Holmes left the courthouse that day with what he wanted, or at least, as much of what he wanted as the group could give him. He began to look for the rest of what he wanted among the crowd still gathered around the square, exchanging a greeting here, shaking a hand there. It was not too early to begin.
In late September the Democratic primary took place, and Holmes won more than eighty percent of the votes cast, running on a platform of a state highway system, higher standards in education and better pay for teachers, and more help and advice for farmers from the state department of agriculture.
Shortly after the primary, a meeting of the courthouse group was called, and driving to Greenville, Holmes was annoyed by what seemed to be slow progress being made on the paving of the road. Just north of Warm Springs he stopped his car to allow a single lane of traffic to pass around a work site. Looking idly around him, he was surprised to see a gang of convicts swinging picks in a drainage ditch beside the contractor’s work party. Two of the men looked vaguely familiar, but traffic moved on before he could place them. He was nearly to Greenville before recognition came with a jolt. They were the O’Brien brothers who had held up the bank, or rather, they were pale shadows of the husky farm boys he remembered from the day of their arrest. They were both pitifully thin and looked ten years older.
At the meeting Holmes accepted congratulations on the size of his victory and made sure it had sunk in well before changing the subject. “Driving up here today, I saw a chain gang working on the repaving of forty-one.” He turned to Skeeter. “Why is that?”
Skeeter replied blandly, “Oh, the contractor said he could use some more muscle down there. I obliged him.” Skeeter tilted his chair back and sucked on a toothpick.
The room became very still. Holmes leveled his gaze at Skeeter and waited for a moment before speaking in a tone that was quiet and cold. “You will oblige me by seeing that all convict labor is permanently removed from work on forty-one today.” He looked around the room, then zeroed in on Judge Hill. “Judge, I understand that your brother-in-law was awarded the contract for the paving work.” The judge nodded. “Tell him today that he had better have a full paid crew back at work by tomorrow morning if he wants to keep that contract. Tell him, too, that he’s behind schedule, and he’s got thirty days to catch up. If he has to hire extra men to do it, that’s his problem.”
Holmes once again addressed the group. “It was not easy to get twenty miles of pavement for this county at state expense. I will not see the plan for a state highway system fail because ground rules which I myself set were violated. Am I perfectly clear on this point?” Skeeter and the judge looked uncomfortable, but both nodded. Holmes turned back to Skeeter. “And while you’re speaking with the captain down at the camp, you might mention to him that I’ll be paying him a little visit next week to look at conditions down there. I might even have lunch with the prisoners.”
Skeeter’s eyes narrowed. “Now, listen, Holmes, the way that camp is run is none of your business, and—” Holmes cut him short.
“You had better accustom yourself to the idea that from now on everything that happens in Meriwether, Talbot, and Harris counties is my business. And if you can’t arrange my visit to the camp I’ll make my own arrangements. Clark Howell at the
Atlanta Constitution
might like to send somebody along with me.”
Skeeter reddened. “All right, all right. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
The tone of the rest of the meeting was subdued. Afterward, Holmes reflected that he had rarely given anybody a direct order about anything, and he worried that perhaps he had used too much weight too soon with the courthouse bunch. But he was angry that such an important project had been jeopardized, and shocked at the appearance of two men who had been in perfect condition six months before. He wondered what he would find at the camp, and he dreaded the visit.
Chapter 19.
THE BITTER WINTER of 1919-20 gave way grudgingly to spring, in fits and starts. It was late March before the new season seemed in any way established, and mid-April before plowing could be well underway. Summer arrived well and truly in early May, and Will Henry was sorry. He liked a long spring, with time to savor the cool nights and pleasant days before entering the crucible of a Georgia summer.
