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Telephoned warnings were routine in Evers' life. "I've had a number of threatening calls," he said. "People calling me saying they were going to kill me, saying they were going to blow my home up, that I only had a few hours to live. I remember one individual calling with a pistol on the other end, and he hit the cylinder, and of course you could hear that it was a revolver. He said, 'This is for you.' And I said, 'Well, whenever my time comes, I'm ready.' "
Born in Decatur, Miss., Evers was raised in black ignominy. When he was 14, one of his father's closest friends was shot and killed because he was accused of insulting a white woman. The man's clothing lay in a field for months afterward. "I used to see the clothes when I went hunting," Evers recalled. "I can close my eyes and still see them."
Among Mississippi Negroes, the anger over Evers' murder coiled like a snake. Thirteen ministers began a silent walk, one by one, at widely spaced intervals toward city hall. To Jackson's cops, this was just another protest march—and up came the paddy wagons to haul the marchers off. Next day, the cops rushed a group standing on a porch, clubbed some Negroes, grabbed a white man, throttled him with a billy club, kicked and beat him till blood gushed from his wounds. A day later, Negro youngsters again moved down the street in ones and twos, carrying tiny American flags (it was Flag Day). They, too, were blocked by police, relieved of their flags, and carried off to a hog-wire compound.
Something Snapped. By Saturday morning, all was peaceful again in Jackson. The crowd that filled the Masonic Hall for Evers' funeral service was well behaved. When it was over, the Negroes lined up to form a cortege behind the coffin, walked 20 blocks to a funeral home. It was one march that Jackson's white city fathers had given the Negroes leave to make.
Then something snapped. Standing in front of the funeral home, a small group of Negroes began to sing. "Before I'll be a slave," they chanted, "I'll be buried in my grave and go home to my Lord." Other Negroes joined in. "No more killin' here, no more killin' over here." Soon a whole chorus of swaying, hand-clapping people was sobbing, "No more Jim Crow over here, over here; I'm dead before I'd be a slave."
Somebody began running. "Don't run! Don't run!" shouted a man. A woman cried "Freedom!" And then the mob was off, racing toward the downtown section of the city. They got as far as the first intersection. There, cops waited with dogs, tear-gas guns and rifles. As the mob spilled toward the police, the people yelled, "Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!" The cops rushed the crowd. One dog leaped for a woman. Screams tore through the air as the police grabbed the woman and carried her down the street.
From every direction, patrol cars with singing sirens poured into the area. Firemen wearing their full gear pulled up with a truck and got ready to use their hoses. The cops barricaded the streets. Pushing, clubbing, shoving, cursing, they beat their way through the throngs, filled their paddy wagons with the Negroes and drove them off to jail.