Rising Tide. Part 22

After ten days commission members reunited, prepared a preliminary report, and on June 14 presented it to Hoover and Fieser. It confirmed charges that Negroes were systematically being held in camps against their will and forced to work. In isolated places, the National Guard had also stolen, raped, and probably committed murder. One investigator separately sent a summary to the Justice Department asking for a criminal investigation. Yet Moton released only a much-censored version to the press with the most minor recommendations, for example "that a screened structure with tables and seats be erected for the serving of food at Greenville." He also wrote an inoffensive story for release to the a.s.sociated Press and told Hoover, "You may feel free to make any changes or additions that may seem desirable to you."

Claude Barnett did syndicate a story through his a.s.sociated Negro Press to over one hundred black newspapers stating that "members of the commission were bitter in their comment on conditions in several camps, particularly at Greenville, Mississippi." But he explained apologetically to Hoover that Greenville had received so much publicity that "the truth must be admitted" or their report would have no credibility, and pointed out that his story praised the national Red Cross as "eminently fair and just in its orders." Hoover rea.s.sured him that the story was "constructive."

The first phase had gone well for everyone. Hoover and Fieser, pleased, made good use of Moton's press release to defuse criticism. For Moton the worst abuses of the Guard had been ended, and Hoover and Fieser had promised to implement the report's recommendations. Barnett also a.s.sured Moton that they had trumped their rivals: "The [Chicago] Defender demands 'a probe of flood conditions.' It is a weak and hollow cry, used to bolster their attempt to take credit."

But Moton had a larger goal in mind than maneuvering against more radical compet.i.tors in the black community. He had been willing to mute public criticism of the Red Cross, and indirectly of Hoover, to further another goal. Hoover had told Barnett that "something substantial can be accomplished." Hoover had also hinted to J. S. Clark, president of Southern University, that he would do something, and Clark told Moton, "I am of the opinion that the work of our Committee is going to be far-reaching." Moton himself had gotten a similar message from Hoover. Excited, he told a confidant, "It is my frank opinion that, as a result of the flood, the position of the Negro as an individual farm owner is going to be considerably strengthened."

The essence of Moton's hopes lay not in the implementation of any specific recommendation of the commission report but in a more general plea. "We were face to face with one of the greatest labor questions of America, the relation between the planters and these tenant farmers," Moton wrote. "We were interested in a song that these people sang in the levee camps-that the flood had washed away the old account. They felt that the flood had emanc.i.p.ated them from a condition of peonage.... We are strongly convinced that something ought to be done permanently to relieve the hopeless condition under which these people have lived all these years. They ought not to be permitted to go back to this hopeless situation...if there is rehabilitation."

HOOVER ENCOURAGED the commission to think he would help the Negro. He intended to, and also needed their help. So far, they had given it. The flood had brought new attention to the plight of the Negro in the South; the sudden explosion of lynchings in May and June in Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana, compounded by the sympathy for flood refugees, was sparking new calls for federal antilynching legislation and new criticism of the Red Cross. Moton and his commission had defused some of those attacks with their first report. Still, Hoover noted, "We are having great difficulty through the North...in connection with the colored people." the commission to think he would help the Negro. He intended to, and also needed their help. So far, they had given it. The flood had brought new attention to the plight of the Negro in the South; the sudden explosion of lynchings in May and June in Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana, compounded by the sympathy for flood refugees, was sparking new calls for federal antilynching legislation and new criticism of the Red Cross. Moton and his commission had defused some of those attacks with their first report. Still, Hoover noted, "We are having great difficulty through the North...in connection with the colored people."

On July 8, the day after a policeman murdered a black in Greenville, Moton, Barnett, and several other members of the commission met again with Fieser and Hoover, this time in Fieser's Washington office, to present a more complete, second report, far more d.a.m.ning than the earlier press release or even than the preliminary draft. Moton reviewed it with Hoover and Fieser, doing most of the talking, gently noting that perhaps too little had been done since the first report, elaborating where necessary, and answering their questions while Barnett and the others remained silent. Moton neither said nor implied that he might release this potentially explosive doc.u.ment to the press. On the contrary, in order to protect the Red Cross and Hoover, Moton had prepared only three copies and had even refused to give any to other commission members; two copies he kept, one he gave to Hoover. But he also asked about rehabilitation and made a veiled reference to Hoover's hints of ambitious plans.

The next day Hoover received Moton privately in his office. By then they both knew he could very well be the next president of the United States. Indeed, his chances were increasing daily. Coolidge could legally run again, but tradition limited presidents to two terms. He had had them. And rumors were rife that Coolidge's enemies were about to launch a campaign to force his retirement. Soon one GOP senator would publicly declare his opposition to a third term and a wire-service story would proclaim, "Underground Forces Working Against Calvin; Hoover Boom Is Growing...The widespread subterranean alienation from Mr. Coolidge which has long existed among professional Republican politicians will come to the surface in successive explosions.... As soon as the next Senate meets, it will consider an anti-third term resolution."

