I wrote on this blog a year or so ago about listening to the Southwest Missouri State College Bears' basketball games on KWTO radio in Springfield when I was a little kid. That post was mainly a tribute to Vern Hawkins, the primary broadcaster I remember listening to. I noted in that post that one of the highlights of Hawkins's tenure was the back-to-back national championships that the Bears won in 1952 and 1953.
This was when SMS was affiliated with the NAIA or National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics. Actually, it was the NAIB (National Association of Intercollegiate Basketball) in 1952, but the NAIB was transformed into the NAIA during the 1952-1953 school year. The NAIA tournament was always played in Kansas City in those days. Actually it is back in KC now, but there were a few years there for a while when it was played in Tulsa.
Anyway, those two championship years were a remarkable run for the Bears, because they were underdogs and had to overcome some big obstacles both years. In 1952, 8th seeded SMS upset top-ranked and previously undefeated Southwest Texas 70-67 in double overtime in the semifinals and then beat Murray State 73-64 in the finals.
If I listened the those games on radio, I don't remember them. I would have been only 5 years old at the time. But I do vaguely remember the 1953 championship. In the semifinals that year, the Bears and Indiana State were tied 72-72 with three minutes to play when the fifth Bears player of the game fouled out, leaving the team with just four players. The ten-man roster was already short one player because Jerry Lumpe, who went on to play Major League Baseball, had been called to minor league spring training camp. With their three leading scorers on the bench and playing with just four players, the Bears took the lead and held on for an 84-78 victory. Later dubbed the Fabulous Four, the four players who finished off the victory were Bill "Jinx" Thomas (later a longtime coach at SMS), Don Duckworth, Bill Price, and Ray Birdsong. Then, in the finals the next night, the Bears won their second championship in a row by knocking off Hamline 79-71.
The 1952 and 1953 championship teams were both inducted into the Missouri Sports Hall of Fame in 2015.
Saturday, September 17, 2022
Saturday, September 10, 2022
Memorial High School Burns
When I first started concentrating my writing on local and regional history about 30 years ago (previously I'd written about first one thing and then another), I didn't like to write about anything that I could remember happening, because it just didn't seem as much like history to me. However, as I've gotten older, I've had to reassess and modify my definition of history. Otherwise, I'd have to exclude, as topics for my writing, a lot of events that happened when people who are now 50-60 years old weren't even alive. I still prefer not to write about recent events (things that happened in the past 10-20 years), but I no longer use my own lifetime as a litmus test as to whether something is history or not. With that in mind, today I'm going to write about something that happened "only" forty years ago, the time Memorial High School in Joplin burned down.
Well, it didn't actually burn down, but it suffered considerable damage. And this is not actually history but more of a personal reminiscence, because I was there.
It was Thursday, January 28, 1982, around noon. If I recall correctly, it was the fourth hour of the day. The room where I taught was located in the northeast corner of the three-story building on the second floor. I was standing or maybe sitting at my desk at the front of the room, where I had a clear view of the hallway that ran west from my room on the north side of the building. The offices and a central stairway leading outside through the front exit were located on the north side of this hallway, and the auditorium was on the south side of this east-west hallway, taking up the entire middle part of the square-shaped building, with hallways surrounding the auditorium on every side. The main entrance to the auditorium was located on the hallway that I could see from my room, while the stage was at the south side of the auditorium.
As I stood there in front of my class, I happened to glance down the hallway and saw smoke seeping from underneath the double doors leading into the auditorium. It wasn't a lot of smoke, but it was enough that I could tell that most of the auditorium was probably filled with smoke. Why else would smoke, which normally rises, be coming out beneath the doors unless there was so much of it that there was nowhere else for it go?
"Class," I announced in a voice that I tried to keep as calm as possible, "we need to get out of here. I think the school is on fire." Even though we had fire drills periodically throughout the school year, I quickly reminded the students how they should exit the building and where they should reassemble on the far side of the street that ran along the east side of the building.
