Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  “Okay, Jones. Put that offer in writin’ and give me a copy of it. I wanna look at the papers. Maybe I’ll sign it next week.” He watched Jones’s body relax as the man began to breathe again. Jones nodded his head and pulled at the lapels of his coat. Wes put his hand into the pocket with the gun. “But if you say one word about this to anyone, you’ll wish you’d been born without a mouth.”

  “I think you’ve made the right decision, sir. I’ll confer with my office in Lexington and get a copy of the contract to you by tomorrow or Friday. Will that work for you?” Jones extended his right hand, hoping to confirm the agreement with Wilson, but Wes kept his hand on the gun in his pocket.

  Jones moved his hand back to his lapel and nodded some more. “Well, then I’ll get on my way back to Mayfield. I’m pleased that we’ve been able to conclude our business successfully, Mr. Wilson, and I promise you that I will keep this to myself. We certainly don’t want any more unpleasantness.” He looked at Wilson, hoping to see something positive, but all Wes did was nod in agreement, turn around and walk away. Jones said, “I’ll see you on Friday, then,” and without looking back, Wes headed to the house.

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday Evening, May 16

  By the time Wes arrived at the Baptist church in Lynnville, the few clouds in the sky picked up the last rays of the sun as it slipped below the tree line. There were more than a dozen wagons and buggies standing in the field and another thirty horses and mules hobbled or tied off to the wagons. Most of the men who’d come for the meeting were still outside, smoking and talking in small groups. The few lanterns hanging on the porch of the church and those lit inside the building cast a glow on the ground, and outside the bright dots of light from the ends of the cigars and cigarettes sparkled like red stars in the growing darkness.

  Sitting on his mule at the end of the lane, Wes watched Art loop the reins of his horse over a tree limb at the edge of the church lot. He rode toward him, thankful that his cousin had not yet joined one of the groups.

  “Evenin’, cousin,” he said as he slid down off the mule.

  “I see you made it, Wes,” Art said, stepping closer to shake his hand.

  “Yep, I had to come and find out if these fellas know what they’re doin’.”

  “Damn, Wes. When was the last time you took a bath? You stink like you’ve been sleepin’ with your hogs.”

  “Never mind how I smell. I been workin’ and thinkin’ and ain’t had time for no bath.” Art’s words had angered Wes. “Now can we talk about what’s important and forget about how I smell?”

  “Yeah, as long as you don’t mind if I stand back a little.” Art chuckled and moved as close to Wes as he could stand. “So, in your thinkin’, did you decide how you feel about the Association?”

  “No, I didn’t. How about you? Are you still gonna join?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, for sure, but that’s the way I’m leanin’. I thought I’d hear what they have to say tonight, and then we could talk about it afterwards. I wanna get this settled so I can think about my family and my farm.”

  “Well, I hope they talk about what they’re gonna pay and when they’re gonna do it if we sign up. But, I don’t trust ’em one bit. I don’t trust anybody.”

  “I expect they will.” Art coughed; the stink coming out of Wes’s mouth was as foul as the rest of him. “I heard that fella Jones is back in town. Have you seen him?”

  Wes was caught off guard when Art mentioned the buyer. “No, I ain’t seen him.” The lie burned his lips as soon as the words left his mouth. “Let’s stick together inside and listen close to what these fellas have to say,” he said, changing the subject. “I need to get back to workin’ like a man’s supposed to work. I’m near worn out, and I hope we get enough information tonight so I can get some damned sleep.”

  The church bell rang once, and the clusters of men ground out their cigars and started moving into the building. Their quiet conversations changed to a droning sound like a fly caught against a window. The two cousins walked toward the building, following behind the crowd, not wanting to get too close to the front in case they chose to leave early.