Now Moton sat alone with Hoover; it was a heady feeling, and one filled with promise for the future. It became headier when Hoover reviewed an idea that he had not wanted to discuss before the others. He said that the flooded region suffered from a "background of bankrupt economics." The plantation system and dependence on cotton had wasted the richest land in the world. Then he outlined a comprehensive, and revolutionary, plan, a plan that could remake the face of the Delta. A memorandum he wrote that day, July 9, proposed "a subdivision of the land into smaller holdings and the building up of small farm ownership." (Almost certainly neither he nor Moton realized that less than thirty years earlier, blacks had owned two-thirds of the farms in the Delta.) Those large plantations experiencing difficulties would disappear, to be replaced by, ultimately, tens of thousands of small farms. The program would nominally serve "both white and colored farmers," but in reality it was designed for blacks. A "land resettlement corporation" would be created to issue first mortgages for the purchase of twenty-acre farms, and second mortgages for purchasing animals and equipment and to provide working capital. Hoover estimated that an initial capital of $4.5 million, properly rediscounted, would allow nearly 7,000 families to buy and equip farms. Repayments and profits would be plowed into new loans, allowing rapid expansion. Theoretically, the program could increase exponentially and transform the entire region. Hoover reasoned that white plantation owners would support the plan because it would decrease the supply of available land and therefore raise all land values. "If it were possible to save from the Mississippi flood fund a sum of [several] millions of dollars," he stated, "we would be justified in applying it to this purpose as a part of the whole rehabilitation of the flood territory."

Moton left the office ecstatic. He believed that Hoover's proposal could lift a large number of blacks out of poverty, and create both a black middle cla.s.s and a promised land in the Mississippi Delta. He believed also that Hoover had the power to implement this plan-and would very likely soon have far more.

On August 2, Coolidge announced he would not seek reelection.

Before the flood, prominent southern Republicans, both black and white, had stated that their convention delegates would not support Hoover for the nomination under any conditions. Now many of the same men were promising Hoover their support regardless of his opponent.

Meanwhile, Moton began to hint at the resettlement plan in speeches. In late August black businessmen gathered in St. Louis at the annual meeting of the National Negro Business League, an a.s.sociation closely linked to the Tuskegee machine, founded by Booker T. Washington, and presided over by Moton. Many of the attendees had scratched out a tiny pile of money from black poverty and death, running penny savings banks, or funeral homes, or burial societies that became insurance companies. Few were radicals, even by the standards of the day. Many were Republican activists. They were, like Moton, hopeful. Now Moton gave them real hope. After this meeting they scattered across the country, committed to Hoover, because of what Moton told them.

"I am not at liberty to give you details but you will hear about it soon," he said, his words stirring curiosity and interest. "But the Red Cross fund will doubtless be the instrument for doing something in behalf of the negro more significant than anything which has happened since Emanc.i.p.ation."

YET H HOOVER had only been holding out a tantalizing carrot. He already knew that the Red Cross fund would serve no such purpose. Only Moton did not know it. a.s.suming that the Red Cross did support the resettlement idea, Moton had invited Fieser to the meeting of black businessmen. Fieser had already explicitly told Hoover the Red Cross could not support it, but sat there, the only white man in a sea of black, smiled at a fulsome introduction, and accepted enthusiastic applause. Then he wrote an angry letter to Hoover. had only been holding out a tantalizing carrot. He already knew that the Red Cross fund would serve no such purpose. Only Moton did not know it. a.s.suming that the Red Cross did support the resettlement idea, Moton had invited Fieser to the meeting of black businessmen. Fieser had already explicitly told Hoover the Red Cross could not support it, but sat there, the only white man in a sea of black, smiled at a fulsome introduction, and accepted enthusiastic applause. Then he wrote an angry letter to Hoover.

In it he cited ten specific objections to the plan, beginning with the fact that "newspaper publicity [from] people like Senator Percy [has] created a state of mind that the fund is inadequate to meet even those items we have accepted as our responsibility." The Red Cross had to husband its money because its original policy of giving refugees just two weeks' supply of food upon leaving camp had to be abandoned; it was now "certain...that considerable numbers of people must be fed through the winter." Finally, should they implement the resettlement plan, there was "the possibility of a gorilla [sic] warfare or financial persecution or ostracism which would drive the negro beneficiaries off the land." He flatly declared it "impossible for the Red Cross to undertake such a program."

MOTON NEVER LEARNED of Fieser's position. Hoover continued to hold out the promise of the resettlement plan. Moton continued to respond to it. of Fieser's position. Hoover continued to hold out the promise of the resettlement plan. Moton continued to respond to it.

