The Last Ballad(100)

Chesley reappeared with a coil of rope that the other man tied to the stage. Chesley took up the slack end, walked through the crowd, and shouldered his way between Hampton and Ella.

“What the hell, Chesley?” Sophia said, but he didn’t acknowledge them. Instead he walked farther away from the stage, stopping only when he ran out of rope. He leaned back and pulled the rope taut and held it waist-high with both hands. Hampton saw that Chesley had cordoned off the black workers from the rest of the audience, as if they were corralled in a pen. People cheered and laughed. An empty bottle landed at Hampton’s feet. A rock struck his shoulder and fell to the grass. He spun around to discover who had hurled the objects, but all the laughing faces looked the same. He didn’t feel fear or uncertainty. He felt anger.

The crowd burst into cheers. Hampton looked up to see Beal walking across the stage. He and Reed shook hands. While the audience settled itself, Ella and Sophia remained on the white side of the rope, but as soon as Beal began speaking about that night’s march down to Loray, Ella lifted the rope over her head, stepped beneath it, and stood beside Hampton and Violet. The rope slipped from Chesley’s hands and fell to the grass. He picked it up and cracked it like a bullwhip. It caught Hampton’s shoulder, and he stumbled into Violet. Chesley laughed. Hampton turned, stared at his white brother in the struggle. Chesley gave him a wink, lifted the rope, and coiled it around his own neck. He closed his eyes and let his chin loll to his chest, allowed his tongue to spill from his mouth. Ella called out.

“We want a vote, Fred!” she yelled.

The crowd booed. Another glass bottle, this one half-full of what looked like liquor, landed in the grass in front of Hampton and Violet. A rotten tomato struck the back of the white man in front of him. The man stumbled forward, whipped his body around, and searched the crowd. Hampton refused to meet his eye.

“Hold on,” Beal said from the stage. “Everyone hold on, stay calm.”

“We want a vote, Fred!” Ella said again. “We want a vote!”

“Membership’s closed!” a man’s voice screamed from the middle of the field.

“Take those niggers home!” another yelled.

Ella acted as if she hadn’t heard the men’s voices. She kept her eyes locked on Beal where he stood on the stage. Sophia lifted the rope and stepped under it. She cleared her throat, then she started shouting.

“In the founding documents of the National Textile Workers Union, as well as in the charter of the party that supports it, it is outlined that all workers, regardless of gender, race, or class, shall be offered membership if they embrace the tenets of the union,” she said. “And, Mr. Beal, I can assure you that the brothers and sisters I have brought with me this evening embrace the tenets of this union.”

“We’re calling for a vote!” Ella said.

“Give them their damned vote if that’s what they want,” a woman’s voice said.

“A vote is all we’re asking for,” Sophia said.

Beal’s eyes scanned the crowd. He pushed his hair off his forehead. His skin glistened with sweat.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He looked to Carlton Reed, who stood beside him. Beal leaned toward Reed. They spoke quietly. Reed nodded his head. “Okay. Let’s take a vote,” Beal said. “All those in favor of accepting the contingent from Bessemer City, please raise your hand.”

In unison, Sophia’s and Ella’s hands shot up over their heads. Hampton raised his as well. Boos rained down on them.

“Put your hand down, nigger!” Chesley yelled. He dropped the rope and walked toward Hampton, who kept his hand raised. “Put your hand down, nigger. This vote’s open to union members only.”

“I am a representative of the American Communist Party,” Hampton said. He removed his wallet from his back pocket and opened it to search for his membership card. “Which is the governing body of this union.”

Chesley smacked the wallet out of Hampton’s hand. It landed between his feet. He looked down, saw that the photograph of his mother and father on their wedding day had slipped from his wallet. He bent to retrieve it.

“Bow, nigger,” Chesley said. He reared back and kicked Hampton in the ribs.

Hampton sprawled in the grass, sucked down two huge gulps of air. The crowd opened up and formed a ring around them. He gathered his wallet and the photo and stuffed them into his back pocket. And then he was on his feet. He lunged at Chesley and threw his arms around his body, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him onto his back. Chesley still wore the rifle on a strap over his shoulder, and he rolled to his feet, the rifle in his hands. He held it pointed at Hampton’s chest. Violet screamed.

Then Hampton heard the sound of people gasping around him. He realized his eyes had been closed, and he opened them and saw that Chesley held the rifle with one hand and the other hand was at his throat, pulling at something wrapped around his neck.

Chesley tried to look behind him but couldn’t, and Hampton saw that Ella held a small knife beneath Chesley’s chin. She’d wrapped her other arm around his neck, used it to pull him backward, to expose his throat to the blade. She spoke into his ear.

“I’m from the same mountains you’re from, Mr. Chesley, and nobody ever taught me to talk like that,” she said. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?” She tightened her arm around his neck with a jolt that caused Chesley to flinch. He opened his mouth to speak, found that he didn’t have the air. “Now, I need you to just let go of that rifle, and then I won’t have to stick this blade into your neck.” He held the rifle out in front of him as if waiting for someone to take it. “Just go ahead and turn it loose,” Ella said. “That’s it.”