Lost Souls Recovered, page 25
33 — Late December, 1899
“Where’re you going?” White’s wife yelled as she stood at the door with her toddler at her side. She had seen it too often; he’d leave her and the children at home while he went to some Blind Tiger or attended meetings of the White Citizen’s Council where he’d rave against coloreds and curse white politicians who weren’t doing enough to keep coloreds in their place. It seemed that most of the time she preferred that he’d leave, so she’d get a reprieve from his heavy hand.
White had one leg on the stirrup to his nag. He turned to his wife and said, “Shut up, woman.”
“You shut up,” she screamed, as though she was telling him that she was tired of the beatings. She’d have to wait for him to come home to determine whether she’d get another beating. The severity of the beatings was often commensurate with his level of intoxication.
She closed the door, looked down at her toddler son, and yelled, “Get that finger out of your mouth.”
The toddler began to cry, and his face was soon dripping with rivulets of tears. “Just shut up,” she said exasperatedly, while yanking her son’s finger out of his mouth. She hated the way she treated her children. When her husband would beat and torment her, she’d find a way to release her roiled emotions on her children.
White’s life of late was subsumed with the Council. He felt like a potentate and loved the power and sway the Council could exert over colored and white alike. Two things seemed to make him happy—alcohol, usually some kind of grain whiskey, and being a member of the Council.
A few years back, White had been somewhat tolerant of coloreds. He even worked beside a couple at a local foundry. However, when he and some white workers were replaced by coloreds during a strike, he found a reason to hate coloreds even though it was his white boss who fired the strikers.
The Council met at the Thirsty Turtle, one of the many watering holes where they held their conclave. Allen Montgomery was the president of the Council. He was a banker, the smartest and wealthiest of the members. The members included professionals such as Montgomery, skilled craftsmen like carpenters and blacksmiths, two politicians, and itinerant workers like White.
“… twelve, thirteen, fourteen,” Montgomery said counting the members of the Council as they sat in their usual spots in the back of the joint.
Just as Montgomery asked aloud where was “Chessy,” White’s moniker, White opened the door and stumbled in. He had started drinking at home before the meeting. White made fifteen, and all were present. Although the Council had fifteen official members, there were dozens of auxiliary members who stood ready to assist the Council when needed. White had once been an auxiliary member; he told people that he earned his “commission to be on the Council by killing a Black man.”
Montgomery opened the meeting for business. He was from England. His father was a wealthy merchant in England who supported the Confederacy during the Civil War. While his father seemed more interested in investing in the side of whomever he thought would win the War, the son was more interested in seeing to it that the races were kept separate.
Some members of the Council were concerned that under Montgomery’s leadership, the Council was failing to keep coloreds from advancing too much in Lawrence County. To the Council, factory jobs belonged to whites; Negroes should not be permitted to hold any position that could impact the lives of whites. And most of all, the racial purity had to be maintained. It didn’t matter that many Negroes were the offspring of a white male, especially when coloreds were considered property under the United States Constitution. To keep the race pure, the Council had lobbied state lawmakers to pass a law making interracial marriages illegal in Alabama.
The article in The Messenger about Alabama’s “vile anti-miscegenation law” had caused consternation among Council members. The Council agreed that the article was a direct attack on white Southern womanhood. Action was needed.
After addressing a few small matters, Montgomery asked White to report on the “John Davis matter.”
White gulped a shot of Jim Beam whiskey and began to speak. “That Davis got a mouth on him. Don’t like him one bit. I let him know that he had to retract the story,” White said with a whiskey-soaked mouth.
“What’d he say?” Montgomery asked.
“He said he won’t do it,” White said while pouring another shot of whiskey into his shot glass.
“How much time did you give him to retract the story?” another member asked.
“Two weeks,” White told him.
“When does his time expire?” Montgomery asked.
“Three days,” White said. “What if he sticks by what he’s saying, what’d we do?”
Montgomery advised patience for now, but thought that a little reminder of some sort could cajole John into making the right decision. “You may want to let him know that we’re not playing around. Consider paying him a visit before the deadline. Perhaps give John Davis a little Christmas present. If he continues to refuse to budge, I’ll consider that an affront to this Council, to the great white American way,” Montgomery said with steely resolve.
White stayed at the Thirsty Turtle after all the Council members had left. Six ounces of 120 proof whiskey sat in front of him. He picked it up and swallowed the inebriant without even a slight shudder. He forced himself to ponder what he could do to get John to retract the story. If he failed, he knew that he’d be kicked out of the Council. And if he were forced to leave the Council, he knew his life would soon be in shambles. His wife and children would surely feel his frustrations.
It was late; time to go home. He stood up and teetered, realizing that it was not easy to stand straight, like a newborn fawn struggling to keep his balance after standing just after birth.
As he stumbled toward the bar on his way out, the owner stopped him by grabbing his left arm. “Sit right there, Chessy,” the owner said pointing to a small table near the bar. “I’ll make a fresh pot of your favorite coffee.”
