Lost Souls Recovered, page 15
The question stunned John. He could read and write and understood complex sentences, but he had no real education beyond the age of ten. Much of his education was based on his discipline to learn, often done heuristically.
After John did not respond within a few seconds, Fairbanks looked at John and asked, “How old are you, son?”
“Seventeen.”
“How much schooling have you had?”
John told him the extent of his education. And Fairbanks in turn told John that many of the students enrolled in the University didn’t have a diploma.
John nodded.
The University had benefited from money from the Freedmen’s Bureau to help Negroes’ educational advancement, and private donations also poured in during Reconstruction. “Look,” Fairbanks said, “We want as many of our colored folks to get a college education as can. We have financial assistance and tutors that can help you. You may not finish with a degree, but having this education could help you down the line.”
John turned to Douglas and looked at him blankly, as though he was lost in thought. He recalled from time to time that he’d stand in Monsieur Billingsly’s study and stroke the spines of the plenitude of books on the shelves. He knew he wanted more knowledge.
“Excuse me, sir,” Douglas said, “I need to say something to John.”
Douglas told John he should do it—it could help him with the bigger life he had dreamed about. But John’s need to find Cousin Riley, who may not even exist, overrode anything else that would abort his mission.
John broke the huddle with Douglas and returned to Fairbanks. “Thank you, sir. That’s really kind of you, but we need to be moving on.”
Fairbanks didn’t press the issue. Looking at John and Douglas, he said, “Where’re you going from here?”
“We trying to get to Mount Hope, Alabama,” Douglas said. “Heard of it?”
“Can’t say that I have. But I know it’s a ways to the Alabama border. How’re you getting there?”
Douglas marched in place, then added, “Unless we find another means.”
Fairbanks looked at their brogans, then at them. “The weather’s turning soon. Your boots look fine. You have socks?”
“Yeah, we have socks,” Douglas said.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
John turned to Douglas and hunched his shoulders as to say he didn’t know what Fairbanks was up to.
Fairbanks returned in two minutes. “Here,” the man said, handing ten one-dollar bills to John and the same to Douglas.
“Gee, thanks Mr. Fairbanks. Why?”
“Let’s just say it’s an early Christmas present.”
Douglas expressed his gratitude, too. He widened his smile and said, “Thanks.”
“Farewell,” Fairbanks said.
They collected Greeny and left.
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Fairbanks later told the local sheriff about the missing page, deleting John’s identification. The sheriff determined it was the missing page that had been ripped from the Bible that was found in Professor Bodie’s breast pocket. The Atlanta Constitution, under the leadership of publisher Henry Grady, would later publish an article about how the much discussed missing page from the Bible was found:
Two young colored male itinerants witnessed a Negro man’s execution in Shelby Woods by a gang of outlaws. They only found out that they had witnessed Professor Bodie’s lynching later when they went to Atlanta University to talk to him upon the suggestion of a friend in Raleigh, NC. At Atlanta University, they encountered Dean Lucien Fairbanks who told them that Professor Bodie was found dead in the woods, that a Bible was found in his breast pocket, and that a page was missing from the Bible. The itinerants told Dean Fairbanks that they had ripped out a page of the Bible because someone had circled in red the verse about how servants must obey their masters—a stale reference to slavery and how the Negro man must understand his place in society.
We understand that it is painful for many Southerners to see their world turn topsy-turvy after the War. Although the War ended over two decades ago, too often the ghosts of the War are resurrected through vile, ritual forms. We believe Atlanta begs for a new South, one that endeavors to treat our neighbors kindly. The denizens of Atlanta, of the South, must not lick their wounds from the War by attacking the colored man. As the War fades into the past, the new South must strive to be first in industry, first in citizenship, and first in humanity. We should all try to hasten the day to bring these worthy goals to fruition.
The Constitution received a lot of hate mail, but Grady didn’t care. His mission was to help build a new South, in part by convincing the North to invest financially in the South.
