Lost Souls Recovered, page 29
A spectral image of his nemesis, Madame Billingsly, appeared, and his chest pounded with an irate heart, the same heart that had been cosseted by the locket for so many years. But there was an opportunity he could seize. Where Laura Billingsly had given him rage, White gave him hope, hope that whether he survived, the colored community of Lawrence County would see better days ahead through his actions. And he’d have Jeremiah, Reverend Owen, Douglas, Tilla, and of course his mother, and many more to thank for the opportunity.
White then turned slightly and nodded to one of his men on horseback. The man dismounted his horse and lit a torch, and White smiled at John as the man walked toward the press office. White’s blood was in full boil. “Now,” White said looking angrily at John, “I think you can be persuaded.”
John felt the heat from the torch as the man put it two feet in front of John’s face. With a stiffened spine and nerves still on high alert, he refused to move.
White turned and nodded to another man on horseback. The man jumped off his horse and threw a rock through the window on the first floor.
John saw his life passing in front of him; his eyes glistened as he did his best to contain his dread. He stood still like a statue, seemingly not a whit afraid.
“The next step,” White said, “is your building will go up in flames. With all that paper and kerosene stuff in there, this building will burn for days, and your destruction will be seen from miles away. Now, this is your last chance. You better say you retracting that story.”
The statue felt White’s icy words but continued to gainsay him. The statue didn’t quail or move, except for the glistening eyes that followed the man as he reached back to toss the torch through the shattered window.
“Chessy,” someone yelled, “look what we got here.” All eyes turned to one of White’s men who held Tilla’s right arm tightly. “The wench was hiding behind them bushes,” the man said pointing.
The armor fell off the statue. John’s heart sank. “Tilla,” he mumbled. “Why did you come,” he mouthed.
White ambled to Tilla, who wore a long overcoat. He stroked her cheek with the back of his left hand. “You sure enough a pretty girl.” He grabbed her jaw with his right hand and squeezed hard.
She shook his grip loose and said, “My husband hasn’t done anything to you.…”
White turned slightly away, then suddenly turned back and slapped Tilla with the back of his right hand. She fell to the ground.
John took a step in her direction, but the rifles aimed at him stopped him in his tracks.
“You and your husband about to feel the power of the Council.”
Horse hooves were heard coming from the back of the press building. The leader of the brigade vanguard rode his horse to the fore of the other horses. He sat gallantly atop his palomino, accoutered in the uniform he wore in the Spanish-American War. “Hold it right there,” Colonel Jefferson shouted to the man wielding the torch. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” He looked in White’s direction and said, “Let Mrs. Davis go.”
White’s eyes shot a bewildered look. “Get out here, boy, all of you,” White shouted as he looked at the retinue of seven other men of the Lawrence County Colored Brigade surrounding Colonel Jefferson on horseback. “This don’t concern you. I suggest you leave now or you will be killed.” White walked to his nag and retrieved his rifle. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes,” White said pointing his rifle at Colonel Jefferson’s eyes.
Colonel Jefferson’s men formed a solid phalanx, and they were ready to act. “Sir, you’re surrounded. The perimeter is secure. You cannot escape. I respectfully request that you leave. You trespassing on private property,” Colonel Jefferson said with sang-froid, hoping White or his men wouldn’t make any daft movements. “You shoot anyone of us, none of your men make it out of here alive.”
Tilla broke loose from her captor’s grip and ran to John, who put his arms around her.
The men in White’s company trained their rifles on John and Tilla.
White wiped the sweat from his brow; his body began to tremble. He had miscalculated, failing to anticipate that John would act to protect himself and his property. The bravado that came with being a member of the Council was failing him. He became timorous, and his brain was now addled with turmoil like honeybees finding out the queen bee is dead. He was descending into a spiraling state of confusion. The thought of being kicked out of the Council entered his mind if he failed.
Suddenly, he dropped his rifle and walked over to the front door where John stood. White removed his pistol from his holster and put it to John’s head. Tilla remained at her husband’s side. The little bit of light in White’s eyes began to extinguish slowly. His failure to convince John to retract the story would make him a failure to the Council, and he’d be mocked by whites. He needed to act.
There they all stood, each side sure of the tableau of American justice that should prevail: White’s defiant dismissal of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution abolishing slavery, granting coloreds the right to vote, and making Negroes equal to whites, or John’s belief that these amendments served to fortify a document that once bent toward slavery.
Another set of clopping hooves disrupted the showdown. He was instantly recognized, not by his large belly and bulbous nose, but by the large badge he wore on his overcoat. The sheriff broke from the team of horses carrying his deputies. He rode to within ten feet of White and John and Tilla.
The sheriff had received a tip about the potential showdown at The Messenger when someone had told him that a gun battle could erupt at John’s press office.
“At ease, men,” the sheriff said trying to bring order to the standoff. “I want everyone to drop their weapons.”
All failed to heed his command.
“Now!” the sheriff yelled. A mingy amount of spittle had begun to pool at the corners of his mouth. “I am the law in this county. If my command is not obeyed, I’ll have all of you arrested.”
