The Last Ballad

by Wiley Cash

  Late Friday afternoon, Hampton found himself holding Violet’s hand while standing shoeless and calf-deep in cold spring water. Along with Ella and Sophia, they’d spent the morning in Bessemer City handing out leaflets outside the gates of American Mill No. 2 and telling black workers about that night’s integrated rally in Gastonia. Then they’d visited the back room of a diner where a group of Negro railroad men hunched silently over their cooling lunches while Ella talked about the union. The afternoon had been devoted to sitting on porches and porch steps in and around Stumptown, until Violet’s mother finally invited them all over for supper. After that they planned to gather as many black workers as they could and head for Gastonia at dusk.

  While Violet’s mother made dinner, Hampton stood out in the dirt road that ran through the middle of Stumptown and tossed a baseball back and forth with Ella’s son Otis. Neither of them wore mitts. The boy’s arm was surprisingly strong and accurate given his slight frame. He was nine, but, to Hampton, he looked no older than six. He’d learned that Hampton was from New York, and he’d asked him all about the Yankees.

  “Babe Ruth’s my favorite,” the boy said. He threw the ball to Hampton. Each time he caught the baseball, Hampton’s hand wanted to recoil at the feel of it. It was sodden and near rotted, the frayed stitching coming loose. Sweat poured off his forehead.

  “Babe’s pretty good,” Hampton said.

  Otis caught the ball, stared at Hampton, his mouth hanging open as if portraying shock. “Pretty good?” he said. “Pretty good?”

  They tossed the ball back and forth. Ella and Sophia and Violet sat talking on the porch. Ella’s daughter Rose was sitting on her mother’s lap, and Hampton could hear her raspy cough. Violet cradled Ella’s baby boy in her arms. Occasionally Hampton could feel Violet’s eyes on him, but he did not raise his head to look at her. Hampton watched the boy toss and catch the ball and caught himself wondering what it would be like to have a son.

  “Yankees played a spring training game over in Charlotte just a few months ago,” the boy said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Hampton said. “You go see them?”

  “No,” the boy said. “I didn’t get to.”

  “We’ll go see a Yankees game if you ever visit New York,” Hampton said.

  The boy’s face exploded in a grin. Hampton did not have the heart to tell the boy that he would never visit New York, that he might never leave North Carolina or even Gaston County. He did not have the heart to tell the boy that he’d never even been to a Yankees game himself, could not afford both the ticket and the time off work, and even if he could, he could not imagine taking this white child along with him.

  Hampton looked toward the porch, saw Violet hand the baby over to Sophia. She stood, walked down the few porch steps, and continued out into the yard. Hampton turned his eyes back to Otis and their game of toss. He was aware of Violet coming to a stop only a few feet away, aware of her watching him as he caught and threw the ball. He fought the urge to look at her, her dark skin against her pale blue dress, her hair now unbraided and pulled up and tied back with a white sash. She was beautiful, the kind of woman he believed he would have fallen in love with had he never left Mississippi, the kind of strong, country-hewn woman his mother may have been before she left, the kind of woman his younger sister Summer could have become had she grown up in the South.

  “Hot, huh?” Violet said. She passed her hand across her forehead, shifted her weight to the other leg, put her hands on her hips.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “It is.”

  “You got heat like this up where you’re from?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes we got heat like this.” He looked at her and smiled.

  Violet raised her eyebrows, smirked as if she doubted everything he’d ever said.

  “Is it too hot for a stroll?” he asked.

  They walked side by side to the end of the dirt road and followed a path behind Ella’s cabin that led to a spring nearly hidden by willows. Hampton’s body welcomed the shade. The heat stripped itself from his skin as if being peeled away. He bent to the clear, cool water, cupped a handful to his mouth, took a drink. It ran down his chin. Violet laughed. He looked up at her, flicked his damp fingers at her legs.

  “You not supposed to drink it?” he asked.

  “No, you can drink all you want,” she said. “It’s just funny to see those nice shoes with mud on them.”

  Hampton stood and looked down at his shoes. He saw that mud had crept up over the soles, that dust from the road had frosted the leather. He lifted his left foot, unlaced his shoe, and removed his sock. He tossed them behind him. The mud squished between his toes. He lifted his right foot, did the same. He rolled his pants up to his knees, stepped into the cold water, watched as the minnows fled. He looked back at Violet, gestured toward her feet. “Come on, country girl.” She laughed, slipped off her shoes, and stepped into the water beside him.

  “Speaking of country,” she said, “I bet you never thought you’d be out in the woods like this.” She stepped forward. Her foot slipped. Hampton took her hand until she steadied herself.

  “I didn’t know where I’d be,” he said. “But I’m glad to be here.”

  “I heard you talking about New York. What’s it like?”

