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afternoon,
King called a mass meeting at theNew Pilgrim Baptist Church. Outside,
Bull Connor massed 50 policemen and a fire truck with water pressure cranked up to
700 Ibs. When the crowd of 1,000 poured out of the church just before dusk,
they lined up and marched toward the police. A police captain demanded their parade
permit. They had none. Seeing the fire hoses, they knelt in silence as
a Negro minister solemnly began to pray: "Let them turn their water on.
Let them use their dogs. We are not leaving. Forgive them, O Lord."
Suddenly, inexplicably, in a moment of overt mercy, Bull Connor waved
the Negroes through the police line. He allowed them 15 minutes of
hymns and prayer in a small park near the city jail; inside, behind
bars, hundreds of other Negroes could hear the singing. Returning to
the church, the demonstrators were told that Negro children would march
again next day—and should carry their toothbrushes with them to use in
jail.
The march began a few minutes past 1 o'clock, led by Comedian Dick
Gregory, from the 16th Street Baptist Church. When a policeman demanded
his parade permit. Gregory spoke softly—in contrast to his
wisecracking smart talk to cops during last month's Greenwood, Miss.,
voting registration demonstrations. Gregory and 18 teen-agers in his
protest platoon were herded into a paddy wagon. In squads of 20, 30,
and 40, more youngsters left the church, were shoved into paddy wagons
and taken to jail. Bull Connor arrived and yelled at a police captain:
"I told you these sons of bitches ought to be watered down." That
night, to shouts of "Amen, brother, amen," a King aide cried: "War has
been declared in Birmingham. War has been declared on segregation."
The Negro leaders intended it to be a particular, pacific kind of war.
King had preached Gandhi's nonviolent protest gospel ever since he
arrived in Birmingham. The demonstrations were meant to be an outgrowth
of the passive sit-ins and bus boycotts mounted in other Southern
cities. But not every Negro in Birmingham remained so placid before
Bull Connor's ferocity.
"Those Black Apes." So there was violence. It began shortly after noon
the next day. Connor's cops were relaxed, eating sandwiches and sipping
soft drinks. They were caught by surprise when the doors of the 16th
Street church were flung open and 2,500 Negroes swarmed out. The
Negroes surged across Kelly Ingram Park, burst through the police line,
and descended on downtown Birmingham. Yelling and singing, they charged
in and out of department stores, jostled whites on the streets,
paralyzed traffic.
Recovering, the police got reinforcements. Firemen hooked up their
hoses. Motorcycles and squad cars, sirens blaring, rushed into the
area. Two policemen grabbed a Negro, shoved him against a
storefront—and found themselves caught inside a glowering circle of
300 Negroes. A voice growled menacingly: "Let's free him." But
demonstration leaders quickly broke into the circle and managed to save
the policemen.
The riot ebbed—and then, an hour later, exploded again. In Kelly Ingram
Park, hundreds of Negroes began lobbing bricks and bottles at the
lawmen. A deputy sheriff fell to the pavement, shouting "Those black
apes!"
For two hours, the battle raged, but slowly, inexorably, in trucks and
cars, the police closed in on the
