Rings of Death

By William Gibson White

After Charlie’s father escaped death in Georgia from the Ku Klux Klan, who murdered his parents, raped and killed his sisters, he fled. He hopped a freight train he hoped was headed north where Negroes were treated fairly. Two days later when he saw blacks working in fields, he jumped off. He soon learned this was Arkansas where most had the same prejudices. Years passed. He married, had two daughters and a son, Charlie. After wounding a Redneck who raped and killed one daughter, he was hung and burned on a cross in the town square.
Charlie made a vow to kill the two men responsible, now the town's sheriff and deputy. Enter WW II. He joined the U.S. Marines at 17 to learn ways to kill and ended up a war hero. On leave, he used rattlesnakes in an attempt to commit the perfect murder . . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Gibson White
• Release date: Jan 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452463315

William Gibson White

Born in Hot Springs, Arkansas, William Gibson White said his first thought was: “Either I don’t have a sense of humor, or I don’t belong here.” So stupidity reigned over intelligence, and he stayed and found his sense of humor as a philosopher. Better paying jobs have included: Cotton picker, hay baler, newspaper carrier, U.S. Marine Corps sergeant with one year in combat during the Korean War, short order cook, hypnotist, journeyman printer, writer, businessman, and college instructor. After his Marine Corps career, White completed a Linotype typesetting course at the Southwest School of Printing to supplement the vocational printing trade he took in high school. Then he worked in print shops and newspapers while attending college on the GI Bill. He graduated from Henderson State University with a degree in psychology and English. Later, he became a journeyman printer and did graduate work in English at The American University in Washington, D.C., while setting type for The Washington Post where he worked for 22 years. White has always been interested in writing. His articles have been published in several newspapers including The Washington Post, Detroit News, Rhode Islander and the Arkansas Gazette. He self-published “Born Again! As a United States Marine!” in 2002, "Cupcake, Kids and Me" in 2003 and "Rings of Death" in 2008. Currently, he writes a column for The Standard, a weekly newspaper and a monthly humor column for his hometown newspaper, the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record. Most of his poetry deals with war, religion, enlightenment and “the meaning of life” and has appeared in several publications. White thinks the answer to human behavior lies in this explanation by Mark Twain: "When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained."

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE SON

Medal of Honor winner Captain Charles Washington Carver Jones, USMC, lay sedated in the psychiatric ward of the Army-Navy Hospital. Returning to consciousness, his dark eyes searched the ceiling from a face made more handsome by a jagged white scar across his right temple. Exploding shrapnel from a Japanese mortar left its mark. Now he wondered where he was. Then, his eyes brightened as he realized he cracked up—went temporarily mad. He saw it happen on battlefields and in rest areas afterwards when men realized the horror of another battle awaited them.

But what was madness? Very little made any sense to him, now. Charlie was smarter than most, or he would not have become one of the first Negro officers in the United States Marine Corps. And luckier, or he would not have survived. His mind proposed this dilemma: Why does civilization deem it morally right to kill people in war who have done nothing to you, yet if you kill those above the law in your home town who raped and killed your family, it’s murder?

Wendi said she wouldn’t marry him if he carried out his plan. The vow was made long before he met her. It would be kept. She didn’t understand Southern justice. Now, his sister and father could rest in peace. But could he?

Just a month before, the twenty-year-old officer drove to Georgia where his father was born. Faded black on white signs stood at the county line and announced: WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA COUNTY, HOME OF THE BLACKEST LAND AND THE WHITEST PEOPLE. Underneath in red letters: NIGGER DON’T LET THE SUN SET WHILE YOU’RE IN THIS COUNTY!—KKK

Charlie wondered about the signs and stopped at the first decent-looking shack to ask. Even though the war had been over three months, patriotism was still high. When the old white man answered the door and saw this Marine over six feet tall dressed in his uniform with four rows of ribbons, Charlie was welcome.

