by Karen Branan
Given all these considerations, the beleaguered sheriff might have longed for the old days, when a sheriff could throw prisoners to the mob and be considered a hero. That still happened in some places but was more risky in these changing times. Governors were deploring these actions, embarrassed by an increase in publicity up north that made it harder to bring in Yankee dollars. Just recently some Georgia politicians had called for sheriffs to be made financially culpable for lynchings, and several blacks in other states were suing white officials.
In 1893, Gov. Northen had approved a law making “mobbing or lynching” a felony, subject to imprisonment for one to twenty years. Should death occur from “mob violence,” the person or persons causing such death were to be tried and subject to penalties under state law for murder. The law also charged peace officers with responsibility for stopping mob violence, and if necessary summoning citizens of the community to help by using every means in their power to prevent such mob violence. Failure to act by either sheriff or summoned citizen was declared a misdemeanor offense. Northen had pushed the bill through the General Assembly, though its passage had done nothing to stop the lynching of black people.
But recent events had spurred louder demands for stricter enforcement and efforts were under way for stricter laws. At that moment, in fact, certain Georgia editors were howling for Sheriff W. B. Stark’s impeachment in Walton County, and two Alabama sheriffs had recently been impeached and removed from office by that state’s Supreme Court for negligence in protecting prisoners against mobs. The most glaring example of a change was the 1906 federal government action against Sheriff Joseph Shipp of Tennessee, recently sent to prison after a unique U.S. Supreme Court trial that drew the attention of every sheriff in the South. Shipp, a Georgia native, had stood by as a mob took a man from his jail. The man’s case had been accepted on appeal to the federal court and that had given President Teddy Roosevelt the chance he sought to act against lynching. This did not bode well for states’ rights. White men of even middling intelligence knew that if they did not put a stop to lynching, the federal government would find a way to move in.
Since the turn of the century, congressional liberals had sought federal antilynching laws and lost. Increasing white southern control over that body had made any legislation that interfered with white men’s control over black lives in the South nearly impossible. But the barbarism of lynch mobs throughout the 1890s and into the new century, coupled with the birth of the NAACP and its sophisticated use of publicity to win public sympathy, had the South’s more practical white leaders worried. Only one week earlier, the Chicago Tribune had named Georgia the number-one lynching state in 1911, with twenty-one of them, and this wasn’t the first year it had received this unwanted attention. By the time it was all over, Georgia would sit at the top of this list.
Judge Price Gilbert, for his part, had waged his own campaign against the practice. Son of a slave owner from Stewart County, he subscribed to the New South credo, believing that a segregated industrial economy, heavily financed by northern banks, would solve the economic, social, and racial woes of the region. A staunch but not outspoken white supremacist, he would later describe in an unpublished manuscript his belief that blacks were incapable of the full rights of citizenship, such as voting and jury duty. He did not, however, believe, as many respectable whites still did, that mob violence sent messages to blacks and kept them under control. Rather, he preached incessantly against it on the grounds it weakened the law, its servants, and civilization.
Gilbert served as solicitor general from 1895 to 1906. In that period there had been dozens of lynching threats, and five men he had either been prosecuting or was set to prosecute had been lynched. All but one were black. Since his appointment to the bench, there had been three mob attempts on the jail in Columbus alone, all of them repelled or outwitted. The sartorial, Yale-educated, deeply Methodist Gilbert found all of this harrowing and intolerable. But until two years ago he’d done little more than lecture grand juries, civic clubs, and churches in his six-county jurisdiction about the importance of the legal process and the criminality of lynch mobs.
Then, in 1910, he had ratcheted up his message. On hearing a mob was gathering outside the Columbus jail, he quickly called a grand jury and ordered the sheriff and jailer to “meet it with cold lead.” To avoid this, the sheriff smuggled the prisoner to Atlanta. The enraged mob refused to believe its prey—a black man accused of raping a white girl—was gone and, two hundred strong, they stormed the jail with sledgehammers and firearms.
