Lost Souls Recovered, page 17
The crowd’s emotions grew to a fever pitch. Sheriff Joseph Smith had given his men orders to defend the jail at all costs. A deputy sheriff on the roof of the jail fired his Lee rifle into the crowd, felling a young man. The riotous crowd lost all semblance of control and broke through the door in seconds. More shots were fired into the crowd, killing more people.
John held Douglas’s hand as Douglas said the rosary as taught to him by Father Murphy.
Reynolds was the first inside. Someone inside the jail had leaked to Reynolds where Hawes’s cell was. “This way,” Reynolds said, pointing the way to Hawes’s cell.
Reynolds demanded that the deputy sheriff sitting at the small oak desk give him the key to the cell. The corpulent deputy sheriff put down his sandwich and rose from his chair, walked away from his desk, and pointed with a nod of his head to the key in the right drawer of the desk.
Reynolds unlocked Hawes’s cell door. Hawes saw the end coming. Two men held Hawes’s arms as Reynolds used his pocketknife to extract Hawes’s heart. Soon other men were able to tear off Hawes’s limbs. As men went outside holding Hawes’s limbs, the crowd erupted with cheers.
Trowbridge later lost his reelection bid. His opponent defeated him, arguing that Trowbridge was unfit for office because he had been willing to let two colored men testify against a white man.
20 — Summer, 1890
His stomach gurgled throughout his meeting, and he pined for the turkey sandwich and pickle his wife made him for lunch. When the executive meeting ended, he hurried to his office and took the first satisfying bite of his sandwich and sighed as though he had just emptied his bladder. As he sat in his leather chair, he propped his feet on his carved birch desk, opened the Birmingham Age-Herald, and popped it to weaken the fold.
He went right to his favorite section, the editorials—always conservative and red hot, just as he liked them. His eyes stopped on the editorial: “The Leader is Fomenting Trouble.”
The Leader was a newspaper owned by coloreds that promoted the interests of colored people in Birmingham. It had run stories about the need for social equality and the need for companies to hire colored workers. With the recent turmoil about Prosecutor Trowbridge’s decision to allow two colored men to testify, The Leader endorsed that decision in writing.
After reading a couple of paragraphs, his eyes widened and his mouth was agape. He reread part of the sentence:
Two colored boys, Douglas James and John Billingsly, twenty-six years old and twenty years old, respectively, both working at the YMCA.…
The name and age match, he thought. “My God, can it be?” he mumbled. He read on:
Birmingham will solve its problems at its own pace. Some colored men now work alongside white men at the factories … There is no need for the colored men at The Leader to stir a pot that has just begun to settle.
Billingsly lay the newspaper on his desk, opened his cigar box, and lit a Cuban cigar. He was now an executive with Sloss Furnaces. He had successfully parlayed his experience in the iron business in Richmond into the steel business in Birmingham. Over two years had passed since he’d left Richmond in a blaze of humiliation and heartbreak. But within two years at Sloss, he was firmly established as a top-level executive and much of his wealth had been restored, thereby elevating him to Birmingham’s gens du monde. He’d married a woman more than two decades younger, which for him meant two more offspring.
He never forgot, though, about that horrible day when he’d returned to Billingsly and found his wife’s body on the floor near the base of the staircase. His new family and business obligations helped soften the anger of what had happened to Laura, but not eliminate it.
As he sat as his desk, he pulled opened a side drawer and removed the small bag that contained the denim patch he’d collected from the rusty nail in his tool shed those years ago. His gray eyes turned dark as he stared at the bag, wondering if it’d be wise to open it, for fear of the mental anguish sure to follow. Overcoming his fear, he picked up the bag, turned it upside down, and shook it a few times. The patch fell out.
His anger boiled up and he determined he’d go to Father Murphy’s YMCA to talk to this John Billingsly.
