejudice on their side. We both—white and black—believe we are right. However, if we can get our people to turn the other cheek regardless of bloody heads, beatings, bombings and other violence, which will come, believe me, we shall win this fight. I'll cast my vote for your plan, Reverend Springer."
"I am willing to take a protest bus ride tomorrow," Reverend McCroy stated, with an angry laugh. "And a few days in jail or a ten dollar fine won't hurt me very much. But what about you, Reverend Springer? They won't arrest you. You're a white man and you can choose any bus seat you desire."
"I was expecting that. I am morally obligated to ride the bus. I have an all-Negro church, and I love every member of my flock. To insure that I go to jail with you all, you merely have to tell the arresting officer that I put you up to it. That will qualify me, I believe, as a disturber of the peace."
"I don't think we have to do that," Dr. Heartwell protested.
"I insist," I said firmly. "I take it then, that you also approve of the plan, Dr. Heartwell?"
"Yes. Why not? I don't have an alternate plan to offer, and right now I'm rather ashamed of myself to even think that I proposed to let Mrs. Langdale languish in jail, and fight our fight for us."
"Don't worry about me, Dr. Heartwell," Mrs. Langdale said spiritedly. "I'll do anything you say. If you want me to ride the bus with you all in the morning, I'll go to jail too."
"No, Mrs. Langdale," I shook my head. "You'll be an excellent symbol and president for the League For Love. Go ahead down in the morning and pay your fine. Don't say anything to anybody, and we'll make the arrangements for the church meeting here tomorrow night." I turned to Dr. Heartwell who was frowning bleakly at the wall. "You have the largest church, but we can use mine instead. It's up to you."
"Sorry," Dr. Heartwell said, "my mind was way off somewhere. Certainly we'll use our church here, and we'll all take turns speaking—if we aren't in jail."
"At the least," I said, "you'll all be out on bail. But we haven't heard from Reverend Hutto yet. What's your opinion, Reverend?"
"Dr. Heartwell speaks for me," Hutto said, fingering the smudge on his lip.
"No," I said emphatically. "You speak for yourself here. Do you want to go along or not?"
"It doesn't make any difference to me," Hutto shrugged. "I'd just as soon go as not. But somebody's got to contact a lawyer, answer the telephone here, and start rounding up an audience for the evening meeting, get some music ready, decorate the church, have some banners made on this League For Love business, and—"
"Whoa!" I laughed. "You've got quite an assistant there, Dr. Heartwell."
"I think so," Dr. Heartwell agreed, smiling fondly at his associate.
"All right, Reverend Hutto," I continued. "I believe we can spare you, and there is a lot to do. Does everybody agree?"
Both Dr. David and the Rt. Rev. McCroy nodded.
"I'll need some paper and a pencil then." I smiled at Reverend Hutto.
"I have a pad right here—"
"Then take this down verbatim, so I can 'phone it in to the newspaper." I began to dictate: "Yesterday, because of two sore bunions, segregation on busses ended forever in Jax, Florida, according to the Right Reverend Deuteronomy Springer, Pastor of the First Church of God's Rock. When a God-fearing, Christian woman of sixty-three years of age is made to stand up on a bus because a white man wants to sit down, it is time for the ministers of the gospel to end such evil—" There was more of the same. A lot more.
Chapter Nine
The next morning at seven-thirty, tired and sleepy after a long session with my fellow ministers of the League For Love, talking, talking, talking, I waited patiently at a city bus stop at the corner of Lee and Broadway in downtown Jax. This was the point where we were to meet and while I waited for the other ministers I talked to the combination reporter-photographer assigned to the story by the Jax Daily Advertiser.
