CHAPTER 26

When Sam walked into the First Baptist Church sanctuary on Sunday morning, he could not help looking around for Becky. He had thought about what she said at the football game and he knew she was right. People would talk, kids would hear, and they would tease Billy. Gran would have a fit, too, and while that mattered less, it was hard to dismiss. Still, he could not get Becky out of his mind.

He continued to look for her as he headed for his customary seat, and as he moved up the aisle he could hear that most folks who were not talking about the Strong game were talking about the cross burning. Becky was not there and Sam, disappointed, slid in beside Billy and Mary Jane.

As soon as Brother Byrd took his seat on the podium in front of the choir, folks could tell he was more wound up than usual. His tan suit was rumpled, his brown tie was crooked, sweat was beading on his forehead, and he looked grim, like he had just preached a funeral. His manner did not change when he went to the pulpit after the opening organ music. Instead of the usual fast-paced, bright-shining-light songs, he led the congregation in slow, God-the-Father hymns about Christian love. By the time he got to the second one, people were exchanging glances about the change in routine. Even children noticed the difference.

“Isn’t the choir gon’ sing?” Billy whispered to Sam.

When Byrd finally put down his hymnal, he picked up his Bible and in a soft voice read his texts for the day. “Listen to First John, chapter four, verses twenty and twenty-one,‘If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?’And listen to Luke, chapter three, verse fourteen,‘Do violence to no man.’”

Some in the congregation started squirming in their seats, afraid of where their pastor might be headed. A few started getting hot under the collar.

For a moment after he finished reading, Byrd stood dead still, looking down at his open Bible. Then slowly he raised his head, looked out over the worshipers, and seemed to stare every one of them straight in the eyes.

“I am not an integrationist,” he said, still speaking in a quiet, even tone, “but something vile happened in this community this week. And I’m here to tell you,” he said, louder now, eyes glaring, “that it does not please the Lord!” Then “No!” he shouted, and banged his fist on the pulpit. “It does not please Him!”

“Amen!” Hollis Cook roared from over in the corner on the second row. The church’s oldest deacon had dozed off during the scripture reading and his startled cry added to the congregation’s growing unease.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe about segregation or integration, about Brown v. Board of Education, about Little Rock Central High School, or about Orval Faubus,” Byrd said. He moved to the other side of the pulpit and pointed at his audience. “Desecrating a place of worship is a despicable act. It’s an act of hatred. It’s an act of violence. And it’s a sin in the eyes of God!”

Now, even more church members were looking around. Byrd could tell they did not like what he was saying but he kept going.

“I don’t know who burned that cross on those church grounds over in the quarters,” he said, walking around the pulpit again, “and who it was doesn’t really matter. What matters,” he shouted, “is that it was done out of hate!”Then, lowering his voice to a loud whisper, he said, “It was done to hurt and intimidate. What matters is how you respond to it. What matters is what you feel in your hearts. What matters is what happens next in our community because of it.”

The preacher stepped off the podium, walked up to the front row of pews, and said in full voice, “People, we need to heed the words of the apostles. We need to love our brothers and do violence to no man.” He paused, seemed to look everyone in the eyes again, remounted the podium, and shouted, “We need to obey the word of the Lord!”

By the time he finished, nearly everyone in the congregation was fidgeting, rolling up their bulletins, playing with their hands, or staring at him in disbelief. To many, his benediction, delivered as usual after he walked to the rear of the church, was as shocking as his sermon. He asked God’s “blessings and protection for our fellow Christians in the Mt. Zion Baptist Church.”Afterward, as he stood at the front door to greet people as they left, many worshipers stuck out their hands without speaking or looking up. Some tried to slip through unnoticed. Others avoided him altogether by leaving through the education wing in the back.

At Mt. Zion, everyone expected their minister to preach about the cross burning. Like always, Reverend Moseley started his service with prayer and devotional singing. Today, he chose hymns to remind his congregation of the importance of the cross of Jesus. B. J. Long and Pete Jones lined out the words of “The Old Rugged Cross,” always a favorite, and the worshipers sang about someday exchanging their cares for a crown in heaven. Next came “Burdens Are Lifted at Calvary,” “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” and “At the Cross,” about having faith in God to lift life’s burdens.

When the mood was right for preaching, Moseley, in black suit and tie, walked to his homemade pulpit and read from Psalm 147, “The Lord lifteth up the meek; He casteth the wicked down to the ground.”Then he turned to the book of Matthew, chapter five, and read from Jesus’s well-loved Sermon on the Mount, “Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit the earth,” and “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”

Cries of “Amen!” and “Praise Jesus!” rang out all through the reading and continued as the pastor told his listeners they should not be afraid, because God would look out for them. “What y’all got to do,” he said, “is keep your eyes on the cross of Jesus. That’s the cross y’all want to be looking at. Don’t’ y’all be looking back at no burned cross. Y’all look at the cross of Jesus. Don’t y’all be hating nobody neither. Don’t y’all be trying to strike back at nobody. Y’all keep your eyes on the Lord’s cross. The Lord’s cross!”

“Preach Reverend!” the worshippers cried. “Amen! Praise Jesus!”

While Brother Byrd and Reverend Moseley condemned violence and preached good will, out at the Mercy Baptist Mission, Brother Spurlock was so pleased about the recent turn of events that he had gone out and bought a brand new white suit and red tie, and when he rose to the pulpit, he had the congregation sing “God Bless America” as a prelude for talking about patriotism. Next, unaware that a black man, Thomas A. Dorsey, had arranged it, the burly preacher led the singing of “I’m on the Battlefield for My Lord.”