Jailer A. A. Phelts did as the judge ordered and was mortally wounded in the process. The judge, grieving over the death of his friend of fifteen years, called a special grand jury to declare that should another mob form when the prisoner returned for trial, he would not plead with its members but would himself join the ranks of the sheriff’s men and personally fire into the mob. As it turned out, the sixteen-year-old rape victim went to Atlanta to make a second identification of the man and declared he was not her attacker. Another man was subsequently arrested and convicted. Newspapers and preachers sang Gilbert’s praises. Not only had he stopped a lynching and saved the life of an innocent man, but he had also prevented dozens of Columbus men from making murderers of themselves. Most important, the papers crowed, he’d protected the sanctity of the law.
At First Methodist the next Sunday, Gilbert’s pastor raised his face to heaven, stretched forth his arms, and proclaimed in stentorian tones, “Thank God, we had a man upon the bench. A real man and no sham. And yet I dare say some of you censured him. Ain’t you ashamed of yourself? Let no man among you do else than stand by such a man and in upholding him uphold all that’s best. Thank God, we have a man and not a pea-hen politician for a judge.” A town meeting was held to oppose mobs. Ministers praised Jailer Phelts as a hero and martyr who “gave his life for justice.”
But for Gilbert, the price came high. A longtime friend was dead. Phelts was a husband, a father, a longtime loyal servant of the justice system. Grief-stricken and outraged, the judge called upon the county to raise a thousand dollars for the family and to build a monument in the jailer’s name. Gilbert’s wife fell ill under the pressure. When newspapers, including Harris County’s, had recently encouraged Gilbert to run for governor, he declined, giving his wife’s poor health as the reason. By the time the Hamilton men rolled into Columbus, Judge Gilbert had become an icon, hailed by many, hated by many. As the contingent filed into the Columbus courthouse—magnificent with its five imposing Corinthian columns, occupying an entire city block, well over three times the size of Harris County’s proud edifice—Buddie Hadley’s insides had to be churning. The men all knew Judge Gilbert would welcome their quest about as much as he’d welcome a bucket of horse manure raked across his Persian carpet.
A highbrow gentleman of the “Chesterfieldian” type, Gilbert had constantly sought through wise and gentle admonition to appeal to the better instincts of people, and here they were asking him to take a mob’s word that it would wait for a trial. To call in a special guard or to move the prisoners would say to the mob: “I don’t trust you. It would say to the sheriff and his backers, all friends of the judge: ‘I don’t trust you.’ ” The sheriff had made a promise to the mob—many of whom were his own kinfolk—and now he and his backers, certainly with some chagrin, came as the mob’s mouthpiece.
The conversation that transpired within the judge’s chamber that morning can only be imagined, but numerous factors would have already played a part in the participants’ thinking. At the moment a major controversy roiling the state concerned a double lynching in Walton County the previous June. This one had caught the attention of the Hamilton men for many reasons, including the fact that the Fifth Militia, commanded by Judge Cooper Williams’s son-in-law Ed Pomeroy, was called from nearby Atlanta to protect an accused black rapist.
A black man, Tom Adams, accused of raping a white farm woman and threatened by a mob was removed from the Walton County
jail to nearby Atlanta to await trial. By trial time the large mob had grown so belligerent that, under Georgia law, the sheriff and the judge requested that the governor order a large contingent of militia to accompany the prisoner by train to Monroe.
The sight of these troops guarding an accused black rapist in full view of their Confederate statue enraged large numbers of Georgia citizens. Amplifying their anger was the fact the prisoner slept in the courthouse, protected by soldiers handpicked from four militia companies at an announced cost to the taxpayers of one thousand dollars. Three large photos of these scenes splayed across the front page of the Atlanta Constitution stoked matters more. Judge Brand of that circuit complicated the situation further by apologizing to white citizens for having to do this. When the trial had to be postponed for lack of a witness and the prisoner was returned to Atlanta, the mob, now numbering more than one thousand, made it clear they would strike when he returned, with or without the militia. This time the sheriff assured the judge he had matters in hand and the judge chose to believe him. The governor twice notified the sheriff and judge of his concern, given news reports of an impending lynching. No, they assured, him, there’s nothing to worry about.
