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Authors: Ken Follett
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which was strangely deserted. The buildings looked shut up and locked. To George it felt creepy.
The driver opened the door of the bus.
George did not see where the mob came from. Suddenly they were all around the bus. They were white men, some in work clothes, others in Sunday suits. They carried baseball bats, metal pipes, and lengths of iron chain. And they were screaming. Most of it was inchoate, but George heard some words of hate, including Sieg heil!
George stood up, his first impulse to close the bus door; but the two men Maria had identified as state troopers were faster, and they slammed it shut. Perhaps they are here to defend us, George thought; or maybe they’re just defending themselves.
He looked through the windows all around him. There were no police outside. How could the local police not know that an armed mob had gathered at the bus station? They had to be in collusion with the Klan. No surprise there.
A second later the men attacked the bus with their weapons. There was a frightening cacophony as chains and crowbars dented the bodywork. Glass shattered, and Mrs Jones screamed. The driver started the bus, but one of the mob lay down in front of it. George thought the driver might just roll over the man, but he stopped.
A rock came through the window, smashing it, and George felt a sharp pain in his cheek like a bee sting. He had been hit by a flying shard. Maria was sitting by a window: she was in danger. George grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him. ‘Kneel down in the aisle!’ he shouted.
A grinning man wearing knuckledusters put his fist through the window next to Mrs Jones. ‘Get down here with me!’ Maria shouted, and she pulled Mrs Jones down next to her and wrapped her arms protectively around the older woman.
The yelling got louder. ‘Communists!’ they screamed. ‘Cowards!’
Maria said: ‘Duck, George!’
George could not bring himself to cower before these hooligans.
Suddenly the noise diminished. The banging on the bus sides stopped and there was no more breaking glass. George spotted a police officer.
About time, he thought.
The cop was swinging a nightstick but talking amiably to the grinning man with the knuckledusters.
Then George saw three more cops. They had calmed the crowd but, to George’s indignation, they were doing no more. They acted as if no crime had been committed. They chatted casually to the rioters, who seemed to be their friends.
The two highway patrolmen were sitting back in their seats, looking bewildered. George guessed their assignment was to spy on the Riders, and they had not reckoned on becoming victims of mob violence. They had been forced to join the Riders’ side in self-defence. They might learn to see things from a new point of view.
The bus moved. George saw, through the windscreen, that a cop was urging men out of the way and another was waving the driver forward. Outside the station, a patrol car moved in front of the bus and led it on the road out of town.
George began to feel better. ‘I think we got away,’ he said.
Maria got to her feet, apparently unhurt. She took the handkerchief out of the breast pocket of George’s suit coat and mopped his face gently. The white cotton came away red with blood. ‘It’s a nasty little gash,’ she said.
‘I’ll live.’
‘You won’t be so pretty, though.’
‘I’m pretty?’
‘You used to be, but now . . .’
The moment of normality did not last. George glanced behind and saw a long line of pickup trucks and cars following the bus. They seemed to be full of shouting men. He groaned. ‘We didn’t get away,’ he said.
Maria said: ‘Back in Washington, before we got on the bus, you were talking to a young white guy.’
‘Joseph Hugo,’ George said. ‘He’s at Harvard Law. Why?’
‘I thought I saw him in the mob back there.’
‘Joseph Hugo? No. He’s on our side. You must be mistaken.’ But Hugo was from Alabama, George recalled.
Maria said: ‘He had
The driver opened the door of the bus.
George did not see where the mob came from. Suddenly they were all around the bus. They were white men, some in work clothes, others in Sunday suits. They carried baseball bats, metal pipes, and lengths of iron chain. And they were screaming. Most of it was inchoate, but George heard some words of hate, including Sieg heil!
George stood up, his first impulse to close the bus door; but the two men Maria had identified as state troopers were faster, and they slammed it shut. Perhaps they are here to defend us, George thought; or maybe they’re just defending themselves.
He looked through the windows all around him. There were no police outside. How could the local police not know that an armed mob had gathered at the bus station? They had to be in collusion with the Klan. No surprise there.
A second later the men attacked the bus with their weapons. There was a frightening cacophony as chains and crowbars dented the bodywork. Glass shattered, and Mrs Jones screamed. The driver started the bus, but one of the mob lay down in front of it. George thought the driver might just roll over the man, but he stopped.
A rock came through the window, smashing it, and George felt a sharp pain in his cheek like a bee sting. He had been hit by a flying shard. Maria was sitting by a window: she was in danger. George grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him. ‘Kneel down in the aisle!’ he shouted.
A grinning man wearing knuckledusters put his fist through the window next to Mrs Jones. ‘Get down here with me!’ Maria shouted, and she pulled Mrs Jones down next to her and wrapped her arms protectively around the older woman.
The yelling got louder. ‘Communists!’ they screamed. ‘Cowards!’
Maria said: ‘Duck, George!’
George could not bring himself to cower before these hooligans.
Suddenly the noise diminished. The banging on the bus sides stopped and there was no more breaking glass. George spotted a police officer.
About time, he thought.
The cop was swinging a nightstick but talking amiably to the grinning man with the knuckledusters.
Then George saw three more cops. They had calmed the crowd but, to George’s indignation, they were doing no more. They acted as if no crime had been committed. They chatted casually to the rioters, who seemed to be their friends.
The two highway patrolmen were sitting back in their seats, looking bewildered. George guessed their assignment was to spy on the Riders, and they had not reckoned on becoming victims of mob violence. They had been forced to join the Riders’ side in self-defence. They might learn to see things from a new point of view.
The bus moved. George saw, through the windscreen, that a cop was urging men out of the way and another was waving the driver forward. Outside the station, a patrol car moved in front of the bus and led it on the road out of town.
George began to feel better. ‘I think we got away,’ he said.
Maria got to her feet, apparently unhurt. She took the handkerchief out of the breast pocket of George’s suit coat and mopped his face gently. The white cotton came away red with blood. ‘It’s a nasty little gash,’ she said.
‘I’ll live.’
‘You won’t be so pretty, though.’
‘I’m pretty?’
‘You used to be, but now . . .’
The moment of normality did not last. George glanced behind and saw a long line of pickup trucks and cars following the bus. They seemed to be full of shouting men. He groaned. ‘We didn’t get away,’ he said.
Maria said: ‘Back in Washington, before we got on the bus, you were talking to a young white guy.’
‘Joseph Hugo,’ George said. ‘He’s at Harvard Law. Why?’
‘I thought I saw him in the mob back there.’
‘Joseph Hugo? No. He’s on our side. You must be mistaken.’ But Hugo was from Alabama, George recalled.
Maria said: ‘He had
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