by D M Barrett
“Why are you liquidating and leaving the market?” the preacher asked with a surprised look.
“Some of my associates were also associates of Al Capone. After he was imprisoned on tax evasion, most of his property was liquidated. This powder was stored in a friend’s warehouse during prohibition to mix with cheap whiskey for a patent medicine that was an exception,” Mr. Denton said.
“So you’re trying to liquidate it, so to speak?” Chief Simpkins said with a large grin.
“Excellent. I will work out a deal on the cheap moonshine with Mr. Hanson while you two make arrangements on the powder. That way we can finish our business before our dinner arrives,” the preacher instructed.
“You take Mr. Hanson for a walk and a talk. I’ll cut a deal with Mr. Denton. Give us about 15 minutes,” the Chief responded.
When Hanson and the preacher exited the front door, Sheriff Hankins and his deputy grabbed Hanson and cuffed him. He struggled but was quickly subdued by the deputy.
“What’s going on here?” Jay Hanson asked loudly.
“You are under arrest for knowingly distributing an adulterated food additive and conspiring to sell illegal, untaxed whiskey,” the sheriff explained.
“Those are federal charges. You ain’t the feds,” Hanson said.
“The fellow at the table is the chief of the Alcohol Tax Unit’s Nashville Office. There are two revenue agents lurking just up the stairs to arrest Denton,” the preacher said.
“You haven’t got anything. You can’t prove nothin’,” Hanson said defiantly.
“There are seven paralyzed men in the local doctor’s clinic that say otherwise. Sheriff Hankins confirmed their stories with the ‘shiners who sold it to them,” the preacher said indignantly.
At that moment, Agents Jenkins and Rogers exited the building with a handcuffed Delbert Denton. He struggled as they walked him down the road to the local jail. Sheriff Hankins and his prisoner followed close behind.
The preacher turned toward the chief and said, “They better get a lot of time behind bars or else.”
“Or else what?” Chief Simpkins asked.
“Or else I’ll raise more hell than a jack rabbit in a tin box,” the preacher responded.
“Tom, as they say in Ferguson, let me tell you how the cow ate the cabbage in the garden. The two men who were responsible for the original jake leg epidemic only got two years imprisonment and served even less time,” Whitehorse explained.
“Why? Why? Why? ” the preacher asked almost yelling.
“Current food supplement adulteration laws don’t carry stiff penalties. Additionally, it is almost impossible to prove criminal intent in these type cases. Now these two may get more time for the illegal alcohol charges, but I doubt they spend more than four or five years incarcerated,” the chief said calmly.
“I have seven men with their lives ruined in Dr. Whitman’s office. According to your reports, there are a couple dozen more scattered from Johnson City to Ferguson,” the preacher said with a slight break in his voice.
“That is the vicissitudes of life, Tom. I don’t make the laws. I enforce them. You used to prosecute them,” the Chief remarked.
“Give me ten minutes in the cell with those two and they’ll get a lesson on the changing fortunes of life,” the preacher said defiantly.
“Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you,” Chief Simpkins replied.
“Where did you pick that up?” the preacher said smugly.
“I heard it from a soldier in France near the end of the war. His nickname was Raven. But that was before he became a lawyer and a preacher,” the Chief said kindly.
* * *
The feds were able to quickly seize the remaining ginger powder at the Chicago warehouse. In time, Hanson and Denton were tried, convicted and sentenced to five years each in federal prison.
All but two of the jake leg victims in Ferguson went back to their families and were able to walk using canes or crutches. Dr. Marcus Whitman was able to commit two very severe cases to Central State Hospital in Nashville with an additional psychiatric stress disorder diagnosis.
Life continued in Ferguson for the preacher and his flock. But the preacher often reflected about the tragedy caused by the ginger men.
11. Poor Man
Like many times before the preacher parked his old Ford pickup in front of the gas pumps at Discount Grocery and began filling his tank. Jack Wright recognized the truck and made his way to the front of the store to greet him.
