came home in 1864.26
Dawson distinguished himself as one among a smal number of
southerners who were troubled by the obvious contradictions
between the convict leasing laws and the realities of the forced
labor system that it spawned. He repeatedly gave o cials an
unvarnished assessment of the situation, apparently in the sincere
belief that with ful exposure, the apparatus of Alabama's tra c in
African Americans could be reformed.
After becoming chief convict inspector, Dawson visited prison
encampments scat ered across the state. In addition to examining
the destinations of state convicts, a law passed the previous year
also al owed state o cials to inspect the larger, but even less
regulated, county convict system. An early stop was at J. W. Comer's
plantation in Barbour County. Dawson described the men held
there on misdemeanor charges in a desperate condition, poorly
clothed and fed, and "unnecessarily chained and shackled."27
At the Prat Mines, then also under the management of Comer
and his business partner, Wil iam McCurdy Dawson observed
extremely high death rates. He termed conditions at two drift mines
as having "miserable accommodations, un t for men to be kept
in."28 Like Comer, McCurdy was a south Alabama man with a long
track record, rst in slaves, then in convicts, on his Lowndes County
farm. On McCurdy's plantation in Lowndes County, seventy black
convicts leased from the state and an unknown number of county
prisoners were held in two pens cal ed the upper and lower cel s.29
The farm would operate with forced laborers for at least fty
years.30
Despite the conditions and the appal ing number of maimed and
Despite the conditions and the appal ing number of maimed and
"disabled men" that Dawson found at the mines operated by Comer,
Milner, and the other forced labor entrepreneurs in 1883, there was
lit le he could do. Comer and McCurdy, as wel as the Prat Mines,
held binding contracts under which the corporations had e ective
ownership of two hundred prisoners each.
Dawson wrote repeatedly in his diary during the hot summer of
that year that he was "stronger than ever in the conviction that the
convicts should not be worked in the mines."31 The inspector also
began to write country judges across Alabama urging them to cease
the transfer of local prisoners to the desperate mines near
Birmingham. Dozens received such let ers, including one on
September 10, 1883, to Simon O’Neal reporting that prisoners at
the Prat Mines "are not wel clothed." He added: "I think the work
required of some of the convicts is excessive." Two weeks later,
Daw-son wrote R. A. J. Cumlie: "The appal ing amt of deaths that
have occurred at the mines, both from disease and accidents, the
great number of cripples, the men broken down by disease to be
found there should convince the public that they should not be
forced to incur the augers incident to this sort of work."32
After Dawson inquired into the circumstances of a convict from
Lee County being held by Comer and McCurdy at one camp, the
inspector realized that although the man had been in custody since
1875—eight years— he wasn't listed in o cial records as a
prisoner. Comer "never reported him," Dawson wrote to the Lee
County judge. "Comer and McCurdy have had him near two years….
You have no idea how many such cases I have worked up."
Dawson appealed to Governor Edward A. O’Neal for help.
"Convicts have been hired out and lost sight of, others are in
possession of contractors and no bond or contract on le. Others
have been found in possession of parties di erent from those to
whom hired."33
Dawson's pleas had lit le e ect. By March 1883, twenty-nine
counties were leasing their prisoners to mines. Altogether, in excess
counties were leasing their prisoners to mines. Altogether, in excess
of four hundred such men were being forced into labor, the vast
majority of them because of their inability to pay nes imposed for
minor or spurious of enses.34
Similarly, Dawson discovered multiple county prisoners at the
Newcastle and Coalburg prison mines owned by Milner who had
never been paid for by the company and were never listed on the
rol s of prisoners that Milner was required by law to maintain. The
bene t of never showing a prisoner on the o cial registers of
convicts was tremendous. The company holding him could ignore
its obligation to make monthly payments to the county of the
prisoner's arrest. Far more ominously, the prisoner could be held
inde nitely. The end e ect, by almost any de nition, was to reduce
the convict to a slave. After a visit to Coalburg in July 1885,
Dawson wrote in his diary: "Stil a great deal of sickness. There is
much dissatisfaction and complaints here. The convicts are
demoralized and the management is bad."35
Dawson could never determine how many such cases occurred.
He wrote that his investigation never truly "probed to the bot om."
Even inspectors such as Dawson rarely considered an even more
troubling dimension of the system: that much larger numbers of the
prisoners—whether listed on the o cial registers or not—had
commit ed no real crime.36
A woman named Annie Tucker was convicted of a misdemeanor
and sold into the Prat Mines in 1883. She later testi ed during a
legislative inquiry that she "cooked, washed and ironed at mines."37
At some point that year, P. J. Rogers, an o cial at the prison who
later became sheri of Je erson County, so severely whipped
Tucker that the Board of Inspectors censured him. Dawson wrote in
his diary that Tucker "ran away from Mr. McCurdy's house—was
caught and carried to the prison. Col. Bank-head whipped her
himself—not severely—After he left, by order of Mr. McCurdy, P. J.
