Goat Castle

by Karen L. Cox

  Interior photos of Goat Castle, including the downstairs library, illustrate the shocking living conditions inside the home. (Courtesy of the Earl Norman Photograph Collection, Historic Natchez Foundation, Natchez, Miss.)

  The magnificence of this southern mansion, Bristow noted, was lost in the filth and ankle-deep debris. She described the library where Octavia Dockery did her cooking. The hearth contained a “half burnt . . . greasy frying pan,” kettles and pans rested on a once lovely carved table, and the floor was covered with “straw, gunny sacks, old shoes, cans [and] sticks.” The mirror above the black marble mantel was blackened with age, and an odd assortment of items rested on the mantel’s edge — burned matches, empty tobacco bags, an old calendar, a pipe, and a bust of Charles Dickens. Adjacent to the mirror was a portrait of Dick’s father in his vestments, his stern gaze still casting a pall across the room.11

  The library had long ago ceased to function as a space of gathering and repose. Over the course of its decline, “the scholarly books of the Rev. Dr. Dana,” Dick’s father, had “been shoved back on their shelves to make room for lard buckets and coffee cans and black cooking pots.” Books written in Latin and Greek served as a resting place for a can of nails. Pinecones and kindling lay on top of a rosewood sofa, while fragile chairs were covered in hen feathers. Just off the library was another room, which Bristow surmised had once been a dining room but was now “used by Dana and Miss Dockery as a pen for their goats.”12

  At the top of the wobbly staircase, traveled by both humans and animals, were the bedrooms. Octavia’s room contained a grand four-poster mahogany bed, a relic of the antebellum era, but that was not where she slept. Her bed “was an old mattress laid across a series of [shaky] supports,” which consisted of “two broken chairs, a drawer from a dresser, a box, and two sticks of wood.” It was covered with “an old carriage robe.” Dick slept in an adjacent room. He placed his mattress on the bare floor covered with “a pile that presumably was once sheets and blankets.” Above his bed was a tattered mosquito net that no longer served its purpose.13

  Octavia cooked upstairs, too. In what had been another bedroom across the hall from where the odd couple slept, she had taken the bedsprings from one of the four-poster beds and used them to smoke goat meat. Bristow knew this because Octavia had left a large piece of meat from a recently slaughtered goat lying on the springs. In this same room were trunks of books, Reverend Dana’s sermons, letters, and antique clothing — hoopskirts and men’s dress suits. Here, Bristow ran into other vermin. “On the lid of these trunks . . . are five wasp nests, the occupants of which buzz dangerously around your head when you approach,” she wrote.14

  Faulkner had imagined southern degradation, but this was no imaginary place. When a local reporter in Natchez said that nothing about the home suggested that “someone lived here,” Octavia agreed. It looked this way “because nobody did stay there,” she said. Then she repeated the line about Dick staying out in the woods for days and how she “didn’t have time to clean up” or was so worn out from work she could “scarcely move.”15

  In the weeks ahead, though, Octavia discovered energy she did not know she had.

  Octavia Dockery fashioned a bed out of an old mattress supported by chairs and dresser drawers, which lay adjacent to the once-grand bed from which the mattress came. (Courtesy of the Earl Norman Photograph Collection, Historic Natchez Foundation, Natchez, Miss.)

  Dick Dana slept beneath tattered mosquito netting when he was not otherwise occupied in the woods around Glenwood. (Courtesy of the Earl Norman Photograph Collection, Historic Natchez Foundation, Natchez, Miss.)

  Regardless of what they were called —“visitors,” “souvenir seekers,” or “tourists”— it was more than one guard could handle. Hundreds of people crossed onto the estate and managed to gain entrance to the home. Dickson described at least a thousand visitors the first Sunday after Dick and Octavia’s arrest. And on the following weekend, just before the two were released, hundreds more beat the same path to Goat Castle. “Cars poured into Natchez from Mississippi and Louisiana and far distant states to seek out Glenwood,” the Natchez Democrat reported. Automobiles were lined up along the Kingston Road near the entrance to Dana’s estate, and the city’s restaurants were crowded. No one was allowed inside the house, but they freely entered the grounds. People were so bold as to trespass onto the grounds of Elms Court, too, just across the road from Glenwood. On one occasion, the McKittricks returned to their home to find a family had spread a picnic on the grounds, which they graciously allowed them to finish.16

  Octavia Dockery thought that when she and Dana were released from jail, the two of them would return to the life of quiet they had known before their arrest. What she had not counted on was that the story of their lives, and that of Goat Castle, had generated a public interest they could not escape — though she would find ways to make her sudden fame serve a purpose.