Arthur Kellogg was managing editor of the Survey Survey, a leading Progressive magazine, and a Hoover supporter. Sympathetic to blacks, Kellogg knew Moton and judged him harshly but perhaps accurately when he told Hoover, "A great many people had hoped that the introduction of northern workers, money and ideas would blast the crust of inertia in the Delta. I presume there wasn't time.... Perhaps a committee [might have] with a more forceful man at its head than Dr. Moton who, poor soul, has to raise the money for his school both North and South and finds himself a plump, middle-aged gentleman, riding precariously on the narrow side of a 24."

Moton felt differently. In Hoover he believed he had found the solidity of rock, of real power. I shall be the nominee, probably I shall be the nominee, probably, Hoover had said. It is nearly inevitable It is nearly inevitable. Trusting in Hoover, through the fall of 1927, Moton advanced Hoover's presidential candidacy at every opportunity, and exerted all the influence at his command to suffocate all criticism of Hoover among blacks and insure black support for his nomination. He was intent on seeing that there would be no sudden explosion of scandal from the flood that could in any way harm Hoover's chances. And Hoover continued to use him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

WHILE H HOOVER and Moton pursued their agendas, nature imposed its own upon them, through the refugees. They were beset upon by plagues. and Moton pursued their agendas, nature imposed its own upon them, through the refugees. They were beset upon by plagues.

The first plague fell upon their crops. When the refugees finally left the camps, they planted alfalfa, wheat, peas, and the largest crop, soybeans. Hoover had insisted on the soybeans even after agricultural scientists had strongly advised against it. Everything had grown well initially, and Red Cross officials had beamed with pride. But then came a drought, followed by an infestation of insects and worms punctuated by an early freeze. Only 20 to 25 percent of the limited crops planted were harvested; the soybeans were nearly all lost. G.o.d was mocking everything the Delta's people had done that year.

The second plague fell upon the people. Tens of thousands developed pellagra. The disease, caused by poor diet, begins by draining energy from its victims (it accounted for at least some of the "laziness" ascribed to blacks by white southerners). But the disease can also become ugly and dangerous. Sores erupt on the skin and form a thick black crust. Victims become morose, hallucinate, feel as if a fire burns in their heads and spines. Untreated, pellagra kills. At the end of every winter, tenant farmers all over the South, white and black, were on the verge of developing the disease, but normally in the spring their diet improved enough to stave it off. In 1927 in the Red Cross camps the refugees' diet did not improve and pellagra became rampant. Initially, Red Cross officials denied all responsibility, but as the number of the afflicted grew to 50,000 in the Delta alone, they brought in experts who distributed tons of yeast (Washington County received one-third of the total for Mississippi). The yeast helped immeasurably, but a U.S. Public Health Service report concluded, "[A]ny attempt to remove the conditions which are fundamentally responsible for the prevalence of pellagra would involve a revolution of dietary habits and of the entire economic and financial system as it exists."

For the final plague was race. There had been discrimination in the camps, and there was discrimination in their closing. In Vicksburg, for example, the Red Cross had built different camps for different races; the black camp closed seven weeks earlier than the white camp. Blacks were sent home to work even while fields were still covered by a foot of water. Later, discrimination became even more blatant. By then the earlier sense of shared disaster and common humanity had dissipated; att.i.tudes reverted to those common in the region.

Hoover and Fieser had specifically ordered that "all aid be given directly to sufferers." Victims were supposed to get enough feed, seed, tools, clothes, basic furnishings to start again; some of the totally dest.i.tute who had lost farm animals were even to get a mule or hog or a few chickens. But Hoover's policy was honored in the breach. Throughout the flooded territory, county Red Cross chairmen, sometimes with the explicit approval of a national Red Cross staff person, gave supplies to planters for distribution. Some planters did simply distribute the goods to their tenants for free. Some charged for the goods, or subtracted the value of the supplies from old debts, or shifted a mortgage from a drowned mule to a Red Cross-supplied mule. And some simply stole the supplies for their own use. Blacks who owned farms, their tenants, and tenants on plantations with absentee owners got almost nothing. Even official Red Cross policy discriminated against tenants of absentee owners, a.s.suming that owners living outside the Delta were not dest.i.tute and could take care of those tenants.

From late summer through early fall, Moton focused on getting supplies to struggling tenant farmers, continually sending reports to Hoover with details of abuses. Hoover continually denied that there were any systemic problems, and told him to forward each report of abuse to the Red Cross for handling on a case-by-case basis.

