In 1890, Johnsie Johnston was called to the mission field. No, it was not in the traditional sense of the word. She would not be preaching to natives on foreign soil, but she would definitely be on a mission for the Lord in a very different place.
It was in that year that General Robert Johnston was offered the position of president of the Birmingham National Bank in Birmingham, Alabama. General Johnston’s younger brother, Joseph, had called Alabama home for thirty years. He was already involved in banking and business interests in Birmingham and may have influenced this career opportunity for his brother. Joseph Johnston would be elected governor of Alabama six years later.
After being involved in many aspects of the Charlotte community for twenty years, it was hard for the Johnston family to pull up its roots and move to a rough and tumble mining and steel mill town. This would not be the genteel Charlotte to which Johnsie had become accustomed. She commented that her heart was so heavy upon leaving that she did not see “how the train could carry the extra load.”1
Johnsie, however, tackled the move with the same indefatigable spirit that she had every other challenge in her life. In no time, the relocated family was involved in helping organize the South Highland Presbyterian Church. She also joined her first literary club, the Cadmean Circle, where she presented her first formal paper. A short time later, she founded the Highland Book Club and was appointed its first president, an office that she would hold for the next twenty-two years.2
The labor of love that would become Johnsie’s life work was not something the devoted wife and mother had planned. While in Birmingham, her son Gordon was being tutored for his entrance into Princeton by a professor from Virginia. One day, Gordon asked permission to accompany his mentor to the Pratt Mines, where he was to lead a Bible study for the convicts who toiled there.* A few Sundays later, Johnsie made the trip with the professor and her son. Soon, General Johnston was also making the weekly trek.
Years later, Johnsie recalled the feeling that came over her upon entering the prison camp and seeing the boys and men enduring the oppressive conditions. Her thoughts went back to her father in the prison hospital and the promise she had made to help those in similar situations. That first Sunday at the mine was the first of ten years of Sundays in which Johnsie would lead a Bible study for the convicts. Through this experience, the Lord would continue to deal with Johnsie and clarify for her the exact nature of her calling. A fire had been kindled, but she needed to know where to focus the light.3
Some of that clarity came one Sunday afternoon when she witnessed a scene that would forever be a part of her. A boy sat on the front row with a simply dressed older woman who appeared to be his mother. A guard came and touched her on the arm indicating that it was time for her to leave. Immediately, the woman screamed and began clinging to the boy. The thought of leaving her son in such a place was more than she could bear.
“Oh, God is there no one to comfort my boy now?” she cried as the guard led her away.
Immediately, Johnsie responded to the plea with a prayer of her own. “If it be thy will, Lord,” she whispered silently, “I will make some place for the little boys of Alabama, that they will be spared this place of wretchedness and contamination.”4
Johnsie now had the inspiration and even began to talk openly of her dream. She simply did not know how and where to start. That important piece of the puzzle would fall into place one April afternoon. As she entered the prison, a hardened convict approached and asked for a few minutes of her time. Johnsie was surprised, for this was one of the prisoners that she never felt she had been able to reach.
“Oh, Mrs. Johnston, I am so glad to see you. I was afraid you might not come today,” he said earnestly. “I want to help you on that boys’ industrial school—the place you want to build to save boys from coming here. I don’t want you to forget them.”5
As he turned to walk away, he pressed an envelope into her hand. Busy with her duties that day at the mine, she put away the envelope and thought no more about it until she returned home that evening. Opening it, she found one hundred dollars—an amazing sum for most anyone in that day, but especially for an inmate serving a life term. Johnsie was touched by the man’s sacrifice, but also by the Lord’s blessing upon her task. That same prisoner would later add fifty more dollars to his donation. As promised, Johnsie saved the man’s contribution for its intended purpose. She would always say that it was the most significant gift ever made to the Alabama Boys’ Industrial School. To make her dream—and that of the lifer—a reality, a similar financial commitment would be required from many others.6
The convict’s donation had effectively started the campaign. Now, Johnsie needed some allies for the larger battle that lay ahead. She found the first in the person of an old friend. Mrs. George Eager, the president of the Alabama Federation of Women’s Clubs, asked Johnsie to attend the organization’s first state convention in Selma. As an extension of some of her club activities, Johnsie was asked to prepare a literary paper entitled “Light, More Light” to those assembled. At the appointed time, she stepped behind the lectern and faced an assembly hall filled with women. She paused, turned to the moderator, and asked for permission to deviate from her stated address. She discarded her notes and began speaking from her heart about the atrocities many of the boys in Alabama were being subjected to through their imprisonment with hardened criminals. She shared real stories of boys being thrown in prison for stealing an empty jug or a pair of shoes. She told of boys whose lives were ruined by one simple mistake. She spoke of the need for a school where boys could be loved, shown discipline, and trained for a productive life.
