by D M Barrett
“Preacher, if we talk about something, is it secret?” Ruth Bell asked.
“Anything we discuss is always confidential unless you say otherwise, Miss Ruth,” the preacher explained.
“My brother, Lee, ordered me not to bring this up with you, but it’s important. . .very important,” Ruth said with a serious tone.
“What is it, Sister Bell?” the preacher queried.
“Do you know what a pin hooker does?” Ruth Bell inquired.
“My understanding is that a pin hooker is basically a crop broker. He buys certain products, pays a price, assumes the risk of getting a higher or lower price at the markets in Nashville, Knoxville, or Chattanooga,” the preacher replied.
“Oh, he never gets a lower price. He always makes plenty of money,” Ruth Bell said with a laugh.
“Is Lee selling some crops to a pin hooker?” the preacher inquired.
“Naw sir, he ain’t sold no crops since he’s been working for Lawrence Sawmill & Salvage. But there are plenty of black folks that are selling to one of Mr. Wooden’s pin hookers,” Ruth Bell explained.
“Aren’t they being adequately compensated?” the preacher inquired.
“Yes and no,” Ruth replied.
“I don’t understand your answer, Sister Bell,” the preacher said.
“Do you know about sharecropping around here?” she asked.
“I’m somewhat familiar, but explain it to me,” the preacher insisted.
“Well, there are one-third sharecroppers and one-half sharecroppers. If the landowner only furnishes the land, the sharecropper gets half the proceeds. But, if the sharecropper only furnishes his labor and nothing else, like seeds, a mule, and other supplies, he only gets a third,” Ruth Bell explained.
“That seems fair,” the preacher said.
“That part is fair. But when the black family owns the land, they are paid about twenty-percent less than when a white landowner is involved,” she remarked.
“That seems very unfair,” the preacher said.
“I was hoping you’d talk to your friend, Mr. Henry Wooden, and find out if the pin hooker is pocketing the extra money or whether it’s something else,” Miss Ruth said.
“I’ll go see Henry Wooden today and try to get to the bottom of it,” the preacher promised.
“Don’t say anything about me or Lee. White folks don’t take kindly to blacks questioning the way things are,” Ruth Bell implored.
“Everything that’s been said is very confidential,” the preacher promised.
The preacher used the telephone at the Bluebird Café. He made an appointment to see Henry Wooden later that day. He told Mr. Wooden that the nature of the visit was business-related.
* **
Lucy Wooden told her butler to keep watch for Preacher Mann. She intended to greet him herself and invite him inside the mansion. The doorbell rang and the butler nodded that it was the preacher.
“Come in, Preacher Mann! It is an honor to have you visit us,” Mrs. Wooden exclaimed.
“You and Mr. Wooden are given to hospitality. It is a pleasure to see you again,” the preacher responded.
“I hope it’s a pleasure to see me,” Henry Wooden said as he extended his right hand.
The preacher shook Mr. Wooden’s hand and said, “I’m not here asking for money, and I’m happy with all our business dealings.”
“I’m speechless. I feel absolutely numb and useless,” Mr. Wooden said with a slight degree of sarcasm.
“Oh, Henry, you need to be respectful of Preacher Mann,” Mrs. Wooden scolded.
“The preacher knows that I’m fully respectful of him. I’m sure he’s got some business proposition or business opportunity in mind. He’s just softening me up first,” Henry Wooden said with a laugh.
“Come into the parlor, preacher. Henry’s a tough old bird. He’ll take considerable softening,” Lucy Wooden instructed.
The three entered the parlor and Henry Wooden offered the preacher a seat. He motioned for the butler and prepared to offer refreshments.
“I’ve got fresh-squeezed lemonade that’s just right, or with some of that lemon extract for a kicker,” Henry Wooden offered.
“Henry! Don’t offer strong drink to the preacher!” Miss Lucy scolded.
“I’ll take mine without the kicker,” the preacher said with a wink.
