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When they reached Greenville, the town was frantic with activity. Crowds swarmed the platform of the train depot. Big men heaped overburdened suitcases and household belongings—mattresses, linens, crates of china—onto trucks. At the banks of the swollen river, other men rolled more of those belongings onto waiting steamers and boats of all kinds. They’d staked their hopes on catching a train heading west out of Greenville. But the sight of that packed depot didn’t fill Henry with hope.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Henry asked a woman in her Sunday best holding the hands of two well-dressed children. “When’s the next train headed north?
“There are none. This is the last one out of Greenville, and it’s headed to Vicksburg,” the woman answered.
“The last one for how long?” Henry looked down the platform at the sea of anxious people waiting to board.
“Who can say? The river’s already busted clean through at Cairo, and they say Greenville might be next. The water’s rising up near Mounds Landing. If that goes, we’ll flood. Plenty of folks say it’ll be all right. They’re staying put. But, young man, if you don’t already have a ticket for this train, you won’t be getting out. You’ll have to take your chances here.”
“Looks like we’re stuck here for a while,” Henry reported to Memphis and Bill.
“Hey, you. Y’all need to be working.” A National Guardsman with a rifle on his back pointed at Memphis and Bill. “What’re you standing around for? Mr. Percy said every man should be working on the levee. Get over there and start hauling those sandbags,” he ordered and motioned with his gun. “Go on, now.”
Memphis balled his fists. Bill whispered: “We’re wanted men. Remember?” Bill hoisted one of the heavy burlap sacks on his shoulder with a grunt and fell into the line of other men wading through the current to shore up the spots that had been weakened by the deluge. With a grunt, Memphis hoisted his own, struggling under the strain of it. It had to weigh fifty pounds, easy. When Henry reached for one, the Guardsman stopped him. “That’s all right, sir. You don’t have to do it.”
Henry glared. He wanted to punch this man. “If it’s all the same, I’ll work beside my friends.”
He reached down again to lift the sandbag, but he was skinny. His legs buckled from the weight of it.
“Hold it like this. Use your knees,” a tall man in a brown felt hat said. The man was sturdy, with broad shoulders and deep, soulful brown eyes that put Henry in mind of the great actor Paul Robeson. He helped Henry shoulder the weight properly.
“Thank you,” Henry said in a pinched voice. He staggered after the man through the ankle-deep water to the levee.
“Well. That oughta do it,” Henry said, securing the bag in place.
The man who’d been so kind gave him a baleful look. “We’re just getting started. My name’s Nate Timmons.”
“Henry… Smith,” Henry lied. He put out his hand, and after a nervous second, Nate gave it a quick shake.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. You don’t mind my asking, why’re you doing this? You could get on a train or a steamboat.”
“Can you, Mr. Timmons?”
“Nope. They won’t let us go nowhere.”
“Then I’m not going, either.”
Nate regarded Henry curiously, as a man he didn’t quite know how to classify just yet. “Well, Mr. Smith, I surely hope you know how to swim if it comes to it,” Nate said.
“You really think the flood’s gonna come?” Henry asked.
“I surely hope not. But there’s no telling,” Nate said.
All afternoon, Memphis, Henry, and Bill worked to shore up the weak spots along the protective levee. It was hard work filling the burlap sacks with pounds of sand and then carrying those sandbags, pushing them into place. On the other side of that wall, the mighty Mississippi groaned and shoved its weight at their work. Henry had grown up in New Orleans. He knew about floods that threatened Plaquemines Parish and other low-lying areas, but he’d never seen the Mississippi so high, so angry.
“Haven’t seen you before,” Nate Timmons said to Memphis and Bill as they delivered another back-bending load. “Nate Timmons.”
“I’m Bill Johnson. And this here’s my cousin, Floyd,” he said, nodding at Memphis. “And this is…”
“Henry Smith,” Henry said pointedly. “We’ve already met.”
“Real nice to meet you,” Nate said. “You work for Mr. LeRoy?”
“Who?” Henry said, and Memphis flashed him a look that said Don’t give us away.
“Senator LeRoy Percy? He owns most of this Delta. We all work for him. Hear tell, he and his son, Mr. Will, are the ones who won’t let us evacuate.”
“How come?” Memphis asked as he scooped more sand into a burlap potato sack.
