Final Judgement

By Walter F. Williams

There is no available information at this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 3, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469106533

Walter F. Williams

Walt Williams has lived in Galion, Ohio all his life, save for 16 months working in Chicago and living in Park ridge, Illinois, where he met Lucy, his wife of 65 years. Walt has a daughter, Carolyn, who lives in Redmond, Washington and with her husband Frank, their daughter Lauren is in her first year of college. Walt, now retired, has had several jobs through the years including lumberyard management and salesman for a local printing company. Walt’s avocation at one time was magic. He and Carolyn performed magic shows throughout the state. In 1976-77 he serves as International President of the International Brotherhood of Magicians. Walt has published two editions of his book “For You the War is Over,” stories of his experiences during WWII including being shot down over Germany and spending 16 months as a POW. Other books he has written are “I Recall,” about his life in magic; “A Chronicle of Curiosity,” a collection of short stories; and “Final Judgment,” an investigation into a 1880s lynching. Besides writing, Walt enjoys gardening, hunting and fishing. The journal of George Gray and the journey of Frank Hill are fictitious, but from Walt’s studies of that period of time in our country these travels and adventures could have been possible. This novel is part history, part an enigma of how Frank survived his time as a slave, and his later travels during the Civil War and post war period.

Book preview

Copyright © 2003 by Walter F. Williams.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any

information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright

owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of

the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons,

living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

FOREWORD

CHAPTER ONE

Henderson’s Cafe

CHAPTER TWO

Harry’s Tour

CHAPTER THREE

The County History

CHAPTER FOUR

The Primary Sources

CHAPTER FIVE

A Diversion

CHAPTER SIX

The Journals

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chickamauga

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Indian and the Negro

CHAPTER NINE

Frank Hill

CHAPTER TEN

The Civil War Revisited

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Relationship Grows

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Horrifying News

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Return Visit

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Epilogue

FOREWORD

THE FOLLOWING NARRATIVE is fictitious; all names, places, and incidents are the invention of the author. However, the all too common lynchings in the years following the Civil War, including a specific local incident, are the haunting ghosts that motivated the writer to create the story.

CHAPTER ONE

Henderson’s Cafe

NORMALLY I DON’T eat out—and certainly not breakfast—but the wife had gone to Washington to help her dad after her mom had hip replacement surgery, and I needed some company. So I headed for the town square and Henderson’s Cafe, which also serves as newsstand and bus stop. Though the establishment was always filled with a thick blue haze of smoke and the equally unappetizing odor of the burning grease from the grill, I choose it because I had no other options. On the far wall hung the magazine rack, filled mostly with girly and sports magazines, under which lay the big city daily papers, not the real source of news in town. It was the crowded booths and the row of heavily patched vinyl stools running along the worn and stained oval counter where information was exchanged, most of it in the form of gossip. The old timers kept up quite a din, discussing how well the Buckeyes had fared in their last game, though some debated important issues like the efficiency with which the city or federal government was run. The Cafe was, after all, the heartbeat of the community, reflecting its interests and values, right down to its most active component, the lottery machine. On days when the winning ticket would run into double figure millions, it was the busiest part of the establishment, people patiently lining up to give away their dollars for a chance at the easy life. As everywhere, I suppose, the people who could least afford to buy tickets were the ones most tempted. I never saw the bank president, George Franklin, in line though a lot of the workers from the threatened auto parts factory crowded the machine. No local has ever hit the jackpot.

All in all, Fernbank is not a bad community to live in. As far as anyone knows, its name, probably bestowed by early settlers, derived from the thick ferns growing on a north-facing slope along the river which cuts through town. A daguerreotype photo of the scene hangs in the town bank—though one must imagine the green since the old print lacks color. Regrettably the ferns are long gone; the river’s course is partly restrained by concrete walls, and a fair amount of ugly debris—old tires mostly—clutter the once free flowing stream, ugly reminders of man’s progress.

At one time Fernbank had been a very affluent community, originally supported by the productive farming in the area and the mills on the river, which lured the trunk lines of two competing railroads to haul out the abundant grain harvests. Then homegrown businesses sprang up, including an industrial park, so that the town grew and grew, with no seeming end to prosperity. But as farms consolidated and as the industries were bought out by larger conglomerates, only to be closed one by one, the town’s fortunes waned. It’s not that the economy has collapsed; the town has resourceful leaders and lots of civic pride and has experienced something of a revival with the renovation of many of the old buildings and with new small businesses cropping up. The downtown area has rows of attractive homes, and even those which are quite old are meticulously maintained by the inhabitants. Giant maple and elm trees shade the major thoroughfares, and parks are scattered here and there, some with ball fields and tennis courts. Churches dot the town everywhere, and the schools are good even though fewer youngsters have been going to college of late, often choosing the military or a job in the city instead. And in Fernbank, our beloved Fighting Terrapins high school football team still stirs community pride.

On the Saturday morning in question, Henderson’s was filled to overflowing as usual. Luckily an old buddy of mine, Harry Jones, saw me come in and waved me over to his booth. Though it was full already, the waitress hauled in a chair, and I cluttered the aisle, causing her to have to wiggle her way past me with every order. But Harry’s friends were almost finished with their breakfasts, and when they left, I slid into the booth and we renewed old acquaintances.

Harry and I go back a long way. Though he was two years ahead of me in school, we played on the baseball team together for a year and actually formed a shortstop, second baseman combination, which held the state record for double plays—a record that didn’t stand very long. But when you play ball with someone, especially somebody with whom you have to share a sense of timing, you can get pretty close. Harry and I had a lot of catching up to do; we belonged to different churches and seldom saw each other. In many ways, he was my opposite. An editor for the town’s weekly paper, he always wore a public persona, dressing neatly if somewhat casually and always puffing on his trademark signature, a pipe with a deeply curved stem. I, on the other hand, was not much of a social gadfly and felt most comfortable around a limited circle of old friends. Harry considered everyone his friend; he was active in the county historical society and had published the definitive book about the area’s history, a book very well reviewed—and poorly sold. The rumor in town was that he had written several long novels that no New York publishing house would touch. Our meeting was going quite well—though I recollect almost nothing of our small talk—when it struck me just how old he looked. Heck, I knew that I was getting up there myself, but I hadn’t remembered his hair being totally white, nor the deeply etched lines in his face. As he puffed endlessly on his pipe, the smoke rose and seemed to vanish in the whirring vent above, like his own hopes of becoming a renowned author.

Harry was a bachelor—though with his charm and now disappearing good looks, anybody would have figured him to be a ladies man. Thus it was that a disruption first caught his attention. Since it was getting to be eleven o’clock already, too late for the breakfast crowd and too early for lunch, we were the only patrons still in the cafe when the door opened and a woman came into the establishment with her high heels clicking. She pranced right up to the cash register and loudly announced that she wanted to purchase a bus ticket. I was facing the wrong way, but Harry tapped my forearm and signaled that I should take a look. I pivoted half around and got one of those looks that only a man can appreciate: there stood a woman whom I could only see from behind. Yet she looked as if she might be stunning. Dressed in a light denim jacket and