Tom walked back and stood with Emily in the doorway of the tent. After the hectic day it was fairly quiet around the courthouse. The soldiers were lounging around the tents or sitting on the ground, talking. Small groups of people were leaving, going home. Some of the Baker kinsmen, having retrieved their guns, were mounting their horses for the ride back to Crane Creek. Others had decided to stay until morning to see Tom and the others off.
Suddenly a shot, strangely muffled, shattered the afternoon. Bad Tom Baker, with a soft moan, fell forward across his wife’s feet.
For a few seconds no one seemed to grasp what had happened. Then soldiers, responding to Emily’s screams, rushed to Tom’s side. Tom had landed on his right side and rolled over onto his back. The red stain of blood was spreading around the bullet hole near the center of his chest. Tom Baker was dead.
Everyone began looking frantically around to see where the shot might have come from. Captain Bryan, his face ashen, came running up. There was a great shouting of orders and rushing about, and someone pointed across the street to the home of Sheriff Beverly White, where a small wisp of smoke drifted from a partly opened window.
Making little sense but doing the only thing they knew to do, the soldiers, with fixed bayonets, formed a line of attack, while others wheeled the big Gatling gun around and pointed it toward the sheriff’s house. Captain Bryan raced up and stopped them before they could do any damage. “Follow me!” he shouted, and a platoon fell into line and charged across the street. They were stopped by a locked gate and stood for a moment as though wondering how to overcome this obstacle. It was not an eventuality for which their training had prepared them. Then Captain Bryan ordered them to break it down, and they frantically kicked it open. But then they had trouble with the locked front door. When they finally got in, they raced through the house, found no one, but discovered on a bed in the front room a rifle, its barrel still warm. By an open rear window lay a hat with Sheriff White’s name in it.
Bryan raced back to the courthouse, where Colonel Williams waited, red-faced with anger. Members of the Baker group raged around the grounds, demanding that the troops get Bev White. Others demanded that they arrest Jim Howard. But when Williams entered the courthouse he encountered Howard coming out of his office. Outside on the sidewalk he met Sheriff White.
“It’s very unfortunate that the gun that killed Baker was found in your house,” he said sternly.
“Before God,” declared White, “I didn’t kill him.”
“Well, who did then?” demanded Williams.
“Could have been anybody,” said White. “Dozens of people have access to my house.”
A crowd of people had gathered by this time, gawking at the fallen feudist and speculating on his killer. The Courier-Journal reporter, who had been heading out of town when he heard the shot, had returned and was scribbling away. Standing behind him, looking over his shoulder, was Chad Hall, looking down on Tom with a fascinated stare. Big Jim Howard, stone-faced, looking neither right nor left, walked down the sidewalk toward town. The Bakers were too astonished to try to stop him.
The killer of Bad Tom Baker was never found.
The next morning a wagon carrying James, Allen, Wiley, and three troopers pulled up in front of the courthouse. A white-faced, dry-eyed Emily stood beside them a moment and bade them goodbye, as Captain Bryan ordered his men to form up for the trip to Barbourville. He then turned to Emily, who was sitting in a wagon with two of her children.
“Mrs. Baker,” he said, “why don’t you leave this miserable county and escape from these awful feuds? Move away and teach your children to forget.”
Emily turned toward him with a face filled with hate.
“Captain,” she said, “I have twelve sons. It will be my chief aim in life to bring them up to avenge their daddy’s death. I intend to show them this handkerchief, stained with his blood, every day of their Jives and tell them who murdered him.”
That, at least, is legend. It is doubtful she said it. If she really did, it was a promise she couldn’t carry out. She didn’t know who had killed her husband any more than anyone else did. At least anyone willing to talk.
Then the wagon carrying the body of Bad Tom Baker pulled slowly out of Manchester, headed for Crane Creek.
