Free Knee-Deep in Wonder by April Reynolds

had come from, almost chanting, Well, here it come; yes, sir, it sho is coming. He did not warn his parents that he heard what he did not hear—galloping water that would crash and drown them all within moments. Finally the grown people heard what made the mules lift their heads and snort within their rigging. But then it was too late. The rising Mississippi broke a private levee sixty miles away, leaving a slash in the man-made structure. Everything was swept by water. Chess, his parents, and the neighbors in the wagon could only look on as the other two wagons traveling with them drowned. Everyone in Mr. Hubbert’s wagon thought, This is the one. We just didn’t see it until now, and Mr. Paw we threw away. Later, Chess would only recall the sound— ahhh —and then the noise sliced away, like a spigot turned off.
    *   *   *
    So in the end Mr. Paw didn’t seem so foolish building that raft though, foolish or no, Mr. Paw was shot straight in the air, his raft torn to pieces from the force of the water, and that Greenville government levee everyone promised them would last broke first thing in the morning before breakfast. Afterward (this would be five months on) people closest to Natchez said they woke because of the sound, a deafening peal of thunder. The tenant farmers from the Sillers plantation would say they’d heard no such thing, just a long moan that couldn’t seem to stop itself. Even then the Sillers tenants hoped. Weren’t they close to the Vicksburg levee? No more than fifty miles, a hard day’s ride. If they could make good time, they’d get there in a day and a half. But hope had been misplaced, measured and folded, tucked away beneath the hats of men who still cursed that they were on their way to the levee in the first place. The Sillers tenants hoped the precious items nailed down to the floors of their homes were still dry. Yes, they hoped. Hoped about the wrong things.
    Three afternoons later, they made it to Vicksburg. Soaked through, less than half of them remained: four children, five men, six women, two chairs, a trunk’s worth of clothes, and a potbelly stove were all they had left. What once was a wagon had turned into a raft, since the sides had been torn off for paddles. And this should have been the end: before them the levee loomed like a fortress, a city in itself. They saw large vats of steaming food and, farther, crowds of people being helped up. Well, it’s all about done now, Mr. Hubbert thought, watching the white man who seemed to be in charge of it all come toward him.
    â€œYou’ll just keep on coming, I reckon.” He stooped low, yelling. “I got enough, niggers.”
    Mr. Hubbert spoke up. “We from Sillers.”
    â€œThat right?” General Cray Withers laughed with falsetto mirth, the three bands of fat on his chest, stomach, and hips moving quite distinctly from one another. “Well, now. We went by Sillers, couple weeks back, looking for niggers to work.” Withers watched their faces. “Know what? Sillers say he ain’t got no working niggers.” Squatting on his haunches, Withers spat casually into the dirt.
    â€œI don’t know nothing bout all that.” Mr. Hubbert bowed his head, taking off his hat.
    â€œDon’t say?” The general looked up and asked the man next to him, “Mr. Simmons, didn’t we ride past the Sillers place looking for niggers and Sillers say he ain’t got none?”
    â€œSho did.”
    Withers put his fat hand on his knee, his voice half musing. “Well, now. Seem like me and Simmons got the same recollecting. You ain’t saying Mr. Sillers is a lie, is you?”
    â€œNaw, sir.” Mr. Hubbert rubbed his head softly with his hand. His voice carried just a thread of pleading.
    â€œLook like we got a problem. Both me and Simmons got the same recollect, and you and me both know Sillers ain’t no lie. You sho you