All dropped their weapons or put them away, except for White, who just put his revolver to the side of his leg. “Chessy,” the sheriff said, “drop it.” White was known to the law, having been arrested several times for disorderly conduct, mostly due to being intoxicated. White wanted to crawl inside of a whiskey bottle, but reality intruded. He was center stage, and he’d have to find a way out.
Colonel Jefferson was usually calm even in the face of danger, but he grew increasingly fidgety in his seat. White had failed to obey the sheriff’s lawful command. He had to be ready to act to try to save John’s life. He loosened his holster and readied his revolver, anticipating the need to shoot White, which came in a split second as White raised his gun to shoot John in the head.
It was over in a second. White, John, and Tilla fell to the ground, all bloodied.
Colonel Jefferson’s crack shot hit the revolver White had pointed at John’s head, but it was too late.
John was dazed; he unfolded himself and got up slowly from the ground. He helped Tilla get up, then looked at the unmistakable blood that was splattered about. White’s head had exploded like a rotten pumpkin tossed from a roof. John’s heart was still racing, and he was breathing with celerity.
The sheriff addressed White’s men. “You boys go home now. Someone’ll need to tell his wife.” I’ll get someone to get Chessy’s body.
He turned his steed and addressed the Lawrence County Colored Brigade. “You bucks not the law. I am. Now get the hell out of here.”
As John and Tilla walked through the doorway of the press office, the sheriff yelled: “Hey, John, if I was you, I’d be very careful what I write from now on. The law might not be around next time.”
The Council asked for an investigation, but the sheriff had little appetite for one. White had exposed himself to danger even in the face of the law—it was like he was spitting in the face of the sheriff by failing to heed his command to drop his weapon.
John and Tilla now went home and ate supper alone. Very few words were spoken. Retrieval of the kids from Junior’s house would only cloud matters. They needed time together to feel each other’s presence and to quietly try to make sense of what happened earlier in the day. Questions that filled John’s head about how and why Tilla risked her life could perhaps surface in time, but not now. He knew Tilla meant everything to him; she had risked her own life to be with him.
After supper, they walked into the bedroom together holding hands. Each doffed their clothes and put on nightclothes, then went to their sides of the bed. Tilla leaned back slowly and her head came to a rest on her pillow. “Tilla,” John said, “could you get me a glass of water?”
She nodded.
As she exited the bedroom, John lifted Tilla’s pillow and quickly retrieved his farewell letter he had written to her. He folded it two times and put it the pocket of his pants that were in the closet.
Tilla handed him the glass of water. He took a swill. “Thanks, honey.”
He turned off the light. They faced each other and breathed each other’s scents. Tilla wrapped her temple hair around her ears, then kissed John on the mouth. After she let go, John gave her a deeper kiss. She turned around, and John moved her hair and kissed her on his favorite spot. He settled in a spooning position and held her.
39 — December 31, 1899
Although it was John’s idea to have a New Year’s Eve party at First Baptist Church, he was conflicted about ringing in the new year with a celebration as he had just survived a showdown with White. But Tilla had made the choice for him, telling him that he had to go to the celebration, that he couldn’t let down the church.
It was Tilla who wanted, indeed needed, to go to the party to celebrate John’s victory, the victory for the colored people of Lawrence County. The original idea of celebrating the new year slid behind celebrating Lawrence County’s new hero. And even if no one knew but her, Tilla wanted to claim rights to a part of the John’s success. She was his ballast that kept him sailing.
They arrived at church at eight o’clock. As they approached the large oak double door to the church, John and Tilla stopped on the landing and listened to the revelry going on inside the church. John raised his head and said a brief prayer. The church, the kinetic center of life in the colored community, came through for him, and he thanked the church members who stood by him.
After he lowered his head, Tilla looked at him and said, “We’re heading into a new century. In a few hours, it will be nineteen hundred. I didn’t know how it was going to turn out with White. I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you. I don’t know if I could have gone on.”
John’s eyes glistened as he fought back tears. He thought of the letter he wrote Tilla and was relieved that he had removed it from under her pillow. He blinked and one tear finally dropped, landing on the ridge of his right high cheekbone.
“Look at my handsome husband,” Tilla said with a mesmeric smile, revealing teeth as white as a wedding cake. “I’m so proud of you. You stood by what you believed to be right.” She knew how and when to praise her husband. She continued to put a song in John’s heart and a rhythm in his step. She wasn’t necessarily keeping count when she praised and supported her husband, but she expected a corresponding return somewhere down the line.
John looked at Tilla; she looked resplendent cap-a-pie, from her touring hat that was a confection of red and black feathers, to her five-strap, jade suede two-inch Cuban heel shoes. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” John said.
She stepped backward and looked John over one more time before they’d go into the church to join the celebration. It was John’s night; he was the cynosure and everything had to be right.
His starched white bib shirt was not fully tucked into his Edgewood charcoal, herringbone red-and-black pinstripe pants. She inserted her right hand down his pants and pulled on the shirt to straighten it.
“Hey, watch it,” John said as she moved her hand up and down his trousers to obtain the perfect fit. “We can turn around and go home. The kids are away,” he said, smiling with an aspect in his eyes that could make Tilla melt.