Not until May did the pervading sense of ineffectualness finally leave him. The tedium of traffic violations and routine patrolling had been broken only by a cutting in Braytown. Will Henry had jailed the assailant and watched Frank Mudter put thirty stitches into a crescent-shaped wound that exposed the black man’s skull, gleaming, Will Henry thought, like a silver dollar in the light on the examining table. The victim, who according to Dr. Frank’s estimate, had lost two quarts of blood, had hopped off the table and strolled easily from the clinic, cheerfully promising to pay the doctor as soon as payday rolled around. Dr. Frank had allowed that he never ceased to marvel at the amount of abuse the black male could take without going into shock or, indeed, seeming much worse for the wear.
Shortly after the cutting, Will Henry’s home telephone rang late one evening. The caller announced herself as Mrs. Smith and hurriedly asked him to come. Will Henry lost a moment before he remembered the Mrs. Smith at Maple and Poplar who had reported the wife beating some months earlier.
“He’s doing it again,” she whispered in half panic. “Please come right away, before he hurts her.”
Will Henry pulled his pants on over his pajamas, strapped on his gun, and ran for the car, doing his best not to upset Carrie. He drove fast, unimpeded by traffic, taking the corners as fast as the old Ford allowed, fearful that he would not be in time. During the drive he could think only of the lump of coal Butts had been holding last time. The man could kill her with less. He screeched to a halt before the Maple Street house and ran for the door. The scene inside was much as before, domesticity undisturbed, except this time she was holding the baby, holding it seemingly as a buffer between herself and her husband. She was obviously frightened and her husband was obviously angry, but the only sign that anything was amiss was her swollen lower lip and a bit of blood.
Will Henry brought himself to a halt and took a deep breath. “Mrs. Butts, are you hurt anywhere besides your lip?” The woman shook her head. Her husband took a step backward and looked worriedly back and forth from his wife to the chief.
“Are any teeth knocked out? Are you sure you’re not hurt anywhere else?”
She shook her head again and this time dislodged a pair of tears, which rolled down her cheeks. Tears of embarrassment more than anything else, Will Henry thought. He sat her down and looked closely at her.
“Now listen to me, Mrs. Butts. I’m going to take your husband with me for the night—” She started to interrupt. “No, it’s best that he come with me. Now, I want you to put the baby to bed and then put some iodine on your lip where it’s cut. I don’t reckon you need to see the doctor tonight. You come and see me in the morning and let me know if you want to file charges against your husband.” She shook her head again, and he knew she would never do it.
He turned to the husband and said with a gentleness that belied his anger, “Now you go and get in my car, and don’t say a word.” He turned back to the woman, who seemed to be collecting herself. “He’ll be all right with me. Do you want me to get Mrs. Smith from next door to help you?”
She spoke for the first time, quietly. “No, I’ll fix myself up.
I’ll be all right.”
He left her and went to the car, where Butts waited quietly in the back seat. He drove back to the jail, and not a word passed between them, but Will Henry felt exactly the way he had the time before: he seemed to have trouble exhaling; his lungs were too full of air. He unlocked the front door of the jail and allowed Butts to precede him into the building. Butts walked unhesitatingly toward the cells. Will Henry unlocked the outer door, then a cell door, and Butts walked in. They were alone in the cell block.
Will Henry hit him. The blow was delivered with his open right hand and struck high on the left cheekbone. Butts reeled slightly, but did not fall. Will Henry swung again, this time with the back of his hand. The blow straightened Butts, but still he did not fall or even attempt to stay out of range. The beating continued, deliberately, dancelike, around the cell. Butts clenched his fists and clamped his elbows tightly against his ribs, but made no attempt to shield his face or head; an involuntary hunching of the shoulders was his only defense. When Will Henry’s right hand began to hurt he switched to his left, and still they moved together around the cell like dance partners with the floor to themselves, mutual participants, each assigned his role. When his left hand began to hurt, too, he stopped. Butts maintained his clenched position, standing, with his shoulders hunched. Tears were streaming down his face, and sobs racked him, air and spittle hissing through his clenched teeth.
“You won’t do it again,” Will Henry said, panting slightly. Butts sobbed louder and shook his head, his whole, tense body moving with it.
