Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “And us day laborers get a dollar fifty a day!”

  With these words, the noise grew so tumultuous that Stuart’s words were lost, dead, unheard as the crowd shut him out, refusing to listen. The roar continued for several minutes; then someone started shouting, “Dollar fifty a day! Don’t take our farms away!” The chant caught on, and the disorganized onslaught of noise took on one voice and there was nothing Stuart could do against it. He stepped down.

  At that moment, Mr. Jamison’s secretary opened the door and called Mama inside; Mr. Jamison had Shokesville on the line. “Go on, Miz Logan,” Mr. Morrison said when Mama hesitated. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do ’bout up there, and I’ll be here.” Mama looked gratefully up at him and followed the secretary inside.

  The noise ran unabated for several minutes as Stuart conferred with Mr. Granger and Sheriff Dobbs. Then Harlan Granger himself, looking as confident as ever, stepped out on the ledge. The crowd saw him and the chanting weakened. But someone heated up enough to take on even Harlan Granger started the chant up once more and the crowd grew boisterous again. Harlan Granger, however, was a formidable adversary; he outwaited them.

  When silence reigned, and not before, Harlan Granger spoke: “I take it y’alls for the union!” he said glibly.

  A mighty cheer went up.

  “I take it,” he said when there was quiet again, “y’all’s for a dollar fifty cents a day and keeping your farms!”

  Another cheer rose to the heavens.

  “I take it,” he said in the same calm, steady voice, “y’all’s for schooling with nigras, socializing with nigras . . . marrying with nigras!”

  An uneasy murmur waved over the square and a man spoke up. “Now, Mr. Granger, don’t go mixin’ up what’s for the union with that other stuff.”

  “Well, y’all got a mixed organization here, ain’t ya? Y’all white and colored working together in this thing, ain’t ya, for this dollar and a half a day business and this farm-keeping business? I see quite a number of black faces out there ’mongst y’all.”

  The people looked around; Harlan Granger knew where to strike, and he had struck very well.

  “Seem to me,” he said, “y’all got y’allselves the beginning of a lot of trouble here. Don’t y’all know by now, once a worm gets in an apple, the apple’s ruined? You wanna save the barrel, you best rid yourself of the worms.”

  Nothing now was said.

  Then someone spoke up, defying him. “Don’t y’all see what he’s doing? He’s playing on your racial feelings to tear down the union, to keep us from being strong together!”

  All eyes shifted to a wagon near the statue of Jefferson Davis. Standing in the wagon with several other men was Morris Wheeler, and Dubé Cross was with him.

  “Why, what’s ole Dubé doing up there?” I wanted to know. My question went unanswered.

  “Now nobody’s talking about schooling together, socializing together, and certainly not marrying together. What we’re talking about here in this union is a decent living for everybody, both white and colored, and we all know we can’t have that less’n we stick together in this thing!”

  Harlan Granger waited a moment, as if pleased at having flushed out his prey. “Y’all think I don’t want y’all to have more money and a roof over your heads for yourselves and your families? I want that my own self. But I say you can get it without this here Communist union. This here Communist union that mixes the races, colored with the white. Y’all mark my words, this here union mixing is only the beginning of what’s to come! Of nigras totally misguided by white people like Morris Wheeler there! Of nigras who get to feeling like they done mixed with white folks a little bit, they got the right to take over white folks’ things—”

  “Harlan Granger!” cried Morris Wheeler. “You’re deliberately exaggerating extremes here! This is not a Communist union! The union wants only—”

  “I’m exaggerating, am I? Well, just take a look over here on these steps. At that ole aunty right there—y’all other folks step back out the way now so the folks out there can see Aunt Lee Annie Lees. Hank, move ’em back.”

  The sheriff did as he was told; the white people fell back, leaving Mrs. Lee Annie, Mrs. Ellis, Russell and Jake Willis exposed, an island of dark faces on the steps. Jake Willis attempted to move away, but Deputy Haynes pushed him back with the others.

  “There now, y’all see her? That old aunty right there. Been living on my place for going on near forty years, off and on. Ain’t much had no trouble from her . . . till now. Till this union business put ideas in her head!” He looked over the faces of the poor white farmers staring up at him with little more to hold onto than the belief that they were better than black people, and continued to chisel at them. “After all them years, y’all know what she done this day?” Again his eyes skimmed the faces waiting anxiously to hear. “’Gainst my advisement, she gone in and tried to register to vote!”

