In the brief instant when Jenks was slipping his robe over his head, Boggs sidled up to Gann and whispered something, of which Gann caught only the two words, they know. Who were 'they', and what did they know? It was something to do, most likely, with the bodies that had been discovered in Bittle's cabin. Boggs, not knowing Gann's reason for visiting the cabin, must have been wondering what the connection was between his visit and the two murders. But Gann was hardly in a position to explain to him that it was not a sinister connection.
When all three men were in their robes, they started off towards the bus station. Whenever Jenks could not see him, Boggs would make exaggerated faces and point at him—or at the gun that was now concealed beneath his robes. Gann didn't know what to make of his behaviour. They arrived at the bus station just as the Grand Dragon was saying, 'You! White woman! Come here!' 'Jesus Christ,' Boggs said, in a tone more reverent than profane. 'Will you look at that?'
'What?' Gann's view was blocked by another Klansman's tall hat.
'At that angel from heaven! I'd swear it was her, except that I know she must be an old woman by now. But, glory, she's the spit-and-image of her!'
'Of who?'
'Of that girl I told you about in Birth of a Nation, the one who threw herself off a cliff to escape being raped by that nigger. Mae Marsh, her name was, and she was an angel of...' Pete gasped. 'No, he can't do that!'
It was then that Clara, being of the same opinion, actively prevented the Grand Dragon from striking the lovely angel from heaven, after which, as we know, was pure pandemonium. Pete fought his way to the front of the crowd of Klansmen, who seemed to be in some confusion whether to remove Clara from on top of their leader or to kick her to death then and there. It was then, too, that the busload of ministers and leaders of CORE arrived from Washington. The thirty of them, blacks and whites in nearly equal proportions, filed in through Gate 1, singing We shall Overcome. At first weak, the song grew in volume as the Negroes already in the station picked up the strain. Soon it quite dominated the room. Caught by surprise the shouters and screamers, the brawlers and kickers, stopped shouting, screaming, bawling, kicking.
When the song was ended, a Negro Minister (his face seemed strangely familiar to Gann; had he.seen it in newspapers?) walked forward in silence till he was stopped by the main body of the crowd of whites. 'May I pass through, please?' he said softly.
'Pass back to Washington, you black sonofabttch,' someone shouted, though it was no one standing immediately in his path. Gann could feel the violence in the air as tangible as rain. The other Klansmen, all but himself and Peter Boggs, had lowered their hoodwinks.
A group of Klansmen in red approached the Negro minister, encircling him. A boot flashed out from under a silk robe, aimed at the minister's crotch, but he sidestepped it neatly. Then, as if on signal, the entire group of Civil Rights workers sat down, huddling themselves in the familiar protective positions of foetuses. They took up their song once more with even greater emphasis and volume. In a moment the other Negroes in the station had joined in. The Caucasian mob, not to be outdone, began chanting: 'Two, four, six, eight! We don't want to integrate!' But their chant followed the rhythm set by the singers and served rather to accompany than to disrupt the hymn.
Peter Boggs approached Gann. 'It ain't right, Gann! Did you see him, did you see the Grand Dragon? He was going to hurt that sweet little thing! I couldn't believe my eyes. And these folks: what have they done that's so awful wrong? I don't understand what the Klan is for any more. Honest I don't. It ain't right! I guess I don't have to tell you though, do I?'
'Why?' Owen asked, bewildered by Boggs's outpouring.
'Well, 'cause you've known it was wrong all along.'
'I don't understand what you're talking about, Boggs.'
'Jesus Christ, what do I have to do to make you understand? You, of all people!' A light dawned in Peter Boggs's eyes: he had just realised what he had to do to make everyone understand.
Solemnly, with a full sense of the significance of the gesture, the old man pushed his way to the front of the crowd of Klansmen. Then, hiking up his white robe, he sat down alongside the Negro minister and joined in the singing.
Farron Stroud and a few others who knew Pete, laughed as if in anticipation of the punch-line of a joke, but when the song had droned on a while longer and they were still waiting they began to grow uneasy.