Some of the kids may have been a little skeptical at first, thinking I could be pulling some kind of weird joke, but they got up and started filing out of the room in orderly, if somewhat aimless, fashion. As the ones in front started through the door, they could see the smoke coming from beneath the auditorium doors, just as I did, and they knew now that this was no joke. If any doubt remained, it was quickly erased when the fire alarm sounded about the time the last of my students filed through the door. They quickly shifted gears from a desultory promenade to a determined march, but they still proceeded in an orderly fashion, because we could clearly see we were in no immediate danger and had plenty of time to exit the building.
Not true for some of the Memorial students and teachers that day. Those in two or three classrooms on the second and third floors in the southwest section of the building, where the fire originated, barely got out of their rooms in time, before the intensifying blaze would have blocked their exit.
Fortunately, though everyone got out okay, and students and teachers huddled together in groups on grounds across the various streets surrounding the building to watch the fire in awe. The fire department arrived within a minute or two after every one was out of the building and soon had the fire under control. But not before smoke and water had inflicted extensive damage to the building. Enough that some of us had already guessed we would not be going back to school in the Memorial building any time soon, even before administrators came around and announced that school had been canceled for the rest of Thursday and all day Friday. Even though the fire was now under control, we were told to go on home without reentering the building. Only if we absolutely needed to retrieve something from the building were we allowed to reenter the building and then only with an escort.
Over the weekend a plan was announced to hold Memorial High School classes at crosstown Parkwood High starting on Monday. From about 6:30 a.m. until approximately 11:30 a.m. Parkwood students would attend classes in the building, and then after a half-hour break to allow Parkwood students to vacate the premises, Memorial would hold its classes from about noon until about 5:30 p.m. Both schools would run on an abbreviated schedule with classes lasting 45 minutes or so instead of the usual 55 and no lunch break for either school.
We (Memorial) stayed at Parkwood for about two months while remediation and renovation work on the Memorial building took place. Looking back on that time now, I recall it as one of the best periods of my teaching career. I've never been an early riser; so, I liked the idea of being able to sleep in and not have to be at work until almost noon. And I liked the shorter periods and shorter school day. Partly because it meant working fewer hours, of course, but also it seemed easier to keep the kids motivated to study and learn. Going to school seemed to take on almost a sense of adventure. Maybe that's just me looking at the experience through rose-colored glasses, but that's how I seem to remember it.
We went back to the Memorial building in the early spring, but some of the repairs that had been done were just temporary until we could finish out the school year. The rest of the work was completed over the summer, and we started a new school year in the fall of 1982 with the old building almost as good as new.
In the meantime, an investigation into the fire had determined that it started in a hallway closet on the second floor just off the stage at the rear or south side of the building where drama students stored costumes. Investigators said the fire had been intentionally set, and, as I remember, the culprit was tentatively identified because he'd supposedly set another fire in downtown Joplin just a week or so before the Memorial fire and his teacher stated that he was absent from class with a hall pass at the time the fire was thought to have been set. However, I don't recall the kid's name, if I ever knew it. I do remember some of the other teachers calling him Freddy the Firebug, but I don't know whether Freddy was his real name. And I don't know whether he was ever positively identified as the arsonist or what punishment he might have received, if any.
Well, it didn't actually burn down, but it suffered considerable damage. And this is not actually history but more of a personal reminiscence, because I was there.
It was Thursday, January 28, 1982, around noon. If I recall correctly, it was the fourth hour of the day. The room where I taught was located in the northeast corner of the three-story building on the second floor. I was standing or maybe sitting at my desk at the front of the room, where I had a clear view of the hallway that ran west from my room on the north side of the building. The offices and a central stairway leading outside through the front exit were located on the north side of this hallway, and the auditorium was on the south side of this east-west hallway, taking up the entire middle part of the square-shaped building, with hallways surrounding the auditorium on every side. The main entrance to the auditorium was located on the hallway that I could see from my room, while the stage was at the south side of the auditorium.
As I stood there in front of my class, I happened to glance down the hallway and saw smoke seeping from underneath the double doors leading into the auditorium. It wasn't a lot of smoke, but it was enough that I could tell that most of the auditorium was probably filled with smoke. Why else would smoke, which normally rises, be coming out beneath the doors unless there was so much of it that there was nowhere else for it go?