Henry Wooden nodded and motioned for the butler to bring three plain glasses of lemonade and a pitcher. He also instructed him to bring a tray of pastries and cookies.
“To what do we owe this visit, preacher?” Henry Wooden inquired.
“I’m here to discuss business tactics,” the preacher replied.
“I’ll tell you almost all that I know,” Henry Wooden replied.
“Why almost all that you know?” the preacher inquired.
“If I told you everything I know, you’d be as smart as me,” Mr. Wooden said with a chuckle.
“Indeed,” the preacher said with a smile.
“What do you need to know?” Henry Wooden asked.
“You’ve got a pin hooker that’s buying crops in Ferguson,” the preacher said.
“Yes, John Driver has been a crop broker for me for many years. He covers everything east of Lebanon from the Kentucky line to the Alabama and Georgia lines,” Mr. Wooden explained.
“I want to discuss his pricing model with you,” Preacher Mann responded.
“Is he doing like that fellow in the Bible?” Henry Wooden asked.
“Which fellow in the Bible?” the preacher inquired.
“That fellow you preached about the last time we were at your church. He was a crook. He discounted the prices he paid to his bosses’ customers, and cheated him,” Henry Wooden explained.
“You’re talking about the unjust steward in Luke Chapter 16,” the preacher said.
“My goodness, I thought you just slept through the preacher’s sermons,” Lucy Wooden said.
“I’ve got to keep my eyes and ears on him. He may not be working me today, but he’ll get around to it in the future,” Henry Wooden chided.
“I have no reason to believe that Mr. Driver is dishonest,” the preacher remarked.
“Why do you have a problem with his pricing model?” Mr. Wooden queried.
“He pays black sharecroppers and white landowners at the same price. He pays black farmers about twenty percent less. I want to know if he’s behind that model, or is he following your instructions?” Preacher Mann said.
Mr. Wooden motioned for the Butler to pour some lemon extract into his glass of lemonade. He took a couple of drinks before speaking.
“Why are you asking about that?” Henry Wooden inquired before being interrupted by his wife.
“I’m very interested in your answer, Henry,” Lucy Wooden said.
“It has to do with history. It’s always been that way,” Henry Wooden responded.
“You’ll have to explain that to me,” the preacher said with a puzzled look.
“After the Civil War, many plantations and large farms were sold for several years of back taxes. The war had impoverished the owners, and they lost the land totally. Almost all the land was bought by speculators, often called carpetbaggers, from the North,” Henry Wooden explained.
“What happened to those plantations and farms?” the preacher inquired.
“The land was subdivided and sold for annual payments to blacks and occasionally poor whites. Over time the land mortgages were paid and the small parcels became wholly-owned,” Henry Wooden replied.
“I’m still not sure what that has to do with the disparate crop pricing model between black landowners and white landowners,” Preacher Mann remarked.
“A two-tiered pricing model developed with a higher price paid to whites and a lower price to blacks who bought land previously owned by whites,” Henry Wooden concluded.
“That’s awful,” Lucy Wooden gasped.
“It’s patently unfair,” Preacher Mann exclaimed.
“It�
�s been that way for almost 75 years. It just the way things are, preacher,” Henry Wooden said flatly.
“Why don’t you have John Driver pay everyone the same price?” the preacher inquired.
“If he increased the price to black landowners, he’d be forced to lower the price paid to white landowners,” Mr. Wooden responded.
“So we punish blacks and reward whites based on the color of their skin?” Preacher Mann asked pointedly.
“It’s economics. It all balances out,” Henry Wooden said with a shrug.
“Do you think Miss Lucy should be paid less for her business skills than a man?” the preacher inquired.
“Now that’s not a fair question, preacher,” Henry Wooden exclaimed.
“Do you think you should be paid less for your products as a Scotch-Irish descendant than is paid to a Jewish businessman?” the preacher pressed.
“Yes, Henry, we want to know,” Lucy Wooden said.
“You two are confusing the issue with these hypothetical questions. Sometimes things are best left alone,” Henry Wooden remarked.