'Kladd Boggs!' Farron shouted. 'What do you think you're doing? Get on your feet, you son of a bitch, and shut your mouth with that singing.'
Negroes and whites were crowding around Boggs and the Negro minister to see the cause of this new excitement. For different reasons, laughter rippled through both mobs. A Negro youth sat down on the other side of Boggs, and soon others had joined him. Their voices took on a new, exultant note.
Gann felt sick. If it had been Pete's intention to set the crowd rioting once again, he could not have acted with more cunning. At this point, clearly, there was no remedy but the State Police. He looked about for the patrolman he had glimpsed when he'd entered the station. Now he was beyond the ticket windows, standing by a bank of phone booths at the very rear of the building. He ran over to him, self-conscious in his swirling silks.
'Have you called in more police?' he asked hopefully.
'Can't,' the policeman said smugly. 'Those niggers have cut the lines.'
'There's another booth outside, on the corner.'
'My job is to prevent nigger violence right here in this building. I can't go traipsing off now. That's just common sense.' Owen blushed with anger, though he'd expected no other answer than this.
'Besides,' the policeman went on confidentially, 'Farron Stroud told me to let him handle this, him and that big-wheel friend of his. So what can I do? Farron stands a good chance of being our next sheriff, of being my boss.'
Owen left the bus station by Gate 4, the rearmost exit, then circled it on the boarding platform, passing the two parked buses. He did not run for fear of attracting attention to himself —though he could hardly hope, wearing Klan regalia, to melt into the crowd.
Here outside the station, however, there were no crowds at all. Up and down the empty street flags and bunting flapped desultorily in the salt breeze—and that was all the activity there was.
'Where you going, Gann?' said the Knight-Hawk, Jenks, stepping out from behind a parked car. Caught downwind of him, Gann's impulse was to choke.
'I've gone ... I'm going to call the State Police. There's getting to be too many niggers around here. We're outnumbered. It isn't safe.' It was not, he had to admit to himself, very convincing.
'Is that so?' said Jenks, exhaling powerfully. 'Is that so? I think I'll come down to the corner with you, if you don't mind. With that robe on, you stand a good chance of getting in trouble yourself. But with me along ...' Jenks raised the barrel of the shotgun concealed beneath his robe ... you won't have anything to worry about.'
Owen felt uneasy about the Knight-Hawk's easy acquiescence. Outside the phone booth he lifted his robe and found a dime in his trousers pocket. Jenks took a position several feet from the glass door. He was peering up and down the empty street as though looking for someone ... or as though making sure no one was there.
Owen understood, too late, what Pete had been trying to tell him: they know. The Klan had found out that he had been spying on them. In fact, it had probably been Boggs who'd figured it out. And when the Klan found itself betrayed there was little question how they would deal with the traitor.
At the double tinkle of the dime entering the coin-box, Jenks stiffened like a Pavlovian log. He lowered the shotgun barrel till it pointed at the sidewalk rather than at Gann, who quickly dialled O for Operator. Jenks seemed to regard the telephone as a potential witness to the murder he was about to commit.
'Operator,' said the operator.
'Operator, I want to be connected with the State Police,' he said. This is an emergency—please connect me directly.'
After a very
short pause a male voice drawled, 'State Police, Norfolk. Sergeant Bradford here.'
'Hello, this is Owen Gann. I am an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.' Gann and Jenks exchanged wintry smiles. 'And I want to report a race riot at the Green Line bus station in Norfolk.'
'Fine. We'll check into that.'
'Check into it!' he echoed indignantly.
He was about to read the riot act to Sergeant Bradford when he saw his chance for escaping from Jenks. A Buick turned the corner sharply and stopped only a few yards away, double-parking. Owen hung up the phone, and Jenks took a step forward but without raising the shotgun. The driver got out of the car and walked towards the bus station. He glanced over his shoulder at the two Klansmen curiously, an ironic smile playing on his lips. At first, because he was not wearing his toupee, Gann did not recognise him. When he did he swore.
'You can say that again,' said Jenks.