18 — December, 1887
They had lost track of time on the next stage of their trek. All they knew was it was December, and they were cold. It tuned out December would experience low temperatures in the teens for the last two weeks of the month. Newspaper articles advised citizens to avoid going out in the cold weather to avoid possible heart attacks and frostbite.
A white passerby told them they could try to seek shelter from Father Murphy. “He’s got that YMCA in Birmingham,” they were told.
Tucked into the Jones Valley, the YMCA facility was a three-story, English revival-style, auburn-colored brick building with contrasting trim, a stepped parapet, and a shallow Gothic archway framing the heavy oak front door.
Douglas studied the building and asked through teeth chattering from the cold and the vicious wind, “Suppose this it?”
“One way to find out,” John said.
John pulled on the massive door, but the wind made is slow to open. Douglas stuck his foot in the doorway, allowing John to grab the door above the handle. John pulled hard. Greeny scrambled in first, followed by Douglas, then John.
About two dozen men and boys were gathered around a fireplace dancing with flames and heat, listening with rapt attention as a white man read aloud passages from Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. The man spied the new arrivals and motioned with his right hand for them to sit with the others. Douglas and John sat on small wood chairs, and Greeny dropped to the floor, nestling in between John’s legs. Greeny had a straight line of sight to the orange flames shooting from the splintered logs. He furrowed his brow each time a log popped from the fireplace.
John removed his wool mittens, put them in his coat, then rubbed his hands together to create some much needed heat. He turned to Douglas and said with his eyes pointed at the reader, “That must be Father Murphy?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” someone whispered. “Shhh.”
Satisfied that his hands had warmed up after several minutes of rubbing, John turned slightly in his chair. A few people had formed a line, the beginning of which led to a cider tank with steam erupting from its top.
When Murphy stopped reading, John stood up and walked around to the back of his chair where Greeny had already slithered out. As he often did when he wanted Greeny to stay put, he held out his right forefinger to tell Greeny not to move. Greeny whimpered softly and slithered back into position.
John walked to the back of the line and Douglas followed. They had a wider view of the lobby. Most of the people were white, with a scattering of colored. They had the same look—despair in their eyes and tattered clothes on their backs.
Just as it was Douglas’s turn to scoop the piping hot cider into his glass, Murphy said with a thick Irish brogue, “Be careful with that; it’s hot. Don’t want no accidents here the day before Christmas.”
Douglas nodded, then took a sip of cider.
“Did Jack Frost bite your tongue?”
“Who’s Jack Frost?”
Murphy emitted a hearty chuckle.
Murphy was a middling handsome Irish American with titian hair, a dimpled chin, a long angular face made more dramatic with heavy eyebrows, and oversized emerald-green eyes.
Murphy had first settled in Charleston after coming to the United States as part of the third wave of immigrants out of Ireland. He had been a priest in Dublin. He heard that men were needed to work in the railroad and iron and steel businesses in Birmingham, so he packed his few belongings and moved there, a city that erupted out of an abandoned forest in the 1870s. It was a city within five miles of three main ingredients that served as the bedrock of Birmingham’s early development: iron, iron ore, and limestone. It wasn’t long before the entire US economy was surging with industrial fervor, generating a ravenous appetite for Alabama’s precious iron ore.
Murphy was lucky to be a lottery winner, which allowed him to work for one of Birmingham’s giant industries—Sloss Furnace—making iron, but after he injured his right foot while working at Sloss, he could no longer do the heavy labor.
Two years later Murphy found a job running the YMCA. He knew first-hand the deep poverty in Ireland. His mother had taken in strangers in their slum home, and the memory of that, coupled with his devotion to his faith, made him ideally suited to run the YMCA. He commonly wore a black shirt with a white clerical collar and black pants.
“I run this place,” he said while Douglas blew into his cup of piping hot cider. “Just call me Father Murphy. Ya got a religion?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that.” Murphy turned to John. “How about you? You got a religion?”
