AT HOLY FAMILY HOSPITAL, AS THE REVEREND MR. SHUTTLESWORTH woke up to the midmorning sunshine, not just his ribs but his whole body screamed pain. He remembered the flash of brass knuckles, the swing of a big-link, rusty chain—no, that was in front of Phillips High School, 1957. Six years ago. He’d survived that, survived this. Water hose pounding like a hammer. Now was now. Phillips was the seed, Kelly Ingram Park was the blossom.
It wasn’t his body. It was his brain burning. He knew what was happening over at the Gaston Motel right now. Without him. He knew what was happening: King was negotiating without him.
King’s inner group would be gathered around the magic one, advising him. The disciples anxious, insistent. King calm in the middle, listening. Synthesizing. Yes, surely King was becoming anxious about his sojourn in Birmingham. Rock throwing would give nonviolence a bad name.
Although Shuttlesworth groaned in bed, he knew he needed to be in King’s group. He needed to help. He needed to explain: it wasn’t his nonviolence-trained people picking up bricks, throwing bottles. Fred Shuttlesworth knew that. Wasn’t hem. Wasn’t kids he or James Bevel had trained. It was bystanders. Folks who never went to church. Folks who had no concept of how to win. Folks who needed nonviolence explained to them.
Shuttlesworth tried to sit up in his hospital bed. He knew the way it was going over at the motel without him being there: King wouldn’t risk more violence, which might be perceived by the national press as emanating from demonstrators. Wouldn’t want his name besmirched in history. No, King would negotiate. And nothing accomplished.
Not for Birmingham.
“No need for rocks and sticks.” That’s what Shuttlesworth would preach next to the people. “ ‘Put on the full armor of God!’ ” His own body was living proof. He was alive. They tried to kill him on Christmas, 1956, bomb thrown under his own house, under the spot where his bed was, him in pajamas, and he walked out, a song of praise on his lips. Surely King remembered that. It was a part of history.
King was a great man but he had a bad habit. He ought to consult with people before he made his reconciliation statements. What had they got for Birmingham?
King might be General Eisenhower, removed at his high post, but Fred Shuttlesworth was an action man, like General Patton. Fred Shuttlesworth was the one among the troops.
He had to get out of this hospital. His ribs wasn’t broke. No more hypo sedatives for him. King over there at the Gaston Motel talking long-distance on the phone with the president of the United States or his brother. While him fuming in the hospital. Had he been yelling? There were the doctors, the nurses.
The doctor told his wife he might calm down better if he was closer to the action. Course King wanted to back out—Mr. Nonviolent Leader. Yes, that would be his name in history. Mustn’t besmirch himself with violence. Those folks on the sidelines, they didn’t know nonviolence nor King. “They know Fred Shuttlesworth,” he tried to explain.
Hadn’t any water hose been turned on King yesterday. Hadn’t any chains or brass-knuckles mob beat King in front of Phillips High School. Well, in the past King had been beaten. They had blowed up King’s home. But he, Fred Shuttlesworth, wouldn’t be beat. Not in the long run. Couldn’t nothing keep him down. Victory through love, he’d tell those violent types:Call on the Lord. Call on the right hand of God Almighty, and he will not desert you.
“Ruby! Ruby!” He held out his hand to his wife. “Roll the stone from the door. I’m coming out.”