Gann set off after Roderick Raleigh, intending to question him. Perhaps the man was still trying to get his daughter back from the kidnappers. Or perhaps (as his disappearance and the double murder in Bittle's cabin made it seem more and more probable), he was one of the kidnappers. In either case...
'Where do you think you're going?' Jenks asked.
'I've got to follow that man,' Owen replied, not without a sense of how ridiculous he sounded.
Jenks laughed odorously. 'You ain't going to do nuthin, Owen Gann, except get killed.'
Chapter 20
Another car rounded the corner and Jenks lowered the shotgun, commanding Gann to stay just where he was. This car double-parked behind the Buick, and four uniformed men got out, State Police. Gann, it seemed, had not been the only one to phone for them.
One trooper, in Air Force sunglasses, approached Gann and Jenks. 'All right, all right, all right, what's going on here?'
This man...' Gann explained, over-riding Jenks' growl. This man has just threatened to kill me. He's concealing an illegal weapon beneath that robe.'
That's no surprise. Okay, Goblin, hand it over.' Swearing restrainedly, Jenks surrendered the sawn-off shotgun to the state trooper. 'That's what you call yourselves, isn't it?' he jeered, once the gun was safely in his possession. 'Goblins and dragons and wizards? Chrahst, if you want to know the truth, you Klansmen are a bigger pain than all the niggers in this state put together. Come on, come on, let's look for the little black wagon. I'll tell you something, Goblin: I don't exactly love niggers—come on! —-but I sure as hell don't love you bastards. Shooting people. Inciting to riots. Running around dressed up like a bunch of goddam fairies. Chrahst!'
Once again Owen set off after Roderick, who had entered the station.
'And where do you think you're going, little friend?' the trooper asked.
'Excuse me, Officer. I took it for granted that you understood I'm not a Klansman. As this man can assure you, I'm an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.'
'And he is too, I suppose? Or did he come from the Attorney-General's office?'
'C.I.A.,' said Jenks.
'Officer, this man was on the point of killing me the moment you arrived. He had found out, you see, about my ...'
'I believe it, I believe it,' the trooper said, snapping open a pair of handcuffs.
'It's true. There's a man in that bus station I must find now. He may be dangerous. That's his car, that Buick. He's wanted by the police for questioning.'
'Come along now, the both of you.'
'Officer, here—these are my credentials. Look.'
'Chrahst, what we have to put up with from you bastards!'
'This is my badge.'
'And this is mine, wise guy. If you want to be booked for resisting arrest on top of everything else ...'
'On top of what else? Name one reason for arresting me.'
The trooper took off his sunglasses and stared at Gann. 'Well, Jee-sus Chrahst Almighty! Nobody's ever going to believe this.'
Owen could see it was useless. He let himself be led off to the wagon, handcuffed to Jenks, who was enjoying himself immensely.
In the commotion that the mad Klansman had caused by sitting down beside the coloured minister, Bessy had been able to get Clara out of the bus station, but Clara was not in any condition, with her head bashed and bloody, to be carried farther, nor was Bessy, wheezing and dizzy, in any condition to carry her. She and Fay laid Clara down on the concrete of the boarding platform.
'Oh Lord!' said Bessy, glancing in through the glass door of the station. 'It's him, it's that F.B.I, man—and he's talking to a cop.' For a moment she considered sending Alice to him, but she feared that the girl, despite the promise she had made, would betray her for she knew, from long experience with Fay, how easily a child can turn traitor, or simply forget. 'Come along, Fay, Dinah—we got to get moving again.'
'Moving where? Fay asked petulantly. I think you've forgotten all about the circus.'
'On to that bus.' She reached up and pulled at the chromed bump protruding from the side of the bus, and the door opened. Alice scampered in; then, all three of them groaning— Clara in pain, Bessy from the exertion, and Fay imitatively— she and Fay hoisted Clara to the long seat at the back of the bus. It was a touring bus, the back seats being raised a few steps above those in front, and they could not be seen by anybody on the platform.
'Are we going on a trip now?' Fay asked.
Bessy nodded.
'But you forgot our suitcases.'