Chained to two deputies, the prisoner was returned to Monroe for trial. The mob stopped the train just outside Monroe. They dragged all three to the site of the alleged rape, released the deputies, and lynched the prisoner. Just to make sure the legal system knew who was in charge, they then marched to the jail to lynch another black man, this one accused of a minor crime. The sheriff’s wife tried to talk them down and a farmer tried to stop them, but to no avail.
After this, all hell broke loose among friends in Monroe, a town forty-five miles from Atlanta, with the sheriff’s people pitted against the judge’s friends and everyone forced to take sides as to who bore responsibility. City newspapers, preachers, and politicians raised a howl, calling for stronger laws as well as the judge’s and the sheriff’s heads. Legislators tried to push through an investigation that would judge and prosecute the guilty parties, be they judge, sheriff, or governor.
Newspaper editorials blazed away at the irresponsibility of both judge and sheriff, and a prominent Atlanta minister invited legislators to a Sunday night sermon to announce that the soul of Georgia had been wronged, men had become beasts, and civilization was at the brink. Many of the legislators showed up and enough were sufficiently outraged to pass a law forcing the removal of a prisoner to a safe venue should mobs threaten.
In Walton County, Judge Brand had spoken publicly about his refusal to call up the militia: “I don’t propose to be the engine of sacrificing any white man’s life for all the negro rapists in the country by assuming a responsibility that the law does not impose upon me.” This was not the sort of remark to ever issue from Judge Gilbert’s mouth, but the men from Hamilton had reason to hope he’d take a lesson of caution from the Walton County situation and make no move to order troops. The latest law was not yet in effect, and under current law it was up to the sheriff to request that the judge appeal to the governor to do so. A more recent law allowed prisoners to request extra protection, but that one would not take effect for several more weeks. The current law mandated that the sheriff request of the judge either a change of venue or a call-up of state troops if there was clear and present danger of a lynching. Upon such request, the judge was ordered to request troops from the governor or change the venue himself.
In Hamilton’s case, the mob had promised the sheriff there’d be no lynching if a special trial was called. He had, in return, promised not to request troops, a special guard, or a change of venue. This is what he’d tell the judge, and the other two would back him up. This, they hoped, would be enough for Gilbert to just let things be.
In addition to the Walton County lynching, the Hamilton trio knew of another incident, which, like Walton County’s, gave them reason for both hope and dread. It was the one that Edgar Stripling, a Columbus substitute policeman at the time, commandeered right there in Columbus on a sunny June morning in 1896. It was one Judge Gilbert had not likely forgotten, as one of the victims had been snatched from under his very nose.
Hadley, Hardy, and Williams knew well the details of this drama and many of its players. Certainly the novelist Hardy would see the similarities between it and their own situation. It had involved a powerful Columbus family. A young white woman, a member of the Bickerstaff-Flournoy-Howard family, whose hands steered much of Columbus government, press, and industry, was allegedly raped by a black man.
This happened near the river in the very section under development by some in this family, a section still occupied by poor whites and blacks but increasingly being carved out as a residential haven for the rich. Gunby Jordan had just bought five hundred acres from the Hadley-related Narramores and built a handsome lodge. Nearby, a posse hunted down a suspect, the woman made a positive identification, and the man was jailed. A crowd of five hundred or more thronged the jail grounds screaming for blood. Judge Burlington Butt stood before them and offered a special trial. In 1896 there was, as now, no law mandating a thirty-day wait and the trial was to be held in four days. When the crowd jeered the judge, business leader Richard Howard took center stage and reminded them of just which powerful family was in charge.