"Class," I announced in a voice that I tried to keep as calm as possible, "we need to get out of here. I think the school is on fire." Even though we had fire drills periodically throughout the school year, I quickly reminded the students how they should exit the building and where they should reassemble on the far side of the street that ran along the east side of the building.
Some of the kids may have been a little skeptical at first, thinking I could be pulling some kind of weird joke, but they got up and started filing out of the room in orderly, if somewhat aimless, fashion. As the ones in front started through the door, they could see the smoke coming from beneath the auditorium doors, just as I did, and they knew now that this was no joke. If any doubt remained, it was quickly erased when the fire alarm sounded about the time the last of my students filed through the door. They quickly shifted gears from a desultory promenade to a determined march, but they still proceeded in an orderly fashion, because we could clearly see we were in no immediate danger and had plenty of time to exit the building.
Not true for some of the Memorial students and teachers that day. Those in two or three classrooms on the second and third floors in the southwest section of the building, where the fire originated, barely got out of their rooms in time, before the intensifying blaze would have blocked their exit.
Fortunately, though everyone got out okay, and students and teachers huddled together in groups on grounds across the various streets surrounding the building to watch the fire in awe. The fire department arrived within a minute or two after every one was out of the building and soon had the fire under control. But not before smoke and water had inflicted extensive damage to the building. Enough that some of us had already guessed we would not be going back to school in the Memorial building any time soon, even before administrators came around and announced that school had been canceled for the rest of Thursday and all day Friday. Even though the fire was now under control, we were told to go on home without reentering the building. Only if we absolutely needed to retrieve something from the building were we allowed to reenter the building and then only with an escort.
Over the weekend a plan was announced to hold Memorial High School classes at crosstown Parkwood High starting on Monday. From about 6:30 a.m. until approximately 11:30 a.m. Parkwood students would attend classes in the building, and then after a half-hour break to allow Parkwood students to vacate the premises, Memorial would hold its classes from about noon until about 5:30 p.m. Both schools would run on an abbreviated schedule with classes lasting 45 minutes or so instead of the usual 55 and no lunch break for either school.
We (Memorial) stayed at Parkwood for about two months while remediation and renovation work on the Memorial building took place. Looking back on that time now, I recall it as one of the best periods of my teaching career. I've never been an early riser; so, I liked the idea of being able to sleep in and not have to be at work until almost noon. And I liked the shorter periods and shorter school day. Partly because it meant working fewer hours, of course, but also it seemed easier to keep the kids motivated to study and learn. Going to school seemed to take on almost a sense of adventure. Maybe that's just me looking at the experience through rose-colored glasses, but that's how I seem to remember it.
We went back to the Memorial building in the early spring, but some of the repairs that had been done were just temporary until we could finish out the school year. The rest of the work was completed over the summer, and we started a new school year in the fall of 1982 with the old building almost as good as new.
In the meantime, an investigation into the fire had determined that it started in a hallway closet on the second floor just off the stage at the rear or south side of the building where drama students stored costumes. Investigators said the fire had been intentionally set, and, as I remember, the culprit was tentatively identified because he'd supposedly set another fire in downtown Joplin just a week or so before the Memorial fire and his teacher stated that he was absent from class with a hall pass at the time the fire was thought to have been set. However, I don't recall the kid's name, if I ever knew it. I do remember some of the other teachers calling him Freddy the Firebug, but I don't know whether Freddy was his real name. And I don't know whether he was ever positively identified as the arsonist or what punishment he might have received, if any.
Sunday, September 4, 2022
The Killing of Deputy William Hibler
Sometimes initial reports about certain incidents, especially those in which crimes are alleged, differ markedly from later reports. In many cases, the later reports are more accurate, having the benefit of additional testimony and evidence. That might be what happened in the killing of Deputy William Hibler of Crawford County, Missouri, in 1934, although it's hard to say for sure, since the later reports came from the alleged killer's hometown newspaper.