  The murmurings swelled, crescendoed in disbelief, then fell mute in stunned dismay.

  “No education! No understanding of the constitution of this great state! No natural mental ability to understand, and she goes and does a thing like that! I tell you this now as I been telling you all along: There’s no place for unions or mixing in the state of Mississippi! You thought of what’ll happen to our great state if people like this try to perform tasks that they ain’t even got the God-given makeup for?” He turned an accusing gaze upon Mrs. Lee Annie, pointing his finger at her. “You deny that’s what you done, Lee Annie?”

  Mrs. Lee Annie bowed her head and didn’t answer.

  “You hear me talking to you, Lee Annie?” He waited for her to speak. We all waited.

  “Well, Lee Annie!”

  Suddenly, Russell spoke up, his voice distinct and clear as it carried across the square. “Mr. Granger’s asking if my grandmama went to try to register. Well, the answer is she did!” He rushed on, hushing the crowd. “But that’s got nothing to do with the union! What Mr. Wheeler said ’bout a decent living, that’s what the union’s about. That’s why colored people are standing up for the union—a decent living’s what we all want!”

  “That’s right!” added Mr. Wheeler. “Don’t get caught up in Harlan Granger’s trap! He’s got other reasons than the ones he’s giving you for not wanting this union. He’s getting plenty of money from the government with their crop-reduction plan. Money that’s s’pose to be yours—”

  “I say Mr. Granger’s right!” someone shouted. “What we wanna be a part of a nigger organization for? Niggers get to tryin’ to boss white folks ’round pretty soon. Y’all jus’ heard that nigger talkin’ up there, oratin’ like a white man!”

  “But what he was a-saying is the truth!” another declared. “I don’t care what that old woman done! Can’t destroy the union ’cause of it!”

  “Maybe you don’t, but I do. Me for one, I ain’t gonna have no nigger talkin’ down to me and mine! Ain’t gonna have no niggers votin’ neither! I say any niggers gettin’ beyond themselves oughta be taken care of, and we can begin right now with that ole woman up there!”

  Someone laughed. “Wouldn’t take much to give her a whippin’! Course, she might fall dead, ya do.”

  Mrs. Lee Annie looked up; Russell stepped in front of her. “Union or no union,” he cried, “nobody touches a hair on her head! She ain’t done nothing ain’t her legal right! She got much right as anybody—”

  “Right?” questioned Harlan Granger. “Right?”

  Russell looked around the square and didn’t answer. I knew that he had said too much. Everyone knew. An awful silence settled over the day, and the tension swelled like hot air in a balloon. Everyone was silent, waiting. Then someone shouted something vile, and from the steps of the Jefferson Davis statue a man threw a bottle aimed at Russell. It hit, shattering against Russell’s head. Jake Willis grabbed at his left eye as if he too had been hit, and both men went down.

  Several shots rang out. Then everything happened at once. Pa
pa and Uncle Hammer leapt up the steps and, grabbing Jake Willis and Russell, pushed them and the women back into the courthouse. The crowd stirred, alarmed by the sound of gunfire. Near the Jefferson Davis statue a fight broke out. Horses and mules neighed nervously, and engines roared to life. On the street people were trying to move themselves and their possessions out of the congestion, but there seemed nowhere to go.

  “Cassie! Get off that wagon and get inside!” yelled Mr. Morrison.

  Mr. Tom Bee hurried off the wagon and I turned to follow. But then I saw Wordell, coming from nowhere, his lithe body slitting razorlike through the congested street. He wove madly toward the square, headed not for Russell but the man at the statue.

  Suddenly I panicked, remembering the dead bird and the cat Wordell had killed because of it; and without thinking further, I jumped over the side of the wagon into the street to try and reach him.

  “Cassie!”

  I heard Mr. Morrison calling me, but I couldn’t answer. The congestion in the street was even worse than it had looked from the wagon. A man stepped heavily upon my foot and a large woman pressed me against the wagon as she squeezed by, making it hard for me to breathe. What was even worse was that I couldn’t see beyond the press of people around me. I tried to push through, but found it useless; I felt as if I were drowning.

