Lost Souls Recovered, page 16
Half-dazed, John said, “What it is, boy?” Greeny continued to nudge. “You hungry?” John got up and walked over to his haversack that was on the table and retrieved a bit of pork sausage. He threw it on the floor. Greeny ignored it.
The commotion woke Douglas. “I think he wanna go pee,” Douglas said quietly.
John hated the thought of going outside in the frigid weather in the dark.
“Unless you want a foul-smelling room, I’d suggest you take him outside now.”
John sat in a corner and donned his socks and brogans. He stood and put on his coat. Greeny was waiting by the door. A glimmering light from a gaslight from outside a large window in the lobby aided them as they walked down the stairs. John unlocked the front door and Greeny burst out, happy to feel the brisk, cold air. John looked up at the clear sky and saw the Big Dipper. He thought of his mother and wondered how she’d spend Christmas Day. He hoped Billingsly would be as generous with gifts as he had been in the past.
John jogged around the corner. Greeny was at the other corner doing his business on a strip of grass. After Greeny finished, he walked in the direction of the steamed air, which he thought was coming from a vent.
“Greeny, let’s go,” John snapped.
Greeny ignored him and soon disappeared. John resumed his jog on the lightly snow-covered sidewalk to retrieve his pet. As he was halfway to the other corner a sudden gust of wind knocked him over. He bounced up, furious with Greeny for delaying his return to warmer quarters.
As he turned the corner, he saw Greeny sniffing at what appeared to be two rolls of blankets. As John inched closer, he realized it was two people sleeping on top of the steam grate. Just as John reached down to touch one, his tormentors rose quickly.
Seeing John, Jeffrey said, “Well, look what we got here.”
Before John could say anything, Jeffrey rushed him and pinned him against the wall of the YMCA with his right forearm pressed firmly on John’s neck, choking him. He leaned forward within an inch of John and blew stale breath in John’s face. “I oughta kill you right now,” he said as he wielded his pocketknife.
Greeny charged after Jeffrey, who kicked Greeny in the muzzle with such force that he flew a foot into the air. Greeny was dazed, in apparent distress, and he hobbled a few feet before collapsing in the street. Within minutes a wound opened, and blood streamed from Greeny’s mouth and nose.
“Go ahead, Jeff,” Ian said. Jeffrey hit John in the stomach five times with his fist; the last blow sent John slumping to the ground.
“Get up!” Jeffrey snarled.
John was disoriented, his strength sapped.
Jeffrery qucikly grabbed John by the lapels of his coat and lifted him up against the wall. Fear roiled in John’s eyes as Jeffrey thrust him against the wall, each time harder than the last. A wound opened at the back of John’s head, and blood oozed out. Jeffrey took his pocketknife and held it horizontally against John’s jugular.
Adrenaline shot through Jeffrey’s body. Like a wild animal that has his prey in a death grip around the neck, Jeffrey was ready for the coup de grâce: He slid the knife across John’s neck, opening a superficial wound to give John a taste of a slow death.
“Jeff, we can’t kill him. We don’t want to face no murder charge.”
“Ain’t no jury going to convict us of killing this coon,” Jeffrey shot back. He spat in John’s face and let him fall to the ground next to the steam vent.
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At seven a.m. on Christmas Day, Douglas, still snug in his bedroll, called out: “John?”
No answer.
A little louder: “John!”
He used his arms to sit upright. There was nowhere for John and Greeny to hide in the room. He raised both arms high in the air and stretched mightily to convince himself he was fully awake. He donned his shoes and went down the steps to the lobby.
Murphy sat at an old Knabe upright piano near the fireplace playing “Jingle Bells.” As Douglas moved toward the music, Murphy said, “Okay, all together now … Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells …” His chorus of about ten people joined in. Douglas sat on a chair near the piano, swiveling his head to look for John and Greeny.
The music stopped a few minutes later. Murphy saw Douglas. He picked up a cup of chicory and took a swig, then walked the few feet to Douglas and sat down next to him. “Merry Christmas. This is the day Christ was born. Ya know, He died for our sins and because of that we live to celebrate his life.”