It were back in 1919. I just got back from World War I. Weren’t no Nigras in the Corps then. Welcome. Semper Fi, Boot, the man said shaking Charlie’s hand. Anyways, someone raped and murdered a white gal. The Klan grabbed the first Nigra who looked suspicious. They hung him from the limb of a big oak. Then the Klan decide to make Philadelphia County the whitest in the state. Give all the Nigras a week to clear out — no matter that they lived here as long as us. It weren’t right but they did it, anyways.

Yeah, they killed my grandparents and aunts, Charlie said. Well, thanks. I just wanted to know.

You’re welcome, the man said. "I’m sorry.

THE FATHER

President Woodrow Wilson’s vision of a new world order to make the world safe for democracy, had no meaning to Charlie’s father, Washington Carver Reese—who later changed his name to stay alive. Then, he was fifteen years old and lived on a small farm deep in the woods of Philadelphia County. His father—Charlie’s grandfather—worked at a nearby sawmill and farmed their land. He also preached part-time. His congregation built a church out of logs and pine slab lumber from the mill. It sat on one corner of the Reese’s farm next to the county road and also served as a school.

His mother—Charlie’s grandmother—a distant cousin to the Negro scientist, George Washington Carver, taught Negro children the three R’s in church during the week without pay. No public funds trickled down that far, but the children’s parents were generous. They gave some of what they had—eggs, chickens, produce from their gardens and a ham in a good year.

Washington had two younger sisters—Charlie’s aunts—Betty Lou, thirteen, and nine-year-old Katy, who wanted to tag along with him everywhere. Katy should have been with him late that July afternoon, the day after the meeting at the church about the Klan’s ultimatum. The Reese family was one of three Negro families who chose to ignore it.

Late that afternoon, the milk cow didn’t come home, so Washington and the dog, Jo Ann, went to look for it. He was checking the fence near the dirt road when he heard the sounds of many hoofs pounding the red clay road. The boy hid his six-foot frame behind a big pine as hooded riders appeared on horses in a cloud of red dust and rode up to the church. Fifteen Klansmen, armed with rifles, shotguns and pistols, blasted out the church windows and fired at the bell, making it ring. Two men rode horses in the rear doorway of the church and came out the front, tearing the door from its hinges. Smoke billowed from the windows. The riders poured kerosene from the church’s lamps and set it afire on the wooden logs. Smoke turned from white to black as pine knots exploded in orange flames licking at the windows from within.

Barking, Jo Ann ran from the woods where Washington hid and snarled at the Klansmen. Two shotgun blasts tore the small dog into a lifeless heap of blood and fur. Washington froze, but watched as the men rode off in the direction of his barn. Now, the boy ran into the back door of the church. Heat singed his hair, but he rescued his father’s Bible from the smoldering pulpit and dashed out as the burning roof fell. He put the Bible inside his shirt and darted down a cow path into the woods behind the church. Here the trees were entangled on each side with many vines making it impossible for a man on a horse to get through. Washington found the cow shot dead just as he left the path through more vines and briars on his way to the garden behind the house. Rifles cracked and shotguns blasted. By the time he reached the edge of the garden everything was on fire — the house, barn, chicken house and even the outhouse. Drunken, crazed Klansmen rode around firing pistols in the air.

Not making a sound, Washington climbed high in a leafy oak and peeked from behind the trunk. He gasped at what he saw. His mother and father lay on the ground killed by shotgun blasts to the head and stomach. Only the clothes made them recognizable. The men dragged his crying sisters from the storm cellar onto the front lawn.

Hey, I’m gonna get me some nigger pussy, said a slurred voice Washington couldn’t quite recognize. I’ve had my eye on this ‘un a long time.

He ripped Betty Lou’s flimsy flour sack dress from her body and threw her to the ground and raped her. While she screamed and fought, she pulled off the man’s hood. It was one of their white Christian neighbors, George Cowler.