  At the far end of the room, up on the platform where the preacher reigned on Sundays, five chairs were lined up behind the pulpit. On the floor in front of the wooden altar, all the pews were full, and twenty or thirty men stood against the walls. Art, Wes and a few stragglers stood in the back by the door. The droning noise was quieter, but when the door behind the pulpit opened, it stopped altogether as a group of men filed out.

  Wes knew most of the men on the platform by sight, but he’d only ever spoken to two of them. He’d never had much need to talk to men whose tobacco fields were ten times the size of his. Besides, he’d always wondered if they’d ever been in their fields to weed or cut creepers or kill the deadly, crop-killing bugs. But these rich men, with their fifty-acre tobacco fields and their big houses and well-dressed families, were in charge of the Association in Lynnville, and their influence over struggling farmers like Wes and Art was huge. Wes hated them for their power, but he was at the meeting to listen and to learn, so he kept his mouth shut and didn’t join in with the others who began to applaud the men as they sat down in the chairs. He glanced at Art and saw that he, too, was keeping his hands at his side. He’s a good man, Wes thought, a good friend. I hope he makes the right decision. I hope to hell I can.

  When the crowd grew quiet, the man in the center chair rose and walked to the pulpit. For several moments he scanned the crowd, almost willing them to focus on him. When he caught Wes’s eyes, it seemed to Wes that the man looked at him longer than he had the others, but he couldn’t be sure. Everyone in the building was quiet and still, following the man’s progress with their eyes. Other than Art, the men standing near Wes had moved as far away from him as they could in the crowded room, seeking a sweeter atmosphere than that created by his reeking body. Wes didn’t notice and clearly didn’t care. He just wanted the talk to start so he could learn something about the Association’s plans.

  “You all listen up,” the man at the pulpit said in a deep, rugged voice. “I wanna see the hands of all of the fellas who ain’t joined the Planters Protective Association.” There was little movement and only two of the men put their hands up. When Art finally raised his hand and Wes put his up as well, another four or five joined them. “Keep ’em up a minute while we take a count.” He and the man on the far right of the line of chairs did a finger count of the raised arms and then looked at each other. Evidently they agreed, because they nodded and the speaker said, “Okay, fellas. Thanks.” Wes noticed that the seated man who’d done the counting was still writing on his paper. He thought that he might be noting the names of the new men, but he couldn’t be sure. He knew that the man, Red Miller, had a big farm and seemed to know a lot about what was going on in the district. Wes had never talked to the man, but he’d heard that he was tough to work with.

  The speaker at the pulpit said, “Before we start this meetin’, I want you all to know some rules.” He paused to make sure everyone was listening. “This here’s a house of God, so there’ll be no smokin’ or spittin’ or swearin’ inside the buildin’. If you gotta do any of those things, then do ’em outside. If you gotta do anythin’ else, you know where the outhouse is.” This caused a round of laughter that quickly died when he banged on the pulpit. “If any one of you fellas gets to doin’ somethin’ unruly or ungodly, then somebody bigger than you’ll take you outside and teach you some manners.” He looked back at the seated leadership and then said to the crowd, “So settle down, sit if you can find a seat and let’s get this meetin’ started.” He returned to his chair and, during the rustling and murmuring of the men in the church, the tall man seated in the far-left chair rose and stood behind the pulpit.

  Wes whispered to Art, “Do you know that fella?”

  Art shook his head and said, “No, but I’
ve seen him around the county. He must live up towards Mayfield. But that redheaded fella was at Mark’s that night after I left your place.”

  Despite the cool breeze drifting in through the one open door at the back, the temperature inside the building was rising. The pews were packed tight and those men who had to stand were crowded shoulder to shoulder. Wes was the only one who had any space around him. When the mumbling and shuffling settled down, the man at the pulpit spoke.

  “Most of you have already heard what I’m gonna talk about tonight. But some things are important enough to hear again.” His clear, horn-like voice boomed across the room. “Some of you might not see it the way the rest of us do, but we—all of us in this room who grow Black Patch tobacco—are in a war.”

