CHAPTER TWENTY
Killings and Rioting in Greene
In 1870 Eutaw, the seat of government of the rich county of Greene, contained a population of 1,800 or 2,000, and prospered greatly in trade with farmers in the surrounding country. It was a typical Southern court-house town,—busy in fall and winter, almost dormant in late spring and summer. Its men were among the earliest to volunteer for service in the Confederate armies and latest to retire from that service; they were also amongst the earliest to organize resistance to carpetbag rule and to throw off the yoke.
On the morning of April 1, 1870, the people of Eutaw were shocked when informed of a tragedy which had been enacted during the night—Alexander Boyd, county solicitor and register in chancery, had been shot to death by Ku Klux! At first most persons discredited the gruesome story as an “April fool” hoax, but incredulity gave place to amazement when the scene of the awful tragedy was visited.
Of all the acts attributed to the klan, perhaps none was bolder than the slaying of Boyd. A bachelor, he had for a long time occupied sleeping quarters in a detached office building situated in a corner of the court-house yard; but having received a warning note, he became alarmed and abandoned these quarters and obtained an apartment on the second floor of the Cleveland Hotel only a few nights previous to his death. This hotel was situated on a corner diagonally opposite the court-house, and was the principal rendezvous of townsmen with a taste for gossip.
Witnesses at the investigation into the circumstances testified that at half-past eleven o’clock forty or fifty horsemen, in the regulation garb and armed with revolvers, their horses robed and hooded, approached to within a short distance of the hotel, where all except the customary horse-holders dismounted and quickly and unhesitatingly entered the hotel office, posted guards at all entrances, and then commanded the clerk to take up a candle and show them to Mr. Boyd’s apartment. Obediently the clerk led the way until he reached the corridor upon which opened the room they sought. Pausing here, in his speechlessness he indicated the door by pointing, and then fled the scene. Within a brief space an agonized scream, heard blocks away, issued from the room of the doomed man, and was almost instantly succeeded by a heavy volley of pistol shots. The panic-stricken clerk had hardly resumed his seat upon the office stool, with hands to ears and head bowed upon his ledger, when the dread invaders reappeared in the office. Signaling with whistles the recall of sentinels, they quietly withdrew, remounted and rode around the square, in military order, and then departed in the direction from which they first appeared. [They were traced to the Mississippi border line.]
After their departure, officials and others repaired to the corridor and discovered the dead body, robed in night dress, perforated with many bullets and almost completely drained of blood. Not a shot had missed the mark. Inside the room a table, bearing a lighted lamp, his revolver and watch, stood close to the head of the bed. He had not attempted to use the weapon. Evidently the purpose of his slayers was to remove him from the building, for one of them carried a suggestive coil of rope, but his outcry and struggles settled his fate.
Boyd was a nephew of William Miller, probate judge. Some years before the war he was convicted of killing a young man named Charner Brown, and sentenced to a term in the penitentiary. A petition in his behalf was presented to Governor Winston, and in response thereto the sentence was commuted to one year’s imprisonment in the county jail. Having served the sentence, Boyd departed for another state. At the close of the war he reappeared, and, following the example of his uncle, sought office in 1868 at the hands of the negroes, and was made county solicitor and register in chancery. He was not distinguished as a prosecutor, but regarded as indifferent.
December 9, 1869, Dr. Samuel Snoddy left the village of Union, in the northern part of Greene county, to return to his farm. Night overtook him en route, and he became confused. Reaching the cabin of some negroes with whom he was acquainted, he engaged one of them to pilot him. Early next morning Dr. Snoddy’s badly mutilated remains were discovered on the roadside. The unfortunate man had been murdered and robbed of a considerable sum which he had on his person. Sam Caldwell, Henry Miller and Sam Colvin, negroes, were arrested, accused of the crime, and lodged in jail at Eutaw. The scene of the murder had become notorious on account of being a centre of league activities and disorders, and the murder of Snoddy aggravated the sense of wrong under which the whites had long been restive; and when, a few days later, the prisoners were released, one of them on bond, they were seized and executed summarily. Solicitor Boyd, it was alleged, manifested no zeal in the investigation of the Snoddy murder, but became exceedingly active in the inquisition in connection with the subsequent and consequent affair, and exultantly declared that he had ascertained the names of all the men engaged in it, would send for soldiers to effect their arrest, and vigorously prosecute them, and if necessary hold the jury for six months.
