Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  “I think you’re right, cousin, but if I join the Association, I’ll need my money as soon as my crops’re ready to sell. Did you hear how long all of this might take or what we’re supposed do in the meantime to pay our bills and feed our families?”

  “Well, last week I was in your brother’s store, and I overheard someone say that the Association is sayin’ they’ll get six cents a pound. I’d need to get a price like that just to survive. If the Association could get us that much with a guaranteed loan from the bank until this is settled, then it might be worth it to hold out and not sell to the Trust.”

  Wes dropped his cigarette butt on the ground and kicked some dirt over it. “Then maybe it’s worth goin’ to a meetin’ to hear ’em out. Do you know when the next one is?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out. I’ll do that and get word to you.”

  Wes’s gaze drifted across the field, and he watched Charley and J.D. working on the weeds. Art waited for him to speak. “We got another serious problem, Art. We’ve got Night Riders in the county and they’ve been busy.”

  “I heard a rumor that they salted a field over near Cuba. Where else have they been?”

  “Last Sunday after church I talked to the man in Cuba. I stopped at his house, and I walked around in what was left of his crop. He said they came late Friday night on horses. They tore up his whole field and salted it when they finished. He was outnumbered, unarmed, and, just like us, he had a family to protect. From what he told me, they didn’t even give him a chance to join up. Those damned Night Riders are doin’ more harm than good, especially if they’re takin’ away a man’s only chance to feed his family.” Wes paused again and then added, “Then Anthie saw a bunch of men on horses just this side of the state line late Sunday night.”

  Art watched Wes and listened patiently.

  “He said there was a dozen of ’em, and he heard ’em talkin’ about what they were gonna do to someone’s crop. They were headed to Tennessee, he said, but that don’t make no difference. I’m gonna talk with Anthie some more about it later today. I don’t think he saw anyone he knows, and they didn’t see him.” Wes frowned. “I don’t know what they’d have done if they’d caught him.”

  “That’s not good, not good at all.”

  “I’m gonna start carryin’ my pistol,” said Wes.

  This surprised Art, and even though he hadn’t considered it for himself, he said, “I don’t know if I will or not.” He paused and then added, “But I’ll sure think about it.”

  “Who do you think these fellas are and who pays ’em? Do you think they’re part of the Association?”

  “I hope not. If they are, how could we trust anythin’ the Association has to say?” Art had plenty to think about now.

  Eventually they’d said all they could about tobacco and the Association and moved on to other things. Wes talked some more about Anthie and his Sunday trip, leaving out the fight in the yard. Art told his cousin about Mollie’s illness and how the kids were doing their best to help out. The conversation went on for a while, and neither of them noticed that J.D. had stopped working and was staring at them. The hired hand watched them for a few more minutes, turned back to his work and then dropped the stub of his cigar on the ground, crushing it with his boot.

  * * *

  Twelve-year-old John Stanley was standing waist-deep in the ditch, chopping weeds. After working a couple of hours, he was sticky with sweat and dirt and his hands were stained green by the weeds. He stopped chopping for a moment and took a drink of water from the pail he’d brought along. He looked down the ditch to the west and saw that he had a long way to go. I better keep workin’ if I wanna get done before Pa gets back.

  He picked up the hoe and got back to work. Chopping, pulling and throwing, he worked in a rhythm. Yard by yard he made progress, and when Irene showed up with his dinner he was ready to rest and have something to eat. He dropped the hoe, climbed out of the ditch and walked toward his sister.

  “What’d you bring me?”

  “I don’t know. Ma just handed me the pail and told me to bring it out to you.”

  “Well, then, just give it to me and go on back to your own chores. I’ve got to eat and get back to work.”

  “You better, or you’ll get a whippin’.” She paused and then said with a smile, “I’d sure like to see that,” and started running back the way she’d come.

  He threw a clump of dirt in her direction, but she was too fast and too far away. Girls, he thought, nothin’ but trouble. Lifting the cloth off the top of the pail, he saw that his ma had made him a sandwich of bread and ham. He knew he should wipe the green off of his hands before eating, but hunger won out over cleanliness. Washing the last of the sandwich down with another swallow of the water, he stepped back down into the ditch and in a short time was back in rhythm and making progress.

  * * *

  Edwin T. Jones truly liked his job. He liked being out on his own, working for a big company and making good money for himself. He’d been a crop buyer for the American Tobacco Company for over five years, and three months ago he’d finally been given a territory all his own. In the past he’d always reported to another buyer, and as much as he liked the work, he didn’t enjoy having to share the rewards of doing a good job with someone else. After he’d spent a year working in Calloway County, his boss had sent him a telegram assigning him to Graves County, Kentucky, one of the areas in the Black Patch that was a good source of dark-fired tobacco. Jones had been told that the farmers in Graves County hadn’t been interested in organizing into associations like those in Calloway and other counties to the east, but he knew that was no longer true, and his job was going to be harder as a result. Nevertheless, he’d been given permission to entice a few farmers—“prime the pump” his boss in Lexington had said—by offering them higher prices they couldn’t afford to turn down.