Rogers stripped her, had her held down, and in icted 56 lashes
upon her with a heavy strap."38
After a meeting on November 14, 1883, with two white men
After a meeting on November 14, 1883, with two white men
who had recently visited Comer's Prat Mines, Dawson wrote in his
personal diary: "Disgusted with what they found at shaft—men
eating out of coal shovels. Noti ed Col. Ensley to furnish men
things to eat out of—and other necessaries—Reported to Governor
the neglect of sick men …and also cruelty."
A week later Dawson visited the Shaft mine himself. "Found
things not at al improved—men lousy, lthy and dirty Had no
change for near two months—beds scarce and dirty. One very sick
man in a cel in a miserable condition."39
The plantation operations of J. W. Comer were no bet er. After a
visit to the Comer farm in Barbour County, Dawson wrote: "Things
in bad order. No replace in cel . No arrangements for washing …
no hospital. Everything lthy—privy terrible—convicts ragged—
many barefooted— very heavily ironed."40
Elected o cials responded by adopting new rules governing the
leasing of convicts.
Companies that acquired forced laborers were
mandated to provide "clean quarters" and adequate food. Guards
were prohibited from using "cruel" or "excessive punishment." The
new rules also dictated that if the body of a dead prisoner was not
taken by a family member, the company was responsible for an
orderly internment.41
Except for the requirements of racial separation, operators of the
slave labor camps roundly ignored the rules. Between 1882 and the
end of 1883, the number of convicts in the Prat Mines increased
from ninety-two state prisoners and an unknown number of county
convicts to more than ve hundred slave laborers in its Slope and
Shaft mines, about half its total workforce.42 One of Dawson's
deputies wrote him in December 1883 that conditions at the Prat
Mines were severely deteriorating. "Most of the Negroes have not
had a change of clothing in from three to nine weeks and are as
lousy as they can be," wrote Albert T. Henley, citing "the lthy
condition of things."43
In 1884, Archey stil imprisoned at the Eureka mine, wrote to
In 1884, Archey stil imprisoned at the Eureka mine, wrote to
Dawson decrying the treatment he and other black men continued
to receive. "Comer is a hard man. I have seen men come to him
with their shirts a solid scab on their back and beg him to help
them and he would say let the hide grow back and take if o again.
I have seen him hit men 100 and 160 [times] with a ten prong
strop, then say they was not whiped. He would go o after an
escape man come one day with him and dig his grave the same day.
"We go to cel wet, go to bed wet and arise wet the fol owing
morning and evry guard knocking beating yel ing Keep in line
Jumping Ditches," Archey wrote.44
In 1885, when Dawson personal y appealed to Milner to unchain
his permanently shackled laborers at the Newcastle mines for some
portion of each day or night, Milner reacted contemptuously. "My
best and longest mine men," Milner wrote back, "wil get away &
then ruin my business here."45
For its part, Shelby County, though home to some of Alabama's
most glaringly abusive slave mines, moved cautiously, reconsidering
each year whether to partake in the profits of ered by the new trade
in laborers or to stick with working prisoners on the muddy country
roads and col apsing bridges across the county. On December 13,
1880, the county commission split the di erence, ordering that
prisoners convicted of crimes in the fol owing year be hired to an
outside labor agent, but that the men be "employed on public
works." The labor agent was the firm of Comer & McCurdy
The requirement for prisoners to be used on the public roads was
only temporary, however. Late in 1881, the commissioners
authorized the probate judge to hire local convicts to "a farm, coal
mine or Iron works," with the nearby Shelby Iron Works production
facility or Comer's Eureka mines obviously in mind. Immediately
the character of law enforcement in the county changed
profoundly46
In November of that year, the jail suddenly l ed with forty- ve
In November of that year, the jail suddenly l ed with forty- ve
prisoners, six charged with burglary, ten accused of carrying a
concealed weapon, six for petit larceny, and, notably, a woman
named Mol ie Stubbs was accused of vagrancy. It was the rst use of
the old-fashioned "idleness" charge in many years, almost certainly
the rst since the end of the Civil War. Stubbs was ordered to work
forty days at hard labor to pay of a $12 fine.47
Now engaged in the business of black labor, the Shelby County
jail stayed a busy place from then on. A month rarely passed in
which there were fewer than twenty prisoners. Charges such as
vagrancy, adultery, using obscene or abusive language, and
obtaining goods under false pretenses suddenly became common,
and were almost always filed against African Americans.