There was a further saddening aspect of Tom Baker’s murder. On June 9, when Tom had come into court, George and Lucretia “Lucy” Goforth rode toward Manchester, prepared in spite of the danger involved to keep their promise to the dying Will White and testify to the manner of his murder by the Bakers. They were not called, and they came back the next day, heard that the trial had been shifted to Barbourville, and were on their way home when they heard of Tom’s death. They did not have to testify.
But Wiley Baker, Tom’s brother, was not one to forget. Or forgive. After his trial in Barbourville, which acquitted him and Allen and James, he regarded the Goforths as enemies. They had not testified, but they had been willing to. That was enough. Wiley condemned them, even though his son Bev was married to Lizzie Goforth, the daughter of Bud and Lucretia. Bad Tom had liked and respected Bud Goforth. Once, when George Hall sent word to Bad Tom that he was tired of fighting and wanted to meet and talk, Tom replied that he would talk, unarmed, if Bud Goforth talked with Hall and was convinced that he was sincere in wanting peace. Bud acted as intermediary, and a truce was arranged.
But now Wiley refused to speak to any of them, Lizzie and his own grandchildren included. Some years later, when the elder Goforths moved in with Bud and Lizzie and their two children, Wiley would ride by and, if he had had a drink too many, fire a few rounds toward the house, despite the fact that his grandchildren were playing in the yard or on the porch. Like the Howards, the Bakers forgave slowly, if ever.
On the night after Bad Tom’s murder, there was a massive wake at the Baldy George Baker home, where Tom’s body had been taken, with the usual eating, drinking, mourning, and commiserating. All evening people streamed in and out of the house. Tom lay in his coffin beneath the lamplight. And then, when the casual mourners had gone and only the family members and old friends were left, a strange thing happened. (I do not offer this as truth. You can believe it or ignore it. But when Stanley DeZarn asked Tom Baker’s grandson, “Do you believe that?” Baker looked at him in surprise. “Of course I do,” he said. “Everybody I know does, everybody that was there or knew somebody that was there.” I merely pass it along.)
It was after midnight, well toward morning. Talk had quieted, voices drifting in from the kitchen, people speaking softly, the sound of men sucking on their pipes, sipping whiskey from cups. Suddenly there was a strange scratching at the front door. One of the men got up, went to the door and, seeing no one there, opened it to look around the porch. When he did a huge turtle pushed past him, plodding slowly, resolutely into the room and made straight for the coffin. Those familiar with the incident of the murdered peddler drew back in fright. Then Pleaz Sawyer got up, grabbed the big turtle, hauled it outside, cut off its head, and threw it into the draw behind the house. Tom had said of the peddler, “Let the turtles have him.” This time the turtle had come for Tom. Perhaps Pleaz had exorcised the spell.
Thomas Baker was buried in Boston Gap beside his father, George W., Baldy George. An era was over, no doubt of that, though a few days later it was reported that Big John Philpot had announced that he was assuming Bad Tom’s leadership role.
The violence had not yet run its course. Tension and hatred still gripped Manchester. Bal and Big Jim Howard still led their clan and vowed to bring to trial every Baker involved in the killing of Wilson and Burch. A few weeks later Dickey lamented to his diary, “Judge B.P. White is drinking himself to death, I fear. General Garrard sits in his great house, alone, surrounded by guards.”
Spirits picked up somewhat when surveyors for the Black Diamond Railroad rode into Manchester. They were surveying, they said, for a line from London to a point about three miles east of Manchester. There was great excitement, and
plans were made to move the county seat out to the railroad. But nothing came of it. Again the dream collapsed. The line was not built until 1914.
Young Lewis, drunk and dancing, shot and killed Cotton Collins and wounded Dan Collins, both blacks, in the house of the Hawkins woman. He was arrested and fined. This had no relationship to the feud.
