But Holmes’s morning was just beginning. When he opened his office door to show out Will Henry, he found someone else waiting to see him. Francis Funderburke, better known in Delano and Meriwether County as Foxy, because of an uncommon resemblance to that animal, stood waiting at a not-too-loose parade rest. The stubby, wiry little man, dressed in stiffly starched and tightly tailored khaki, with trousers tucked into lumberjack boot tops and a flat-brimmed, pointy-peaked army campaign hat raked at a regimental angle over his bright, close-set eyes, looked for all the world like a demented forest ranger or an ancient Boy Scout. “Foxy, how you doing?” asked Will Henry.
Foxy directed a narrow glance at the farmer. “Lee.” He turned back to the banker. “Holmes, like to speak to you.” Foxy addressed all men by their unadorned surnames and usually in the manner of a high-ranking officer speaking to a recruit. To females he offered a grudging “Miz” before the name, regardless of age or marital status. At meetings with Foxy, Holmes always felt as if he had been summoned rather than sought out, and for some infraction of an unnamed set of rules. He invited Funderburke into his office, with the distinct premonition that his morning was again about to come unglued. He was not wrong.
Before either man had reached a chair, Foxy said, “Holmes, I want that job.”
“What job is that, Foxy?” Holmes asked, with a sickly foreknowledge of exactly what job Foxy meant.
“Chief of police, of course,” said Foxy, his tone implying that Holmes had been attempting to withhold information from him. “I know you’ve been looking hard for an experienced man, and you can’t find one. Well, that means you’re going to have to hire a civilian. With my military experience and knowledge of firearms I’m the man for the job.” Foxy had served briefly in France as a second lieutenant in the supply corps. He had been sent home when a wagon had overturned, landing on his foot. The injury had got him a medical discharge. In Foxy’s mind, and in his telling, the injury was a combat wound.
Holmes began to marshal his faculties once more. “I don’t see the connection.”
“I’ve been trained. I know how to lead men.”
“Well, now, Foxy, a Delano chief of police isn’t going to have any men to lead. He’s going to be a one-man department.”
“It’ll grow. Besides, this town is going to need discipline.”
“Discipline,” Holmes repeated tonelessly.
“People have got to respect the chief.”
There was that word again: respect. Holmes admitted to himself that Foxy did command respect of a kind in the community. His father had left him a small block of early Coca-Cola stock that Holmes estimated must be worth a considerable sum, judging from the size of the dividend checks Foxy deposited in his bank account. Wealth brought a kind of respect. Foxy had served his country in a war, and people respected him for that, although they were hazy about the details. And Foxy was a super-American. In a burst of patriotic fervor he had built a log cabin with his own hands, and he lived in it. True, the improvements added by a series of builders had since made it arguably the most expensive log cabin in American history, but Foxy could still, with some justification, say he had built it with his own hands.
So people respected Foxy. But they also thought he was crazy.
Foxy was certainly an eccentric, but there was considerable tolerance for eccentricity among the people of small towns like Delano, Georgia. Discipline? Foxy was congenitally incapable pf requesting anything. Holmes had a brief vision of people driving their automobiles on the sidewalks and shooting each other just to spite Foxy.
“You know, Foxy, I’m not authorized to hire anybody. I’ve only been conducting a search on behalf of the council. I’d suggest you make application in writing to the council, and I’ll see that it gets the council’s full attention.” Holmes would certainly do that.
This clearly seemed an orderly and efficient procedure to Foxy. “You’ll have my application today, Holmes,” he barked, and with a curt farewell Foxy Funderburke marched out of the office and the bank.
Holmes took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. And people wondered why he was almost entirely gray at forty-five.
One of the tellers stuck his head in and said, “A man wants to open an account.” At the thought of a familiar request Holmes revived. He greeted the new customer warmly. He could, in fact, have kissed him.
Chapter 2.
THE REGULAR weekly meeting of the City Council of Delano was duly convened at 4:00
P.
M
.
on December 31, 1919. Present were Hugh Holmes, banker; J. P. Johnson, Coca-Cola bottler; Frank Mudter, Doctor of Medicine; Ben Birdsong, druggist; Willis Greer, city manager and honorary member; Lamar Maddox, undertaker (or funeral director, as he preferred to be called); and Idus Bray, peach farmer, landlord, money lender, and co-proprietor of the Delano Telephone Company.
The minutes of the last meeting were read and approved, the treasurer’s report (Ben Birdsong’s), showing an estimated end-of-year surplus of $6,300, was read and approved, and a motion for an extension of the sewerage system to Lower Fourth Street was made, seconded, and approved by all but Idus Bray, who changed his vote when it was pointed out to him that new sewerage extensions meant new houses, which would require new telephones. Hugh Holmes, as acting chairman, asked for further business. There was none. Holmes cleared his throat and assumed a look which the others had come to learn meant there was serious business afoot which would likely be settled to Holmes’s satisfaction before the meeting was done.
“The council has two applications for the position of chief of police.” There was a loud sigh from Idus Bray. Several chairs creaked as their occupants assumed new positions to indicate their willingness to settle down and resolve a matter which has been hanging over the council for nearly a year.
Idus Bray said wearily, “You going to start that again, Hugh? This county has a sheriff. A good sheriff.”
J. P. Johnson cut in. “Skeeter Willis lives in Greenville. That’s twenty-two miles up the road, and you know as well as I do that Skeeter won’t get out of bed for anything less than a shooting.”
Holmes cut the discussion short. “Gentlemen, this council passed a resolution eight months ago that a chief of police would be procured for Delano. Unless somebody wants to introduce a motion repealing that resolution, this discussion is out of order. The matter now before the council is who the man will be. As I said before, the council has two applications.”