  “Come visit and find out,” he said. He smiled, reached for her hand again. She let him hold it, let him intertwine his fingers with hers.

  “Why’d you come down here?” she asked.

  “Because I believe in the party,” Hampton said. “I believe in integration.”

  She shook her hand free of his and reached up, closed her fingers around the thin branch of a willow tree, and stripped it of its leaves. She cupped them in her hand. “That’s an answer,” she said, “but that ain’t no reason.”

  “I guess I wanted to see the South,” he said. “Really see it, not just from a train window or through somebody else’s stories. I wanted to find out if it’s what I imagined.”

  Violet tossed the willow leaves, one by one, onto the face of the water. Hampton watched her. “What did you imagine?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He laughed. “Banjos. Rednecks. Oak trees. Singing darkies, pickaninnies.” He smiled, looked at her, and saw that she was smiling as well. “Pretty girls.”

  “You find all that?” she asked.

  “I found you.”

  “Shoot,” she said. “I bet you got a girl back home, don’t you?”

  “You got a man down here?”

  “I asked you first,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t have a girl back home. I travel too much.”

  Violet smiled, raised her eyebrows. “You got girls everywhere else then? Philly? Detroit? Atlanta?”

  “No,” he said. “No, I never even get off the train. I never get to meet nice girls like you.”

  He looked over at her just as she lifted her eyes to his. He reached for her hand again and pulled her toward him. The few willow leaves still in her hands spilled onto the water. He touched her chin, brought her lips to his, felt her mouth open.

  After a moment, she pulled away and looked into his eyes. “I don’t even know you,” she said.

  “I don’t know you either,” he said. He pulled her to him again, but she shook free of him. She wiped his kiss from her lips.

  “You taste like you been kissing on white girls,” she said.

  He frowned, stepped away from her. She was teasing him, but it still bothered him. Sophia had told him that Ella was trying to free herself of a rough character named Charlie Shope, and Hampton didn’t want any rumors circulating that would tie him and Ella to one another. He didn’t want trouble that he didn’t deserve. “I haven’t been kissing on nobody,” he said.

  “You sure?” she said. “I never met a colored boy who spends so much time running around with white girls.”

  “I been running around with you too,” he said. “And I thought Ella was your best friend.”

 
Violet stepped out of the water, reached for her shoes. “Well, I ain’t hers,” she said. She kicked the water from her feet, stepped into her shoes, and fastened them. “She’s got white friends now. Rich white friends.”

  “Sophia?” he said. “Hell, Sophia ain’t rich. I can promise you that.”

  “I ain’t talking about her,” Violet said. “I’m talking about some rich white lady over in McAdamville.”

  Hampton followed her out of the water, stepped into his shoes, tucked his socks into his back pocket. “Come on,” he said. “You afraid somebody’s taking her away from you?”

  “Yes,” Violet said. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  “She’s meeting new people because she’s working for you, even if you don’t see it that way,” Hampton said.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Violet said. “I’m afraid of something happening to her.” She walked up the path away from the spring.

  “She’s working to open the union to you, Violet. What was it Jesus said? ‘I’ve gone ahead to prepare a place for you’? That’s what Ella’s doing. That’s what I’m doing too.”

  Violet stopped and turned to face him. “Jesus said that after he was crucified,” she said. “That don’t make me feel no better.”

  “You don’t have to feel anything but hope,” he said.

  But the hope of which Hampton spoke turned to frustration as he and Violet and a handful of other black workers loaded up into the back of Sophia’s truck for the trip to Gastonia and that night’s rally.

  Once the tailgate was slammed shut there was just enough room to accommodate them all if they stood, and when the truck lurched forward a few of the older workers nearly lost their footing. Hampton surveyed the group of a dozen or so men and women: he and Violet were by far the youngest. Most of them worked at American Mill as spinners or openers or in some other low-skill, low-pay positions. A few of them came from other mills in the surrounding countryside. Hampton felt that none of them—himself included—quite knew what they were doing in the back of this truck helmed by two white women en route to an all-white rally. It hurt him to think of it, but he couldn’t help but picture the hundreds, maybe thousands, of train cars full of cattle he’d seen during his years with the railroad. He pictured those cows standing just as close to one another as he stood to these strangers now, the only difference between him and the cows being that the cows were always dumb about the end that awaited them, while he was all too aware of the potential fate that lie ahead.

  He was the only union man among them, certainly the only member of the Communist Party, and he knew it was his duty to inspire them. He suggested they sing together, and while he tried to lead them in a couple of well-known protest songs, they stumbled over the words. The only songs they all seemed to have in common were hymns, so that’s what they sung: “Amazing Grace,” “Let Us Break Bread Together,” “Onward, Christian Soldier.”

