The Last Ballad(89)

A week ago he’d received a telegram from Sophia. “Sec. Weisbord says integrate,” it read. “Beal says no. If Sec. asks please come.”

A few days later, a note from Secretary Weisbord was delivered, and Hampton met with him the next day. Hampton found Weisbord at a park off West 124th Street. It was the last Friday in May. The city had returned to life after the long winter and the chilly spring. Weisbord sat on a bench that overlooked a pond. A fountain pulsed at its center, tossing sprays of water that were misted by the breeze. Weisbord was a short, dark-haired man who wore spectacles, but the measured way in which he spoke made him seem more commanding. Hampton sat down beside him.

“Thank you for coming,” Weisbord said. He finished eating a sandwich of some kind and crumpled the paper that had been wrapped around it. He slipped the paper into his pocket. “I know it’s sudden.”

“I was glad to hear from you,” Hampton said. “Sophia mentioned that I might.”

“Good,” Weisbord said. He reached into his coat pocket for a packet of cigarettes. He offered the cigarettes to Hampton, but he shook his head. Weisbord lit a cigarette and settled his back against the bench. “So you might know that I’m concerned about the situation in North Carolina. Like you, I’ve been in communication with Miss Blevin. Loray is back at full production.” He took a drag on his cigarette, picked a piece of tobacco from his tongue. “The strikers are leaving the picket line and going back to work until payday, and then they’re walking out again. As you can imagine, Mr. Haywood, a cycle like this will not keep a strike alive. Loray has no incentive to respect us if profit is not affected. Creating a nuisance isn’t enough, but a nuisance is all we are. Beal isn’t being honest with himself, or us.”

“It seems that Mr. Beal has a history of not being honest with himself, sir,” Hampton said.

“I would agree,” Weisbord said. “His new plan is to hold a rally on the night of June seventh, which is a payday, the day workers are most willing to walk off the job. Beal wants to gather a mass of strikers to march down to the gates of Loray and demand that the night shift walks out.” He smoked, uncrossed his legs, leaned forward so that Hampton couldn’t see his eyes.

“It’s a fine plan, not unlike other plans Beal has had, but the party has a plan as well.” Weisbord stopped speaking and looked at Hampton for a moment, then he looked back toward the pond. He took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped it at his feet, crushing it with the toe of his shoe. “The Comintern wants to integrate all branches of the National Textile Workers Union, even our Gastonia Local,” he said. “They believe it’s time. So do I, but Beal doesn’t agree. His argument is that white strikers are not prepared to work alongside blacks. He worries that it could make trouble.”

Hampton’s mind exploded with images he’d seen on postcards and in the newspapers: black bodies, some of them burned, hanging from trees or lying in roadside ditches, riddled with bullet holes. He thought of the cabin in Mississippi, the flight through the cotton field, the long, dark night beneath the floorboards of the strange house.

As if he’d been able to see the thoughts as they roiled across Hampton’s mind, Weisbord said, “We can’t let fear and oppression win, Mr. Haywood.” He put his hand on Hampton’s shoulder. “Especially when fear and oppression are propagated by our brothers and sisters in this struggle,” he said. “Imagine if, on June seventh, the Loray bosses look out their windows and find hundreds, maybe thousands, of black and white workers walking the picket line, side by side. What kind of message would that send to the bosses? What kind of message would that send to other mills, other workers, white and black? The Loray strike could become a general strike all across the South. We could turn the tide for labor.”

He leaned back against the bench.

“Mr. Haywood, I do not know you well, but I know your story well enough to know that you are a son of the South. Regardless of what brought you here, to the North, the South is your homeland, and the black men and women there are your people. They need a leader. Could it be you?”

Hampton looked at the pond at the center of the park. Two white children, brothers perhaps, in blue sailor suits pushed small sailboats out into the water. Hampton watched the boys and thought of Weisbord’s proposal. He dropped his gaze from the pond and took a breath, nodded his head yes.

“Wonderful,” said Weisbord. “Wonderful.”

“When?” asked Hampton.

“Monday,” Weisbord said. “Your ticket will be ready.”



The train’s brakes squealed, and Hampton felt the cars slow as they drew closer to the Salisbury station. It was almost 9 p.m. He’d be in Charlotte in a few hours. After that, he didn’t know what would happen.

The train stopped. Outside, the night was dark but for the few lights that lit the station. Hampton could see the shapes of people milling about the platform. He kept his seat and watched as a few people around him gathered their things and exited the colored car. Some of them had been traveling with him since New York, but he hadn’t spoken to anyone aside from the few porters he knew. He looked up to see one of the porters, a middle-aged man named Gerald, walking toward him. He’d spoken to him when he’d first boarded. Hampton had brought a sandwich with him and had asked for nothing during the trip, although Gerald had brought him a cup of coffee that afternoon.