All of these facts were related in explanation of popular displeasure with Boyd, which revealed itself first in the note of warning and finally in the taking of his life. Mr. Boyd’s tombstone in the Messopotamia cemetery, Eutaw, erected by Judge Miller, is inscribed: “Murdered by Ku Klux.”
Greene county continued in a state of disorder, which grew worse as the election approached.
The Republican state executive committee advertised that on October 25, 1870, Senator Warner, Congressman Hays, Governor Smith and Ex-Governor Parsons would deliver addresses at the court-house in Eutaw. On that day the party of visitors, accompanied by General Crawford, military commander of the department, and others, arrived in town. They were informed that the Democratic county committee had invited the voters to hear an address by the Democratic candidate for the legislature, and had chosen the same time and place. Thereupon the Republican leaders held a conference and decided to invite the Democratic committee to hold with them a joint meeting. Accordingly, Judge Miller, Congressman Hays and Mr. Cockrell were commissioned to convey to the Democratic committee the following note:
“We propose to appoint a committee of two to meet a committee of two from your party, to arrange the terms of a discussion for the day, to meet immediately at the circuit clerk’s office.”
To this note the following reply was sent:
“Gentlemen,—In answer to your note of this date, we, the committee appointed by the president of the Democratic and Conservative Council of Greene county, are instructed to say, that we do not consider the questions in the present political canvass debatable, either as to men or measures; and we therefore, in behalf of the Democratic and Conservative party of Greene county, decline any discussion whatever.
“J. J. Jolly,
“J. G. Pierce,
“Committee.”
This reply was ominous. So apprehensive were the leaders that Congressman Hays, who was exceedingly unpopular, decided, with the concurrence of the others, that it would be safer if he should refrain from speaking. The garrison troops were quartered a half-mile away from the court-house, and Governor Smith requested General Crawford to have the entire body brought to the court-house; but after conference with the sheriff, the general concluded that a detachment posted two blocks distant would be a sufficient safeguard.
Immediately after the note of reply was sent, the Democrats called their meeting to order on the north side of the court-house, and soon thereafter the Republicans assembled on the south side. The Democratic meeting lasted only a short time, and at its conclusion the auditors repaired to points where they could listen to the Republican orators.
Corridors run through the court-house, crossing each other in the centre of the building. These spaces were thronged by white men.
For the accommodation of the Republican speakers, an improvised platform, formed of a table, was placed against a window opening from the clerk’s office. All of the Republican visitors and local officials occupied chairs in this office. By request of Senator Warner, the office door was locked from the inside, in order, as said, that “whatever danger there might be would be in front.”
Senator Warner spoke without unusual interference. Ex-Governor Parsons followed and was listened to attentively. When he retired through the window, the negroes called for Congressman Hays. A Democrat, Major Pierce, approached Governor Parsons, who was seated inside near the window, and advised him to restrain Hays. Parsons, in response, endeavored to attract the attention of Hays, who had mounted the platform with the intention, as he subsequently testified, not to deliver an address, but merely to dismiss the audience. If this was true, his purpose was misunderstood, for the table was suddenly tilted and Hays precipitated. As he fell a pistol was fired, and the ball passed through Major Pierce’s clothing. Some witnesses testified that Hays fired it, and Parsons afterward admitted that Hayes was armed with a derringer; others, that the shot came from the direction in which the negroes were massed. However this may be, there was an impulsive forward rush by the negroes, and, as Warner admitted, they had weapons in their hands.