“Where’ve you been this morning, pastor?” the merchant asked.
“I’ve been to Cookeville this morning,” the preacher replied.
“Why were you in Cookeville?” Jack Wright inquired further.
“I had to renew my truck tag,” the preacher said.
“Well, you’ve been gone all morning. What else did you do?” Jack Wright probed.
“Are you writing a book or are you just bored?” the preacher asked sarcastically.
“I’m pretty much stuck at this store. All my excitement comes from your escapades,” the shopkeeper replied.
“I am pleased that you enjoy vicariously experiencing my life,” the preacher said rolling his eyes.
“So, what else did you do today?” the shopkeeper continued to probe.
“Get a pencil and paper. I had breakfast with Nurse Bilbrey,” the preacher admitted.
“Wow. Let’s hear about that,” the shopkeeper said excitedly.
“She left word with Miss Rosie that she needed to see me about some locals she intended to check on later this week,” the preacher explained.
“Who? Why?” Jack Wright asked.
“You really should give up this store and become a newspaper reporter, Jack,” the preacher replied.
“Come on. Tell the rest,” the merchant pleaded.
“Apparently there’s Clayton Martin, a polio victim named Jeremy Ford and Boyd Miller that we’ll be visiting,” the preacher said.
“That sounds like a date to me,” Jack said with a smile.
“Ok. No more information. You’ve moved from reporter to gossip columnist,” the preacher announced.
“It was just getting juicy, preacher,” Mr. Wright said.
“You really do need a break from this store,” the preacher opined.
“Anything besides the truck tags and breakfast with that hot county nurse?” the proprietor quizzed.
“Indeed. About ten minutes ago, I saw an older black gentleman with a black woman about the same age on the road between Cookeville and here. They had their possessions on their backs and were carrying a few things in their hands. Do you know anything about them?” the preacher inquired.
“The only pair fitting that description would be Uncle Lee Bell and Aunt Ruth Bell,” Jack Wright replied.
“Tell me about them. What’s their story?” the preacher queried.
“Let me get you a pencil and some paper,” Jack Wright said with a smirk.
“I’ve got a good memory. Just tell the story,” the preacher insisted.
“They are sharecroppers. They’ve worked for years on the Smith farm. The landowner, Dawes Smith, is not related to the Smith Brothers, Cecil and Randall.
Dawes Smith died about ten years ago and the Bells continued to work the farm for his adult children. Now the Bells’ opportunity to continue sharecropping is gone,” Jack Wright explained.
“Why is their opportunity gone?” the preacher asked hurriedly.
“The Farm Security Administration is encouraging decreased crop production to increase prices. Also, they are purchasing the land of certain small farms that won’t make it. The Smith farm has been sold,” Jack explained.
“So the Bells are unemployed and homeless,” the preacher said in an exasperated tone.
“Indeed,” replied Jack Wright.
Just as the two men finished their conversation, Lee Bell stepped to the front door of the store. He did not move until he was invited into the establishment by t
he owner. Lee Bell walked to the store counter and cast his eyes toward the ceiling and not directly at Jack Wright. He did not speak.
“What do you need, Uncle Lee?” Jack Wright asked.
“I got this old pistol that belonged to my Daddy. It’s from the Civil War. I want to sell it,” Lee Bell replied.
“Let’s see it,” the proprietor said.
Lee Bell reached into his worn jacket pocket and pulled out the civil war era revolver. The handgun was a Colt Army Model 1860 cap & ball .44-caliber single action revolver. It was in excellent shape and appeared to be only gently used.
After examining the pistol, Jack Wright opined, “It’s in pretty good shape. It looks like it hasn’t been fired much. It’s more valuable as an antique or for a collector than serving any useful purpose.”
“I’m selling it real cheap. Would you be interested, sir?” the black man asked.
“How cheap?” the shopkeeper inquired.
Before Lee Bell could speak, the preacher said, “I’ve got two five-dollar bills in my pocket. I’ll give both of them for that gun.”