At the conclusion, women came forward—many with tears in their eyes—to ask what could be done. Johnsie was ready with the answer: “You must go to the legislature of Alabama and ask for the establishment of an industrial school for boys.” Just as her first speech to her father’s overseer had turned the plow, this plea also broke new ground, as the Alabama Federation of Women’s Clubs appointed a committee, with Johnsie as chair, to approach the legislature with just such a request.7
Johnsie decided that before she appealed to the legislature for funds, she needed some conception of what kind of boys’ school she wanted. Her first visit would be to New York, and she was fortunate to have the perfect person to assist her in the form of Governor Theodore Roosevelt. Johnsie, of course, would say that fortune had nothing to do with it, that the Good Lord had put him in her path; and those who knew the lady’s convictions would not dare to argue that point. Her son Gordon had served with Roosevelt’s Rough Riders during the Spanish-American War and maintained a close relationship with the new governor.
Johnsie and Mrs. Eager were invited to meet with Roosevelt at the governor’s mansion in Albany. They left with just what they wanted: a signed letter of introduction from the governor giving them entrée to any of New York’s schools or institutions for boys. They visited, among others, the George Junior Republic in Freeville and the Berkshire Industrial Farm in Canaan and were especially impressed with the latter. On their trip home, they visited a school in Tennessee that particularly caught their attention. It was similar in concept to Berkshire, but depended heavily on private donations. This appealed to Johnsie, because she felt that anyone making a personal contribution to a cause would be more likely to maintain a long-term interest in its endeavors.8
With a clear vision in mind, Johnsie and her committee began lobbying the Alabama legislature. The women knew what they wanted their school to be and had prepared a written charter that provided for, among other features, a completely female board of directors. The most important weapon in their arsenal may have been one that would be almost impossible to defeat: a mother’s love. In later years, Johnsie’s niece described it well. “The women of Alabama had become mother-conscious under the sway of one woman’s vision of a great love, and their motherhood had burst the walls of home and become state inclusive.”9
The women of Alabama had formed an alliance based upon their shared love and compassion for the many nameless, faceless boys left to suffer among grown men in the state’s penal system. Such collective emotion, when given its focus by someone as committed as Elizabeth “Johnsie” Johnston, was a powerful force.
Sensing that the women’s cause had statewide support, the attorney general came out in support of the idea, and the legislature followed by passing a law creating the Alabama Boys’ Industrial School. There was a catch, however, for the legislature failed to provide the requested $3,000; that funding would have to come separately from the Appropriations Committee. Discouraged but not deterred, Johnsie personally visited the attorney general at the suggestion of her brother-in-law, Governor Johnston. The meeting did not go well.
The attorney general essentially told Mrs. Johnston that she had a fine idea, but the men would take it from here. As a parting shot, he also inquired, “What in the world are you women doing meddling in our business? You better go home and mind your own children.”
“What does your wife do with her time?” Johnsie shot back. “Does she ever play cards?”
“About six afternoons a week,” he flippantly replied.
“Well, if we prefer teaching prisoners and looking after the welfare of the youth of your state to card playing, that’s our business,” she countered as she left the office.10
That salvo may have made Johnsie feel better, but it got them no closer to the Appropriations Committee. Nevertheless, the campaign continued. As the final days of the legislative session neared, one of the lawmakers came to see her with bleak advice.
“Mrs. Johnston, you might just as well go home. You can no more get your bill through the Legislature than you can move the Capitol.”
“You go in and tell the men of Alabama that there is One behind this movement who can move mountains, the hills, and the whole world,” she countered. “What is a little State Capitol to Him? We are going to save the little boys of Alabama, and if we can’t get our bill before the Committee, I intend to stand in the rotunda of this Capitol all night and then give the story to every paper in the state. People are not scared of God, but they are of the papers!”11
Whether it was fear of the Almighty or the press, something she said must have gotten their attention. In a matter of moments, he was back with word that the Appropriations Committee would hear her. Put on the spot on a moment’s notice, the situation got the best of the great lady. She felt it was one of her worst presentations ever, matched only by the apathy of her audience. She left the chamber feeling all hope was lost. As she stood in the rotunda, tired and discouraged, she felt the only chance of success was through the Lord’s will.
As she stood lost in her thoughts, she was tapped on the shoulder by one of the committee members. “Mrs. Johnston, the committee has just passed favorably on your bill, but you will not have it, for it has been so much changed, it is not what you want,” he stated. “My advice is for you to go home and come before the next legislature, and you will have better success.”
“My boys can’t wait,” she replied. “Put it on the calendar like it is.”
“Oh, you would not like it,” he countered. “The changes are so vital; it is no longer the same bill.”
“Put it on the calendar,” she said flatly as she walked away.
She spent the night in Montgomery with emotions ranging from defeat to restlessness, anxiety to hope. As she walked to the train station the next morning planning to return to Birmingham, she passed a newspaper stand.
“Alabama Boys’ Industrial Bill Passes Both Houses Last Night With An Appropriation of $3,000,” read the headline. Below, she found the full text of the bill. Not a single word had been changed or omitted.
She immediately changed her plans and headed for the capitol. Upon arrival, she was greeted by many incredulous legislators asking how on earth she was able to get her bill passed. The answer could not be found on earth.
“It did not just happen, gentlemen,” she affirmed. “It was God’s work, and you men just could not stop it. That’s all.”12
* During the latter part of the nineteenth century, Alabama and other states adopted the practice of leasing their convicts to private companies, such as railroads, mines, and timber interests. The convicts, including those underage, were actually housed at the worksites in crude, makeshift quarters. This became known as the “convict lease system.”