He stood lost in meditation, deliberating whether he had left something unsaid. Finally he mentioned that he wanted to meet with the volunteers assigned to the McComb and Natchez projects in the lounge, then he walked out the door. For a minute or two we sat in total silence; by now we knew enough not to clap. At last a lovely soprano voice lifted us all into song:
“They say that freedom is a constant struggle,
They say that freedom is a constant struggle,
They say that freedom is a constant struggle,
Oh, Lord, we’ve struggled so long,
We must be free, we must be free.”
I stood with my arms around Lenny and Esther and sang about how freedom was a constant crying, a constant dying, a struggle that had to go on. Next, as slow as a funeral dirge, came Bob Moses’s favorite song:
“We are soldiers, in the Army,
We have to fight, although we have to die,
We’ve got to hold up the freedom banner,
We’ve got to hold it up until we die.”
Then I went to meet with Moses.
“We sat up through the night,” Moses said as soon as we were assembled, “wondering what we should say to you volunteers. We wanted you to be scared—but not too scared. When no one had dropped out by Wednesday, I was worried. Now a few have left, but the rest of you have resolved to stick it out.
“As you know, the southwestern part of Mississippi is very dangerous. Already some homes have been bombed; vigilantes are drilling; automatic weapons and hand grenades have been stolen from an arms depot near Natchez. We have made a vow that we would not abandon the hardest areas, and so some SNCC field secretaries and a few volunteers will go to McComb and Natchez, but I have decided that the situation right now is simply too dangerous for the rest of you at this time. If a lot of people went now, they would face a high probability of being killed. Therefore, you will be dispersed to projects in the Delta where I think you will be safer. We will wait and see how the other volunteers are received. If conditions improve, you will be sent to your original assignments later in the summer.”
As Moses read out our new destinations, some lines from Three-Penny Opera raced through my head: “Re-priev-ed, Re-priev-ed, As the need is sorest, So the answer comes soonest.” I always thought they were purely ironic lines, but now I was taking them seriously. I felt a tremendous sense of relief, as if this last-minute reprieve were a confirmation of my heartfelt wish that I would not be harmed. My new project was in Tallahatchie, a relatively safe town in the heart of the Delta; Lenny would be in Greenville, the most liberal place in Mississippi. Of our group, only Esther was still going to McComb—no doubt at Feelgood’s insistence. I told myself that if she stuck to teaching Freedom School and stayed within the black community, she would be safe too. But in spite of my fear, I still wished to be where she was.
“You spoke tonight of sacrifice,” I said with surprise at the sound of my own words. “We are willing to go wherever you send us, no matter what the risks.”
Esther glanced my way with what I took to be admiration.
“We understand that some of us may have to die,” another volunteer added with passionate sincerity.
“Yes,” Moses said softly, “people will always be expended.” He looked at me, his eyes betrayed tremendous strain. “The question is . . . Are they ever expendable?”
After that we all walked outside where a group of volunteers were doing the hora. I watched Moses set the sheaf of papers he was carrying on the grass and, with solemn joy, join the circle of the dance.
Bob Moses
Liberty and McComb, Mississippi
September–November 1961
1
One Sunday in late September, John Doar came to McComb to see for himself what the situation was in southwestern Mississippi. In the week following my beating at the hands of Billy Jack Caston, several other SNCC workers had been beaten, including John Hardy, who was pistol-whipped by the registrar of Walthall County when he was inside the courthouse! That was so blatant a violation that Doar, on behalf of the federal government, had brought a suit, which, in spite of Judge Harold Cox’s obstructionism, was making its way through the courts.
At first Doar couldn’t take his eyes off the stitches in my scalp.
“The FBI report didn’t say anything about cuts and abrasions,” he said with genuine concern. “I didn’t realize it was so serious.”
“It could have been worse,” I said.
We drove to Steptoe’s farm, so that he could hear firsthand, in Steptoe’s deliberate way, about the pattern of violence in Amite County.
“Have you ever tried to register yourself?” Doar asked.
“Oh, yes, several times,” Steptoe said, “but they never let me fill out the form.”
Steptoe told him that the only registered Negro in the county had a master’s degree.
“You know, it isn’t possible for all Negroes in this county to have master’s degrees,” Steptoe said. “I only know but one who has a master’s degree, and that is my son. If it takes a master’s degree to pass this test, he’ll be the only Negro to redish in this county. The last time I tried to get Negroes to redish I had lots of trouble,” he added.
“What kind of trouble?” Doar asked.
“Such as threats, such as jail, such as beatings.”
“Have there been killings?”
“Oh, yes, they used to whup Negroes around here all the time,” Steptoe said, his voice becoming slower, deeper, and more grieved. “They’d whup ’em most to death. Some they’d hang up in trees here; the bugs would get ’em. All’s we found was bones.”
“When was this?” Doar looked grim.
“Well, you know, that was five hundred years ago,” Steptoe drawled. “That was way back there.”
Doar stared in bafflement, unsure where the irony was.
“What about the people who are attending the voter registration school?” Doar asked. “Has anyone tried to intimidate them?”
“Oh, yes, there are always threats.” Steptoe was as matter-of-fact as if he were merely stating that dogs bark at night. “E. H. Hurst told some people that if me and Herbert Lee didn’t quit messin’ with this civil rights business, he would kill us hisself.”
I was startled to hear this; apparently Steptoe took the dangers so much for granted he hadn’t bothered to tell me what Hurst had said. I had grown fond of Herbert Lee, a very quiet man who was always ready to drive me around the dusty back roads of the county to talk to people about registering. One evening he had me over to his home for supper to meet his wife and children. Apparently his kindness to me had not gone unnoticed.
“Who’s this Hurst?” Doar asked.
“He lives across the road there,” Steptoe said.
“He’s a Mississippi state representative,” I said. “He’s also the father-in-law of Billy Jack Caston, the sheriff’s cousin, the guy who hit me.”
“Quite a cozy little town you have here,” Doar remarked dryly.
“I’ve known those Hursts all my life,” Steptoe continued. “They’re all a mean piece of work. I once saw E. H.’s daddy knock a colored