  Then powerful hands lifted me straight upward and I found myself in the wagon again. Mr. Morrison held my face in his hand and Mama said, “Cassie, you all right?”

  I tried to catch my breath, glad she had come back out. “Yes’m, but Wordell—”

  “Wordell?” questioned Mr. Morrison.

  I nodded, then turned to look out over the crowd. I spotted Wordell, slowed like everyone else. I pointed to him. “He’s heading for that fella threw the bottle.”

  Mr. Morrison glanced out over the square, then immediately jumped off the wagon and began bulldozing his way through the crowd toward Wordell.

  Another shot cracked the morning and the sheriff yelled across the square: “I want everybody to move on out! Everybody! That go for you too, Stanley Crawes! Get a move on! D. T. Cranston, help direct that traffic outa here! Wade Jamison over there! Give us a hand at that end!”

  “Where we s’pose to go?” someone remembered to ask again.

  “All I can tell ya is outa here! I have to shoot off this gun one more time, I’m gonna call the governor and get the national guard! Now move!”

  I wanted to stay in the wagon, but Mama hurried me off and into Mr. Jamison’s office. There we waited huddled with Mr. Tom Bee for the others to come back.

  Mama told me there was still no word about Stacey.

  * * *

  A good while passed before we saw Mr. Morrison again. Wordell was with him, stone faced, his eyes staring straight ahead. When they reached the wagon, Wordell climbed wordlessly onto the back and sat haunched there staring out across the square. Mama slipped outside to talk to Mr. Morrison, then came back in.

  “Mama?” I questioned.

  “Mr. Morrison stopped him.”

  I looked at Wordell so still, so quiet, and I wondered.

  As the farmers moved out and the crowd began to thin, Mrs. Lee Annie, Russell, and Mrs. Ellis wove their way across the square. Russell’s head was bandaged with what looked to be part of a cotton slip, the eyelets giving it a decorative effect. When they neared the wagon, all of us but Wordell rushed out to meet them. Wordell watched, but did not move from where he was.

  “Don’t worry now,” Russell said, stepping wearily onto the sidewalk. “We’re okay and I ain’t bad hurt.”

  Wordell scrutinized his cousin sharply, then settled back, his eyes still on him.

  “The doctor look at you?” Mama demanded.

  “No . . . Mama Lee fixed me up. When that bottle hit, it knocked me down, didn’t knock me out though.”

  Mrs. Lee Annie fingered the bandage in concern. “Cut wasn’t so mighty deep, but my mind’ll rest more easy once that doctor do take a look or Caroline one.”

  “Lordy,” said Mr. Tom Bee. “What I wanna know is how y’all got stuck up there like ya done. Just what the devil was goin’ on?”

  Mrs. Ellis shook her head, tears streaming down her face, her eyes already swollen from crying. “We never shoulda come. None of us, we never shoulda come. . . .”

  “Just what happened?” Mama asked again. “Where’s David and Hammer?”

  Mrs. Lee Annie sat down wearily on the raised wooden sidewalk. “Well, child, we come outa that registrar’s office—ain’t passed the test—and Mr. Granger was waiting for us. Tried getting out that side door there, but it was locked and Mr. Granger, he said come on, go through the front. Got outside and Russell and Jake Willis was there. Ole sheriff wouldn’t let us leave. Then there was all that ruckus and that fool threw that bottle. Hit Russell and broke, and that glass went flying everywhere. Caught Jake Willis in the eye. . . . David and Hammer, they pushed through when that bottle hit and got us all back inside. Them two, they took Jake Willis over to the doctor.” She paused, then let out a tired sigh. “I ’spect he gonna lose that eye. . . .”

  “Never shoulda come,” Mrs. Ellis lamented once more. She bowed her head into her hand. “The whole thing, crazy foolishness . . . whole thing. . . .”

  Suddenly a lone voice rose above the din of moving things and we looked back toward the courthouse. Standing defiantly alone on the steps of the Jefferson Davis statue, Dubé was shouting, “D-d-dollar fifty a d-d-day! Don’t t-take our farms away!” He was the last defender of the chant; no one joined him.

  “Haynes! Get that nigger off that statue!” the sheriff yelled to the deputy. “And do like I told ya and get them other union leaders done caused all this ruckus!”