“That’s too rich for me,” the merchant said.
“Sir, I’d be obliged to take your offer,” Lee Bell said.
The preacher reached into his pocket and handed the two bills to Lee Bell. He took the pistol and examined it more carefully.
“Mr. Wright, would you take care of this pistol for me? I’m going to lunch with two friends,” the preacher said.
Jack Wright nodded and asked, “Who’s the two friends, and are you going to the Bluebird or Miss Rosie’s?”
“My two new friends are Lee and Ruth Bell. We’re headed to the Bluebird Café for an early lunch,” the preacher replied.
“Uncle Lee, would you and Aunt Ruth wait outside by the preacher’s truck? I’ve got some business to transact with the preacher,” Jack Wright requested.
“Yes, sir,” said Lee Bell who turned toward the door.
“What kind of business?” the preacher asked.
“You owe me $1.20 for that gasoline,” Jack Wright replied as Lee Bell exited the store.
“You are just as much an old skinflint as Finis Martin or George Hickman,” the preacher said shaking his head and reaching for his money.
“There’s more than that,” Jack Wright remarked seriously.
“Is there something that I’m missing here?” the preacher asked with a puzzled look.
“You can’t have lunch with Uncle Lee and Aunt Ruth,” Jack Wright insisted.
“Now why is that?” the preacher asked indignantly.
“It’s because they’re . . . It’s because they’re . . .” Jack Wright stammered.
“Why?” the preacher insisted.
“They’re colored. No place in this town or this county will serve coloreds along with whites,” Jack Wright explained.
“What kind of place is this?” the preacher asked in a rather angry fashion.
“Preacher it’s the south and that’s just the way it is,” the merchant explained.
“That’s ridiculous. Doris Smith will not turn us away,” the preacher insisted.
“Preacher, as your best friend, let me give you some serious advice,” Jack Wright pleaded.
“What would that be?” the preacher asked defiantly.
“Go to the kitchen door. Announce yourself to Doris Smith and explain what you want. Do not go in the front door and sit down first,” Jack Wright instructed.
The red-faced preacher stormed out of the store and bolted toward his old truck. He opened the door for Ruth Bell and invited her and Lee to get inside.
Lee Bell said, “Pastor, I’ll let Ruth sit in the cab with you and I’ll take a seat in the back and catch me a breeze.”
“That’s not a problem,” the preacher replied.
As the preacher drove from Discount Grocery to the Bluebird Café, he thought seriously about some of the words to the song ‘Poor Man’:
“Hush up, honey, don’t you cry
Things are gonna get better in the by-and-by
And there ain’t a thing for a poor man
In this world
Well I got down on my knees
Looked up in the sky
All I can think of is to ask the good Lord why
And there ain’t a thing for a poor man
In this world.”
When the trio arrived at the Bluebird Café and the preacher and Ruth Bell exited the truck cab, Lee Bell began to speak, “Now preacher, it looks like you’ve not been around here long.”
“Why do you say that Mr. Bell?” the preacher asked.
“Because you think that we are going to waltz into that white only café and have lunch together,” Lee Bell explained.
“Jack Wright tried to sell me that plate of hash. I didn’t buy it from him either,” the preacher replied to Lee Bell.
“Preacher, let’s go to the kitchen door and order some food. They’d probably be glad to sell it to you for us, but going in that front door will cause a lot of problems,” Miss Ruth explained.
The preacher nodded and the three headed for the back door of the Bluebird. Based on the number of vehicles inside, the restaurant was pretty well packed with customers.
The preacher knocked on the kitchen door. He was answered by Doris Smith.
“Preacher!” she said in a startled tone.
The preacher stated bluntly, “I need a table for the three of us.”
Doris looked at Lee Bell, Ruth Bell, and then at the preacher. It was obvious that there would be no table available.
“We’re totally full. It’s probably an hour’s wait time,” she said as she gave the preacher a frown.
“We’ll wait,” the preacher stately flatly.