"How come you want to get mixed up with all these niggers, Reverend? I'm really interested, because I can't see it." A Speed Graflex dangling from this right hand, a cigarette dangling from his lip, and coarse straw-colored hair dangling over his damp forehead, the Advertiser man was working hard to look like a reporter. Both of the patch pockets of his gray Palm Beach jacket were bulging with flashbulbs, and he had loosened his blue-and-red handpainted necktie and the collar of his shirt to create a careless effect. He had only succeeded in looking sloppy. He was about twenty-six or seven and it was quite evident that he had shaved his sharp, inquisitive face that morning with an electric razor. You can always tell.
"Why do you ask—off the record, or for publication?" I countered.
"I was just wondering." He shrugged, a slow, exaggerated gesture; spat the cigarette into the gutter without touching it with his hands. "I'm used to this race business. I'm not from this hick town; I'm from Atlanta. This stuff wouldn't go in Atlanta. We know how to keep niggers in their place up there."
"And what, exactly, is their place?"
"They're black apes, Reverend, That's all. All any of 'em are interested in is a bottle of gin and a place to lay down. They all got one big ambition though, and that's to rape a white woman. That's why you got to keep 'em down. Lazy, good-for-nothing apes! The only thing a nigger really understands is a good swift kick in the ass."
"I don't agree, Mr. Ames."
"You're from the North, that's why." He spat into the street. "I could spot that accent as soon as you started talkin'."
"I don't have an accent."
"That's what I mean. Go ahead, Reverend, get mixed up with these people. Wait till you've lived down here as long as I have. I know 'em. You can't love a nigger. They won't let you. You're white and they're black, and the two colors don't mix. My daddy had a nigger servant for twenty years. Treated him like a king. My daddy thought more of that old nigger than he did of us kids. Well, you may not believe this, but it's true. Daddy had a stroke, paralyzed the whole right side of his body and he couldn't talk. We all thought it was fine that we had old John to look after Daddy and all. He had to be treated like a baby, couldn't do nothin' for himself. Know what that nigger did?"
"How would I know what he did?"
"Daddy was layin' there paralyzed and old John knocked out his gold inlays and sold them for old gold! That's right. We wouldn't never have found out about it if the pawnbroker hadn't got suspicious and called the house. Mama went down and identified 'em and they were Daddy's inlays all right. That's how John repaid my daddy's love. How would you like to be paralyzed and have somebody come along and knock the gold right out of your teeth?"
"I don't think I'd like it, Mr. Ames.
By the way, when you go back to the paper, I want you to give my thanks to the editor for the fine coverage he gave the story this morning."
"Okay, Reverend, I'll do that little thing. I can see I'm not gettin' through to you." Ames moved away and leaned against a lamp post. "The Advertiser is goin' to feel pretty bad about runnin' that story if them nigger preachers don't show up for the bus ride." He laughed heartily, choked up a gob of yellow phlegm and spat into the gutter. "I doubt if they will show up. You show me a nigger and I'll show you a coward."
Ames was wrong. Dr. Heartwell drove up a few moments later in a big 1939 Buick town car and parked across the street. While Ames maintained his position at the lamp post I crossed the street and joined Reverend Heartwell at the parking meter. He squeezed two nickels into the spring slot.
"Good morning, Reverend Springer," he greeted me, smiling. "Do you think two hours will be enough?"
"I really don't know. But why take a chance? Put in a quarter."
As they climbed out of the car I greeted them: Dr. David, Reverend McCroy, and Tommy Heartwell, Dr. Heartwell's giant-sized son, the man who had lifted me off my feet for inspection the night before in the basement of the church. We gathered together in a small cluster to go over the plans one more time.
"Tommy wanted to come along too," Dr. Heartwell explained. "I tried to discourage him, but he insisted."
"There might be some trouble," Tommy grinned broadly, grinding the knuckles of his huge right fist into the palm of his left hand. "And just in case there is, I'd like to get me in a couple of good licks."
"No!" I said sharply. "That's exactly what we don't want. One tiny spark of violence on our part, and we will lose before the start. The entire theme of our campaign is love! Turn the other cheek."
The Black Mass of Brother Springer Page 10