“Yes, sir, my mama saw to it,” John said.
“Good, but we’ll need to work on this one,” Murphy said, placing his hand on Douglas’s shoulder.
John moved two steps away to check on Greeny.
“I saw the mutt,” Murphy said. “He made some kind of noise each time the logs popped. What’s his name?”
“Greeny,” John said.
“You looking for a place to stay?”
Douglas told Murphy that he and John had trekked from Richmond and needed a place to stay for a few days.
“Yer welcome to stay here, but to do so requires ya work.”
“Whatever you need,” Douglas said.
“Atta boy,” Murphy said. “This is the season for us to have a cracking good time. But we all will be working very hard soon.”
Like he did for all new arrivals, Murphy told Douglas and John about his rules, ones that were in keeping with the YMCA’s mission: to develop young men’s Christian character of high standards. Murphy’s brand of Christianity differed widely from the perverse idea of Christianity that had been suffused in the South for so long: He rejected the notion that God considered Negroes to be inferior to whites.
Murphy turned serious. “You must obey the rules. They’re simple. Rule number one: I already told you about. You must work. Rule number two: No alcohol. Rule number three: No fighting. Rule number four: No smoking. Rule number five …” He turned and looked at Greeny still resting under the chair. “No pets.”
John stood motionless. Eyes that had begun to be enlivened a bit, turned dark. “Douglas and Greeny are the only family I got in the world. And it’s cold outside.”
“The dog can lie next to the steam vent in the back of the building to keep warm. You’ll just have to check on him from time to time.”
“If Greeny must go, then I go.”
John walked over to his chair, sat down, and tightened the matted strings of his black brogans, picked up his haversack, put on his moldering linsey-woolsey coat, and headed to the front door with Greeny in tow.
He turned to Murphy, who looked nonplussed. Douglas recalled what Murphy had read about Ebenezer Scrooge. “Don’t be like Scrooge on Christmas Eve.”
Murphy appreciated the irony and relented. “I see ya was paying attention.”
John opened the door and a gush of icy wind whooshed through the lobby. Murphy shouted, “C’mere, laddie! Greeny can stay.” John and Greeny reversed course, and John ran to Murphy and hugged him, nearly knocking him over.
Murphy put two fingers from each hand and whistled loudly, piercing all conversations. The clatter stopped. “Dinner’ll be ready in five minutes,” he announced.
Every year the moguls of Birmingham expiated their excesses by delivering a bountiful supply of food and clothes to the YMCA during the Christmas season. They would eat more than the leftover watery stew called slumgullion. Recalling the menu as best he could, Murphy said, “We’re having wigs, trotters, jugged hare, sweet potatoes, marrow pudding, soda bread, collard greens.… Tonight, we eat like kings.”
“Hooray!” someone yelled.
The men and boys ran to the dining area and sat at picnic-style wooden tables. John was not put off that Murphy demanded that Greeny could not enter the dining area. He told Greeny to lie by the fire and he would retrieve him after he ate. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll bring you something back,” he said as he massaged Greeny’s head.
After feasting on Christmas Eve dinner, Douglas and John were weighed down with bellies full of food. Feeling logy, Douglas asked Murphy where they’d sleep.
“There’s a room on the second floor for ya boys. Take two-oh-two. There should be two more bedrolls in there. Already two guys in there—Ian and Jeffrey. There’s a lantern near the bottom of the steps. Use it to help you find the room.”
“Okay, thanks, Father Murphy,” Douglas said.
“Good night, Father Murphy,” John added.
The door was open. Douglas walked in first, followed by John, then Greeny. Two white men sat on the floor with their backs resting up against the wall next to a lantern. The room was spartan in appearance—only a small table and a dresser kept the room from being completely bare. Douglas put the lantern he had carried in on the small table near a window that admitted phosphorus light from the moon.
Looking at their roommates for the time being, Douglas said, “I’m Doug. This here is John. And that there be our dog, Greeny.”