  Dutifully, Deputy Haynes led Dubé from the statue, and a few minutes later we saw him and two other townsmen bringing Dubé, Morris Wheeler, and Mr. Tate Sutton back toward the jail, their hands cuffed behind them. The people in the wagons and the cars and the trucks paid little attention, moving out of Strawberry as silently as they had come.

  The union, for the time being anyway, was broken once again.

  * * *

  The street was nearly back to normal. A few wagons still passed by on their way out of town to who knows where, and townspeople could still be seen on the sidewalks talking in small groups, but soon they too drifted away. Mr. Jamison came back from directing traffic and went into his office to try to call Shokesville again. We remained where we were to wait for Papa and Uncle Hammer. It was almost an hour later when they finally returned. They confirmed that Jake Willis had indeed lost his eye.

  “It ain’t a pretty sight,” Papa said, “and he ain’t taking it well. Not well at all.”

  “Well, anyone lose an eye . . .” Mama sympathized.

  Uncle Hammer looked over at Russell. “Think you oughta know, he’s blaming you.”

  Russell looked up, incredulous. “Me? Why I got hit my own self!”

  “Blaming you jus’ the same. For speaking up.”

  Mrs. Lee Annie shuddered. “He’ll most likely get over it . . . when his pain passes.”

  “If I’d’ve thought that, I’d’ve never even mentioned it. But I’ve seen men like Jake Willis before. He’s mean and he won’t let it pass. Russell, you watch out for him.”

  Russell bowed his head and sighed wearily. Papa turned to Mama. “Mary, what ’bout Mr. Jamison? He get that call through?”

  “We got a clerk, that’s all, and she wouldn’t tell us anything. Said we’d have to speak directly to the sheriff, but he’s still not there. Mr. Jamison’s been trying the last hour.”

  Restlessly, Papa paced the sidewalk, then leaned against a post. But when a few minutes more had passed, he pulled from the post and headed for Mr. Jamison’s office. “It’s taking too long. I ain’t waiting no longer.”

  Mama caught his arm. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Going down there.”

  “Then I’m going too.”

 
Without his saying anything I knew that Uncle Hammer, already at Papa’s side, would be going as well. I wanted desperately to go with them, and even though I feared the answer would be no, as Papa opened the door to Mr. Jamison’s office, I blurted out, “Papa, let me go with y’all.”

  Papa’s glance fell on me. “It’s a long ride.”

  “I don’t care. I can stand it. Please, Papa. . . .”

  Mama gave her approval and he said, “You been waiting long as we have . . . ’spect you have a right to go.”

  Papa went into the office with Mama and Uncle Hammer. Several minutes later they came out with Mr. Jamison. “I didn’t have to go up to Vicksburg tonight for that trial starting in the morning, I’d go with you,” he said. He looked at us with some concern, as if he were letting us down. “Can’t get out of it. It’s a murder trial. . . . I’ll keep trying to get the Shokesville sheriff. You all need me down there, here’s my number in Vicksburg, and remember, you want me to, I can be down there first thing Saturday morning.”

  Papa thanked him and turned to Mr. Morrison. “You’ll see everybody get back?”

  Mr. Morrison nodded. “Don’t worry now ’bout us. Jus’ bring the boy back with ya. Jus’ bring the boy on home. . . .”

  As we got into the car to leave, Mr. Granger’s silver Packard turned onto Main and stopped in the middle of the street across from us. Mrs. Ellis, who had been sobbing off and on since she had returned, was dabbing at her eyes now. Mrs. Lee Annie, not a tear in her eyes, said, “Wipe them eyes, Leora. Don’t you let Harlan Granger see you cryin’.”

  “Lee Annie! Leora!”

  The two women met his gaze.

  “’Fore the sun rise in the morning,” he said, his words a long, slow drawl, “I want y’all and everything’s y’all’s off my land.”

  “Lordy, no, Mr. Granger!” Mrs. Ellis cried, running into the street to plead with him. “Mr. Granger, no!” Mr. Granger saw her coming, but disdainfully he gassed the Packard and sped away, leaving Mrs. Ellis desperately yelling after him. And I knew even as she stood there crying out for mercy, Harlan Granger would not change his mind. He had gotten what he wanted.