In July 1883, Shelby County recognized that the initial
restrictions placed by local o cials on prisoner leasing were
limiting the revenue that could be generated. The commission
named Amos El iot , the county's best-known and longest-standing
storekeeper and justice of the peace, to act as its agent in the
management of prisoners. El iot was given virtual carte blanche as
to the fate of men arrested in Shelby County, receiving
authorization to hire out prisoners to "persons or corporations" in
accordance with state laws revised earlier that year. The one caveat
was that El iot was also to "make the necessary arrangements for
the safe keeping and proper care of Convicts," and, in accordance
with the rules of treatment the state had adopted along with its
newest statute on prisoner labor, El iot was bound to "scrutinize
and enquire into the management and treatment of said Convicts."48
El iot , already wel acquainted from his many years as a justice
of the peace with the pecuniary bene ts of the Alabama fee
system,49 energetical y took up the rst order of the commission.
There was no indication that he did on the second.
Despite the Shelby commissioners’ initial reluctance to see their
prisoners dispatched to commercial enterprises, the lure of private
sector payments was simply more than any paternalistic good
intentions could resist. In February of 1884, the commission
intentions could resist. In February of 1884, the commission
approved payments to El iot of $273.93 for his work in hiring out
prisoners and judging cases. Approval was also granted for $94
paid to James T. Leeper for his help in placing convicts, and F. A.
Nelson, the county sheri , was authorized to receive $173 for
having arrested them.50 Like El iot , the men engaged in the
county's trade of forced labor weren't marginal or disreputable
gures. The sheri was a popular elected o cial. J. T Leeper was
the county solicitor, and worked as a lawyer in partnership with W.
B. Browne, president of the Columbiana Savings Bank and on
several occasions mayor of the town. 51
The number of men arrested, and the fees paid to such prominent
local white men, escalated swiftly, even as the particularities of the
ostensible judicial process deteriorated. Between late summer of
1884 and the spring of 1886, more than two hundred prisoners
passed through the jail and then into private hands. In county
ledgers, the nature of the charges against most of them, or the
amounts of the fines they were ordered to pay, weren't recorded. 52
Five years earlier, with the passing of New Year's Day 1881, the
people of adjoining Bibb County found themselves under the
extraordinary power of a new county judge. Jonathon S. Gardner,
veteran county commissioner, had been elevated to the nearly
omnipotent position. From a shiny straight-back chair in the
courthouse, Judge Gardner control ed both the judicial and
administrative functions of local government, with the power to tax
citizens, build roads and bridges to their farms, convict them of
cr
imes, decide their punishments, and incarcerate them as he saw
fit.Gardner succeeded atorney Thomas J. Smitherman, descendant
of one of the county's most prominent families, a major holder of
property, and a neighbor and longtime acquaintance of the
Cot inghams. In August 1865, Smitherman, also a Confederate
veteran, had been authorized by the provisional governor of
Alabama to give oaths of al egiance to residents of the county
Alabama to give oaths of al egiance to residents of the county
wishing to restore their citizenship rights.
While the power of the county judge's position whenever it
intersected with the life of a speci c individual was almost
boundless, there was in fact lit le in the way of meaningful
philosophical policy shifts that the new county judge could e ect.
Which roads and bridges to rebuild after each year's spring
downpours, in what order, and by whom among the smal coterie
of local men who lived primarily o the odd jobs of the county,
were the judge's most consistent questions and demonstrable
executive power.
They were mundane decisions, but often were the determining
factor between which farmers would thrive and which would
wither in isolation. A passable road was critical to the primitive
task of moving to market a ve-hundred-pound load of cot on—the
sole goal of most smal -acreage farmers. A washed-out bridge,
unrepaired, might be insurmountable.
Crime and punishment was the judge's other realm of discretion.
While the number of men brought up on even the smal est of
criminal charges in the nineteenth century was inconsequential—no
more than a dozen a year—the county judge's method of response
was virtual y unlimited. It was here that the new judge Gardner
would make his mark.
Six months after Gardner took o ce, Bibb County joined the
rising tide. Two days after the county's Independence Day
celebrations that July, Dave Wilson was charged with assault and
bat ery and the equal y serious crime of using "abusive and insulting
language in the presence of females." Found guilty, Wilson, a
twenty-one-year-old black farmhand, was sentenced to ten days of
hard labor, under the supervision of the sheri , plus the cost of the
court proceeding.53
A few months later Abram Gri n, an itinerant black farmhand
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