“Good day, Mr. Billingsly,” Father Murphy said to Billingsly as they shook hands in the lobby of the YMCA. Billingsly was still tall and erect. He radiated the same confidence he had in Richmond, and he maintained his taste for fine European clothing. He was turned out in a black frock coat lined with red silk jacquard, a navy waistcoat, and black pants, from a bespoke tailor on Savile Row. A pearl gray Gibus hat with a black silk band announced his importance as well as his wealth. Murphy wore his usual black shirt with a clerical collar and black pants.
Billingsly wiped his lips with his tongue, anticipating his encounter with John Billingsly. John is a common name, Billingsly less so. He was convinced this John was his erstwhile servant who held answers to what caused Laura’s death. The bounty hunters he had hired never were able to find John. Where they failed, though, he thought he’d succeed, even if by happenstance.
“Yes, I’d say it’s a good day. It’s springtime, the season of renewal and rebirth.”
Several residents milled about the lobby. Billingsly spied two colored men in the lobby cleaning the floor, one of whom was short and whose skin was the color of eggnog, and the other who was about six feet tall, a muscular build, and wore a patch over his left eye. Billingsly quickly dismissed the first one as being John because of the wrong height and skin color.
“Mr. Billingsly? How can I help ya?” Murphy asked.
Billingsly continued to pan the lobby.
“Mr. Billingsly,” Murphy repeated. “How may I help ya?”
Billingsly turned to Murphy: “Who’s that fella mopping the floor, the one wearing the eye patch?”
“That’s Johnny.”
Billingsly’s heart began to race. He licked his thin lips again. “Where is he from?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’s the boy’s last name?”
Although Murphy was getting annoyed with the questions, he had to conceal it. Billingsly and his company were one of the YMCA’s biggest benefactors; they donated money and goods to the YMCA, and their donations helped make Christmas a bit merrier.
“Don’t know,” Murphy said. “I can check my books if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary. Just ask him to come here.”
Murphy hallooed, attracting everyone’s attention. “Hey, Johnny, come here.”
Johnny put down his mop and walked to Father Murphy and Billingsly.
Johnny was six feet tall on a broad frame with light chocolate-colored skin, dark eyes, and short black hair.
Billingsly eyed Johnny. His nose appeared a bit broader that what he recalled of John’s nose. “Yes, boss,” Johnny said.
“What’s your last name?”
“My name be Johnny Bigsby.”
Billingsly got his answer, and nodded slightly at Murphy, signaling that Johnny could return to his duties. “That’ll be all,” Murphy said to Johnny. Billingsly got to the point. “I’m looking for a colored boy by the name of John Billingsly.”
“John’s not here at the moment, Mr. Billingsly. Should be back in a few hours.”
Billingsly’s detective work was making progress. He needed to know more. “Do you know where John’s from?”
“He told me he came from Richmond, Virginia.”
Billingsly’s heart began to race, and he breathed heavily.
Murphy continued: “He’s one of my best. Never complains. Works hard.”
“I want to offer him a job at Sloss. We at Sloss are making an effort to hire colored men.”
Billingsly’s point was true but his intent was subterfuge. Sloss had begun to hire colored men to work alongside white men. Men at Sloss were hired for their brawn and energy. Color couldn’t stand in the way of making money.
“When he returns,” Billingsly said, “tell him Sloss Furnace wants to offer him a job. Don’t tell him the offer is coming from me. It’s to be a surprise. Have him come to Sloss tomorrow at nine o’clock in the morning; he is to go to the hiring department.”
“I’ll right tell him, Mr. Billingsly.”
“Thank you,” Billingsly said, nodding slightly to acknowledge Murphy’s receptiveness to help.
k
John read the sign that told him he was on 32nd Street, but he didn’t need it to tell him where Sloss Furnace was located. Everyone in town knew about the big complex with tall smokestacks.
The YMCA had been good to him; he had a place to live, food to eat. With Murphy’s help and the tutors Murphy hired through in-kind donations to help John and others with reading and writing, John excelled, and Murphy soon asked John to read the newspaper to other residents who could not read. He fell in love with the written word and understood how it could impact people and possibly change lives. He didn’t know how much longer he’d stay in Birmingham before moving on to fulfill his saintly mother’s desire that he make it to Mount Hope to find Cousin Riley. But for now, he was satisfied to work for Father Murphy, earn a bit of income, and help others read and write, which had included Douglas for a period of time.