“Experienced men?” asked Ben Birdsong.
Holmes’s reply had an air of finality about it. “During the past eight months I have talked either in person or on the telephone with twenty-one chiefs all over the state and in Alabama, asking for recommendations. A total of fourteen men were mentioned. Six of them were interested enough to come and talk with me about it. None of the six wanted the job. I have come to the conclusion that it is not possible to attract an experienced police officer of good character to Delano without paying approximately fifty percent more money than we can afford. The best advice I had was from the chief at La Grange. In his opinion, the kinds of problems a chief would face in Delano could be handled by a local man of good standing, with the support of the council and the help of the sheriff and state patrol when needed. I concur in that opinion.”
Frank Mudter spoke up. “Our problems here are traffic and petty crimes, with a little peacekeeping thrown in down in Braytown. Anybody with a good head on his shoulders and a fairly strong arm ought to be able to handle the job.” There were murmurs of agreement from Birdsong and Maddox.
“Who are your applicants?” asked Idus Bray.
Holmes took a deep breath. “The first application I’d like for the council to consider is that of Francis Funderburke.” There was a moment of silence, followed by a shout of laughter. Holmes kept a straight face. “Foxy feels that his military experience and his proficiency with firearms qualify him for the job.”
Ben Birdsong smiled. “Well, if we want anybody shot, I guess
Foxy’s our man.”
“More likely, somebody’d shoot him,” said Idus Bray.
Holmes persisted. “I told Foxy I’d see that the council would give his application serious consideration.”
“Consider it considered,” said Ben Birdsong. There was a chorus of agreement.
“I move that the application of Francis Funderburke for the position of chief of police be put to a vote,” said Holmes.
“Seconded,” said Dr. Mudter.
“All those in favor of acceptance of this application, signify by saying, ‘Aye.’ ” Silence. “All those opposed to the acceptance of this application, say, “Nay.’ ” There was a volley of nays. “I also vote nay, so the decision of the council is unanimous in rejecting the application of Francis Funderburke.” Holmes set aside Foxy’s letter and picked up another sheet of paper. “The next applicant for the position of chief of police is William Henry Lee.” There was a thoughtful silence.
“Will Henry?”
“Weevil get him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s as honest as the day is long, like his daddy.”
“He’s a good persuader. At deacons’ meetings he seems to be able to put a point without getting folks mad at him.”
“Can he take care of himself?”
“I went to country school with him. I never saw him start a fight, but I never saw him let anybody push him around, either.”
“Will he do it for the money?”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “But if he works out, I think we ought to consider giving him more after a while. He’s got a family.”
“Is he all right with guns?”
“He won’t use a shotgun, but I’ve seen him shoot squirrel with a .22.”
“He’s a good man in the church. I reckon he’s about as respected as any man around here his age.”
“How old is Will Henry, anyway?”
“About thirty. He was two years behind me in school.”
There was silence again. Holmes had not spoken except to answer questions. Now he said his piece. “Will Henry’s a responsible man. He’s not stupid, and I don’t think he’d ever use the job to push anybody around, the way Foxy might. He pays his bills, and he’s from an old family in Meriwether County. He’s never been a very successful farmer, but he’s had the gumption to stick to it until the weevil came along. When that happened he had the good sense to get out before he was over his head . In debt. He’s well known as a man of character and a Christian. He’s never done anything but farm, but I think if he took the job he’d feel obligated to give it his best, and I think that could be pretty good. I think we should hire him.”
“So moved,” said Frank Mudter without hesitation.
“Seconded,” said Ben Birdsong.
“All in favor, say, ‘Aye.’ “
There was a collective aye from everybody but Idus Bray. “Well, I guess if you’re bent on having a chief, Will Henry’d do about as little damage as anybody. Aye.”
“The council unanimously approves the application of William Henry Lee as chief of police,” said Holmes. There was a stir and a scraping of chairs. “There’s one more thing. This is the first time the city has ever hired a man to do what might be a dangerous job. We’re asking this man to carry a gun and protect us, and there’s always the possibility that he could get killed doing it. I think we ought to do something about some insurance for his family if he should be killed or disabled in the line of duty.”
Idus Bray spoke up. “I don’t think the city ought to go buying insurance policies for its employees. Sets a bad precedent.”
“Why don’t we give him another ten dollars a month, with the provision that he spend it on insurance?” replied Ben Birdsong.
“So moved,” said Frank Mudter.
Seconded,” said Lamar Maddox.
“All in Favor?”
“Aye,” said four men.
“All opposed?”
“Nay,” said Idus Bray. “It’s a bad precedent.”
“The motion is passed,” said Holmes. “Any further business?”
“Move we adjourn.”
“Seconded.”
“All in favor?”
“Aye!”
“Happy New Year, Gentlemen.”
Chapter 3.
WILL HENRY LEE stepped from his front porch with the fear and resolve of a man who has finally decided to jump from a great height into unknown waters. His historical perspective was sufficient for him to know that his descent of the five steps to the front yard was changing not just his own life, but the future of his line. Somewhere in one of the boxes stacked on the flatbed wagon was a Bible that recorded his forebears back to the year 1798, and now, at noon on this last day of 1919, he was to be the first man of that succession to leave the land, except to go to war.
He joined the small group of people who stood shivering near the idling car. Two of the black people made a farewell and separated themselves from the group, trudging over the frozen ground to one of the small, unpainted houses a few yards away. The other two remained to say a few parting words. The black woman dabbed at her eyes as he approached.
“Now, Flossie, don’t you do that,” Will Henry said. “You know you’re going to be back with us real soon.”
“That’s right, Flossie,” said Will Henry’s wife, Carrie, dabbing at her own eyes. “You know we can’t get along without you and Robert.”