But then the war burst out anew. Out on the road toward Red Bird a group of Philpots and Fishers were on their way to a log-rolling when they were stopped by deputy sheriff Wash Thacker, who had a warrant for Bob Philpot. The two of them rode to the side of the road to arrange bail so as not to interfere with the log-rolling, when suddenly a group of Griffins and Morrises rounded the turn in the road and were practically on them before the two groups recognized each other. There had long been bad blood between the two clans, but feelings had intensified since Christmas 1897, when Jim Crow Philpot and Jim Bundy, a friend of the Griffins, shot and killed each other. Now the two sides jumped from their horses, dived down the banks of the road, and began firing. Big John Philpot, who had testified at Tom Baker’s hearing, was quickly wounded but got his back to a tree and directed his forces. The shooting lasted only a minute or so, but in that time two Griffins and a Morris were killed and three Philpots were wounded, two of whom later died. Bud Griffin, shot in the stomach, held his bowels in with one hand and ran down the road, shooting with the other, before he collapsed. He recovered but was later shot and killed at a party.
Out of ten combatants, five were killed. No official action was taken, since no one reported the fight and no one could say who had started it. And it seemed to have been a fair fight. In the courthouse the Whites shed no tears. In the previous election George Philpot, despite his numerous kin, had lost the primary race for sheriff to Bev White. Philpot did not take the loss lightly, and in the general election he bolted to support Gilbert Garrard. He lost that one, too, but won the enmity of the Whites.
For a while it seemed that the Philpots and Griffins were determined to take over from the Bakers and Howards. In July, out at Pigeon Roost, the two families held another shoot-out. This time Granville Philpot, a member of the state legislature and thus an officer of the law, led his family’s forces. One Philpot, two Griffins, and two horses were reported killed.
Meantime, another fight was tearing Kentucky apart, and Clay County with it. It was to have a strange and tragic impact.
Bloody Time in Frankfort
The last year of the nineteenth century was a time of intense political ferment in Kentucky as the voters prepared to elect a new governor. Four years earlier they had chosen William O. Bradley, a decent, fairly progressive man and the first Republican governor in the state’s history. But Bradley’s efforts to improve roads and schools had been balked at every turn by the Democratic-controlled legislature, his record was chiefly one of failure and frustration, and the Republicans had faint hopes of electing a successor. When Attorney General W.S. Taylor, a plodding, unimpressive lawyer from Western Kentucky, sought the Republican nomination he won it almost by default, since few thought it was worth having. Then the Democrats nominated state senator William Goebel in a stormy convention that split the party, with former governor John Y. Brown leading the splinter Real Democratic or “Brownies” Party and John G. Blair heading the Populist ticket. Suddenly Republican hopes were rekindled.
Goebel, the son of poor German immigrants who had come to Northern Kentucky after the Civil War, was totally lacking in charm, humor, or social graces. He remained a bachelor throughout his life, was noticeably uncomfortable around women, and viewed most social life as a waste of time. But a keen, tireless mind and ruthless ambition earned him respect and wealth as a lawyer, and enabled him, despite his lackluster personality, to do well in politics and claw his way to the position of president pro tern of the state Senate. There he waged a dogged fight against big business, especially the L&N Railroad, and his battle to expand civil rights for women and blacks. In his campaign against Taylor, he was often called “assassin,” a term stemming from the shooting in which he had killed banker John Stanford, whom he had angered by calling him “Gonorrhea John.” Goebel was not noted for diplomacy.
Throughout the campaign Republicans warned that they would not permit the Democrats to steal the election with the Goebel election law, which stipulated that the state election board had to certify voting results. The law, rammed through the legislature by Goebel and his supporters, would give heavy advantage to the majority party, which could dominate the election board.
The campaign oratory of both candidates was inflammatory. Taylor called the legislature a “vicious body of deformed Democrats and degenerate Americans” and warned that “the deadly coils of tyranny will crush to death your liberties” if the Democrats should win. He referred to Goebel as a liar, a vampire, and an assassin. Goebel referred to Taylor and other opponents as villains, thieves, helpless liars, and ignorant charlatans. Taylor and Governor Bradley stumped the mountains of Eastern Kentucky calling for a majority so large that the “vote-stealers can’t overturn it.” The heavily Republican mountains were incensed by the idea that they might be deprived of their rightful victory, and editorials in several papers warned that “we will not let them take through deceit what they cannot win at the polls.” Frankfort was swept by rumors that Bradley and the Republicans were hoarding rifles and ammunition in the state arsenal to counter those of the Democrats in the state penitentiary. Actually, the rumors were false, but so many people believed them that at one point Bradley asked President McKinley for a thousand federal troops to keep the peace. McKinley didn’t send them.