But not now. “No, sir,” she said, returning the smile, looking at him with come-hither eyes. “We’re going to have a good time in this church.”
John reached for the door. “Wait,” Tilla said.
She reached over to him and adjusted his pert striped waterfall tie. She looked at John’s clothes; everything was in place. He looked gallant enough for her. “Can we please go in now?” John asked.
“In a moment,” she said. She moistened her right thumb and stroked his right eyebrow to tame a few strands that stuck out. “There,” she said, proclaiming that her work on him was done. “Now we can go in.” She went first, lilting her way in.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Davis,” someone said as they entered the church. “Go get something to eat.”
“Good evening,” John said while removing his black Homburg hat.
As they walked into the church’s refectory, they could taste the food as the air was thick with the aroma from collards, cornbread, ham, turkey, cow peas.…
“Happy New Year, Mr. and Mrs. Davis,” Reverend Owen said to John and Tilla at the door to the refectory. “Son, I’d like to talk to you,” he said looking at John.
“Baby, go over there to be with Junior and Goldie. I’ll be right over,” John said.
Because the lighting in the refectory was dim, Tilla could not tell where he was pointing. Tilla squinted and finally saw Goldie. “Oh, I see them,” she said.
Reverend Owen looked at John. “You’re looking mighty dapper, son.”
“These old rags?” John said.
“Listen, son. Colonel Jefferson said there could be trouble tonight. Seems like some folks may not be ready to let it go,” Reverend Owen said.
“Let what go?” John asked.
“What happened to White and all.”
“We acted in self-defense. White came within a whisker of killing me.”
Colonel Jefferson has a few men looking out for us tonight. I’ve asked the Lord to protect us. I don’t want you to worry, but I thought I should tell you.”
“Thanks, Reverend Owen,” John said as he patted Reverend Owen on the shoulder.
Reverend Owen looked at John and emitted a sober smile. “You know, John,” Reverend Owen said, “a wise man once said that fortune is not for the faint-hearted. Thank you.”
John sat down next to Tilla. “Honey, this is your plate,” Tilla said pointing to it.
“Boy, you better dig into that food,” Junior said. “If you don’t, I will.”
“Don’t worry about me,” John said, “this food won’t be here long.”
Junior had cleaned his plate and was not quite sated. “Darling,” he said, looking at Goldie, “go get Papa some more black-eyed peas and collards.”
“Anything for my baby,” Goldie said.
As she sashayed from the table to please her husband, Junior yelled, “And I want some more cornbread.”
John had difficulty eating his dinner as he was waylaid with people streaming to him to thank him for taking a stand against White and the Council. John had illuminated the hearts and minds of the colored community for standing up to White and was now basking in the phosphorescence of being a celebrity.
Reverend Owen noticed the disruption and asked the crowd to let John enjoy his meal. But no sooner had he finished eating, the stream started again. Jimmy was the first in line. “John, Tilla, this here is my woman. Soon to be my wife. Tell ’em your name,” Jimmy said.
“Elizabeth.”
“Do you go to our church?” Tilla asked.
“No, my papa’s a minister at another church. That’s where I go.”
“Thanks for what you done for us,” Jimmy said. “I’m glad I was part of that brigade. Made me feel good; made me feel like I am somebody.”
Others clamored to talk to John. People from the Colored Farmers’ Alliance brought a smile to his face. He shook hands with all those who approached him. Even with a throbbing hand, he gave no indication his hand hurt.
“Listen, my brothers and sisters.” Reverend Owen shouted. He raised his arms in the air and moved them slowly down as a signal for the pianist to stop playing as the witching hour was upon them. “Five minutes before midnight. Five minutes before a new century arrives. We’re going to start counting down at ten seconds.”
He suddenly remembered the time capsule. “I want to thank you for writing something for our time capsule. We won’t be here in a hundred years when it is opened, but let’s pray that the Negro race will be truly free by then and that there be no more such thing as racial superiority.” Up until this point, the Negro had been in some kind of bondage; whether it was being an afterthought as a second class citizen before slavery firmly took hold or after slavery, that bondage had begun to fray a bit after the passage of the amendments to the United States Constitution during Reconstruction. The bondage grew tighter, though, after Reconstruction. “Two hundred and eighty-one years of being treated as an inferior people by our white brothers must come to an end.”
The pianist at the Newby and Evans upright started up again, playing “Maple Leaf Rag,” a ragtime favorite. Junior, the supreme archon of dance, instantly recognized his favorite ragtime tune, grabbed Goldie’s arm forcing her out of her seat, and swung her around; they then settled into doing their favorite dance, the slow drag. As the tune neared its end, he grabbed Goldie tightly around the chest, kissing her with an open mouth, and she squeezed his back side, both now oblivious to their environment.
Reverend Owen removed his waist watch from his trousers. Less than a minute to go. He raised his hand signaling for the crowd to listen. “Attention, attention,” he shouted. “I want everybody to stand. When I start counting, count with me.”
Tilla held John’s left hand tightly.
“Ready for this new century?” Junior said to Goldie.
She kissed him, fiercely and lingeringly. She released his lips, saying, “What do you think?”