In November, Du Bois wrote in the NAACP's magazine Crisis: Crisis: "We have grave suspicions that the [Moton] committee...will be sorely tempted to whitewash the whole situation, to pat Mr. Hoover loudly on the back, and to make no real effort to investigate the desperate and evil conditions of that section of our country.... The one fatal thing for them to do, and the thing for which the American negro will never forgive them, is spineless surrender to the Administration and flattery for the guilty Red Cross." The words were harsh and biting. Du Bois concluded with the promise, "Next month we shall have more to say." "We have grave suspicions that the [Moton] committee...will be sorely tempted to whitewash the whole situation, to pat Mr. Hoover loudly on the back, and to make no real effort to investigate the desperate and evil conditions of that section of our country.... The one fatal thing for them to do, and the thing for which the American negro will never forgive them, is spineless surrender to the Administration and flattery for the guilty Red Cross." The words were harsh and biting. Du Bois concluded with the promise, "Next month we shall have more to say."

Now Moton's own credibility was at stake. Barnett warned him, "The Crisis had a white woman investigator covering the flood district recently...[who] was conversant with one particularly bad situation. I think we ought to beat them to any publicity on both bad and good." So Moton prodded Hoover once more, asking for another investigation and wiring, "Suggest that Red Cross release news story about Commission...at once."

Irritatedly, Hoover told Fieser "the colored complex has again arisen." But he also recognized that Du Bois could conceivably stir up the white press and black Republicans and finally agreed to authorize a November inspection tour by the Colored Advisory Commission. On December 12 this final report was presented to Hoover, Fieser, and half a dozen Red Cross officials in Fieser's Washington office. Moton did not make the presentation; an automobile accident prevented him from attending, so Claude Barnett and Albion Holsey, Moton's deputy, discussed it instead. Moton was accustomed to meeting men with power. Barnett was not. Perhaps because of this, perhaps to show that he was not intimidated, or perhaps because he simply thought he was among friends, he spoke more candidly, even brashly, than he might otherwise have.

For three hours, beginning late in the afternoon and continuing into the evening, Barnett and Holsey reviewed the report. It stated that local officials had "frequently nullified" national Red Cross policies, that landlords were routinely stealing supplies designated for tenants, that black landowners were refused supplies, that thousands of colored victims had yet to receive clothing needed for the winter, that tenants who tried to leave plantations were being whipped. Blacks had refused to talk to commission members because "their lives would be in danger...[but] the facts are known and admitted by Red Cross officials in some of the communities.... We urgently recommend that the Red Cross on its own initiative investigate the conditions which are set forth in these reports.... Confidential investigators from Washington would be able to make some interesting discoveries."

Hoover and Fieser had expected praise. They were startled at first, then grew increasingly angry. They were being rebuked, unusual enough for either of them. And they were being rebuked by Negroes, indeed, by the a.s.sistants of a Negro. Still, they revealed little of their anger.

Barnett left the meeting pleased, confiding to a colleague: "I think we beat [the NAACP] to it on the flood thing. They can now rave, but we have done our duty by everybody around Mr. Hoover." A few days later Hoover promised Moton that the charges would be "vigorously investigated and remedies applied." Naively, Barnett told Moton, "I felt Secretary Hoover would rise to the occasion but this is better than my most sanguine hopes."

But Hoover was not a man who took criticism well. Though he promised action to Moton, he also conveyed extreme displeasure.

DESPITE THE PAIN from his automobile accident, Moton decided to come to Washington immediately. At stake was not only the fate of the flood victims and his personal relationship with Hoover, who seemed closer to the presidency every day, but the resettlement plan. Moton knew also that he had misjudged Hoover. The report had been written as if to one who saw things the same way. Hoover apparently did not see things the same way. It was a mistake no man in Moton's position could make often and survive. from his automobile accident, Moton decided to come to Washington immediately. At stake was not only the fate of the flood victims and his personal relationship with Hoover, who seemed closer to the presidency every day, but the resettlement plan. Moton knew also that he had misjudged Hoover. The report had been written as if to one who saw things the same way. Hoover apparently did not see things the same way. It was a mistake no man in Moton's position could make often and survive.

Moton arrived in Washington in the evening, and early the next morning, while most men were still eating breakfast, went to Hoover's office. He was not kept waiting. Hoover did not manipulate people in that petty way. But now it was Hoover's turn to hold little back. Coldly, he told Moton the report had "disappointed" him. It was a powerful word, disappoint disappoint, a word impossible to rebut. Then Hoover critiqued it in detail, complaining especially of its failure to credit the good the Red Cross had done.

Moton replied fulsomely, praising Hoover's "consistently wise and patriotic service." He apologized for not being in attendance when the report was first tendered, explaining, "The presence of some of us who were absent might perhaps have given a little different atmosphere to the meeting, but I want to a.s.sure you there was no intention on the part of those present to indict the National Red Cross in any way." Then he made a literally unbelievable statement: "I had not seen the report as presented to you. I saw it afterwards."