John owed Father Murphy everything, so if the man wanted him to work here, he’d do it because he knew that Sloss was one of the YMCA’s biggest benefactors.
John walked in the front door of the office side to Sloss Furnaces. He saw a short, white, bearded male who appeared to be someone important. “Excuse me, sir,” John said, “I was told to report to the hiring department. Can you tell me the direction?”
Looking askance at John, the bearded man told John where to go.
“Excuse me,” John said to a young man sitting at a small desk in the hiring department, “I was told to report here today about a job.”
“What’s your name?” the young man asked, looking at a paper filled with names.
“John Billingsly.”
He spotted John’s name and told John where to go.
John climbed up a long marble staircase to the third floor, where he didn’t see anyone. He sat down in a wingback chair, waiting for someone to greet him. After twenty minutes of waiting, he thought that perhaps he was in the wrong place. As he began his descent down the marble staircase to return to the hiring department, he heard a voice call his name, a voice that sounded familiar.
He stopped in his tracks, believing that the voice belonged to Monsieur Billingsly, but he figured it couldn’t be. He stood still for three seconds, allowing his brain to continue to process the voice. What would be the chances of Monsieur Billingsly working for Sloss Furnaces in Birmingham, he thought? He wondered whether Monsieur Billingsly had asked Murphy about him. If he did, how did Billingsly know he stayed at the YMCA? John had no answers, but he knew he’d have to turn around to find out if he was dreaming.
John was on the third step from the landing; he turned slowly, staring at the black trousers of the man who called his name. His eyes drifted upward where they met Billingsly’s jolly eyes.
He emitted the kind of smile that someone gives an old friend. “John, my boy! It’s been a long time. What’s it been, a couple of years?”
Billingsly moved away from the steps, causing John to follow the man who exuded confidence. John sat in the same wingback chair, and Billingsly sat in the one next to him. He quivered as he watched Billingsly rub the stud in his left shirt cuff with his right thumb.
“What’s wrong, boy?” Billingsly asked.
John’s experience in Richmond had taught him that when Billingsly rubbed his stud in his shirt cuff, he was about to deliver unwelcome news. But John would have to wait and see.
“I’m okay, sir.”
Billingsly put his right hand on John’s left shoulder like he’d often done when John worked for him in Richmond. It has been Billingsly’s way of asserting his will with his workers without incurring anger or annoyance. But the touch didn’t seem right to John. Too calculated.
“John, I want you to work for me here. You did a good job for me in Richmond, and Father Murphy says you’re one of his best workers.”
John struggled to determine whether Billingsly was dissembling. “How did you find me, Monsieur Billingsly?”
Billingsly disliked the questions, and shrugged it off. “Ah, that’s not important. What’s important is that I found you.”
John wanted to say something—to really learn how Billingsly found him—but the words just sat on his lips.
“Let’s go to the shop,” Billingsly said.
John followed Billingsly to one of the furnaces that made the steel that was sold in many states, steel that greatly contributed to the continuing of America’s Industrial Revolution.
They stopped and stood about twenty yards from the blast furnace. John looked around the cavernous space for workers. He didn’t see anyone. Billingsly turned to his right, walked a few steps, and turned a switch on a console panel. John heard a low rumbling noise—the furnace had been stoked.
John felt the temperature rise. Billingsly stood calmy in his three-piece suit, seemingly impervious to the heat. He put his hand in his left pants’ pocket where he felt the bag that contained the denim patch. The anger that he had felt when he’d found his wife on the floor of his mansion back in Richmond began to bubble up, like a volcano that makes noise after years of dormancy.
“John, I’m married, but it’s not to Laura. Laura died in Richmond over two years ago.” He had been counting the hours for his encounter with John. He had to ask, “Do you know anything about that?”