The first shot was instantly succeeded by a volley from the corridors, and the onrush was halted. Suddenly, in a resonant voice, someone in a corridor shouted: “Go in, boys, now is your time!” Continuous firing followed, and the negroes fled in great disorder, leveling the stout fence which enclosed the yard, a few discharging pistols as they fled.
Even in this grave situation there was an amusing incident. In his testimony before an investigating commission Senator Warner, describing the riot, related it accurately. Beaver hats were not worn in Eutaw at that period. Mr. Parsons’ attire was similar to that of Quakers and included a light-colored beaver hat. Senator Warner’s tile was conventional, black and glossy. “I caught up the papers in my hands,” he said, “and walked very deliberately to the right, in order to get out of the way of the firing. There came from the right-hand side of the court-house a pretty good line of men, thirty or forty, I should think. They came around all together, and formed a tolerable line across from the corner of the court-house to the fence, and commenced firing on the negroes, who had broken down the court-house fence and were fleeing as fast as they could. These men cocked their revolvers and fired upon them as rapidly as they could. I looked at them for a moment, and then walked up to them as they were firing. I saw some colored men falling on the grass and then scrambling up and moving off. I walked up to these men and held up my hand in a deprecating manner, and said, ‘For God’s sake, stop this!’ One of them who was nearest to me turned around and cast a kind of defiant but yet somewhat surprised look at me. One of them leveled his pistol upon us, Governor Parsons, Mr. Brown and myself; he was standing about the length of this table distant from us. He leveled his pistol at Governor Parsons. The governor said: ‘For God’s sake, don’t shoot at me; I have done you no harm.’ The crowd stopped firing and turned their attention to us. Just at that instant the sheriff came around with his arms spread out, and said: ‘Stop this! stop this!’ The man stopped for a moment and seemed to be deliberating whether he should shoot Parsons. He then saw Mr. Hays on my right; turning a little to one side to avoid me, he threw his pistol down upon Hays and Mr. Brown, who were both together, and tried to shoot them. They both sprang behind me; I saw them getting behind me and squatting on the ground to avoid his fire. By that time the negroes had been driven out of the court-house yard and across the street, where they had stopped and turned, and began to fire back. A few were firing back. Just at that moment I heard somebody call out, ‘Boys, hold your fire!’ The firing then ceased. I started and walked through the crowd, right among them. I suppose there were forty or fifty of them, all standing there with their revolvers in their hands, smoking, as they had been firing. Just as I was getting out of the crowd somebody from behind struck at me and knocked my hat off; I just felt the blow on my head, but I could not tell who it was, for when I turned around his hands were dropped, whoever it was. I guess it was pretty lucky I did not know, for the blow aroused me a great deal, and I am afraid I should have lost my self-possession. I turned around to pick up my hat, when another man kicked it; then another kicked it; and then the whole crowd, one after another, played football with it and kicked it across the yard. I started back to get it, when a man by the name of Dunlap, a Democrat, who seemed to be in accord with the party there, walked up to me and took me by the arm in a friendly sort of way, and said, ‘General, you had better get away from here or you will get hurt!’”
The senator’s hat furnished diversion at a critical moment, and in all probability was the means of saving his life and the lives of his friends. There had been firing from the clerk’s office, and Mr. Cowan (one of the actors in the Greensboro tragedy mentioned in an earlier chapter), was slightly grazed on the left thigh. He was brandishing a pistol and calling to the white men to rally about him, and standing near a window of the clerk’s office. He believed that he was made a target by a prominent Republican who was in the office. Two other white men, near Mr. Cowan, were struck by missiles from the negro ranks just before they fled from the yard. Some of the party with or about Senator Warner had, a moment before the scene described by him, emerged from the office and were retreating to the Cleveland hotel, and a determined group of men, including Reynolds, with a shotgun, were pursuing them when the fun with the hat commenced. While it was yet in progress, the soldiers wheeled around the nearest corner and rescued the imperilled Republican leaders.