“What does that mean?” Preacher Mann asked with a raised voice.
“It means that I can’t take money from whites and give it to blacks. It’ll cause problems for everyone in this part of the state,” Mr. Wooden said.
“Henry, you have to do what is right. This practice is wrong,” Lucy Wooden urged.
“I’ll tell John Driver to offer the same price to everyone on this year’s crops. I will let you deal with the implications, preacher,” Henry Wooden promised.
“I’m proud of you, Henry,” Lucy Wooden said.
“The preacher is stirring up a hornet’s nest. He’ll be wishing he’d listened to Henry Wooden on this one,” Mr. Wooden opined.
“Like Little David said, ‘the battle is the Lord’s,’” Preacher Mann said confidently.
“Just remember to get your five good rocks and a strong sling to defend yourself. Goliath may show up with his brothers,” Henry Wooden said.
Preacher Mann replied, “There’s an old gospel song called, “Do Lord.” It says:
“If you won’t bear the cross,
You can’t wear the crown.”
“Preacher, I’d rather give you $1000 than watch you fight this battle,” Henry Wooden said with a break in his voice.
The preacher stood and started to make his way to the front door. Lucy Wooden grabbed him and hugged him for what seemed to be a long time.
In his journal, Preacher Mann would write that the Woodens felt the preacher’s parting from their home reminded them of the Apostle Paul departing the city of Ephesus for Rome: ‘Sorrowing . . . that they should see his face no more.’
* **
Within a few weeks, John Driver began announcing the new pricing models to the residents of the East Tennessee area. It was met with significant push-back from the white landowners and embraced by the black landowners.
As the harvest approached, the situation turned ugly. A black farmer’s barn was burned, and his harvested crops lost. A white farmer was assaulted by unknown assailants as he exited his barn.
In an effort to calm tempers, the preacher asked Ruth Bell to have her brother, Lee Bell, meet with him. The clandestine meeting was set for the following Sunday evening at 11:00 pm behind Community Church.
“Preacher, you’ve done stirred up a hornet’s nest, but you got the job done,” Lee Bell said as he walked around the corner of the church building.
Before the preacher could respond, he noticed that Lee Bell had a terrified look on his face and pointed toward the preacher. The preacher fell unconscious to the ground.
Lee Bell did not return home that night. Early the next morning, his sister went to Community Church to ask Preacher Mann if he knew Lee’s whereabouts. When she rounded the back of the church on that fateful morning, she saw that the preacher lay unconscious on the ground.
When she looked up, she saw her brother’s feet swinging in the air, his legs tied together, and a gag in his mouth. Lee Bell had been lynched.
Ruth Bell ran all the way to Scott’s Apothecary to get Dr. Marcus Whitman. The preacher was taken to the small clinic for treatment. Sheriff Hankins and his deputies took down Lee Bell’s body and began an investigation of his murder.
Dr. Whitman telephoned Nurse Bilbrey at the public health clinic in Cookeville. He told her that the preacher’s condition was grave and asked her to come as soon as possible.
Sheriff Hankins entered the clinic and asked, “What’s Preacher Mann’s condition?”
“He has not regained consciousness, and he’s still in a coma. He’s suffered a serious concussion due to being struck on the back of his head by a blunt object. I’ve called Nurse Bilbrey. He may not live,” Dr. Whitman said as his voice broke.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Sheriff Hankins asked.
“If we were in New York or Chicago, a neurosurgeon might be able to operate on him and relieve the pressure and swelling on his brain. It’s just wait-and-see now,” Dr. Whitman explained.
“When will we know if he’s going to be all right?” the sheriff inquired.
“If he’s still breathing in a couple of days, or if he comes out of this coma, he’ll likely make it. It’s too early to tell about any lasting effects,” the physician opined.
“What do you think?” Sheriff Hankins asked.
“I’d give him at best a 50/50 chance of survival,” Dr. Marcus Whitman said fighting back tears.
14.