In late February of that year, nineteen-year-old Edith Johnson of Cuba, Missouri, left her husband, thirty-one-year-old Walter, after the couple got into a serious argument. On Saturday the 24th, she returned to the Johnson home, accompanied by her brother and Deputy Hibler, to retrieve some of her belongings, and a confrontation ensued between her husband and the deputy. According to a report filed soon after the incident happened, Hibler was attempting to serve a subpoena on Johnson when the man pulled a rifle and shot the deputy as soon as the lawman announced his mission. Hibler died on the way to a hospital at St. James, and the sheriff came to Cuba, arrested Johnson, and took him back to the county seat at Steelville.
A report from later that night gave additional details. Shortly after being lodged in jail, Johnson tried to kill himself by slashing his wrists with a tin can, but the physician who treated him said the wounds were not life threatening, despite a considerable loss of blood. Then, that evening, a coroner's jury rendered a verdict that Hibler came to his death from a gunshot wound inflicted by Walter Johnson and recommended that the accused be held for a preliminary hearing on a charge of murder. Soon after the jury rendered its verdict, the sheriff took the prisoner away from Steelville to a more secure jail in a neighboring county in response to "quiet rumors" of mob action. This second report on the night of the 24th, citing both Mrs. Johnson and her brother, agreed with the first report that Johnson was angered by the deputy's visit, but it made no mention of Hibler attempting to serve a subpoena. It implied instead that he was just accompanying Edith for her safety.
However, the Cuba Review, a weekly newspaper at Cuba, where Johnson's father was a prominent businessman, gave a markedly different account of the fatal incident a few days later. The Review declared that the shooting was accidental, even though a preliminary hearing had not yet been held. According to this account, when Edith arrived at her residence with her brother and the deputy, her husband wanted to talk with her in private, and when the request was denied, he grabbed a rifle and threatened to "end it all." Edith immediately grabbed hold of her estranged husband from behind to try to prevent him from shooting himself, and Deputy Hibler, standing in front of Johnson, grabbed hold of the barrel of the weapon. During the ensuing struggle, the rifle accidentally discharged, with the bullet striking Hibler in the abdomen. When Mrs. Johnson and her two companions first arrived, according to this report, Johnson even thanked Hibler for accompanying his wife home. This despite the fact that he supposedly did not know that Hibler was a deputy.
Two weeks later the Cuba Review reported that, after his preliminary hearing, Johnson was released on $7,500 bond. Apparently, the judge was lenient because he was inclined to believe the defendant's claim that the shooting was accidental, and the newspaper predicted that Johnson would be found not guilty at trial. The charges might even have been dropped prior to trial, since I have been unable to find any later reports on this incident. Either way, Walter and Edith, who was Johnson's second wife, apparently reconciled, because six years later, at the time of the 1940 census, they were back living together in Crawford County. So, it seems the later reports might have been closer to the truth than the initial ones, even though they originated from the accused assailant's hometown.
In late February of that year, nineteen-year-old Edith Johnson of Cuba, Missouri, left her husband, thirty-one-year-old Walter, after the couple got into a serious argument. On Saturday the 24th, she returned to the Johnson home, accompanied by her brother and Deputy Hibler, to retrieve some of her belongings, and a confrontation ensued between her husband and the deputy. According to a report filed soon after the incident happened, Hibler was attempting to serve a subpoena on Johnson when the man pulled a rifle and shot the deputy as soon as the lawman announced his mission. Hibler died on the way to a hospital at St. James, and the sheriff came to Cuba, arrested Johnson, and took him back to the county seat at Steelville.
A report from later that night gave additional details. Shortly after being lodged in jail, Johnson tried to kill himself by slashing his wrists with a tin can, but the physician who treated him said the wounds were not life threatening, despite a considerable loss of blood. Then, that evening, a coroner's jury rendered a verdict that Hibler came to his death from a gunshot wound inflicted by Walter Johnson and recommended that the accused be held for a preliminary hearing on a charge of murder. Soon after the jury rendered its verdict, the sheriff took the prisoner away from Steelville to a more secure jail in a neighboring county in response to "quiet rumors" of mob action. This second report on the night of the 24th, citing both Mrs. Johnson and her brother, agreed with the first report that Johnson was angered by the deputy's visit, but it made no mention of Hibler attempting to serve a subpoena. It implied instead that he was just accompanying Edith for her safety.