Even if somehow Moton had not read the report, he had to have read the summary. It was only seven pages long and included some of the bluntest criticism, and it was in the form of a letter from him to Hoover. He had signed it-before his accident. By disowning it, he could not have humbled himself more completely and abjectly.

Hoover listened to Moton's explanations, told him to see that the report was rewritten and to write a press release, then dismissed him absently. After the meeting, Hoover called Fieser. With some smugness and a still smoldering anger, he said he "laid Dr. Moton out." And although Moton had submitted meekly, Hoover still told an aide to bring "another element of the colored world into the picture."

A few days later Moton, unaware that Hoover was looking elsewhere, sent him a letter of further apology and enclosed for his approval a press release fully endorsing the actions of the Red Cross. Hoover replied, "I have received your letter...and was much pleased to read the statement."

Later Barnett pleaded with Fieser, "I feel very strongly that the changes suggested [in the report] should not be made...because of the state of mind of the colored people of the country as it regards the flood.... I beg leave to respectfully protest the change and to urge the use of the original." Moton did not second this protest, and Fieser and Hoover ignored it.

Meanwhile, commission member J. S. Clark told Fieser: "Neither Dr. Moton nor I had seen the final report that was submitted.... The Red Cross deserves unlimited praise for the service it is rendering." Then Clark reminded Fieser also of "the program that will not only feed, cloth [sic] and shelter the people, but will enable them to be established more firmly than before." He was referring, of course, to Hoover's resettlement plan.

THERE HAD BEEN no mention of the plan in months, except when Moton had reminded Hoover of it. Moton still did not know that Fieser had rejected it as "impossible." But Moton did know that Fieser was now cool toward everyone a.s.sociated with the Colored Advisory Commission. He did know that resettlement had been Hoover's own idea. He did know that Hoover, despite reminders, had done nothing to pursue it. And he finally understood what had never been said: the Red Cross would do nothing to implement it. Concerned yet still hopeful, he told Hoover he planned to approach several philanthropists and asked permission to use Hoover's name. Hoover agreed, and told him to ask William Schieffelin, a trustee of Tuskegee who owned a chemical company, to host a luncheon in New York where Hoover could present his plan to major donors to charity. no mention of the plan in months, except when Moton had reminded Hoover of it. Moton still did not know that Fieser had rejected it as "impossible." But Moton did know that Fieser was now cool toward everyone a.s.sociated with the Colored Advisory Commission. He did know that resettlement had been Hoover's own idea. He did know that Hoover, despite reminders, had done nothing to pursue it. And he finally understood what had never been said: the Red Cross would do nothing to implement it. Concerned yet still hopeful, he told Hoover he planned to approach several philanthropists and asked permission to use Hoover's name. Hoover agreed, and told him to ask William Schieffelin, a trustee of Tuskegee who owned a chemical company, to host a luncheon in New York where Hoover could present his plan to major donors to charity.

Moton did. Schieffelin invited a select gathering, including J. C. Penney, the banker Paul Warburg, and John D. Rockefeller, Jr. Schieffelin then told Hoover they were all looking forward to hearing him "outline the plan to make good lands in the South available to Negro tenants."

Hoover knew all the invitees well-indeed, immediately after his election as president later that year, he would go deep-sea fishing at Penney's Florida estate-yet on January 12, 1928, he replied, "I feel it would be undesirable to have a luncheon for the purpose of meeting me to discuss such a plan as you mention."

Schieffelin sent Hoover's note to Moton. He was stunned. Hoover was abandoning him. But he said nothing, and instead turned to Julius Rosenwald, another Tuskegee trustee. Rosenwald, a short, heavy-set man with iron gray hair, did not give money away for dreams and required enterprises he supported to meet high standards, but he had already given millions to help build rural black schools; he would ultimately contribute to building 6,000. Rosenwald also had a long relationship with Hoover, having worked with him to, among other things, make second mortgages a viable financial instrument; Hoover had done him such favors as get him good seats for Coolidge's inauguration. More important, while Hoover was declining Schieffelin's invitation, Rosenwald was giving $5 million to resettle European refugees on farms. For this act, Hoover congratulated him on "a great experiment in human engineering, and you and I have watched together the fruition of so many enterprises born of a realization that the welfare of other human beings is the concern of all of us."

A similar amount would finance the entire project in the Delta. The prospect excited Moton with possibilities. Now Moton placed his fate in Hoover's hands, hoping Hoover would personally ask Rosenwald to finance the project by himself. Though Hoover was not above personally asking for money for projects he cared about, though a direct personal request from him would be far more difficult to reject, Hoover did not ask Rosenwald himself. And, though Rosenwald was a Tuskegee trustee, Moton was never given an opportunity to present the plan-Hoover's plan, exactly the way Hoover had written it-directly to Rosenwald. Instead, the plan was presented to Rosenwald's a.s.sistant Edwin Embree, who replied: "Mr. Rosenwald's reaction is, to say the least, not actively favorable. He has had somewhat unfortunate experiences in somewhat similar projects, notably one I believe called Baldwin Farms near Tuskegee."