  A man in the front pew shouted out amen and was quickly shushed by those around him.

  “Thank you, brother,” said the tall man at the pulpit. “It is a war against treachery and lies, deceit and dishonor. As much as it troubles me to mention him by name in this holy place, our enemy has a name.” He waited, watching the faces of the men, timing his words to match their energy. “Our enemy is the man who owns the American Tobacco Company, the Trust, and his name is James B. Duke!”

  The crowd shouted and growled. Some men shook their fists in the air, while a few others, including Wes and Art, watched and listened.

  “Over the past few years, this man and his company, with their lies and their money, have driven away all the companies we used to sell our crops to. They’ve made secret agreements with these other companies in order to control the tobacco market in our country.”

  Like a rousing Sunday sermon, the man’s words were often interrupted by the crowd. But instead of amens, the listeners would yell or boo, rise or sit, driven by their emotions. But he’d continue at each pause.

  “We have been grievously injured by the Trust. They have stolen food from the mouths of our dear children. They have forced our loving wives to work their fingers down to stubs. They have done everything they can to take away our rights as American citizens. They might as well have bound us up in chains and called us slaves.”

  Even Wes and Art joined in the titanic uproar that followed the man’s last words.

  “This monopoly has only one purpose, and that is the eventual ownership of not only our tobacco, but of our farms and our livelihood. They want to own us and our tobacco so they can grow rich at our expense. They want to feed their children fine food while ours eat slop. They want to have servants wash their clothes while our wives scrub and patch the worn out and tattered rags we wear.”

  He waited until the noise settled down to a cricket-like buzzing. When he continued, his voice was softer, but no less ardent.

  “But this Association in Lynnville is not alone. There are others like it throughout the Black Patch. In nearly two dozen counties here in Kentucky and across the line in Tennessee, men just like you have joined together to fight the enemy. You have struggled for too long and have seen the value of joining with your fellow sufferers in this crusade against the Trust.” He paused to drink water from a glass he’d set on the pulpit.

  “Since last year, the Trust has offered prices which are lower than it costs us to produce the tobacco they so desperately want. But some of your brothers in other associations have come up with a way to fight back, and I want to tell you how we can do the same here in Graves County.”

  As Art listened, he also watched his cousin’s reaction to the speaker. Wes stood rigid, his fists clenched at times, only occasionally nodding in agreement. Art hoped that he was listening and that he’d ultimately see the wisdom of joining the Association.

  “So, gentlemen, here’s what they came up with. The members of these other Associations have agreed to deliver their crops to warehouses that they will secure. The farmers who put their tobacco in these warehouses will receive certificates that they can turn into cash at their local bank. The value of the certificates will be sufficient to cover the cost of production, so the farmers can cover their costs. When the tobacco ultimately sells at a price they believe will be higher, the farmers will pay the bank back and keep the difference.”

  This caused another, more modest outburst. Most of the men talked among themselves, quickly calculating and wondering how this system might work for them. Wes looked at Art, but he couldn’t tell what his cousin was thinking.

  “We’ve made arrangements with the bank in Mayfield to use this same method in Graves County. All of the details haven’t been worked out yet, but we should have more information for you in the next several weeks. That’s why it is vitally important that you join the Association. That’s why it is just as important that you do not sell your crop to the Trust. You must realize that anyone who does this is as much an enemy as James B. Duke. We have to stick together if we’re gonna win this war. Talk to your reluctant neighbors. Persuade them, educate them, encourage them to join with you.” The buzzing sound of the energy in the room grew. “The Trust won’t negotiate with us,” his voice louder, “so they single out hillbilly farmers who think they need the money more than their neighbors do. What the trust buyers do is offer high prices that blind the hillbillies to the suffering of those around them. But these holdouts are not acting like our friends and neighbors, are they?”

  A chorus of hisses and no’s broke out in the room. The man raised his hands for quiet.