Worriment filled Douglas’s eyes. “That’s real good,” Douglas said.
“Something wrong?” Murphy asked.
“Have you seen John?”
“Probably in the chow line getting his fill of rashers and bangers—sausage and bacon to you—and eggnog.”
Douglas nodded. “Yeah.”
“Go get your fill.”
Twenty minutes later Douglas had his fill and returned to the lobby where he saw Murphy talking to a patrolman near the front door. It was Birmingham Patrolman Bernie Ahern, someone whose beat included the YMCA. They were both immigrants from Ireland and loved swapping stories from back home.
“What can I do for ya, Bernie?”
Ahern asked Murphy if he knew there was a colored boy passed out on the steam grate at the back of the building. “Probably some drunk,” Murphy said.
“He may be dead. Take a look for me,” Ahern requested.
Murphy agreed and wished the patrolman and his family a Merry Christmas.
“Will do.”
“Can I get you a cup of chicory?” Murphy asked.
“No thank ya. Already had some.”
“Yer a good Irishman, a good American,” Murphy told him.
Murphy lifted his linsey-woolsey shirt from the antlers on a mounted stag’s head, donned it, and walked with Ahern to the back of the building.
A shoeless and coatless body lay prostrate on the grate. Murphy moved closer. “Dear God, that laddie is John. He came yesterday with Douglas.”
Ahern strained and groaned as he picked John up. He was out of shape, with a belly that lopped over all sides of his waistband. He struggled to carry John inside through a side door. Ahern breathed heavily as Murphy led him to a room that had a bed. Ahern placed John on a hard, thin mattress.
Murphy removed John’s socks and felt his pallid feet; they were icy cold. He wrapped John in a woolen blanket to conserve what heat John’s body still held.
John’s right leg twitched. Murphy looked at John’s face and noticed his pallid lips, nose, and ears. A trail of dried blood ran from his nose to his pullover cotton shirt. Looking into John’s eyes for the first time, Murphy felt dread. But there was hope, as John blinked periodically.
Ahern said, “Looks like he was roughed up, eh? Any idea how this happened?”
“No.”
“Did he have any enemies that ya know?” Ahern asked.
“Maybe. He and Douglas had a fight with Ian Dunst and Jeff Reynolds a few hours earlier today.”
“Jeff Reynolds. Huh. I arrested him a while ago after he banjaxed property owned by Pratt Mills. He’s a real yob. Why’re ya so concerned about this colored boy?”
“This boy has no family, except for his dog and his friend Douglas. He needs a helping hand.”
Ahern removed his hat and a forelock of unruly hair, gray and thin, fell over his forehead. He swept it back with his right hand. “Suppose so. Get him some medical attention. Don’t hesitate to call on the gardai if you need us.”
Murphy sent for medical help, which arrived the day after Christmas. In the meantime, John slept on a small bed covered with blankets. He ate nothing and only took a few sips of hot cider from time to time.
A colored physician attended to John the day after Christmas. He told Murphy that John’s toes were frostbitten and that he needed to convalesce for a few more days.
As John recovered over the next few days, Douglas told him that Greeny had died. John’s heart sank. His sisters were gone, his mother was just in a reserved placed in his heart, as he didn’t know whether he’d ever see her again—so for now, she was also lost. And now he lost Greeny, another family member. The only family he had left was Douglas.
When Douglas asked Murphy whether their short-term roommates had had anything to do with John’s near demise, Murphy was silent, but his expression told the answer. A sharp pain grabbed Douglas’s body like an alligator’s jaws. He was ready to kill.
19 — December, 1888
The days of John’s convalescence from being left for dead in the back of the YMCA turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Not only was the frostbite on John’s feet slow to heal, a recent infection in his lungs brought him close to death; the doctor listened to John’s lungs and thought there could possibly be a form of death rattle, which extended John’s bedrest. At the advice of the doctor, Father Murphy placed John in a room by himself to reduce human contact as much as possible. The doctor told Father Murphy that if John were to survive the infection, it would be attributable to his age and answered prayers.