Bessy reached into her bosom to touch the money Roderick had given her, wedged securely into her bra. She smiled. 'We don't have to worry about those suitcases, honey. We got
enough other things to worry us.'
Clara groaned. Kneeling beside her with difficulty (why did they made the aisles of a bus so narrow?) Bessy felt her pulse. It seemed faint and rapid. Was that a good sign? She could not remember what Feminine Hygiene had said to do in cases like this.
'I want a drink of water,' said Fay loudly. 'I want a...'
Bessy clamped a hand over her mouth. 'Hush, child! We got to stay here sitting on the floor and be quiet as mice until them men that hurt Clara go away. Dinah, that goes for you too.'
'But I want a drink,' Fay whispered.
'We'll just have to wait,' Alice counselled, whispering too. 'But now, here's your baby. She's thirsty, too, you know.' Alice handed Fay the plastic doll. Fay began to nurse it, cooing.
The bus grew hot. It smelled of sweat and dust and cigarette butts, but Bessy feared to open a window. More to calm herself than to ease Clara, she began wiping the blood from her face with a handkerchief. There were several deep cuts. Alice, watching this, started to cry. Lord, Bessy thought, in another minute I'm going to he crying myself.
Outside there was a shriek of sirens. A new hubbub broke out in the station. The sun, approaching noonday, beat down through the tinted rear window of the bus. It got hot as hell.
I'm going straight down to hell when I die, she thought, and I'll deserve it. And what was the price of my soul? The vanity of a bronze casket and a marble stone. A lot of consolation they'll be when I'm burning in hellfire. Vanity of vanities!
She pushed herself up to her knees and started praying for all she was worth. There really wasn't anything else she could do.
Alice, embarrassed, turned to look out of the window. There were people swarming all about the bus. In the midst of them was her father. He was searching through the crowd—for her, certainly.
She knew she should hide herself down on the floor of the bus but she stayed at the window, fascinated with horror. At last, he noticed her there.
Smiling, he beckoned for her to come out of the bus.
The demonstrators were herded, against their protests, back into the bus. Those who refused to leave the station of their own volition were carried on. A state policeman rode in front beside the driver. He was to stay on the bus with them till they
reached the Virginia-Maryland line. At the last possible moment, as the bus was pulling out, the
police stopped it and helped Peter Boggs, still in his Klan robe, to board it.
'But this man has been injured,' the minister protested.
If he stays in this station he'll probably be injured a lot worse,' the policeman explained. 'For his own sake, you'd better take him with you. Besides, he's the one that insists on going with you. You can leave him—and anyone else who's been badly hurt—at the state patrol emergency aid station, just the other side of the tunnel. But the rest of you people are going back to Washington, and it won't do you any good hollering about it.'
'We'll take you to court on this, I promise you.'
'Right. And you'll owe it to us, mister, that you'll be alive to go to court. Good-bye, Reverend.'
Leaving the city, the bus stopped and started with unwonted abruptness. No doubt the driver was expressing thereby his own protest at being pressed into service. At the fifth wrenching halt, Clara's eyes opened. 'What the hell?' she said.
'It's okay, Clara,' Bessy said, touching her hand. 'We're taking you to a first-aid station. You rest now. You're going to be all right.'
'Shit,' said Clara, her voice almost girlishly weak. She closed her eyes.
The young white couple in the seat ahead of them turned round to peer over their headrests. 'How is she, do you think?' the girl asked.
Bessy shook her head. She didn't want to talk to the demonstrators, fearful lest they discover that she was not one of them.
'They could have got her a doctor right at the bus station,' the girl said indignantly. 'She might die before we're able to get her to the emergency aid station.'
'Like Bessie Smith,' the boy added.
'It's shocking,' said the girl.
'But even so, you have to admit that the cops treat you better here than they do in Georgia, for instance. Americus was bad news.'
'What about Selma?' the girl asked.
'Man,' said the boy. 'Yeah, Selma.'
Though both were clearly Northerners, their accent was strangely hard to place. As they went on comparing notes on the jails they'd visited, Bessy began to get the paranoid suspicion that they were making fun of her own thicker speech.
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