  In the early days of this new assignment, his efforts in the northern part of the county had proved fruitless. Jones concluded that it was because the farmers up there hadn’t yet planted their crops. So he held off for a few weeks and planned to head down to the Lynnville District, hoping to find one or two farmers with their crops in the field who were desperate for the money. That desperation, he thought, would be the key to delivering tobacco to the company and to making himself an indispensable and valued employee.

  As he shaved in front of the mirror in his hotel room, he mentally went over his pitch. “Good morning, Mr. Williams,” he’d say. “My name is Edwin T. Jones of the American Tobacco Company. It looks like you’ve got a fine start to a great crop, and my company is definitely interested in buying your tobacco when it’s ready for harvest. You see, the American Tobacco Company is the largest producer of tobacco products in the world. Our President, Mr. James B. Duke, is a very successful businessman. He has important contacts with many politicians in Washington, D.C., and wants to be sure that America is the strongest country on the globe. He has recently succeeded in making an agreement with the Imperial Tobacco Company—that’s the British—which allows us to make sure that all American tobacco products are produced by an American company. I can tell, sir, that you are a loyal American and sense that, if you are given a fair price, you would rather sell to us than to a foreign company.” He stopped for a moment, smiling at himself in the mirror and then thought, That is one fine sales pitch, if I do say so myself.

  Jones was convinced that most of the farmers in Kentucky were illiterate and, despite their rebellious history, were proud of being independent and American. Their only concerns were getting their crops planted, harvested and sold at a good price. They probably wouldn’t understand the issues related to monopolies and world markets, but they would surely understand the money they would get if they sold their tobacco to him.

  Wiping the remaining soap from his face and putting on some sweet-smelling lotion, he looked once more in the mirror and dec
ided that today would be the day he’d make a buy. Jones believed that what a man wore and how he presented himself was as important as what he had to say. So, he always wore a clean shirt with a fresh collar every day. He brushed his suit and polished his riding boots each night before retiring. He made sure his tie was on straight and his hat set just so. Looking like a professional, he thought, and offering real money for his crop will convince at least one farmer to sell his crop to him today. He posed in front of the mirror once more, cocked his hat a little more to the right and walked out the door. This is going to be a very successful day.

  He checked at the front desk for telegrams and then went out the front door and headed toward the livery stable around the corner. Mayfield was the county seat, so it had most of the services that people doing business in the county might need. There were several banks, lots of stores and even more lawyers. On his way to the livery, he passed the sheriff’s office and jail and then turned into the alley heading straight to the stable. He’d boarded his horse, a blood red bay, the night before and told the proprietor he’d be leaving by nine o’clock in the morning. Jones wanted to be sure that the horse was fed, watered, brushed and saddled. In an effort to at least appear successful, he used an English riding saddle. The tack was far different from that used by most of the riders in this part of the country, but it was very similar to what he had seen in Lexington when he first came to Kentucky, and it truly made him feel powerful.

  As promised, his animal was ready, so he paid the owner and mounted up. He rode out of the alley onto the main street and turned south. He figured that a leisurely ride to Lynnville, fifteen miles distant, would give him time for more practice on his speech.

  * * *

  After Wes left, Art walked across the field to check on Charley and J.D. He surveyed their work and saw they’d done well. At least he was getting full value for what he paid them. But until Clarence, who’d just turned ten, and seven-year-old Thressie could handle the more strenuous tasks of farming tobacco, they’d have to work for their mother. Art’s wife, Mollie, was older than he was, and she spent most of her time with the two young ones—three-year-old Martha and three-month-old Benjamin. She was still struggling with the pain from her last delivery. Art didn’t understand a lot about what women went through during childbirth, but he knew that she’d had a pretty rough time. He would do anything to make her feel more comfortable.

  Art told the hands that as soon as they had finished the last two rows they could go. “Tomorrow we’ll get at the weeds in the road ditch and then finish up the racks in the hangin’ house. I’ll have your pay ready when we finish.” He asked them if they had any questions. Neither man seemed to have one, so he told them to come back early the next morning. As they turned back to their work, he paused, wondering what hired hands thought about the Night Riders, and then headed to the house.

  “Pa! Pa!” laughed Clarence as he ran from the house toward Art. “You should see what Thressie did. It’s funny.” The boy grabbed Art’s hand and pulled him toward the house.

  “And what is it that my beautiful daughter has done that is so funny?”

  A powder-white Thressie stood on the porch, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “You’re mean, Clarence West!” She started crying and waited until Art came to her. “Pa, I didn’t mean to. I was tryin’ to help Ma, and it just slipped out of my hands.”

  “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” said Art as he stared at his ghost-like daughter. Getting down on his knees and taking her small hand in his, he said, “Don’t you cry. Just tell me what slipped out of your hands.”

  “I was just tryin’ to help, that’s all,” she said through her sobs. “Ma wasn’t feelin’ well, so I was gonna make some biscuits.” Another round of tears interrupted her.

