THE CHANTING OUTSIDE L.J.’S HOUSE grew louder. The voices came closer and closer.
All white?
Not right.
All white?
We fight.
I hurried to the balcony off the War Room, with L.J. and Jonah at my heels. An astounding sight met our eyes. There were black people, scores of them—two hundred or more—slowly marching down the middle of Willow Street in Eudora, Mississippi.
This was almost unbelievable. In the South, black people were not supposed to assemble in these numbers.
L.J. let out a whistle. “That is one angry bunch of Negroes,” he said.
“I think the word I would use is ‘passionate,’ ” said Jonah.
Though I had never expected to see black people marching through the streets, I knew instantly what this was about. Tomorrow the trial would begin, and the first order of business was jury selection. No Negro had ever been permitted to serve on a jury in the state of Mississippi. Many of the liberal Yankee newspapers had declared it an outrage. They suggested that the White Raiders Trial might be just the occasion for the presiding judge to allow one or possibly even two colored men to serve as jurors.
We stood at the railing of the veranda, watching the marchers slowly pass. It was plain that they had taken a detour from Commerce Street to go past L.J.’s house. Some of them waved or lifted their hats to us.
Just when we thought we had seen the last of the marchers, another phalanx turned the corner onto Willow.
I was amazed. “Gentlemen. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
L.J. smiled. “Yessir, it’s one hell of a crowd.”
“Not just the size of the crowd,” I said. “Take a look at who’s leading it.”
All white?
Not right.
L.J. squinted to see. “Those two old folks at the front?”
Jonah answered for me. “The lady is Ida Wells-Barnett,” he said. “And the gentleman, if I am not mistaken, is Mr. W. E. B. Du Bois. This is history being made, indeed.”