  Even before Dick and Octavia were freed, “sympathizers” reached out to their attorney about charging admission to Glenwood. According to the Natchez Democrat, just two days before the two were released, “cars from Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana and Illinois” were “blocking the highway on the Kingston road” in front of Glenwood. “All day curiosity seekers poured into the city,” all for the chance to see “Goat Castle.” Local residents, too, were eager to see what they apparently had no idea existed in their own town. It is no surprise, then, that the pair ultimately decided to charge for the opportunity.17

  The dramatic descriptions of their home, which had circulated on both the Associated Press and United Press International wires, had sparked a daily barrage of visitors. Now that they could see the estate not as trespassers but as tourists, they willingly paid the twenty-five-cent fee just to visit the grounds of Goat Castle. Dick told a reporter that given the Depression, he thought the fee was too high and suggested that it should be ten cents, but he was “overruled.” It did not matter. The desire to see Goat Castle was so intense, people did not balk at paying a quarter for admission. As soon they opened their estate, in fact, “scores of sightseers, many of them residing in Natchez, but others coming from distant points, took advantage of their first opportunity . . . to visit the grounds of ‘Goat Castle.’”18

  Perhaps with the Reverend Joseph Kuehnle’s admonition not to “capitalize on human misery” ringing in their ears, the admission to the grounds of Goat Castle was presented to the public as a means of rehabilitating the house. Receipts from the Natchez Pilgrimage had gone for a similar purpose, so why not Goat Castle? And just as the residents of Melrose and Greenleaves and other homes greeted their visitors, so too did Dick Dana. He seemed to enjoy the attention and the company. Tourists “were surprised as well as impressed with [his] Chesterfieldian mannerisms,” a reference to how elegant and refined he appeared. Dick also seemed “ready and willing to talk of art, science, politics or any current affairs — except the Merrill murder mystery.”19

  Octavia, on the other hand, “seldom put in her appearance to the curious,” at least early on. Visitors frequently referred to her “quiet dignity.” She may have enjoyed the opportunity to tell her story in jail, but being a public spectacle was not likely part of her agenda. The descriptions of the condition of their home and questions of why it had been so long ignored were said to have “brought them more humiliation than even their arrest and formal charge of murder”— though Octavia, more than her ward, felt that humiliation.20

  For the time being, entry to the house was still off limits. So while Dana made daily appearances to play piano “before an enthusiastic, if strange, audience” at nearby Duncan Park, Octavia was “busily engaged in assisting two young men in the arduous task of cleaning Goat Castle.” As the Times-Picayune reported, “Rakes, brooms, brushes and the vapor from vermin-killing spraying machines were to be seen through the downstairs window” of the house. Octavia knew as well as anyone that it was the interior that people were eager to see. As one local report put it, th
ousands of visitors had come to Natchez “curious to view the fantastic dwelling place . . . which in itself tells a tragic story of thwarted lives and crushed ambitions.”21

  The goats were also a draw, even if the crowds who came to see Glenwood were unable to get in the house. They could be seen resting on the front porch and peeping from broken windows on the second floor, but sometimes the crowds were simply too much. As one reporter noted, the herd’s patriarch, “Old Ball,” led the flock of goats away from the house, “and [they] showed their disapproval of publicity by remaining in retirement in a nearby bayou.”22

  Once Octavia had cleared a path for the onslaught of tourists, Dick began offering weekend performances at Goat Castle. There was an old dust-covered piano in the house on which he tried to pluck out a few songs to entertain guests. He seemed to delight in the attention and the opportunity to play. But the piano was so out of tune and for so long had been a roosting place for chickens and geese that it made for a pitiful spectacle. When word got out, an anonymous donor had a new upright piano delivered to Glenwood. Dick could now play and sing to his heart’s content and to the enjoyment of tourists.23

  After being provided a new suit, Dick Dana offered piano concerts, first at Duncan Park (shown), then at Goat Castle, and finally when he was on tour as the “Wild Man.” (Courtesy of the Earl Norman Photograph Collection, Historic Natchez Foundation, Natchez, Miss.)