When not attending to John, Douglas busied himself with routine janitorial duties, cooking, and doing whatever Father Murphy requested. Like John, he wanted to move on to Alabama, but he could not abandon the one he had come to love as a trusted brother.
As John’s infection began to lift, life returned to his body. He’d hold onto Douglas as they walked about the building. With time, his health was restored, except his feet ached on occasion.
On a balmy Tuesday December day, Douglas and John set out beyond town to pick up a package for Father Murphy. Several miles into their journey, they stopped and pulled ham sandwiches from the poke sacks they carried; they took shelter in a ramshackle one-story barn.
No sooner had they settled in on a dirt floor when they heard a man outside of the barn say in a menacing tone, “Get in that building.” Douglas and John stuffed their sandwiches in their mouths and scurried behind several bales of rotting hay.
A thirty-something-year-old woman and a young girl walked in, followed by a man pointing a pistol at them. The woman was white, with a round face, long, curly brunette hair, and a thin frame. She had on a shabby, cream-colored floor-length dress. The girl, who appeared to be about six years old, wore a ponytail and was dressed in a yellow faille dress. The man was nattily attired. He had on a stylish blue woolen greatcoat that partially covered his charcoal gray woolen pants. He had thinning brown hair, deep-set cold blue eyes, a Roman nose, a walrus mustache, and a weak chin.
He barked out an order for them to sit in the corner.
“Richard, you don’t have to do this,” the woman said.
“Shut up, Emma.” The woman and the girl started crying. “Make her shut up,” he said as he pointed the gun at the girl. Emma reached over and held her tightly, wiping away the tears.
Richard put the gun to his side. “You might as well know. No reason to keep it a secret. You can take the news with you to your grave. You are no longer my wife. I have a new wife, a better-looking wife. Someone who loves me, and not the bottle. Working at Georgia-Pacific Railroad, I can provide a good life for her. But you and the children are in the way of me making this right.”
“Richard, please … you don’t have to do this.”
“You want me to let you and Irene walk out of here as if nothing happened? Well, it’s already happened. Your oldest daughter is at the bottom of a lake. Two more to go.”
“You bastard!” Emma screamed. “You mean you killed Mae? Mae and Irene are our kids!”
Richard smirked, but otherwise remained emotionally arid. “Do you have anything else to say before I shoot the both of you?”
John and Douglas remained silent. John looked at Douglas. He hated what he was witnessing—a bully about to shoot and kill his wife and child. Madame Billingsly was a bully, but she had never killed anyone as far as he knew. He spied a pitchfork behind him and tiptoed to it and picked it up. He knew he had to act fast to disable or kill the devil somehow. As he rose slowly to charge the devil who would not see John coming in time to shoot him, a shot rang out and hit Emma between her eyes. The next shot hit Irene in the chest. He put his pistol in his holster, then looked for somewhere to hide the bodies.
John and Douglas remained crouching behind the hay bales, realizing the pitchfork was useless to them. They listened as Richard began to drag Irene’s body to the bales of hay.
Noise from outside the barn startled Richard. They heard him drop Irene’s body and walk slowly to the door. A strong wind blew it open.
John stood up slightly and peeked over a bale of hay. He saw Richard standing to the side of it with his pistol cocked, waiting for someone to enter.
Richard looked out the door, put his gun behind his back, and stepped outside.
“What’re you boys doing out here?”
“We playing tag,” one of them said.
“There’s a storm coming this way. You boys go on home.”
John and Douglas stood up, not sure what to do. They had failed to stop the double murder. They looked at the dead bodies and the bright-red blood pooling on the floor. Bile rose to John’s mouth; he spit out the bad taste.
The two of them looked at each other and then each walked silently to the opposite sides of the door.
When Richard turned and walked back into the barn, John charged him and punched him in the stomach, and Douglas gave him an uppercut when Richard doubled over. Douglas pushed him to the floor; he landed next to his dead wife.