Spurlock’s biblical text was short—Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, words commonly attributed to Solomon, son of David. “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” and “a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

With sweat now beading on his bald head and staining the armpits of his new suit, Spurlock put down his Bible, took off his jacket, tossed it onto his chair, and turned back to the congregation. “My friends,” he said, picking up his Bible again and holding it high in the air, “this is the word of the Lord, and I’m here to tell y’all that we’re in a war, and this is not a time to love. Did you hear what I said?” he yelled.

“Amen, brother!” several listeners called.

“This is a time of war!” Spurlock shouted again. “Our southern way of life is being threatened! Not in Alabama. Not in Tennessee. Not in Little Rock. But right here in Unionville!”

He moved out in front of the pulpit and pointed his Bible at his listeners.

“‘Oh,’ you say, ‘there ain’t no coloreds trying to go to our schools. All that stuff’s happening up in Little Rock.’ I tell you it may be in Little Rock now, but before you know it, it’s gon’ be right here in Unionville. I thank the Lord there are at least two men among us who know the truth. There are at least two brave patriots in Unionville who ain’t afraid to stand up for what they believe. One of them is the man who burned that cross over there at that colored church. The other one is Mr. Upshaw, the new owner of our local paper.”

The sweating preacher moved back behind the pulpit, laid his Bible on it, and gripped both sides.

“These men know what’s at stake. I want y’all to heed their example and stand up and be counted. Don’t let integrationists take away our freedom to live the way we want to! We got a right in Arkansas to live separate from the black race and we’re not gon’ give it up without a fight!”

Unionville residents who did not hear enough about integration during church and expected to learn more from their newspapers when they got home did not find much. But on Sunday night, ABC television correspondent Mike Wallace bombarded Faubus with questions during a live broadcast from the governor’s mansion. Faubus said his calling out the National Guard had nothing to do with whether integration was legal. He repeated that he had done it only to prevent violence, and he hinted he might withdraw the soldiers sometime during the week.

Later in the evening, when reporters asked Daisy Bates if she intended to send the nine black students back to Central High the next morning, she said she planned to wait until the guardsmen were gone.

In Unionville on Monday evening, the Arkansas-side town council held its regular monthly meeting in the little municipal building across from Emmett’s Café. The six men, all of them white, met every third Monday and usually did not have much to do except go over the town’s limited finances, hear reports about the water system and volunteer fire department, and try to figure out how to stop big trucks from speeding through town on the highway.

Tonight, however, they had something new. As usual they were alone except for the mayor, even though their meetings were always open to the public. Summer was hanging on, and they had the windows and front door open and the overhead fan going against the heat, but about all that did was suck in the smell of cooking grease from the café across the street. An American flag stood in one back corner and an Arkansas flag in the other. A door in the center of the back wall led to a rear area with two empty jail cells—one for whites and one for blacks.

“Personally, I didn’t mind the cross burning,” Art Nelson said, leaning back in his wooden folding chair, “but I’d sure hate for it to lead to some other kind of trouble. That’d be bad for business.” A small man with a thick mop of gray hair, Art had owned Unionville Feeds before selling too much on credit and going broke a couple of years back. He made a living now by doing tax returns and other bookkeeping chores around town.

“Well, it doesn’t bother me like it does Brother Byrd,” Fred Vestal said, “but I sure don’t want to see any protesting and boycotting. I’ve got a warehouse full of furniture to sell.”

Dave Westbrook, a heavy-set fellow with a deep tan, said, “Fred, I hear that preacher of yours is one of them integrationists. Folks were talking about him at the plant today. Is that right? Is he?” Westbrook, a Methodist, had just come off his shift at Southwestern Chemical in El Dorado. His silver hard hat sat in the middle of the table.

“Yeah, I heard that, too,” said council president Neal O’Brien, who went to the Presbyterian church. He was chairing the meeting. “What about it, Sam? Is that true?”

“Aw,” Sam said, “I think he was just preaching against violence.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Fred said. “Some folks think that if somebody burned down the Mt. Zion church, he’d be over there in half a second inviting them to come to ours.”

For a moment, no one said anything. They were thinking about how folks would react to that.

“All right,” Neal said, breaking the silence, “Does anyone think we need to do anything more except ask Sheriff Eubanks to keep up the extra patrols?”

“Yeah, I do,”Westbrook said. “I don’t see Mr. Claude as much as y’all do, but I’m wondering if maybe it’s time to invest in a patrol car and find us a younger marshal, one that can drive.”

“The town can’t afford a patrol car,” Neal said.“Besides, if we fired Mr. Claude, people would complain. They like him.”

“Why don’t we get the Ford place to donate a car,”Westbrook suggested, ignoring the question of who would drive it.

“Not a chance,” said Art, who did their accounting. “They’re not doing well enough to afford it.”

“Well, supposing we get Horace Bowman to donate it,” Westbrook said. “He’s got all the money in the world, and he’s got more stuff that needs protecting than anybody else in town.” Westbrook looked at the mayor. “Alan, you work for him. Do you think he’d do it?”

“Y’all are putting me on the spot,” Alan said, slumping back in his seat and folding his arms, “but I doubt it. Anyway, I can’t ask him. He’d bust a gut.”

“Bowman won’t help us,” Art said. “When it comes to doing something for somebody other than himself, he’s tighter than a tick’s ass.”

“Well,” Sam said, after a deep breath, “I’m not afraid to ask him if we ever decide we need to, but whoever burned the cross has probably had his say and there won’t be any more.” He was not sure if he really believed that or just hoped it.