  On Saturdays and Sundays, he held morning concerts at ten and eleven o’clock and again at three and four o’clock in the afternoon. And while Dick would have performed for nothing more than people’s attention, Octavia had not been working to clean the house just to let the gawkers in for free. Entry into the house required a separate admission fee of twenty-five cents. This was no small sum in the Depression, but it did not prove to be a deterrent. On Sunday, September 4, more than five hundred people — from as far away as Texas and Illinois — paid to go on the grounds, several of whom also paid the additional fee to hear Dana play piano and sing.24

  Train companies also saw an opportunity to make money by providing excursions to Natchez to exploit the vast public interest in Goat Castle. The Mississippi Central Railroad offered a special trip from Hattiesburg and Brookhaven the first weekend in September on which an estimated 250 people paid the fare to visit Glenwood and for the chance to meet Dana and Dockery in person. Those who purchased tickets were afforded access to the property but had to pay the additional fee to enter the house for one of Dana’s concerts. The Yazoo and Mississippi Valley Railroad also offered train trips in late September originating from three separate starting points — Jackson, Vicksburg, and New Orleans. Similarly, ticket buyers were promised the chance to see the “Wild Man” and “Goat Woman” in person. While some locals may have been horrified by the voyeurism, their town benefited economically from these excursions since after their tour of Goat Castle, visitors went into town to have meals and tour other historic sites.25

  The opportunity to make money off of Dick and Octavia’s national notoriety did not end with tours of Goat Castle. In late August a man named Sam Abbott, who claimed to be the “public relations counsel” for the pair, announced that he had arranged for Dana to offer a radio concert to be broadcast on WSMB in New Orleans, then affiliated with the National Broadcasting Company. Abbott stated that he had coordinated with the local manager of Southern Bell Telephone, who assured him that he could provide a remote connection to have Dana offer his performance from the clubhouse of Duncan Park.26

  The pair’s attorney Ed Ratcliff, however, ended all talk of a radio broadcast. While it was true that he did not advise against charging admission to Goat Castle, he seems to have balked at the radio broadcast. The murder charges against Dick and Octavia were still in effect, so perhaps he believed that a radio performance that had the potential of reaching a national audience was unwise. Publicly, however, Ratcliff stated that the reason for not permitting the broadcast had to do with Dana’s poor physical condition. He suggested that such a performance would be “injurious to his general health,” given “the strain of the past few weeks together with the nervous condition caused by the hundreds of people who visited his house.” Still, Ratcliff promised to “build up the physical condition of Mr. Dana” so that perhaps at some future date a radio broadcast could be offered. Given the steady flow of people coming to Glenwood, it seems unlikely that either Dana’s physical or his nervous condition would improve. More than five hundred people visited Goat Castle the day Ratcliff made his announcement. It is more likely that the couple’s attorney was buying time until he believed the charges against them were dropped.27

  Sam Abbott was undeterred, as were other “friends.” And tourism was a two-way street. So, acting as Dana and Dockery’s booking agent, he set up several engagements for the couple. Now, the curious could purchase tickets to see Goat Castle’s residents in person. Initially, nearby towns sought Dana out for piano concerts. He performed for a crowd of two hundred people in nearby Woodville and later to an audience in Vicksburg following an invitation by that city’s Thomas Pantoliano, described as a man of “experience in the amusement business.”28

