“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.