  As they barreled down the highway in the gathering dusk, Hampton pictured the sight they must be. He imagined a farmer walking along the edge of his field and looking up at the sound of a truck passing, the music of their voices lifted in song.

  Once they reached Gastonia, Sophia parked the truck on the south side of the train tracks. Hampton opened the tailgate and helped a few of the older members of the group as they climbed down from the bed. Sophia and Ella walked around back and waited for everyone to gather around them. Hampton looked up the road, where the field was lit with lanterns. A dark mass of people stood in front of the stage. He could hear the voice of the person leading the rally, but he could not make out what the voice said.

  Ella cleared her throat, and Hampton turned his gaze to her where she stood in front of the group of Bessemer City workers.

  “I want to thank all of you for coming tonight,” Ella said. “I really mean it. I think something good’s going to come of this. I really do.” She stared down at the ground as if looking for words. “We’re going to walk up the road here to the rally, and I want you all to follow me, and I want us all to stay together. No matter what, let’s all stay together.

  “There’s going to be a whole bunch of strikers up there, and keep in mind that they ain’t no different from you. They work in mills just like you do. They’re poor just like you are, just like I am. Now, there’s going to be some police up there because there’s always police up there. Tonight ain’t no different. And there’s going to be some newspapermen and some cameramen too. There ain’t no reason for any of them to say a word to us, so let’s not say a word to them. Let’s mind our business. The goal tonight is to force a vote that’ll open this union to anybody who needs it, and I believe all of you need it as much as I do.”

  Ella stopped speaking, looked at Sophia. “You want to add anything?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Sophia said. “Not a thing.”

  Ella looked at Hampton. “Mr. Haywood?” she said.

  Hampton felt Violet’s shoulder brush against him, felt her hand take his. Hampton looked around the group. “Let’s all stay together,” he said. “Just like she said.”

  They set off up the road toward the headquarters and the field that sat across from it. A couple hundred people stood out in the open field, the white tents of the strikers’ colony off in the distance near the woods. Onlookers from town, reporters, and a few uniformed police officers milled about. Violet squeezed his hand.

  “I don’t like this,” she said.

  He looked at her, saw that she seemed uncertain for the first time since he’d met her.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  The group followed Ella, who led them through the crowd and toward the stage. Carlton Reed stood behind the podium, giving an update on the strike. The crowd cheered when he mentioned that a relief dinner would be served later that night. The group of workers waited, unsure of what to do next. A few minutes passed, and Hampton felt the crowd as it began to take notice of them, as word of their presence spread. He became aware of his physical body in a way he’d never been aware of it before, and he let go of Violet’s hand for fear that she might feel the trembling that was taking hold of him. A man stepped in front of Hampton and lifted a camera before his face. The flash of the bulb blinded him for a moment, and Hampton stepped away from the light and bumped into someone behind him.

  “Get off me, nigger,” a voice said.

  Hampton looked toward the voice and tried to blink the white light from his eyes. Before him stood a scarecrow version of a young man in overalls that clung to his shoulders. He didn’t seem old enough to be a millworker, and Hampton couldn’t understand how the voice he’d heard belonged to this boy.

  “Go on, nigger,” the boy said. He looked around at the group from Bessemer City. “Go on,” the boy said. “All of you.” He spit at Hampton’s shoes. Hampton was more confused than he was angry or offended, and he turned away and pushed through the group toward Ella.

  “Hampton,” Violet said. He felt her hand on his arm, but he pulled free of her. Ella stood facing the stage, and Hampton stooped to speak into her ear.

  “What are we doing?” he asked. “What’s the plan?” He waited, but Ella didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at him. “Ella,” he said, “what are we doing?” People around them stared and pointed, some of them whispering loud enough for Hampton to hear the things they said: Bessemer City. Ella May. Nigger lover. The crowd began to move away from them.

  Hampton didn’t realize it, but he was moving too, following Ella closer and closer to the stage. As the crowd dispersed and formed an encircling wall of white faces, most of whom now watched the Bessemer City workers instead of listening to Reed, their retreat left behind open expanses of grass that Ella and Hampton and the members of their group stepped in to fill. In this way they gained proximity to the stage, making it more and more difficult for Reed to ignore the disruption they caused.

  Sophia came around from the back of the group and stood beside Ella. “What next?” she asked.r />
  Ella smiled. “Let’s wait until old Fred takes the stage.”

  Hampton saw Fred Beal standing at the front of the crowd as if he were about to speak. The two men locked eyes, and Beal shook his head as if this display of disappointment were something he’d spent time rehearsing. Hampton smiled at him. Beal waved two men over to where he stood. One of the men, who Hampton later learned was named Anderson Chesley, carried a rifle slung over his shoulder. The men both nodded as Beal spoke, and then they disappeared behind the stage.

  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.