As Richard lay on the floor, he reached for his pistol that had fallen near him. He shot a round at John and Douglas as they darted out of the barn.
Richard got up with his pistol in his hand and strode to the door, took two steps to the left, and saw Douglas and John running.
He rushed back inside of the barn. As he hurried across the floor, he spied a vertical trap door that led to the outside. He opened the door and pushed the bodies through it. He hid the door and blood with hay and dirt.
As John ran alongside Douglas, John felt the weight of being chased by both Billingsly and Richard. It was too much, and he collapsed. Douglas carried him the rest of the way.
Douglas flung open the door as Father Murphy was about to exit. Father Murphy saw the alarm in their eyes and told them to hurry and to sit near the piano. Father Murphy sent for the beat patrolman, who would likely be Ahern, after John and Douglas told him what they witnessed.
Ahern arrived an hour later. After John and Douglas related their story, he asked, “Anything else ya need to tell us?”
They shook their heads.
Ahern looked at Father Murphy and said, “Thanks for calling me on this one. It could be a big one.”
Father Murphy looked at Ahern. A year later and his belly still spilled over his waistband and his face was more deeply etched. “How much longer before ya give it up?” he asked.
“Soon. The knees’re about to give out.”
The police soon found Emma and Irene’s bodies under the barn. The oldest daughter’s body was found in a nearby lake. The police later went to Georgia Pacific and asked to speak to a man who fit the description Douglas and John gave them. The Birmingham police arrested Richard Hawes and charged him with triple murder, and he was placed in cell in the jail house.
The Birmingham Age-Herald was all over the story. RICHARD HAWES ACCUSED OF TRIPLE MURDER, screamed the front-page headline, and pictures of the bodies told their own chilling story.
Matthew Trowbridge, the Jefferson County prosecutor, faced a racially based dilemma, like so many things in the South were. His case depended on the testimony of two colored men. It was considered generally established that a colored person should not testify against a white person in court. If Douglas and John were permitted to testify against Hawes, the social contract between colored and white could begin to unravel.
The Birmingham citizenry was appalled at the savagery of the ghastly murders, and they demanded the death penalty, but Hawes’s conviction would depend on Douglas and John’s testimony—which no one wanted. The Birmingham Age-Herald feared for Birmingham’s reputation. Crime was already high in the city, and the Age-Herald feared that the city would be sullied even more if a crowd were to storm the jail and kill Hawes. It implored Birmingham citizens to let the justice system work.
The story soon grew beyond Birmingham and was reported nationwide, and many Northern newspapers took up the cause for allowing Douglas and John to testify against Hawes.
Trowbridge made up his mind. Hawes had to pay for his crimes. He was going to order Douglas and John to testify, but he knew he’d have to provide them protection.
Father Murphy convinced John and Douglas, at Ahern’s behest, that they would be safe in a cell in the same jail where Hawes was locked up. “The gardai will keep ya safe. I promise,” he said. “It’ll be for a few days. They’ll feed ya. I’ll come to visit every day. I’ll keep ya things here locked up.”
Douglas and John had been in their cell for a few days before they were scheduled to testify before a grand jury that had been convened quickly. They had felt safe from the white men in particular that hated them as much as they hated Hawes.
But this day was different. The first of an eventual mob began to trickle in at eight o’clock in the morning despite a steady rain. Within an hour, the rain abated, and the mob swelled to hundreds more people. Many in the crowd swayed rhythmically, stimulated by alcohol and revenge, ready to break into the jail despite the heavy presence of police surrounding it.
Referring to Richard Hawes, Jeffrey Reynolds led the shouts of “Kill the dirty bastard!” Reynolds had secured a position atop a large boulder and ever the lout, had a penchant for finding trouble and was always willing to walk through trouble’s door.
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Douglas and John felt the frenzied racket from inside their cell. The mob’s screams pierced the jail walls and bounced around their heads. Father Murphy had told them that Ahern had said that their presence in the jail would be kept confidential, but they no longer believed it.
A white police officer let it leak that John and Douglas were at the jailhouse.
