The Resounding Cry

Birmingham belonged to outsiders last week. They kept the peace--a surly, smoldering lull that fooled no one. State policemen, who had rushed into town to club down rioting Negroes at dawn on Mother's Day, still patrolled the streets, armed with carbines, pistols and shotguns. At any sign of unrest, they stomped about shouting threats, shoving Negroes into doorways and menacingly snapping the safety catches off their weapons. They were 700 strong, ordered into town by Governor George C. Wallace, a militant segregationist who seemed to be spoiling for a fight.

The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., the Atlanta integration leader who started the massive Birmingham demonstrations six weeks ago, pleaded for peace in a pilgrimage through Negro district pool halls. Facing embarrassed pool sharks, he said, "We want to thank you for taking time off from your pool game to listen to us. We must make it clear that it is possible to fight against all this evil without having to resort to violence." And at another meeting. King shouted: "Violence is immoral, but not only that--violence is impractical."

Other Negro leaders were on hand too. Jeremiah X, Georgia torchbearer for the militant Black Muslim organization, paused in a recruiting drive generated by the Birmingham riots to sneer at King's passive approach to integration: "King's movement is just a form of sophisticated begging. We are not a violent movement, but we do not believe in getting our heads kicked in, either. Black people have been dying for nothing all these years--now it's time for them to die for something." Jackie Robinson and Floyd Patterson were in town for a day. They made a couple of angry speeches, then flew North again without getting too deeply embroiled in the Birmingham bitterness. Said Robinson on departing: "I'm a firm believer in letting the pros do the job."

"Bayonet Brotherhood." On the other side, white pros did their job with anguished cries. Mayor Arthur Hanes complained about "bayonet brotherhood." He was infuriated by President Kennedy's order--sending 3,000 troops to Army bases near Birmingham after the Mother's Day bombings. The President had said, "This Government will do whatever must be done to preserve order, to protect the lives of its citizens, and to uphold the law of the land."

Governor Wallace, arguing insistently that his state cops could keep order in Birmingham, filed suit with the U.S. Supreme Court, charged that Kennedy's action was "unconstitutional and void." Said little ex-boxer brought the action only hours before he went to Muscle Shoals, Ala., to meet the President, on a tour to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the Tennessee Valley Authority.

Wallace's suit seemed doomed, for as the Justice Department pointed out earlier in the week, the President had every right to move troops to any base he wished --simply because he is Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces. And, being in Alabama, they offered not only a physical force for keeping the peace, but--possibly more important--a psychological boost for Birmingham's embattled Negroes. A top Administration official said: "The Negroes have to feel there will be hope for them and that an effort is being made. We would hope for that at the local level. But if it doesn't come that way, it'll have to come from the Federal Government."

Little came from the local level in Birmingham. Because of a court fight over who would run the city for the next two years, there was no political leadership to speak of. Mayor-elect Albert Boutwell, a relative racial moderate, said little and did less, partly because he feared overt actions might prejudice the State Supreme Court against him while the justices pondered whether Boutwell or racist Public Safety Commissioner Eugene ("Bull") Connor would rule Birmingham.

Sour Triumph. Birmingham's business community had tried to fill the leadership vacuum. Under prodding from Justice Department lawyers in the city, a 77-man group called the Senior Citizens Committee had erected a fragile truce built on pallid promises to King's Negro negotiators. King hailed the agreement as a victory at first, promised to halt his demonstrations. Last week his triumph began to turn sour.

At first, the Senior Citizens would not allow themselves to be identified. They feared economic boycott, physical harm, social ostracism. Finally, persuaded that their anonymity was undercutting the agreement and endangering the uneasy peace, they relented--and turned out to be the city's bank presidents, real estate potentates, top-drawer lawyers and blue-ribbon businessmen who employ more than half of Birmingham's labor force. The Senior Citizens promised that seven downtown stores would be desegregated, then admitted they were not yet decided about which one would do it first. According to King, they also promised that several downtown stores would hire several Negro clerks. But last week, as the Senior Citizens recalled it, they had pledged only that one store would hire one Negro clerk. At week's end, Martin Luther King, obviously disappointed, would only say that he would try to hold off further demonstrations until it was clear exactly what the white men had meant to promise.

But no matter how unsettled and unsatisfied Birmingham seemed, the Negroes' cry had carried far--and clear. In Greensboro, N.C., hundreds of Negroes went to jail because they wanted to integrate theaters and cafeterias. In Nashville, 200 Negroes battled with whites after they demanded that restaurants and hotels be integrated. In Chicago, hundreds of Negroes rioted against two dozen carloads of cops after a teenage Negro burglary suspect was shot and wounded by police. In Jackson, Miss.. Negro leaders called for mass demonstrations if businessmen refused to discuss an end to segregation. In Cambridge, Md., dozens of Negroes were jailed after they protested "intolerable discrimination." Everywhere, the Negro's push for equality was spreading.

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