  “She was tryin’ to make some biscuits, and she dropped the flour sack. There’s flour all over the kitchen floor, Pa. It’s really a mess, and she looks funny.”

  “Well, son, since you seem to be enjoyin’ this so much, I think that you should help me clean up the mess while your beautiful sister dusts the flour off of her dress and washes her hands and face at the pump. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

  “That’s not fair, Pa. I didn’t do anythin’.” The boy’s laughter had quickly vanished, and a smile broke through the flour on Thressie’s face.

  Picking them both up in his arms and carrying them into the house, he said, “Let’s go see about this mess and figure out what the three of us can do to clean it up.”

  There was a mess, all right, but it wasn’t as bad as his son had described. He sent Thressie back outside to clean up, and he and Clarence had most of the flour salvaged and the rest swept up in just a few minutes. Art reminded his son about the pail of milk he’d dropped the day before and hugged his daughter, thanking her for thinking of her ma.

  Mollie was lying on the bed, nursing the baby while the toddler slept at her side. She smiled at Art as he walked in, but by the crease in her brow and the beads of sweat on her temples, Art could see that she was tired. He bent over and kissed her cheek, gently touching the baby’s head.

  “What was that ruckus out in the kitchen?” she asked. “What have your son and your daughter done now?” Her brow was furrowed, but there was a smile on her lips.

  Art filled her in on the kitchen adventure and then told her about Wes’s visit. He shared his cousin’s concerns about the Night Riders and what the two of them planned to do. Art and Mollie had talked a lot about their own dilemma recently. She wanted Art to join the Association because his stories of the troubles over in Calloway County frightened her.

  “We’re gonna go to a meetin’ next week. Maybe that’ll settle it for both of us. We just need to find out how joinin’ up will help. There are a lot of things to consider, and we can’t just do somethin’ without thinkin’ about all of them.”

  “I know that, but sometimes I get so scared.”

  “Don’t worry. Wes is smart and I trust him. We’ll figure this all out and everythin’ will be all right. All you need to do is rest and get well. If you need help with the baby, you just ask. The children and I will take care of everything else. Now, you finish up what you have to do here. I’ll get some supper goin’ and we’ll talk some more later.” He smiled at her, kissed her again and then left the room. As he turned away, the smile faded. I sure hope we can figure this out.

  * * *

  On his ride home, Wes had a lot of time to think. He remembered Anthie had said that the Riders passed him headed south. That meant they were going into Tennessee. Anthie’s girl lived in Tennessee and her pa was a tobacco farmer, so he likely had the same questions Wes and Art did. Maybe, Wes thought, I could let Anthie go see Sudie either Saturday or Sunday, and while he’s there he could have a talk with her pa. If Anthie can find out Morris’s position on the Association, or even better, how he feels about the Night Riders, then we’d have a good chance of making the right decision. Anthie might be scared to talk with her pa, but he’ll want to do what I ask if it’ll make it easier to go down to Sudie’s in the future. Wes was sure he could get his son’s cooperation and, at the same time, perhaps even give Zora the feeling that he’d forgiven the boy. He hadn’t, and he was still angry about what Anthie had done. But if he could use the boy’s interest in Sudie to his advantage and in the process get closer to a decision that would protect all of the family, it was a step he was willing to take.

  * * *

  After the long, hot ride to Lynnville, Jones was ready to give his bay a rest and get something to eat for himself. When he looped the reins to the rail in front of the general store, he noticed there was a hotel across the road. Between the tied-back lace curtains in one of the tall windows was a hand-painted sign offering “Good Eats Ten Cents.” But food will have to wait, he thought. First I must introduce myself to one of the local storekeepers and state my business in Lynnville. He opened the front d
oor and went into the store. A man standing behind the counter was busy writing in a ledger and turned toward him when the small bell rang over the door.

  “Yes, sir, how may I help you?”

  “Are you the proprietor, sir?” asked Jones.

  “I am. My name is Mark Wilson.”

  “Then, sir, it is my pleasure to introduce myself to you. I am Edwin T. Jones of the American Tobacco Company. I was hoping you might let me water my horse at your trough while I visit the eatery across the road. I’ve had a pleasant ride down from Mayfield and would like to rest a bit before I go about my work.”

  “Welcome to Lynnville, Mr. Jones. Feel free to use the trough. I’d suggest that if you do eat at the hotel, be sure to avoid the daily special. It is usually made from what wasn’t very special yesterday and is likely even less so today.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” replied Jones.

  On his way back to the front of the store, Jones spotted a genuine British-style derby. He’d been looking for one, thinking it would be the crowning touch to his look as a professional; and, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt his relationship with Mark Wilson if he bought something from him.

  “May I try this on?”

  “Of course,” said Mark.

  “I’ve always wanted one of these,” said Jones as he gently lifted the derby from the shelf and placed it on his head. The hat slipped down over his ears and covered his eyebrows. Slightly embarrassed, he asked, “Might you have another in your stockroom? This one appears to be a bit large.”