Meanwhile the negroes, having fled in two directions to points where they had guns concealed in wagons, secured these arms and resolutely moved back toward the scene of their rout. They were aware of their preponderating numbers, and counted on the sympathy of the soldiers. Those on Prairie street had not proceeded far when they encountered a squad of mounted men commanded by the marshal and a few sharpshooters posted behind trees in private yards, who speedily checked their advance. At the intersection of the two streets which were scenes of reviving combat a line of white men, armed with guns, all men of tested courage, was formed to prevent a junction of the two bodies of negroes. Just then the soldiers, at double-quick, made their appearance and were halted opposite the line of armed citizens. After a brief hesitation, the officer gave the command to move and the soldiers proceeded down Prairie street. The negroes quickly lost courage and retreated, and before long none could be seen within miles of the town. And so ended the Eutaw riot, in which, according to the local newspaper, the Whig and Observer, and the testimony of witnesses, 54 men were shot, and from 250 to 300 white men and from 1,800 to 2,000 negroes were engaged. The number of wounded was probably exaggerated.
The pistol shot which followed so quickly the rude interruption of Hays’ remarks was not the real cause of the riot; it was but the signal for the opening of a conflict which had been impending for some time, and it gave vent to indignation which had been suppressed with difficulty. The explanation is found in earlier occurrences.
In October the white people of Greene county were much disturbed by rumors that a number of bands of negroes had been drilling with arms in parts of the county where plantations were largest and the negro population densest. A country store was burned by incendiaries, and threats were made that the several bands would be consolidated and Eutaw attacked by the combined force.
Lieutenant Charles Harkins, commanding the detachment of troops garrisoning the town, reported to his superior officer at Huntsville as follows:
“I have the honor to report that on the evening of the 19th instant, reports were brought to this town, by both colored and white men, to the effect that a band of armed colored men intended burning the town that night. The rumor seemed to be generally credited by the citizens, which caused great alarm and excitement. Armed parties of citizens were immediately formed, under the direction of the sheriff, and patrols and pickets sent to the suburbs of the town, where they remained all night. No demonstration was made by the colored men, if they had any such intention, which I am inclined to doubt. The excitement has abated, but there is still a feeling of distrust and anxiety among all classes.
“The real facts of the case, and cause of the present alarm, I believe to be as follows: The colored men and Republicans generally of this county, feeling aggrieved at the many murders and outrages perpetrated on men of their party by the Ku Klux organization, have determined to protect themselves in future and have banded together for that purpose only, not to assume the offensive, or interfere with the peaceful, law-abiding portion of the community.”
The relation of cause and effect in this thwarted conspiracy to destroy Eutaw and the riot which followed so soon is indisputable. The trend of Lieutenant Harkins’ sympathies is equally plain. He was inclined to doubt that the banded negroes intended to burn the town, but readily intimated that they had provocation in “the many murders and outrages perpetrated on men of their party by the Ku Klux organization.” Not a word is there in the report concerning the burning of the store, nor of the fact that refugee white families from the widely-separated plantations were moving into Eutaw for protection against the menacing bands of negroes, nor that the “patrols and pickets” were necessary precautions not of one night only, but of three nights, and served to deter the negroes from prosecuting their design.
The prompt action of the whites in driving the negroes out of town on October 25 would seem precipitate and unjustifiable if not considered in connection with the facts just recited. Nearly two thousand negroes attended that meeting, and they took with them guns, which were secreted in wagons at the foot of Prairie street. They were aware that the commanding officer of the garrison was in sympathy with them, and that they would encounter only a small body of white men should there be a collision. No doubt they counted much on the presence of the radical governor of the state, the military commander of the department, a senator and a congressional representative, all in sympathy with them, and all smarting under indignities received only a few days before at a meeting in an adjoining county.
The white men remembered the nights of anxiety for the safety of the women and children and property of the town, and realized the danger of the situation in which they were placed by the group of official Republicans who heedlessly and recklessly assembled thousands of negroes who had so recently been frustrated in a design to obtain revenge for punishment administered to evildoers of their race. Those white men had courage and resolution to meet the emergency, and they met it promptly and terribly. And they taught a lesson for which there has never since been occasion for repetition.