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.
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.