While Southern opponents of racial equality have on occasion turned out in mass protests, a few have also resorted to political murder. The list of martyrs, black and white, to the civil rights movement includes, as well as Evers, Rev. George E. Leeb (1955), Lamar Smith (1955), Thomas H. Brewer (1956), Herbert Lee (1961), William L. Moore (1963), Louis Allen, James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner (1964), Jonathan M. Daniels, Jimmie Lee Jackson, Viola Liuzzo, James Reed (1965), Vernon Dahmer (1966), Samuel Younge, Jr., (1966), Wharlest Jackson (1967), and Martin Luther King (1968). Medgar Evers, NAACP field secretary for nine years, announced an anti-segregation drive in Jackson, Mississippi, on May 12, 1963. He requested the appointment of a bi-racial committee to discuss grievances; the Mayor, after consulting with seventy-five business leaders, rejected the request, asserting that it would lead to “compliance with the demands of racial agitators from outside,” and he banned demonstrations as well. Evers launched his campaign on May 28 with a sit-in at a Wool-worth’s lunch counter. His group was beaten up, others were arrested, and a bomb was exploded at one of the integrationist leaders’ homes. Next, black school children marched in support of civil rights; 600 of them were arrested. On June 1 some concessions were made, but the demand for a bi-racial committee was again rejected. On June 12, returning home from an integration rally, Evers was shot in the back. Governor Ross Barnett called Evers’s murder a “dastardly act.” Congressman William Colmer, however, felt it was the “inevitable result of agitation by politicians, do-gooders and those who sail under the false flag of liberalism.”
The F.B.I. arrested Byron de la Beckwith, a resident of Mississippi for thirty-eight years, on the charge of murder. At Beckwith’s trial, Governor Barnett strode into the courtroom, greeted Beckwith warmly, and shook hands with him. On February 7, 1964, the jury reported itself deadlocked; a second trial also resulted in a hung jury. Beckwith, now free, continued harassing civil rights workers; in February 1967 he announced his candidacy for the Democratic nomination for Lieutenant Governor of Mississippi, and running while under indictment for murder finished (with 30,000 loyal supporters) last in a field of five.
The following account was written by Mrs. Medgar Evers (with William Peters) in For Us, the Living (1967), 301–4. See Pat Watters and Reese Cleghorn: Climbing Jacob’s Ladder: The Arrival of Negroes in Southern Politics (1967).
It was a moving speech, the most direct and urgent appeal for racial justice any President of the United States had ever made. It moved me and gave me hope and made what Medgar was doing seem more important than ever before. I remember wondering what the white people of Mississippi were thinking as I lay back on the bed and the children switched the set to another channel. I must have drifted off into a light sleep, because I woke, later, to settle an argument over which program was to be watched next. Then, still buoyed up by the President’s words, I relaxed, to watch with the children. Darrell heard the car first.
“Here comes Daddy.”
We listened to the familiar sound of the car. I roused myself as the tires reached the gravel driveway, stretched, and then heard the car door close. I wondered what Medgar would have to say about the speech, and I sat up on the bed.
A shot rang out, loud and menacing. The children, true to their training, sprawled on the floor. I knew in my heart what it must mean.
I flew to the door, praying to be wrong. I switched on the light. Medgar lay face down at the doorway drenched with blood.
I screamed, went to him, calling his name.
There was another shot, much closer, and I dropped to my knees. Medgar didn’t move.
The children were around me now, pleading with him. “Please, Daddy, please get up!”
Behind Medgar on the floor of the carport were the papers he had dropped and some sweatshirts. Crazily, across the front of one, I read the words, “Jim Crow Must Go.” In his hand, stretched out toward the door, was the door key. There was blood everywhere.
I left the children and ran to the telephone. I dialed “O” and tried to breathe and screamed at the operator for the police and gave her the address and ran back outside.
The Youngs were there and the Wellses and more people were coming and someone had turned Medgar over and he was breathing heavily, in short spurts, and his eyes were open, but they were set and unmoving.
I called and called to him, but if he heard me he showed no sign.
I heard the children being led away, screaming and crying for their father, and I remember some men carrying the mattress from Rena’s bed from the house, putting Medgar on it and carrying him to Houston Wells’ station wagon. I followed and tried to get in beside him, still calling to him, but they held me back, and as the car pulled off, I fell trying to reach him and someone picked me up and I ran back into the house. There had been a police car in front of the Wells’ car as it tore away through the night, but I had not yet seen a policeman.
I ran to the living room and fell to my knees and prayed. I prayed for Medgar and I fought for breath and I prayed that God’s will be done and I sobbed and I prayed that whatever happened I would be able to accept it.
Someone found me there, and I got up and ran to the telephone and called Attorney Young’s house where Gloster Current was staying. “They’ve killed my husband!” I screamed. “They’ve killed my husband!”
A woman took the telephone from me, and I wandered off to the bedroom, dazed with grief. One of the women followed and found me packing Medgar’s toothbrush and some pajamas for the hospital and asking out loud how many pairs he would need.
Jean Wells took my arm and said that Dr. Britton had called from Ole Miss Hospital. Medgar had regained consciousness, I searched the room for my clothes and began to dress.
Then Hattie Tate came in the door and looked at me and I knew.
“Is he gone?”
She couldn’t speak. She tried but she couldn’t speak. She turned and ran from the room, and I slumped like a marionette whose strings had been cut.