  By October, Octavia and Dick were being booked as an “act.” “Dana-Dockery Entertainment Makes a Big Hit” read the headline after the pair appeared before a capacity crowd at the St. Joseph Theatre in Tensas Parish, Louisiana. The two told stories of their life, some “humorous,” after which Dana, who was said to have a nice tenor voice, sang songs and played the piano, including a performance of Stephen Foster’s “Old Black Joe.” The act also expanded. Instead of simply holding a piano concert, the two were actually introduced to the audience as “the wild man and goat woman of Goat Castle.” Dick also appeared before the crowd in the coveralls he was wearing when he was arrested, the same ones he wore in the photograph that circulated nationally.29

  The “Wild Man” and the “Goat Woman” went on to give other programs in Louisiana, including at Sicily Island High School, where they displayed old papers, books, and magazine articles written by Dockery, among other “relics” from the home. Dick and Octavia also took their show to Jonesville, Louisiana, where weeks before there had been an exhibit of items taken from their home.30

  After performing and displaying Goat Castle relics in Port Gibson, the pair was booked for a two-day engagement, on October 27 and 28, at the Jackson Auditorium in the state’s capital. To spur additional interest in the event, sponsored by a branch of the Disabled Veterans of America, antiques from Dana’s home were exhibited in the street windows of the Emporium, a major department store in the city. The organization’s efforts paid off, and the pair’s performance was a “hit.” An “immense crowd” greeted the two, and after the program they received a standing ovation. Octavia, who regaled crowds with stories of the Old South, was given several bouquets of flowers. While in Jackson, the pair also gave an interview to a local radio station in front of a live audience that included the wife of former governor Earl Brewer.31

  The tour of towns throughout Mississippi and Louisiana may have come because of the “possibility of dwindling receipts” from Goat Castle. Advisers of the pair, who were at once described as “friends” and “the committee,” helped to determine their next moves. In addition to Sam Abbott, their public relations counsel, it appears that their pro bono attorney Sophie Friedman was also involved, especially when it came to escorting them to various events. They also outfitted Dana with clothing for his performances — on- and offstage. Onstage, he wore the dirty coveralls. When not performing, he was dressed in a “frock coat, a slouch hat and string tie . . . to take on the appearance of a professional Southerner.” After being groomed and given a clean shave following his release from jail, by mid-September he was “sporting a ‘Buffalo Bill’ mustache and goatee,” which complemented his attire and led some to refer to him as “Colonel” Dana.32

  Dick had his own opinions on his appearance. He was convinced that “hair and artistic ability [were] analogous” and
wanted to let his hair and beard grow long again. There were other matters of concern, too. Dick, who was toothless, declared that “until he has been provided with some new store teeth,” he refused to offer musical recitals to the public, except for at Goat Castle. Apparently, the many women visitors “made him insistent on the question of teeth,” although he “vigorously denied it.” Still, it was true that he had attracted the attention of female visitors and received fan mail from women, too.33

  Despite Dana’s misgivings about his hair and teeth, he and Octavia continued to tour and host the daily droves of sightseers to Glenwood throughout September and October. There seemed to be no end to people’s interest in this southern gothic spectacle. For now, the strange pair entertained, even as they stood charged with the murder of Jennie Merrill.

  Yet November was just around the corner, and with it came the meeting of the Adams County grand jury. Octavia knew as well as anyone that Sheriff Book Roberts remained convinced of their guilt. So she placed bets that her role as the downtrodden southern belle and Dick’s obvious mental deficiencies had won them not only the sympathy of the local community but also their freedom.

  CHAPTER NINE

  COLD JUSTICE

  As mid-November approached, frigid air swept through the Deep South, bringing freezing temperatures across the Mississippi River and over the bluffs into Natchez.1 Adams County jail cells were stark and miserable, so the bitter weather must have seemed like an added cruelty to Emily Burns and her mother, Nellie Black. They had been there since their arrest in mid-August. During those three months the seasons had changed, but no formal charges had been filed against either woman, and neither was afforded legal counsel. It was a clear violation of their civil rights, but not in the Jim Crow South, where Negroes were second-class citizens. Unlike Octavia Dockery, who awaited her legal fate while collecting receipts at Goat Castle, Emily and Nellie languished in their cold cells, weighed down by the memory of generations of southern black women before them who had never known justice.