The sound of the church choir began almost immediately, and Ben glanced up at the loudspeakers which had been installed outside the building. It was a rousing version of ‘Leaning on the Everlasting Arm,’ but the people on the streets and sidewalks only listened silently, without joining in, their bodies held rigidly erect, rather than swaying to the beat of the old hymn as Ben had seen them do in the days before.
One hymn followed another, and as the singing continued, Ben let his eyes sweep over the crowd once again. He began to see faces he recognized from the streets of Bearmatch. They were the people who’d passed his car while he parked beside the old ballfield, or whom he’d seen along the way, faces that had glanced at him from bus stops, alleyways or tumbled-down porches, always dark with large brown eyes, lost in a blur until his own familiarity had suddenly made them identifiable, faces he’d seen now more than once, faces that had repeatedly marched down Fourth Avenue, confronted the dogs and water hoses, watched him from behind the bars of holding cells or peered at him from the dusty windows of countless school buses. For a little while it was as if he knew everyone around him, had struggled through some common experience with them, shared something fierce, grave, intense, and because of that, now had some small investment in the outcome of their lives.
‘I know you’re tired,’ King’s voice rang out suddenly over the steadily more animated crowd.
‘I know you’re weary.’
A few shouts of ‘Amen’ rose from the crowd, followed by scattered applause.
‘But we must go forward in Birmingham.’
There were a few more shouts of ‘Amen,’ and the smattering of applause increased by a barely audible degree.
‘And I know there are some people that want us to move on.’
‘Yes, Lord,’ someone shouted, and the crowd applauded again, this time with a slightly increased force.
‘But we’re staying right here in Birmingham until justice comes,’ King cried.
Ben took out his notebook and flipped through it to the first blank page.
‘Governor Wallace may not want us here,’ King shouted. ‘But there is a higher authority than he is.’
The ‘amens’ now began to burst steadily from the crowd.
‘And Mayor Hanes may not want us here,’ King cried, his lean metallic voice recharging the previously exhausted air. ‘But there is a higher authority than he is. For God is in His Heaven, and He is watching over His own.’
Ben pressed his pen down on the paper.
‘How long will we stay in Birmingham?’ King demanded. ‘Not long. Because no lie can live forever.’
The applause now rose over the isolated shouts of ‘Amen’ and ‘Yes, Lord.’ It swept along the streets in a tidal flow, building more fiercely as it moved.
‘How long? Not long, because truth crushed to earth will rise again.’
Now the applause took on bursts of wild cheering which seemed to break like fireworks over the heads of the crowd.
‘How long? Not long, because although the moral arc of the universe is wide, it still bends toward justice.’
Now the cheers and applause mingled in a single sustained roar which moved back and forth from the church to the streets and back to the church again, building with each pass, feeding on itself, growing stronger with each sustaining wave.
Ben looked up from his notebook, his fingers loosening halfheartedly around the pen, his eyes now focused on the church, his ears attentive to the voice.
‘How long? Not long. Because God is tramping through the vineyard where the grapes of wrath are stored.’
The crowd began to jump and shout, sing and dance, hundreds of long brown arms swaying in the sweltering air.
‘How long? Not long? For His truth is marching on!’
The roar of the crowd seemed to rise in one long, mighty chorus, and as Ben stood beside the tree and listened to its fierce, rebellious glory, he found himself suddenly caught up and inexplicably lifted by its amazing grace.
‘What are you doing?’
Ben turned toward the voice. It was Coggins. He was staring at him lethally.
‘What are you doing?’ he repeated as he nodded toward the still open notebook.
Ben felt his mouth open speechlessly.
Coggins’ eyes filled with a strange disappointment as they returned to the notebook, then lifted up again and settled on Ben’s face. ‘My God,’ he said despairingly. He shook his head. ‘My God.’
For a moment Luther simply stared at the small notebook which Ben had placed on his desk. Then he picked it up and flipped through the blank pages. There’s nothing written in here,’ he said finally.
‘He didn’t say much,’ Ben said with a slight shrug.
‘Looks to me like he didn’t say anything at all,’ Luther replied. Once again he flipped through the empty notebook. ‘I didn’t tell you to write down whatever you wanted to, Ben,’ he said. ‘I told you to write down everything King said.’
Ben glanced away, his eyes on the window to the right of Luther’s desk. He did not speak.
Luther stared at him accusingly. ‘Did you go to the church?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did King make a speech?’
‘Yes.’