When finished, he laughed and yelled, Anybody else want to change their luck? One more hooded man took his turn. Yet another had other ideas. Wal, he said looking at the terrified nine-year-old Katy Reese crying nearby. I’m finally gonna git me some tight pussy. He tore off her clothes and raped her while she screamed.

After abusing the girls, the hooded men shot them both and threw their bodies into the flames of the burning house along with remains of their mother and father. Then, the Klansmen mounted their horses. Hey, yelled one, Anybody seen their young buck?

Naw, but he’s probably at the Moore place.

Then we’ll get him on the next stop, but first let’s have ‘nother drank. Bottles of home brew were passed around before they rode away.

Meanwhile, Washington hugged the trunk of the huge oak, terrified and angry. How could these men hate his family enough to murder them? Now they wanted to kill him.

He would have to stay in the tree until dark before he could make a move. If they didn’t find him at the Moore’s farm they would return. The Moores were fine Christian people, too. God, help me, he sobbed, trying to understand. Somehow, the Bible in his shirt gave him little comfort. He wanted to kill all those white men. Kill them all.

The stench of burnt flesh filled the air as he cried himself to sleep.

Chapter 2

Washington awoke, startled! A full moon lit the night. Burning embers glowed where his house and barn stood. The nightmare persisted. His arms, chest and butt ached from his unnatural perch in the tree. As he rubbed the numbness, fear again gnawed at his insides. He had to get out of this county, this state and head north where his parents told him people treated Negroes as equals. But hadn’t they taught him about Jesus and how you should love everyone even those who persecute you? Now all of his family was dead.

Making only a slight rustle, he climbed down out of the tree and walked over to the smoldering ashes of the house that was now his family’s pyre. Again, he began to weep. Washington cried so hard he did not hear the white man with the gun walk out of the woods into the clearing behind him.

The man whispered, ’At you, boy?

Washington jumped up. Don’t shoot me.

Steady, son, he said, putting his hand on Washington’s shoulder, I come to help. The Klan come by my place looking for you and they’re gonna kill you if’n they find you.

Dey killed my mama and daddy and done awful things to my sisters before dey killed them, Washington said. And Mistuh Cowler was one of dem. I don’t understand.

They be crazy, he said. And they’ll kill me if’n they knowed I was a helping you. Come with me, boy.

"Whar we going, Mistuh Stevens?

Got to get you out of the county, he said. You and your folks was good niggers. Saved my life. Pulled ‘at tree off me and helped me and the Missus keep the farm going while I was down in my back. Jeb Stevens ain’t one to forget—

Sounds made by many horses came from the road. Washington and Jeb Stevens ran into the woods. Hooded riders appeared carrying torches and scouted around the smoldering ashes of the house and barn.

That nigger buck ain’t nowheres ’round here as for as we can see, one said.

Wal, we’ll find him in the morning. A nigger’s easier to spot in the daylight.

Some of the men laughed as they rode away.

I’m sorry and ashamed, Jeb said, ’bout your folks. They was good people. If’n there be any thing left, I’ll see they get a decent burial. But now we got to take care of the living.

They took a cow trail through the woods and soon came up to the fence back of Jeb’s garden. The hooded riders were there with their burning torches, looking around the house and outbuildings.

Wait here, boy, Jeb said loading his shotgun from a bag of shells he carried over his shoulder. If’n there be trouble you head for the railroad track and follow it as fast as you can till you get out of this county. If’n they leave peaceable, you go hide in the barn and I’ll be right out. He patted Washington on the shoulder as he left.

George Cowler, yelled Jeb. Get that torch out of my barn. You crazy or something?

The Klansman turned and moved out of the barn. Jeb, how’d you know it were me?

I’d know ‘at shape anywheres. You find what you’re looking for?

Nope, we ain’t. That young buck of the nigger Reese’s ain’t here. He be the only nigger left alive in the county. If’n he be in the county. Your missus said you heard a racket out back and took your gun to investigate it.

That’s right. Thought it might been a nigger stealing something but it weren’t nothing but a deer. Followed it a ways with the dog. Went by the Reese’s place. You boys sure done a job on them. Weren’t nothing left but ashes.