In the election of November 7, 1899, Taylor appeared to be the winner, with 193,714 votes to Goebel’s 191,331. Former governor John Y. Brown, nominee of the Democratic splinter party, picked up 12,040, Blair even fewer. The election had to be certified by the all-Democratic Board of Election Commissioners, and in the two weeks between the election and the convening of the board, between 500 and 1,000 armed mountain men descended on Frankfort, recruited by Caleb Powers, a thirty-one-year-old Knox County school superintendent who had been elected secretary of state with Taylor. They were carried to the capital free of charge by the L&N, whose officials were determined to prevent a Goebel victory. The danger eased, however, when the board, to the surprise of everyone, gave the victory to Taylor by a 2-1 vote.
That, it seemed, was that. On December 12, Taylor was inaugurated. Considering the bitterness of the race, Goebel accepted the outcome with good grace, thanked his supporters, and said he was tired and was going to visit his brother in Arizona. But two days later the Democratic State Central Committee met and urged Goebel and his running mate, J.C.W. Beckham, to contest the election. Goebel showed little interest at first but relented and filed a contest, and the Democratic majority in the legislature announced that it would investigate the results through a select committee. Again the Republicans armed themselves to prevent the Democrats from stealing their victory. Outright civil war seemed a very real threat.
All of this did not go unnoticed in Clay County. During the campaign, Taylor did not speak in Manchester, but more than a hundred Clay Countians went down to London to hear him, and others traveled to Barbourville to hear Caleb Powers. When Powers called for men to go to Frankfort to protect the party victory, a long line of rifle-carrying horsemen rode toward the depot in London. The new century threatened to be as stormy as the one ending.
Jim Howard followed the race and its outcome closely but took no part in it. He was at the time free on appeal of his life sentence for killing Baldy George Baker. When, on January 29, he told Alexander Morgan that he was going to Frankfort the next day, Morgan was surprised.
“What are you going to do that for?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not going to get a striped suit, I’ll tell you that,” Jim replied. Ever since, it has been assumed that he meant that he was going to Frankfort to do something to keep out of prison—to get a pardon. But how? Did he have reason to believe
a pardon was possible? What was he willing to do to receive the pardon? And why was he seeking a pardon when he was out on appeal, one that he might well win?
What happened the next day, January 30, 1900, will always be a source of conjecture. No one knows, and it is likely no one ever will know who performed the lethal deed, but at 11:15 A.M. William Goebel was shot as he approached the state Capitol with two companions. Witnesses said the shot (or shots; some say four shots were heard) was fired from a window in the office of Secretary of State Caleb Powers. Mortally wounded, Goebel was carried to the Capital Hotel, where he died four days later, on February 3, 1900, after being declared the winner of the contest for governor by the legislative committee of ten Democrats and one Republican, and sworn in on his deathbed—sworn in twice, in fact, since some questioned whether he was alive, or if he was conscious enough to take the oath the first time. (He was conscious enough to drink some wine and to ask for some oysters, a favorite food.)
According to historians, Goebel’s last words were: “Tell my friends to be brave and fearless and loyal to the great common people.” But according to Allan Trout of the Courier-Journal, what he actually said was, “Doc, those oysters were no damn good.”
Whatever the details, the essential facts are that William Goebel died of his gunshot wounds, and that moments later J.C.W. Beckham, who had been elected lieutenant governor with him, was sworn in as governor. The courts eventually upheld the Democrats’ claim to the governorship, and Taylor fled to Indiana.
Days of Darkness Page 24