“The waiting area is full, too,” Doris said sheepishly.
“We’ll stand at this door and wait for a table till hell freezes over,” the preacher said as his face began to redden.
About that time, Cecil Smith walked into the kitchen and saw the preacher. He extended his hand to the preacher.
“I saw your truck outside and wondered what happened to you,” Cecil Smith remarked.
“Doris doesn’t have a table for me and my two friends. She said it’d be a long wait. I told her we’d wait till hell froze over,” the preacher explained sternly.
“We are pretty full in the dining hall, but we have a table over there in the edge of the kitchen,” Cecil said pointing toward the far corner of the room.
“That is fine, Mr. Smith. I appreciate your hospitality,” the preacher replied.
“Doris, why don’t you get Uncle Lee and Aunt Ruth seated and take their order. I got some business to discuss with the preacher. We’ll be back in a few minutes,” Cecil directed.
“Sure,” Doris Smith replied as she made an abrupt turn.
Cecil Smith motioned for the Bells to come inside and pointed them toward the table. He looked at the preacher and pointed to the outside. They exited the kitchen.
“Preacher, you are one of my best friends in this world. I owe you a lot and I admit that. But I really have to talk to you about dealing with whites and coloreds,” Cecil Smith said.
“Enlighten me,” the preacher replied.
“Whites and colored don’t eat together in the south. You have got to understand and accept that, pastor,” Cecil Smith said earnestly.
“I may have to accept that fact because this is your place of business. But in this life, I will never understand why two men can’t share a meal together because one is black and the other is white, and that they can’t even sit in a room and eat together because one is black and the room is full of whites,” the preacher retorted.
“Let’s go inside and eat. I’m sure the Bells are waiting. I haven’t eaten either,” Cecil suggested.
The two men entered the room and walked toward the table. Both the Bells stood up and the preacher motioned for them to be seated.
“What did you choose?” Cecil Smith asked.
“We picked the chicken and dumplings, sir,” Lee Bell replied.
“I think I’ll have that, too,” Cecil Smith said as Doris stood at the table.
The preacher nodded at Doris that he wanted the same. She smiled, returned the nod, and walked away. It was obvious that both the preacher’s and Doris’ tempers had cooled.
“Where are you headed?” the preacher asked Lee Bell as they were eating.
“Well, we lost our situation at the Smith farm due to the land being sold. We got kin up near Harriman. We are hopin’ to find work up there,” Lee Bell explained.
“Can Aunt Ruth cook a good meal?” the preacher asked.
“She can fry a young rabbit and make the best rabbit dumplings you ever tasted. She can bake a mean blackberry cobbler, too,” Mr. Bell boasted.
“Are you looking for work, too?” Cecil Smith inquired.
“Yes, sir,” Ruth Bell replied.
“If you are willing to cook, clean, sweep floors, mop floors, and do whatever Miss Doris needs, I have a place for you,” Cecil Smith said.
“I’d be powerful grateful, Mr. Smith,” Ruth Bell replied.
Cecil looked directly at Lee Bell and said, “Uncle Lee, I don’t have enough work for the two of you. Hopefully, the preacher can find something for you and find the two of you a place to stay.”
“I understand, sir. Getting Ruth some work will really help out. Thank you,” Lee Bell replied.
“There's one thing that everyone in this room has to understand: the Bluebird is white only. Aunt Ruth you’ll be taking meals in this kitchen. Uncle Lee, if you eat here, it’ll be in this kitchen,” Cecil Smith instructed.
Cecil Smith looked steadfastly at the preacher and asked, “Do you understand?”
The preacher replied, “Yes.”
The four finished their meal and the preacher called for the bill. Doris came to the table with the charges. As the preacher reached for it, Cecil Smith took the slip of paper from Doris’ hand and shredded it.
“This meal is on me,” Cecil remarked.
The preacher expressed his gratitude as did the Bells. The day turned out better thus far than expected, but not as well as he had hoped.