  “There’s one more thing we need to talk about tonight. There was an unfortunate event last week in Christian County. You’ve all heard about it, but you may not know all of the facts. A group of men—call them Night Riders, or the Silent Brigade, if you wish—decided to take the law into their own hands and tried to convince a tobacco farmer to join the local Association. That farmer agreed to do so and when he bent down to pick up the weapon he’d set on his porch at their request, someone accidently shot and killed him. You’ve heard that he was murdered, but that is not what the facts show. We have it directly from the sheriff in Christian County that the coroner over there has ruled his death an accident. Nevertheless, it is important for you to know that we, the Lynnville PPA, do not condone violence of any kind.”

  “It was murder,” someone yelled, and some in the crowd shouted in support. The man at the pulpit raised his arms and tried to calm the farmers. The noise faded, but the mood in the church had changed.

  The lack of a breeze and the nervous sweat of nearly a hundred angry men had given the room a sultry atmosphere. “Gentlemen, if you are already a member of the Association, we thank you and ask you to be patient while we work out the details regarding the certificates with the bank. For those of you who haven’t yet joined, we’d like you to come on down front so we can answer any questions you might have.”

  A number of the men started to move out of the pews and rows when Wes shouted out a question.

  “You said the bank ain’t worked out the details. Are you sure they’ll loan us the money?”

  The speaker looked up from his notes, searching the room for who’d spoken up. “What’s that you say?” Red Miller and the others in the chairs looked in Wes’s direction. Some of them stood, clearly agitated by Wes’s challenge. Red wrote something on his paper.

  “I said, are you sure the bank will loan the money?” Wes saw that he had the man’s attention and that Red had noticed him as well. Some of the farmers around Wes agreed with him. Most of the others were already filing out the door. Art was shocked that Wes would ask such a question.

  The speaker walked over to Red, leaned over to listen to him and then nodded. He looked up at Wes again and said, “Mr. Wilson, if you’ll come on down front, we’ll tell you what we know.”

  But Wes wasn’t interested in talking to these men. He’d heard all he needed to know about the Association and the bank.

  “I’m leavin’,” Wes announced. “Come on, Art. We need to talk.”

  Pulled along by the tide of farmers
pouring into the darkness, Art walked across the ground to his horse. He could hear the cottony sound of dozens of voices calling out, but the words were mushy, jumbled together. They only clogged up his already muddied thoughts. He untied the reins from the tree and started to mount his horse, but was stopped by Wes’s hand on his shoulder. Art shuddered at his touch, suddenly afraid.

  “Where’re you goin’?” Wes asked. “We need to talk.” He dropped his hand and stood back, unable to see Art’s face clearly in the faint light.

  “Why’d you say that in there?” Art’s voice trembled, the words fighting their way out of his spitless mouth. He slapped the free end of the reins against his leg and whined, “Why did you have to ask that?”

  “What’re you snappin’ at me for? I asked a simple question.” Wes snarled and tried to move closer, but Art stepped back. “Damn it, Art. What’s wrong with you?

  Art sucked in a huge gulp of the cooling night air. His hands shook as he retied the reins to the tree and started back toward the church.

  “Wait,” said Wes. “We ain’t talked about what they said in there.” He followed his cousin and grabbed his shoulder again. This time, Art shook it off and turned to face Wes.

  “What I heard in there was that now we have a way of stayin’ out of trouble,” Art said. “All we gotta do is sign up, put our crops in with theirs and we can get some money from the bank. We won’t have to worry about starvin’ or hidin’ from the Night Riders.” He stopped for a moment; his fear had turned to anger. “We’ve been workin’ together to try to get information. That’s why we came here tonight. But you show up lookin’ and smellin’ like some kind of crazy man and then ask a question like a damned troublemaker. I stood there right beside you, heard the same words and walked out with you. Now that bunch up front is gonna think I’m just like you.” He paused only a moment and added, “But I ain’t.”