Although White was too soused to understand what was said to him, he had been through the routine many times before, and knew that when the owner grabbed his arm as he would leave the bar, he was supposed to sit down, just like a trained dog obeying a command. White took a few sips of his coffee before he plunked his head down on the table and quickly started to snore.
About an hour later the owner shook White’s right shoulder. White slowly raised his head, which now seemed too heavy for his body. “I’m done cleaning now. I’m closing up,” the owner said to White.
White scratched his head and shook it a few times as though he was trying to shake off any remnants of inebriation. As the owner’s face came into focus, White realized it was time to go. “You’re a good man,” White said to the owner with slightly slurred speech, which was caused by fatigue or perhaps a reminder that he was not yet totally sober.
“You gonna be all right, Chessy?”
“Yeah, thanks for the coffee.”
The owner nodded.
As White sat atop his nag on the way home, Montgomery’s words came to him—to give John Davis a little Christmas present. Membership in the Council meant everything to him, and he just couldn’t fail it, fail Montgomery. To him, his commission to the Council was more valuable than being a member of the Confederate Fifth Alabama Calvary Regiment.
34 — Late December, 1899
Tilla raised her head from her pillow, trying to gauge the timbre of the cry. Two of her children were crying: Eunice’s cry overpowered Bessie’s. They were not familiar cries to Tilla, ones indicating hunger or even some kind of agitation. The decibel levels ratcheted up; they were wailing.
“John, wake up,” she said while rocking him on his right shoulder.
John grumbled. “What is it?” He was annoyed after being awakened so early after just going to bed.
“The kids are crying.”
“They’ll settle down,” John offered, hoping to be able to quickly return to his peaceful repose.
John had always been a heavy sleeper, which Tilla didn’t necessarily mind even though it was she who got up in the middle of night to tend the children when they cried. She had something John didn’t: breasts to sate the nighttime hunger of her children. The children also preferred Tilla’s soft touch and words to settle them. John just didn’t have Tilla’s touch, her well-honed motherly skills, the right unction that a young child needed in the middle of the night.
The screaming continued and didn’t quite seem right to Tilla. The screams seemed laden with fright. Tilla wondered whether her children were too young to have nightmares. Normally she’d check on them, but she wanted John to carry the load that night.
Now that he was awake, John couldn’t ignore the screams any longer. Tilla demanded that John check on the children. John thought it was one more punishment being meted out for him coming home so late last night.
He scooted to the edge of their bed where he came to a momentary rest, hoping the cries would cease. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his right hand, stood slowly, and toddled blindly to the closet door where he retrieved his housecoat from the hook on the inside of the closet door.
As he walked out of his bedroom and into the hall, he felt a tinge of cold air. As he neared his girls’ bedroom, cold air rushed over him. He turned on the light and saw Theo holding Eunice in bed, trying to comfort his younger sister. The bedroom window was shattered. He walked slowly toward the window, apprehensive with each step. A large rock sat about a foot from Eunice’s bed.
His heart sank as it began to beat with odd little jerks. His children could have been killed. He turned around and saw Tilla standing in the doorway, sobbing heavily.
He looked into her pained eyes for a few seconds, all the while resisting the urge to look away. Finally, he said, “Honey, I don’t know what happened.”
Tilla said nothing.
“Let’s take the kids to the living room,” John said.
John picked up Bessie and Tilla picked up Eunice. “Let’s go,” John said looking down at Theo as they headed to the living room.
“Stay right here, away from any windows,” John said to Tilla. “I’m going to see what I can find out.”
John put on gray woolen pants and a heavy shirt and black brogans. He retrieved his Winchester rifle from the closet and opened a dresser drawer where he grabbed a box of rifle cartridges. He spied the kerosene lantern by the door and ignited it with Lucifer matches.
He walked tentatively out of the back door; he was scared, but had a young family to protect. He walked around the perimeter of the house, noticing nothing except roving raccoons and stridulating insects. The moonlight lit the sky. Suddenly, he saw a shadowy figure in the distance near large elm trees. He held up the lantern to aid his vision. The figure didn’t move. He then saw another shadowy figure.
As one figure was turned sideways, John saw an extended belly; he thought perhaps he was looking at a pregnant woman but dismissed that notion. The body structure of the figure seemed too big to be a woman. The shadowy figures turned and faced John, who couldn’t see any facial features but felt the sting of their eyes. Suddenly, John shook as if he were under the influence of a galvanic shock. He figured they saw him because they had to see the kerosene lantern that shone like a beacon guiding a ship to shore. But John didn’t care. They had to know that he was going to protect his family and his property at any cost. He raised his rifle and pointed it at the shadowy figures; they didn’t move.
The two shadowy figures walked away as though they wanted to tell John that they had delivered their message. As John returned to his house, he thought about whether he had actually seen a pregnant woman, for if he did, she was a rather large woman. He didn’t know for sure but thought that it was White’s spill-over belly.