John was quick to answer, perhaps too quick. “No, Monsieur Billingsly.”
Billingsly clamped his hand around the bag of evidence; it felt hot to the touch. He pressed on. Billingsly said, with eyes as harsh as a winter’s landscape, “Well, I need to satisfy myself that you don’t know anything about what happened to Laura, as well as some property that was stolen from my house, two sterling silver whiskey flasks.”
John’s stomach gurgled, as if to try to untie the knots that gripped it. He wanted to flee but that would convince Billingsly that he was guilty. And he knew Billingsly knew he stayed at the YMCA. The sour tang of bile began to rise at the back of his throat, just like it did on the night he taken the flasks out of the Billingsly mansion—he was tasting his own fear, and he smelled menace in the air.
“Take off your pants, John.”
John’s face creased with concern. “What?”
Anger darted out of Billingsly’s eyes, and a muscle in his jaw quivered. “Just do it!”
John complied and dropped his trousers, revealing his gray woolen union suit.
Billingsly gestured with his right hand, telling John to remove the union suit.
The bile had inched to John’s tongue. He squinted and forced it back down, disgusted at its taste. Billingsly moved close to look at John’s right thigh. He saw a faint, two-inch scar on John’s lower right thigh.
“How’d you get that scar on your right leg?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
“I want to know if you know anything about Laura’s death and the two flasks that were stolen from me. Now, tell me how that scar got there.”
“I don’t know,” John said in a tone that he immediately regretted.
Billingsly removed the bag from his pocket while John still stood naked before him. Billingsly opened the bag and retrieved the denim patch, careful to watch John for any kind of reaction. John offered none. Billingsly moved closer yet to John, showing him the patch. The scrape mark on the patch was about the same length of the faint scar on John’s right thigh.
“Put your clothes on,” Billingsly said.
John’s mind was a mess of wounds and panic. He pulled up his pants and prayed that someone would walk his way to save him from the same kind of hell he experienced when he’d stared down Laura’s .22-caliber rifle three years ago in Richmond.
After putting his clothes on, John stood facing Billingsly. Even though his mind was turning to mush, he managed to string together a bold question: “Monsieur Billingsly, sir, do you want to hire me, or did you call me here to find out what happened to Madame Billingsly?”
Billingsly’s eyes turned darker yet, a warning of some sort for sure.
He removed a tattered flannel shirt from a bag he was holding. He was about to rip off another scab. “Do you know what this is?”
A trap, John thought. He shook his head.
“I got this from Ann’s cabin the day I talked to Ann about my wife’s death.”
John’s heart sank to his stomach. His face creased with bafflement.
“It’s your shirt.”
John’s heart sank deeper. He wondered how Billingsly got the shirt and what his mother had told him. He knew Ann was loyal to Billingsly but believed that she wouldn’t do anything to betray her flesh and blood. The only way to get information from Ann about him, he thought, had been for Billingsly to deceive her.
Billingsly stepped up the pressure. “If you want to see your mother alive again, you must tell me all you know. All I need to do is send a telegram to some folks in Richmond. …” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence because of his conflicting emotions about Ann, the slave who had nursed his children, prayed for Laura, and stayed by her side until she had recovered.
John said nothing. Billingsly grabbed him tightly by the left forearm, forcing John to walk with him near the open furnace, but in an area that was obscured from others who could enter the shop. They both looked into the furnace below.
Billingsly spoke through clenched jaw. “Now, do you want to tell me what happened to Laura? And don’t think you’re going to get out of here alive without telling me the truth.”
Panic poured out of John as hope went overboard. He decided to beg for his life while his head was still above water. “Please don’t do this, Monsieur Billingsly.”
“You’re doing it to yourself.” He paused to pursue an angle to get John to consider spitting out the truth. “I really don’t need the whiskey flasks or care about them any longer. I just need to know whether you know anything about Laura’s death, and if you have knowledge about my whiskey flasks.”