Jeb, you ain’t a planning on helping that nigger buck, are you?

Why’d I do a fool thing like ‘at?

‘Cause I heard you was pretty thick. If you do, the Klan’ll burn you out.

Jeb jabbed the barrels of his 12-gauge into the hooded man’s chest. You don’t come on my property, George Cowler, and threaten me. Get out of here. Take your band of murderers with you.

Jesus, Jeb! Now, don’t get all riled up. We’re leaving. But remember what I told you.

Maybe you better check your place, George. I know them niggers owned a gun. Might be paying your family a visit.

Jesus, never thought of that! He ain’t here, men, George yelled. Might be at my place. Let’s get over there.

While Jeb went into the house to console his wife, Washington crept into the barn, climbed up to the loft and hid under some hay. Jeb returned carrying a gunny sack.

Boy, he whispered. Come here quick. We got work to be did.

Washington crawled down from the hayloft. What we going do?

Got to get you out of the county. Get a shovel and help me finish loading this wagon full of manure. I promised the preacher over at Piney that I’d bring him a wagon load for his garden. Tomorrow, early, we leave. Piney be across the county line.

With only the moon for light, they finished loading the wagon with manure mixed with straw. In the center of the load, Jeb left a hollow and filled it with hay, which was to be Washington’s berth.

Try to get some sleep, son. We’re gonna leave way before daylight, Jeb said. My woman packed you some vittles in the sack.

Jeb left and Washington took the bag of food and climbed up in the hayloft. He forced down some buttered cornbread dipped in molasses and washed that down with milk from a Mason fruit jar. Then, he knelt in the straw of the hayloft. Early in his life he felt the call to be a minister of the gospel like his father, but now, he couldn’t even pray. Instead, he cried himself to sleep. It seemed only moments later, when Jeb was back hitching up the team and calling his name.

With the Bible under his shirt and carrying his food sack, Washington crawled into the center of the load of manure. Jeb covered him with a layer of straw. He used another gunny sack to keep the manure off Washington’s face and to make an air pocket for him to breathe. Then, he covered him with a layer of manure.

You all right in there, son?

Yessir, Mistuh Stevens, came the muffled reply.

Good. Now, you don’t say nothing unless I call you. It’ll be quite a spell before we get to Piney.

Yessir. Much obliged, Mistuh Stevens.

Your dad would’ve did the same for me. He was that kind of man, Jeb said. Gitty up, mules. He cracked the huge animals once each with a small whip, and the wagon moved forward.

It was hot at 4 a.m. and already getting light. The iron-tired wagon creaked and groaned through the woods as it bumped over ruts and into holes on the dirt lane. Thirty minutes later the wagon rolled easily down a slight incline approaching the county road. Jeb turned the mules on the graded road of red clay and brown gravel. Soon, they passed over the county line, and he breathed easier and began to relax. But at the bottom of the hill near a narrow wooden bridge wide enough for one wagon, four hooded men on horses waited. Jeb reached down and picked up his 12-gauge already loaded with buckshot in each barrel and placed the gun beside him on the seat.

Kind of up early, ain’t you, Jeb?

Early for some, late for others, George.

Where you headed?

Can’t see that be any of your business, George, Jeb said. Or the concern of you, D.W. Stone, Bub Adams and Coon Trammel.

How’d you know it was us? one of the hooded men asked.

Your horses, your shapes, the way you sit on a horse, Jeb said. I’ve knowed you all your lifes. Take more than a dirty sheet to cover up ’at.

That cow manure in the wagon, Jeb?

Don’t smell like a load of cotton, George.

The other men laughed from under their hoods.

I mean, is it all cow shit?

Wal, no it ain’t. These here, are mules, George. I thought you knowed ’at.

Again the others laughed.

I mean, you ain’t a covering up something we be hunting, are you?

What you mean?

"That young buck of the Reese’s family. We can’t find