To Make My Bread (55 page)

“Friends,” he said. “We have not invited a preacher here to-day. But if one was here, he would say in the presence of death we should not have any bitterness in our hearts. It is true that bitterness in the heart wears it down, like too much acid in the dye eats at a piece of cloth. Yet there are times when not t' have bitterness is the worst sin a man can commit. And I consider this is one of those times.

“A preacher would tell us that the people who killed Bonnie are fine, honest men.

“Maybe they are, but they killed Bonnie.

“I don't mean those misguided ones that fired the shot, but the ones who are behind the killing.

“The ones with Power, they killed her.”

“Maybe they are fine, honest men. But they tore up our union hall and had our food thrown out, good food for our children. They had it thrown on the ground.

“They call themselves dis-passionate men.

“Yet they have had their paid men beat our women and force us to the ground when we were unarmed.

“They say what they want is peace and harmony.

“But they have leveled our tents and driven us out to live in the wilderness.

“They call themselves just men. Yet they have jailed our people and not one of their law breakers has been brought to justice.

“They will say we have killed. But if one of us did that it was done in a fair and open fight, while we were defending our homes against a lawless attack. And we had given fair warning that we would.

“They call us murderers, and the preacher will tell you they are fair, honest men who call us that. And maybe they are.

“Yet they shot and killed Bonnie in cold blood.

“I can't forget that as I can't forget the other things they have done. And I'm going t' remember—in bitterness. I will remember these fine, honest men. But I will remember more what they rep-resent. For what they rep-resent is an evil thing that must be put off the face of the earth.”

He stepped back with the rest, and with his head bent looked down into the open red grave.

“Sally,” Ora whispered, and Sally stood forward. She had been chosen to sing one of Bonnie's ballads at the grave.

Her head lifted and the song came from her mouth.

“How it grieves the heart of a mother,” she sang and went on to the end.

As she finished, there was some disturbance in the crowd of mourners. A man pushed his way through, and as he came to the grave they saw it was Preacher Simpkins. They had not expected this. He held his Bible in front of him—open—and as they lowered the coffin into the ground he read from the pages.

“In my father's house are many mansions,” he read. “I go to prepare a place for you.”

When he had finished reading he looked up at those who were around him. While the clods of red mud were shoveled on to the coffin he spoke. “Death is not an aristocratic event,” he said. “It comes to poor and rich alike, in the mansion and in the hovel. This mill woman is not different from the man who owns the mill, for he, too, must come to the same end. All are the same before Jesus. And the rich may be as fine and honest as the poor, just as the poor may be as fine and honest as the rich. And rich or poor we must humble ourselves before the Lord, for the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

He stood until the last clod had been put on the mound that sloped down the hill, for it had been hard to fit Bonnie's grave into the space which they had been able to buy.

Ora and Zinie put the few flowers on the mound. Then they all walked down the slope to the road. Ora held Bonnie's youngest child in her arms and little Emma and John helped the two others through the mud. At the gate Preacher Simpkins got into a car that was waiting there for him. But the car did not drive away. From it stepped State Attorney Albert Burnett, with a long white paper in his hand.

He walked up to Ora and John. “You are to give those children into my care,” he said to them.

“We aim t' care for them,” John told him.

“The law demands that those who wish to adopt orphans be able to swear that they have a certain income,” Attorney Burnett said. “Have you that income?”

“I have nothing,” John said. “But with hit I will care for my own young, and together we can care for hers.”

“This is a court order,” Attorney Burnett said, and held out the paper. “It says you must give up the children to be put in an orphanage.”

“We're ready t' care for them.” Ora spoke out and held tightly to little Emma's hand.

“I'm afraid we must take the children.” With a possessive gesture Attorney Burnett laid his hand on the child's shoulder. “All of them,” he added firmly and reached out his hands to take Bonnie's youngest from Ora's arms.

The other mourners gathered around John and Ora. They watched while Albert Burnett and Preacher Simpkins lifted Bonnie's children into the car.

“It couldn't be helped,” John said. “Not now.” Red flamed up under his skin as if the red mud below his feet was reflected in his face.

“What I hate,” Ora told him, and he heard in her voice that she was crying, “what I hate most is her young ones will be taught that Bonnie was evil, when she was s' good . . . .”

The newspaper that afternoon had a story about Bonnie's funeral. John read it in the parlor of Mrs. Sevier's boarding house where he had gone to meet John Stevens.

The story began:

“To-day in a little mud-hole to the northeast of the Wentworth Mill Village, the first revolutionary movement in this state was buried. Ostensibly it was the funeral of Mrs. Bonnie Calhoun, mill-worker . . . .”

John Stevens coming into the room some time later could not see John's face. It was hidden between his arms on the table. The paper was spread out before him.

“I have read that, too,” John Stevens said. He put a hand on John's shoulder. “I cried when I heard about Bonnie . . . cried from anger and shame.”

“This on your arm,” he touched the red band on John's sleeve, “stands for blood that has been shed, and that will be shed before we reach that which we are fighting for.”

“It seems a long way,” John said.

“It is a long way. Stand up, John.”

John slowly got up from the chair. He stood looking at John Stevens, and in his face he saw just what he had seen when he first knew him, hope and belief.

“To-night,” John Stevens said, “there will be a secret meeting in the woods north of Bonnie's shack. You and I will go to all we can trust and tell them to come. We must let everyone know.”

“I was feeling,” John said, “as if everything was finished.”

“No,” John Stevens said. “This is just the beginning.”