THOUGH M MOTON had dignity, he had never been burdened by pride. His very first day at Hampton Inst.i.tute had taught him to eschew pride, when an instructor had given him his admissions examination; it had been how well he swept a cla.s.sroom, not how well he learned in it. After Rosenwald's rejection, he reminded Hoover, gently, that both the resettlement plan and the Schieffelin luncheon were Hoover's own ideas, and pleaded with him to bring the plan back to life. "A word from you with half a dozen gentlemen, in my opinion, would settle the matter in an hour so far as the financial end of it is concerned," he wrote. "You will I know, forgive me for this seeming persistence in the matter, but if you could make the trip to New York as you had one time suggested it would a.s.sure success at the start." had dignity, he had never been burdened by pride. His very first day at Hampton Inst.i.tute had taught him to eschew pride, when an instructor had given him his admissions examination; it had been how well he swept a cla.s.sroom, not how well he learned in it. After Rosenwald's rejection, he reminded Hoover, gently, that both the resettlement plan and the Schieffelin luncheon were Hoover's own ideas, and pleaded with him to bring the plan back to life. "A word from you with half a dozen gentlemen, in my opinion, would settle the matter in an hour so far as the financial end of it is concerned," he wrote. "You will I know, forgive me for this seeming persistence in the matter, but if you could make the trip to New York as you had one time suggested it would a.s.sure success at the start."

Hoover finally agreed to attend the Schieffelin's luncheon, then postponed it. Now desperate, Moton began to thrash about, writing Hoover again that the luncheon would be with people who "could finance the scheme with ease.... I was not sure you wished me to push the thing further. I would be glad to have instructions as to your wishes in the matter."

In reply, Hoover sent him a copy of the old letter from Rosenwald's a.s.sistant rejecting the idea. He said nothing else, and made no mention of the luncheon. It was never held.

All his life Moton had been forced into a smiling, accepting patience. He still did not abandon hope and wrote Rockefeller, "You are the kind of American citizen that I think of whenever I take off my hat to the Stars and Stripes, and I can properly put Mrs. Rockefeller in the same category not because of any worldly possessions you possess but rather the spirit which you manifest toward every phase of human betterment."

Rockefeller thanked him for the sentiments. But without Hoover's imprimatur, there would be no money for the land resettlement. The proposal that was to be the greatest boon for the Negro race since Emanc.i.p.ation lay waiting, and perhaps dying. Perhaps it was already dead.

BY NOW it was March 1928. Moton likely rationalized that Hoover was so deeply enmeshed in his campaign for the presidential nomination that he could not spare the time for the resettlement question now. But if he became president of the United States... it was March 1928. Moton likely rationalized that Hoover was so deeply enmeshed in his campaign for the presidential nomination that he could not spare the time for the resettlement question now. But if he became president of the United States...

Moton was determined to do all in his power to help Herbert Hoover achieve that ambition. His help could make a difference. Through the spring of 1928, despite primary victories and a commanding lead among Republican hopefuls, Hoover remained anathema to party professionals. If the Republican National Convention did not nominate him on the first ballot, it might not nominate him at all. Hoover's opponents, led by former Illinois Governor Frank Lowden, the favorite for the nomination until the flood had elevated Hoover, struggled to form an alliance to block him. On March 31, 1928, the New York Times New York Times spoke of a "plan to deadlock the convention and select a compromise candidate against Mr. Hoover." LeRoy Percy, who knew something of such a strategy from his victory in the Mississippi legislature over Vardaman, had been watching the maneuvering for months and observed that other candidates' "popularity grows by contact; Hoover's diminishes." He judged: "All of the regular Republicans will oppose him. I don't believe he can get the nomination. If so, of course he will be elected." He also believed, "No man in public life has more enemies than Hoover." spoke of a "plan to deadlock the convention and select a compromise candidate against Mr. Hoover." LeRoy Percy, who knew something of such a strategy from his victory in the Mississippi legislature over Vardaman, had been watching the maneuvering for months and observed that other candidates' "popularity grows by contact; Hoover's diminishes." He judged: "All of the regular Republicans will oppose him. I don't believe he can get the nomination. If so, of course he will be elected." He also believed, "No man in public life has more enemies than Hoover."

Hoover fought back with his usual style, pretending to be above politics (and fooling himself with the pretense), keeping his own hands clean. But his aides, particularly George Akerson, did what was required. Tough, even ruthless, they made deals, violated clear ethical standards, and looked the other way while people acting for Hoover broke the law. They used people. They used Moton.

