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“Isaiah. Theta,” Memphis said, his heart sinking.
“Yeah,” Henry said, his heart sinking, too. “We’re not getting to Bountiful anytime soon.”
Within days, the Red Cross had arrived and set up A-frame tents. But there were no beds to be had yet, and inside those tents, people were sleeping on the cold, muddy ground.
“I hear there might be as many as five thousand folks here,” Remy said.
On one side of the levee was the flooded Mississippi, drowning everything till all that could be seen were the tops of spindly trees, a few leaning telephone poles, and the pitch of roofs. On the other side of the levee, the National Guard patrolled, walking up and down the bank with their rifles at their shoulders.
“I hear they make us work on the levee and in the camp. Make us do the hard work,” Nate said, following Memphis’s gaze to the soldiers. “If we don’t, they get the Red Cross to hold back our rations until we do. Can’t win.”
Anger coiled in Memphis’s belly, and he vowed to himself that later, he would spit that howl up as a poem. He would document what was happening in Greenville, and he would figure out how to send that poem back to Woody at the Daily News. He would use his voice to give the people of the levee a voice.
By the end of the week, Memphis had sent five new poems to Woodhouse, five dispatches from an America not everybody got to see. But he was worried, too. What if the others had already reached Bountiful while Memphis and Henry and Bill were stuck in Greenville, Mississippi?
Refugees from all over the flooded Delta were coming to the eight-mile-long levee. It was a tent city as far as one could see. They’d gotten to work putting up lights and building a mess hall and a tent where relief workers handed out dry clothing. Barges with latrines floated beside the levee. And every day, supply boats arrived. It was the job of the colored refugees to unload the food, water, medical supplies, piping for plumbing, and clothing and haul it into the camp if they wanted their Red Cross rations. Anyone who refused was denied food and water or threatened with the end of a rifle. Worst of all, they were trapped; the National Guard issued the passes for leaving the camp. The powerful men of Greenville—politicians and the men who owned the land, the mills, the factories—had made certain that only white people were given those passes to come and go.
“They won’t let us leave. They won’t let us eat unless we work night and day till we can’t work no more. And if we refuse, they might shoot us,” Nate said, his jaw tight.
“They don’t want us leaving Greenville. They don’t want to lose their workers,” a skinny man said.
“There’s not gonna be a crop next year. Too much water. The river seen to that,” Remy said.
“I just want to wipe the slate clean, start over up north,” Nate said.
The skinny man shook his head. “They know it, too. That’s why they won’t give us no passes. Every time we try ’n’ step up, they push us back down.”
That evening, after the work was finished and a meager supper consumed, Bessie Timmons called excitedly, “Hey! Come look at this!”
Someone in the camp had managed to save an upright piano. It sat on a couple of two-by-fours. People crowded around, testing the keys. It wasn’t in tune, but it wasn’t badly out of tune, either. After all the kids had given it a go, Henry asked, “Say, do you mind if I play a little bit?”
A woman sorting through a sack of clothes obtained from the relief tent shrugged. “Belongs to everybody in the camp, far as I can tell.”
With that, Henry sat down to play. He’d missed the piano, and music poured out of him. Everyone gathered ’round to hear. They had need of distraction from the misery of the flood and the conditions in the camp, the fears of sickness and the worry about what was next.
“Say, that’s pretty good. What’s that called?” Bessie asked.
“It’s one of my songs,” Henry said, blushing a bit with pride. “It’s called ‘Because You’re Mine.’”
More people drifted over. While Henry played softly, Memphis regaled everyone with a story.
“You ever heard about the Voice of Tomorrow?” Memphis asked.
“What’s that?” Tobias said, scrunching up his face.
“More like, who’s that?” Memphis said.
“Who’s that?” Moses echoed. “Is he here? What’s he look like?”
“Who said it was a he?”
“It’s a girl?”
“Didn’t say that, neither.” If Isaiah were here, he’d tease Memphis for not talking “proper,” the way Memphis always fussed at Isaiah for it. But why? Why shouldn’t they talk any way they wanted? Memphis had seen it al
l his life—men talking free and loose in the barbershop then talking “white” on the streets. He’d fallen right in, hadn’t he? Even in his own poems, he’d laced up his language tight. No more. He didn’t care what they thought. He would please himself first.
“The Voice of Tomorrow can be anybody. That’s the point, see. You never know. Could be right here in this camp. Could be you.” Memphis pointed at a little girl in braids. “Or you.” He pointed to her brother. “Or skinny Moses over there, scratching at that mosquito bite on his knee.”