Get Thee Behind Me
The door to Scott’s Apothecary opened late in the day on Monday. It was Ruth Bell. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she carried a small Bible in her hands.
“Can I help you, Miss Ruth?” Joe Scott asked.
“I’m here to check on Preacher Mann,” she replied.
“I’ll get Dr. Whitman. He’s attending to the preacher in the clinic in the back,” the pharmacist said.
“Much obliged, Mister Scott,” Ruth Bell responded.
Dr. Whitman exited the clinic door and said, “I’m very sorry about your brother. He was a good man. He will be missed in Ferguson.”
“The Lord decided to call him home and let the Devil’s henchmen take his life. He lived a good life. He hurt no one. He always looked after me,” Miss Ruth said with a break in her voice.
“How can I help you, Miss Ruth?” the doctor asked.
“I come up here to check on the preacher. I aim to read him a scripture and pray for him if you’ll let me,” she reported.
“He’s in the clinic. He’s in bad shape. He may be joining your brother unless he improves,” the physician replied.
“Dr. Whitman, I want to say what the three Hebrews said to the king when they were headed to the fiery furnace: ‘If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us,’” Ruth Bell said confidently.
“Follow me, Miss Ruth. Preacher Mann needs all the faith and prayers that can be mustered,” Dr. Whitman said.
As the pair walked through the doorway into the clinic, Joe Scott pondered a verse he had often heard Preacher Mann quote: ‘Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh: is there anything too hard for me?’
After Ruth Bell had spent about ten minutes with the unconscious preacher, Dr. Whitman returned. He motioned for her to meet him outside the clinic door.
“When is your brother’s funeral?” the doctor asked.
“They took him to Nashville to the state medical examiner because he was murdered. Sheriff Hankins said it could be up to a week before his body is returned. I’ll have to let you know,” Ruth Bell reported.
“Thank you for checking on Preacher Mann,” Dr. Whitman said.
“I’ll be back. I ain’t the only one. We got two black people on that bench outside twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Every black person is the part of the county is on their knees for the preacher,” Miss Ruth remarked.
Dr. Whitman nodded affirmatively as Ruth Bell headed for the door. He lo
oked out the door and saw two black men with long walking sticks sitting on the bench in front of Scott’s Apothecary.
Noticing Dr. Whitman looking through the window, Joe Scott remarked, “They’ve been there since you brought the preacher here. The Lord may take him but they’re going to make sure the Devil’s henchmen won’t hurry his departure.”
* **
The preacher lay unconscious in a clinic bed, but his mind was quite active. In fact, years later he would write that his spirit left his body and he was sequestered between this life and the next.
Preacher Mann realized that something had happened but he wasn’t quite sure what it had been. His mind was a little fuzzy, but over the next few minutes, it began to clear.
The preacher was on top of a tall mountain covered with evergreen trees. There was a small, fast-flowing creek that came out of the side of the mountain. The sky was bright but somewhat gray. There was no noticeable noise other than from the creek.
He looked up and saw a person dressed in a black suit looking at him. The man seemed strangely familiar but he had no idea who he was. The man was sitting on a large stump positioned like the statue, The Thinker, by Auguste Rodin.
“That’s an interesting choice for a pose. He’s mimicking Dante and that pose is taken from the crowning element of Rodin’s The Gates of Hell,” a voice said.
“Who are you?” Preacher Mann asked.
“He’s not your friend,” the black-suited man replied.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Preacher Mann retorted.
The voice belonged to a man dressed in a white suit, including white dress shoes, he replied, “My name is Michael.”
“What’s your last name?” the preacher asked.
“I’m patiently waiting for him to answer that question,” the black-suited man remarked.
“Well, what’s your name?” the preacher inquired.
“Him first,” the black-suited man replied.
“My name is Michael. It’s just Michael,” the white-suited man said.
“Your turn,” the preacher urged.
“My name is Lucifer,” he replied.
“I can’t believe anyone would name their child, Lucifer,” Preacher Mann said in disbelief.