George saw Fred Shuttlesworth, King’s rival as leader of the campaign. At forty-one he was a wiry, tough-looking man, smartly dressed with a trim mustache. He had survived two bombings, and his wife had been stabbed by a Ku Klux Klansman, but he seemed to have no fear, and refused to leave town. “I wasn’t saved to run,” he liked to say. Although a fighter by nature, he was now trying to marshal some of the youngsters. “You mustn’t taunt the police,” he was saying. “Don’t act like you intend to strike them.” It was good advice, George figured.

Kids gathered around Shuttlesworth and he led them, like the Pied Piper, back toward his church, waving a white handkerchief in the air in an attempt to show the police his peaceful intent.

It almost worked.

Shuttlesworth led the kids past the fire trucks outside the church to the basement entrance, which was at street level, and ushered them inside and down the stairs. When they were all in, he turned to follow. At that moment George heard a voice say: “Let’s put some water on the reverend.”

Shuttlesworth turned, frowning, to look back. A jet from a water cannon hit him squarely in the chest. He staggered and fell backward down the stairs with a clatter and a roar.

Someone yelled: “Oh, my God, Shuttlesworth is struck!”

George rushed in. Shuttlesworth lay at the foot of the stairs, gasping. “Are you okay?” George yelled, but Shuttlesworth could not answer. “Get an ambulance, somebody, fast!” George shouted.

George was astonished that the authorities had been so stupid. Shuttlesworth was a hugely popular figure. Did they actually want to provoke a riot?

Ambulances were near at hand, and it was only a minute or two later that two men came in with a stretcher and carried Shuttlesworth out.

George followed them up to the sidewalk. Black bystanders and white police were milling around dangerously. Reporters had gathered and press photographers clicked as the stretcher was eased into the ambulance. They all watched it drive away.

A moment later, Bull Connor appeared. “I waited a week to see Shuttlesworth hit by a hose,” he said jovially. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

George was furious. He hoped one of the bystanders would punch Connor’s fat face.

A white newspaper reporter said: “He left in an ambulance.”

“I wish it was a hearse,” said Connor.

George had to turn away to control his fury. He was saved by Dennis Wilson, who appeared from nowhere and grabbed his arm. “Good news!” he said. “The Big Mules caved!”

George spun around. “What do you mean, they caved?”

“They formed a committee to negotiate with the campaigners.”

That was good news. Something had changed them: the demonstrations, or the phone calls from the president, or the threat of martial law. Whatever the reason, they were now desperate enough to sit down with black people and discuss a truce. Perhaps it could be agreed before the rioting turned seriously nasty.