The Daily Enquirer editor was a Howard kinsman named Flournoy Crook, who also held prominent business and political positions. On the pages of his paper the next morning, Crook reassured citizens that this distinguished family had matters in hand. It included a letter from the alleged victim’s husband, laying out his impeccable family connections. No reference was made to the 1890 murder trial of Richard Howard, his brother Robert, and a Bickerstaff cousin for killing a brother-in-law at the racetrack in full view of several thousand people, including the city marshal and the mayor, who had tried to stop them. Following a heavily attended and widely reported trial in which the men claimed “self-defense” and were portrayed as gallant guardians of their sister’s honor, they were acquitted and returned to their prominent positions in the community. Now, with their imprimatur, the militia was sent home.
The use of local militia troops to guard black prisoners was highly controversial, given that most came from the “finest families” and had signed on for social, political, and career reasons, expecting their most arduous duties to come during summer camp training and performances at annual Confederate Memorial services.
The captain of one of Columbus’s two militia units was the Howard brothers’ close friend and next-door neighbor. As the troops had fended off the mob, the young guards were called “nigger lovers” and “traitors” by mob members, and rumors had abounded of imminent defections should this duty be extended. On the morning of Jessie Slayton’s trial, four days later, only eight unarmed sheriff’s deputies accompanied a visibly trembling Slayton down Tenth Street to the Webster Building. The unpaved street was lined with several hundred armed, angry, and cursing men, many of them drunk. Thirty minutes into the proceedings, the judge announced that the alleged victim would be called to testify, a taboo among people in that day due to Victorian attitudes toward sex and the intimate nature of such testimony. Word of this quickly reached the street and an outraged mob rampaged the virtually unguarded courtroom. Prosecuter Price Gilbert stood by helplessly as the shrieking defendant was dragged away. After hanging Slayton from a tree, they stormed the jail to snatch another accused rapist, one who’d been tried three times and was awaiting another trial. William Miles’s last sight would be of a dead Jessie Slayton, hanging from a branch, his face shot entirely away. So far the similarities between that situation and Hamilton’s were obvious: powerful families were seeking a special trial, no militia, no special guard, no change of venue.
In case this wasn’t enough of a precedent to give the delegation hope they’d get their way, there was also the family connection. Ben Williams, Jr.’s uncle lived nearly next door to the judge; his uncle Dr. Charles Williams lived short blocks away, as did his br
other Tom; all traveled in the judge’s social circle. In addition, the Gilberts were close friends of the Mobley family. The judge’s wife and daughter summered each year at Miss Lula Mobley’s charming antebellum home on Monument Square in Hamilton. It was a welcome respite from the heat and the clamor of the growing city. They loved the square, where the children could now play around the base of the statue; the hand-churned peach ice cream Miss Lula made for her Juvenile Missionary Society classes; the small-town happiness of First Methodist; the drives up Pine Mountain to pick violets. For them, as for me in childhood, Hamilton was a storybook village, devoid of the ugly underbelly that Judge Gilbert often observed from his bench in the courthouse.
Gilbert knew well the cutthroat methods of the Mountain Hill men, the moonshiners who’d been ducking and dodging the law most of their lives. He’d prosecuted Milford and Louis Moore, sentenced Gene Bryant and Jule Howard, and knew how easily those trials or sentences had been subverted. How quickly jurors changed their minds and petitioned for the release of men they’d sent to prison. How easily men and women were coerced to lie under oath. How lynch mobs in the shadows caused defense lawyers to blunt their case. How much witness tampering took place before trials began and throughout. How little sunlight there was, in fact, between a lynching and a court trial. He’d never admit it out loud, but every judge in Georgia had to know in those days that the main reason to oppose lynching was that it made the court system look weak and invited anarchy in other realms, such as manufacturing.