In the black community Moton, Barnett, and the Tuskegee machine shielded Hoover, answered charges that Hoover had allowed the abuses of black refugees, did everything possible to advance him. Their impact was felt. "Would it be possible for us to have Neale [sic] in New York on March 30, for an address," Akerson asked, referring to C. C. Neal, a small cog in the Tuskegee machine who had earlier helped move black Missouri Republicans into Hoover's column. And no black man worked harder than Barnett, who had experience in both Chicago ward politics and presidential campaigns. He had become a campaign aide reporting to Akerson as early as January 1928; he traveled constantly, poured himself into the campaign, and simultaneously threw the influence of syndicated stories in his a.s.sociated Negro Press into the battle. Shortly before the convention, Akerson told Barnett: "Both Secretary Hoover and I have known of your devoted interest, and he appreciates as I do the fine continued work you are doing in his behalf. The battle is almost over.... Please be a.s.sured that you are counted one of the very closest friends of this organization, and we are very glad of your help."

But Moton was the key. Moton mattered. A Negro political operative recruited by Hoover told Moton he did not want to work "against the RACE for the sake of the MAN," asking "just what you think of him." A black New Jersey politician asked for information "regarding Mr. Hoover in connection with the Mississippi flood, concerning good done the Colored people." As the convention neared, Akerson's requests of Moton became constant. Oscar DePriest, who was not in Hoover's camp, dominated Chicago black wards and that year would become the first black congressman elected in this century. Akerson instructed Moton to handle him, as well as to contact "Mr. J. C. Mitch.e.l.l...[who] has a tremendous influence with the three colored delegates from St. Louis"; to contact Scipio Jones, a black lawyer and key to the entire Arkansas delegation, "and find out exactly how he stands on Hoover"; to issue "a statement to the Colored Press in Chicago...call[ing] attention to the satisfaction which the colored leaders in the South had over the handling of Mississippi relief by Mr. Hoover." At the convention itself Moton was given charge of black delegates.

Hoover won the nomination on the first ballot. The flood had swept him to it; the flood had returned him to his countrymen's consciousness, made him once again a hero, once again the Great Humanitarian. With Moton's help no scandal had erupted and black Republican delegates had fallen in line. The election would come in a few more months. Moton was willing to wait for the resettlement plan and other boons to the race, as well as to the Tuskegee machine, a little longer.

Part Nine

THE LEAVING OF THE WATERS.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

FROM C CAIRO, ILLINOIS, to the Gulf of Mexico, and from New Orleans to Washington, D.C., all across the floodplain of the Mississippi River and beyond, the 1927 flood left a watermark. It changed things. Some changes, direct and tangible ones, came immediately; others, less direct and less tangible, came more slowly.

The first change occurred even before the flood did most of its damage, when the levee below New Orleans was dynamited. The dynamite exploded not only the levee but the levees-only policy, ending forever the argument over whether levees alone could control the Mississippi River, and forcing an admission even from Army engineers that nothing could control the Mississippi. So man would have to find a way to accommodate it.

Finding that way was the final battle of the flood, and this battle was fought in Washington. All parties began in agreement that the federal government should a.s.sume responsibility for the river, but this consensus settled almost nothing, for water, like power itself, is a zero-sum game. If one has more, another has less. The levees-only policy had obscured this truth; one of its chief attractions had been its promise to protect all the land in the river's floodplain. Any new plan would have to allow the river to spread over some land, somewhere. Congress would have to decide whose lands that would be, and the decision would have to combine engineering and politics.

The scope of the legislation also had to be defined, along with who would pay for it. At the least, this legislation would seek to contain the lower Mississippi; at the least, it would be the most ambitious and expensive single piece of legislation Congress had ever pa.s.sed. Many wanted to make it far more comprehensive and include the entire Mississippi River system. The governor of New Mexico wanted Congress to include in the legislation the prevention of floods on the Canadian River. A senator and two mayors from Oklahoma demanded that the bill solve flooding and shipping problems on the Arkansas, Cimarron, and Canadian. The governor of North Dakota complained about the Missouri; a congressman from Montana complained about the Milk; the governor of Kansas spoke of thirty-two towns and cities inundated in his state, some of which had been flooded seven times from September 1926 to April 1927; congressmen from Pittsburgh and Cincinnati wanted floods on the Ohio addressed.

But it was not Congress or the White House that decided these things. They were settled in a more intimate forum by the Tri-State Flood Control Committee. This committee, like so many others that exercised power, was an ad hoc group, a handful of men, from Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi. Their names were familiar, and they made decisions binding upon each state's representatives, and they had influence far beyond their states. John Parker was committee vice chairman and with Jim Butler spoke for Louisiana. LeRoy Percy spoke for Mississippi and served as secretary. Arkansas Governor John Martineau spoke for his state and chaired the committee. They, and Hoover, were the ones who mattered.

