We had moved closer to New Marsails, past the empty, darkening fields where already corn and cotton shot small green plants in rows, and now crossed the black bridge into the Northside. The streets were littered with the bits and scraps of a vacated, discarded life: worn-out clothing, mattresses, broken toys, picture frames, chipped furniture, all the things the Negroes could not carry in their satchels or on their backs. There were not many people, a few stragglers carrying bundles of brown paper tied with cord or white laundry string. On a cane, an old man hobbled by, probably toward the depot. He wore a Mexican sombrero, sported a knotted white beard. A woman, alone, sped along the gutter in a wheel chair, a small suitcase in her lap. She was a pale gray color, though she should have been very dark, and looked like she hadn’t been out in the sunlight in many years.

We drove on toward the depot, but when we came within three blocks we found we couldn’t go any farther because the way was cut off by state troopers in cowboys hats and steel-blue puttees, and New Marsails policemen in light blue. Beyond the roadblock, crushing toward the depot, were the Negroes, all kinds, light, dark, short, fat, thousands of them. A few sang hymns and spirituals, but most stood quietly, inching forward, thoughtful, triumphant, knowing they couldn’t be stopped. They shuffled steadily forward, gazing ahead and slightly upward at the depot building, seeing only the very crest of the white stone dome.

Bradshaw bent to a microphone at his left side. “Clement, we’re getting out. Wait for us here.”

“Yes, sir.” Clement’s voice coming through the wires was metallic. “I’ll back up and park, sir.”

“Come, Mister Willson, and with God’s blessing we’ll have some questions answered.”

I nodded. We got out of the limousine, skirted the roadblock, and found ourselves almost immediately engulfed by the crowd. We moved forward next to a family of seven—two adults and five children, ranging in ages of ten to a baby in the woman’s arms. The father already had his fare out, a number of bills clutched in his fist. He was very tall, as thin and strong and black as a weathered fence post. His hair was straight. His wife was as tall as I was, and a murky brown. The children tagged after them, wide-eyed and sleepy, walking like little zombies. “Elwood, I’m tired. I’m tired.” A small girl, just beyond toddling years, turned to her brother. He was a little older.

“Mama say we’ll be there soon. Quiet.”

“But I’m tired.”

Reverend Bradshaw reached out and put his hand on the father’s arm. “God bless you, brother. I’m the Reverend Bennett Bradshaw of the Black Jesuits. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” That surprised me; so that was his interest in this.