Silence.
John then asked which one was Ian and which one was Jeffrey.
No response other than a death stare from both men.
Greeny moved to the other guests and began to sniff them. The taller and heavier guest, who was carving an apple with a pocketknife, pushed Greeny away, causing him to whimper.
John didn’t want any trouble. “Greeny,” John said, “over here.” Greeny complied.
As Douglas and John put down their bedrolls, the man holding the pocketknife said, “We ain’t rooming with no slaves.”
The other companion piped in: “Yeah, you heard what Jeffrey said.”
Douglas turned, and snapped, “Then leave.”
“You a stupid somma bitch,” Jeffrey said.
Douglas ignored the comment.
After realizing he had killed two men before, John knew he could fight and kill again anyone who meant to cause him harm—if he didn’t find Cousin Riley, at least he’d fulfill half the promise he made to Ann by making it to Mount Hope. In this instance, he’d be prepared to fight if it came to it, but for the moment he just wanted a place to rest and let his Christmas Eve meal digest. He nestled himself in his bedroll. Greeny fell to the floor near John’s feet.
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It was midnight. Christmas had arrived and so had the pealing of church bells. Ian and Jeffrey stood together and walked slowly and in a determined manner toward Douglas and John. Greeny lifted his head and growled.
Jeffrey rushed Douglas and then Ian jumped on John.
Douglas used his left arm to block the knife aimed at his chest. He grabbed his attacker’s shirt with both hands and pulled him to the floor and began hitting him in the face.
The attacker managed to get up as Douglas relaxed his hold, only for the attacker to rush Douglas, who then used his right leg to kick the attacker in the stomach, sending him flying against the wall, where he slumped to the floor breathing heavy. Douglas grabbed the pocketknife, folded it, and placed it in his trouser pocket.
John had quickly thrown Ian, the smaller man, to the floor and stood ready to do more harm. John inched toward Jeffrey with clenched fists, but Douglas extended his arm and held John in place.
John was impressed with Douglas’s ability to fight, especially to fight someone who probably weighted significantly more than Douglas; where John would have to move to avoid getting in the bear’s arms, he knew Douglas’s height and strength would allow him to outpower and outlast the bear. Responding to the hullabaloo, Murphy rushed into the room holding a lantern while shouting, “What the hell is going on?”
Silence.
Murphy raised his voice. “I asked, what the hell is going on?”
Douglas told Murphy that he and John were only defending themselves when they were attacked.
Murphy looked at the Ian and Jeffrey. “Ian, Jeffrey, say something.”
They’d started working together at Pratt Mining in Birmingham where they made coke. Jeffrey’s drunken diatribes against colored workers got him fired. Ian left Pratt out of loyalty to his best friend. They had trouble finding jobs elsewhere and had become vagrants, staying at Murphy’s YMCA periodically.
“Ian, Jeff, I want you out of here right now. I gave ya a chance to explain things, but ya said nothing. You know the rules around here, no fighting, eh?”
“If we go, the slaves should go.”
Murphy cheeks turned ruddy. “Enough blather. I say who stays and who goes around here. Grab your things. Start stepping before I call the gardai.”
“We being kicked out on Christmas Day?” Ian asked.
Murphy nodded.
Murphy walked with them down the stairs to the lobby. He told them to wait in the anteroom off to the side of the lobby while he walked to the closet.
“Here,” he said, handing them each a bag.
“What’s this?” Jeffrey asked.
“Merry Christmas,” Murphy said. Each bag contained a blanket, wool pants, and a dreadnought. “I can’t let you boys stay tonight, but you can come by later today for Christmas dinner.”
“But we ain’t got no place to go,” Jeffrey whined.
They were weak young men and Murphy had reached the end of the line with them. Murphy’s steely eyes pointed in the direction of the door.
An hour after Murphy entered the room and had sent Jeffrey and Ian packing, Greeny used his nose to nudge John on the leg.