On September 12, 1927, a month after Coolidge had declared that he would not seek reelection, these men gathered at the home of Colonel John Fordyce in Hot Springs, Arkansas. By the time they met, the political forces demanding legislation were already coming together. In June, several thousand people, among them nearly 150 senators, governors, and congressmen, had attended the Chicago Flood Control Conference; its sole purpose was to generate momentum and pressure for a bill. After it adjourned, a small executive committee had been formed, including Percy, to lobby for a bill. Since then Percy had traveled constantly, meeting privately with northern governors and congressmen, seeing Coolidge and General Jadwin in Washington, hosting Vice President Charles Dawes in Greenville, guiding a U.S. Chamber of Commerce delegation through the flooded region. It seemed that everywhere, as the a.s.sociated Press reported, "[i]t remained for the old Roman of the Delta, Senator Leroy [sic] Percy of Greenville, Mississippi, to sound the keynote of these problems."

Now, in Hot Springs, Percy and his colleagues on the Tri-State Committee were to decide the broad outlines of a bill they would unanimously support. Present were Hoover, Percy, Martineau, Butler, and two others who were among the wealthiest men in the South. All except Hoover were men who could manifest extraordinary grace and charm, but now they had come together to make decisions. They shared little small talk, little comment on difficult travel schedules, not even a discussion of refugees or crops. Their interest was containing the river. What they settled upon would more closely resemble what actually became law than would the initial proposals later made by Coolidge, the House, or the Senate.

IT WAS a palatial setting, the house with tall Corinthian columns and silent smiling black servants, yet it also had a rustic quality, and not far back of the house a pack of hunting dogs barked. Outside the sun blazed, but shade nestled close to the house. The shade, high ceilings, and whirring fans kept the inside cool. The town itself, its main street packed with hotels, several of them elegant, was a resort enveloped in a vast mountain forest. The springs drew the visitors, but good shooting could be found close by. It was the shooting Percy could not forget. Here twenty-five years before he had watched impotently as his young son LeRoy Percy, Jr., died in agony from an infection after a shooting accident. He had avoided Hot Springs since then, but this was not a time for sentiment. a palatial setting, the house with tall Corinthian columns and silent smiling black servants, yet it also had a rustic quality, and not far back of the house a pack of hunting dogs barked. Outside the sun blazed, but shade nestled close to the house. The shade, high ceilings, and whirring fans kept the inside cool. The town itself, its main street packed with hotels, several of them elegant, was a resort enveloped in a vast mountain forest. The springs drew the visitors, but good shooting could be found close by. It was the shooting Percy could not forget. Here twenty-five years before he had watched impotently as his young son LeRoy Percy, Jr., died in agony from an infection after a shooting accident. He had avoided Hot Springs since then, but this was not a time for sentiment.

That became clear soon enough as they discussed federal help for the victims. Percy warned that giving relief to victims would "set a precedent" and make pa.s.sage harder. It could also excite jealousy in members of Congress whose states had suffered in the past without receiving federal relief. They might exorcise their jealousy by losing interest in legislation. Therefore, he concluded, "I am not willing to [support] any other measure which would detract in any way from the Government taking over control of the levees."

Martineau agreed and made another point: "I believe if Congress were to pa.s.s a measure giving relief to those damaged they would feel they had done their duty and...this general plan of [river legislation]...would have to wait months and maybe years."

No one disagreed. The question was settled. Later Hoover personally drafted a statement for the head of each state's rehabilitation committee to release, saying, "No relief to flood sufferers by action of Congress is desirable but rather all efforts should be concentrated on formulation and pa.s.sage of adequate flood control measures."

The next question was, who would pay for the ma.s.sive engineering works necessary? Historically, states or local ent.i.ties had always had to match with cash, land, or rights-of-way the money the federal government spent. But requiring local contributions could cripple any effort to deal with the river. In 1927, before the flood, the Mississippi River Commission had had $5 million on hand for emergency levee work, but 40 percent had gone unspent because local levee boards could not make their matching contributions. Now far more levee districts were dest.i.tute and would remain so for the foreseeable future. Yet the levee system could only be as strong as its weakest link; a creva.s.se in one levee district could threaten hundreds of thousands of people in other levee districts.

Percy, Butler, Martineau, and the others pressed Hoover to agree to waive any local contributions. Hoover agreed with them on the goal but warned that both Congress and the White House "are going to hesitate to let go of the requirement of local contribution for fear of future demand for this sort of thing.... It is a question of tactics."

Butler suggested a solution: "Wouldn't it be better for us to consider those amounts expended...already as a contribution already made, so we can get by this point of future contributions?"

Percy nodded an emphatic yes. "I will give you one district," he said, speaking of his own Mississippi Levee Board. "In July, 1926, the Government had spent $13,500,000 in five years and the district in that time spent $22,537,000." Overall, he added, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi had spent $168 million, while the federal government had given only $61 million.