John boarded the window at sunrise, needing to stay busy. He had to buy time, so he could mull over what he’d tell Tilla.
Tilla had set her jaw and was quiet as she made breakfast. She wanted John to say something first. She wondered what John meant when he said he didn’t know what happened when he looked at her as she stood in the doorway sobbing. Her mind would not let it go. She then convinced herself that she sensed something was wrong last night, when John came home late, missing Christmas Eve with the children. She even sensed something was wrong when John was in bed with her. His touch just didn’t seem right to her. There was something about his visage; a story encased inside his eyes, but one she couldn’t quite discern.
The children had already eaten breakfast. Only one plate was on the cherry-wood kitchen table. John walked into the kitchen, looked down at his plate of grits, biscuits, and ham. Tilla watched him sit down; he pretended not to see her tall frame. He buried his head in his food, his face just a few inches from his plate. He ate two biscuits before feeling Tilla’s penetrating glare, which forced him to look up. He could take the silence no more.
He looked at her and thought about asking her to pour him some coffee. But he had to say something about what he knew. She was hurting too much. She was a part of the team, and he knew she felt left out, like the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing. Tilla was the right hand that stayed home to run the house, to feed John and the children, to clothe, clean, bathe, and nurture the children, and on it went. She had become the biddable wife: whatever John asked of her, she did with rare complaint.
“I think I know what happened last night,” John said, breaking the deafening silence. The large rock on the floor near Eunice’s bed entered his mind, and a vein in his temple twitched. He breathed deeply and readied himself to spill what he knew.
Tilla stood resting on the counter looking at John, refusing to offer him any refuge. He had to just say it. “Last night, I saw two people near the elm trees near our back yard. I think one of them may be the devil that through the rock through the window.”
The forlorn look remained on her face. Even her long curly lashes couldn’t conceal the pain in her eyes.
“Tilla,” he said softly, “sit down.” She sat reluctantly. He grabbed her right hand and caressed it. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He told her about White.
35 — Late December, 1899
The church, like most Negro churches in the South, was a spiritual haven and community center that addressed moral, economic, and social problems facing Negroes. So it was natural for dozens of men to gather in the sanctuary of Reverend Owen’s First Baptist Church to discuss putting together a unified position on how John should respond to White’s demand for a retraction.
Reverend Owen facilitated the meeting. They needed a plan to avoid an improvident response to White’s threat. He stood at the altar and called the meeting to order. “Thank you for coming. I see word has spread about how we need to help Brother John with his situation.” He corrected himself, saying, “I mean our situation.”
“That’s right, our situation,” someone shouted to acknowledge and invoke a kind of esprit de corps among the assembled men.
John sat in the front pew next to Jethro. Reverend Owen looked at John and asked him to tell the men what had transpired.
Most of the men in the church had been threatened and belittled one way or another by a white person. The men listened with rapt attention as John told them about White. White’s demand for a retraction and the accompanying threats of violence were unsettling, indicated by scattered paroxysms of guttural sounds. But they were outraged and emitted a loud collective gasp when John told them about the shattered window in his house.
The men were clamoring to ask questions. Jimmy stood and looked directly at John. “You mean you got to give an answer to this white man in two days?” Jimmy asked.
John nodded, saying, “That’s when he’s expected back.”
“What are you going to tell him?” Jimmy said.
Reverend Owen interjected: “That’s why we’re here now, to decide how to handle this unfortunate matter.”
The men needed a full understanding of why Jethro wrote the article. John asked Jethro to explain.
Many of the men nodded in unison as Jethro told them whites should stop treating coloreds like “second class citizens.” To Jethro, a law forbidding interracial marriages or a law allowing a colored man to be arrested for vagrancy was just another way of using the law as a cudgel to slam the soul of colored folks in Alabama.
After about an hour of questions, Reverend Owen said, “We’ve been going at this for a while. Let’s wrap this up.”
The issue of righteousness had been vetted enough. “We’re going to put this matter to a vote on what we think John should do,” Reverend Owen said. “But before we do,” he said waving for John to join him at the altar, “I want y’all to know I support John for standing up for what’s right. John didn’t ask for this fight. It came to him. This man White is our enemy; he’s the devil. He’s not attacking John for what John’s doing. Oh, no,” he said, waving his right hand in the air, “he’s attacking John because of who he is.”
“What you mean, Reverend?” a bespectacled slender man near the back shouted.
“You see, he wants to sow discord in John’s heart; make John feel it’s not worth it to fight back. Then the rest of us would feel that way. It’s like a disease that spreads. We catch what John gets.”
“That’s just what they want,” another man said.
“Precisely,” Reverend Owen said, pointing to the man.
“If we fight back, we gonna die. More of them with guns I suspect,” the bespectacled man said.
“But if we don’t fight back, we die anyway,” Jimmy said, pointing to his heart.
Reverend Owen removed his waist watch from his fob and noticed the hour. “Let’s put this to a vote. By show of hands, how many say John tell White that he’s not going to retract the story in The Messenger?”