“Not ever again?” Will Henry asked, the way he might have asked Billy after a switching.
Butts shook himself again. His face was red and puffy, but there were no marks on him. He would look perfectly normal by morning, bar a bruise or two.
Will Henry stepped out of the cell and locked it. As he turned to switch off the light and lock the outer door, he noticed that Butts had not moved, was still sobbing. He turned off the light and left.
Driving home, he felt cleansed, with none of the guilt that remained when he punished his children. He felt, for the first time since having taken the job, that he had seen his duty through to the end, that he had done justice. He felt, at long last,
effective.
At home Carrie questioned him.
“That Butts fellow was beating his wife again. Nothing serious, he didn’t hurt her.” He climbed into bed and snuggled against her. “He won’t do it again.”
Chapter 20.
WHEN WILL HENRY and Carrie had left the farm, only Flossie’s sister, Nellie, and her husband, Jesse Cole, had remained working there. Robert and Flossie Dunn had followed the Lees to Delano, where Flossie gave Carrie part-time help in the house and, in the remainder of her time, began to establish a home baking business in her own kitchen. Robert, unable to find steady employment, turned to yard work and soon garnered half a dozen regular customers, giving him a modest but dependable income.
Jesse and Nellie Cole, perhaps because of their temperaments, had not been so fortunate as Robert and Flossie. Nellie lacked Flossie’s natural charm and combined considerable intelligence with a tendency to speak her mind. Jesse’s intelligence was the equal of his wife’s, and if he did not often speak his mind, his reserve could sometimes be taken for sullenness. Jesse and Nellie Cole possessed between them more dignity than was good for a black couple in rural Georgia in 1920. They also possessed a son, Willie, who, even at the age of nine, would have elicited a one-word description from most white people: “uppity.” Willie and Billy Lee had been playmates on the farm, and even Billy, with a generous nature and a child’s lack of prejudice, sometimes found Willie a little hard to take.
When the Lees left the farm, Jesse and Nellie were secure for a while, because the bank continued Jesse’s pay so that the place could be kept up until sold. When Hoss Spence leased the place and installed a foreman in the house, Jesse’s money stopped, and he went to Hoss for work.
Hoss Spence farmed dairy cattle and, increasingly, peaches. He had appeared in Meriwether County some ten years before with a pocketful of money some said had been earned in the making and selling of corn whiskey. He had bought land and had shown talent and shrewdness in managing it and was now a principal supplier of dairy products to Delano and was contemplating the building of a packing shed to process his own peaches. He and his family were now prominent in the community, the church, and, some said, the Ku Klux Klan.
Jesse drove to the Spence place in the buggy that had been his father’s, pulled by a small pinto horse he had traded a plowing mule for three years before. He inquired for Hoss at the kitchen door of the big brick house and was sent to a nearby pen, where he found Hoss overseeing the breeding of two of his herd. Jesse pulled up the horse far enough away not to disturb the proceedings, got down, and stood by the horse’s head until the bull was done and Hoss noticed him. The white man walked over, his hands in his hip pockets, stopped in front of the horse, and began examining its teeth.
“Morning, Jesse.”
“Mornin’, Mr. Spence.”
“Nice little animal.”
“He ain’t much good, but he get me ‘round.”
“You want to sell him?”
Jesse knew this was a test of his subservience. He could not flatly refuse to sell the horse; that would be a breach of etiquette, an insult. He did the best he could. “Well, suh, Mist’ Spence, he ain’t much good, but my boy, he real proud of him. Nellie shoot me if I sell him.” The two men chuckled together. Apparently, Jesse had passed.
“You looking for work, Jesse?”
“Yessuh.”
“I don’t plant no cotton. Don’t have no croppers.”
“Nossuh.”
“You know anything else ‘sides cotton?” Hoss picked up a hoof and examined it.
“Well, suh, I grow up milkin’ fo’ cows evuh day of my life.