However, the Cuba Review, a weekly newspaper at Cuba, where Johnson's father was a prominent businessman, gave a markedly different account of the fatal incident a few days later. The Review declared that the shooting was accidental, even though a preliminary hearing had not yet been held. According to this account, when Edith arrived at her residence with her brother and the deputy, her husband wanted to talk with her in private, and when the request was denied, he grabbed a rifle and threatened to "end it all." Edith immediately grabbed hold of her estranged husband from behind to try to prevent him from shooting himself, and Deputy Hibler, standing in front of Johnson, grabbed hold of the barrel of the weapon. During the ensuing struggle, the rifle accidentally discharged, with the bullet striking Hibler in the abdomen. When Mrs. Johnson and her two companions first arrived, according to this report, Johnson even thanked Hibler for accompanying his wife home. This despite the fact that he supposedly did not know that Hibler was a deputy.
Two weeks later the Cuba Review reported that, after his preliminary hearing, Johnson was released on $7,500 bond. Apparently, the judge was lenient because he was inclined to believe the defendant's claim that the shooting was accidental, and the newspaper predicted that Johnson would be found not guilty at trial. The charges might even have been dropped prior to trial, since I have been unable to find any later reports on this incident. Either way, Walter and Edith, who was Johnson's second wife, apparently reconciled, because six years later, at the time of the 1940 census, they were back living together in Crawford County. So, it seems the later reports might have been closer to the truth than the initial ones, even though they originated from the accused assailant's hometown.
Saturday, August 27, 2022
The Lynching of Mose Kirkendall
I don't know whether I've ever written on this blog specifically about the Harrison (AR) race riots of the early 1900s or not, but I think maybe I've at least mentioned them. Anyway, that was not the first time that Harrison experienced racial violence. There was a lynching in Harrison more than 25 years earlier.
On Tuesday night, July 16, 1878, a young woman living at Bellefonte, about five miles southeast of Harrison, awoke from her sleep to discover 22-year-old Mose Kirkendall, her father's black hired hand, standing in her room. She screamed, and Kirkendall ran off. Answering the young woman's calls for help, her brother rushed to the scene and fired a shotgun at the retreating figure, wounding him in the right arm.
The next morning, Kirkendall was located in Harrison, arrested, and taken back to Bellefonte for a preliminary hearing. He waived examination and was placed in the calaboose at Bellefonte. It was reported that mob violence that very night was prevented only by a heavily armed guard.
The prisoner was taken back to Harrison, presumably on Thursday, and lodged in the county jail to await trial.
On Saturday night, July 20, a mob of about 30 disguised men made an attack on the jail and after about two hours of labor with an ax and a battering ram managed to break into Kirkendall's cell and took him into the street. Looping a rope around his neck, they started off on horseback, leading Kirkendall by the rope, and he was forced to run along behind them to try to keep from being dragged. After about a half mile, he fell down exhausted, and the vigilantes promptly threw the other end of the rope over a tree limb and drew him up. They tied their end of the rope to the trunk of the tree or some other anchor and left their victim hanging. Kirkendall's body was still hanging on Sunday morning about 9 a.m. when a deputy placed a guard around it to prevent mutilation and sent for the coroner.
One interesting tidbit about this case clearly shows the typical mindset of white men in the late 1800s and early 1900s concerning any encounter or interaction between black men and white women. Even though Kirkendall's offense apparently was only that he appeared in the young woman's room or at her doorway, his action was described in newspaper reports as an attempted rape.
On Tuesday night, July 16, 1878, a young woman living at Bellefonte, about five miles southeast of Harrison, awoke from her sleep to discover 22-year-old Mose Kirkendall, her father's black hired hand, standing in her room. She screamed, and Kirkendall ran off. Answering the young woman's calls for help, her brother rushed to the scene and fired a shotgun at the retreating figure, wounding him in the right arm.
The next morning, Kirkendall was located in Harrison, arrested, and taken back to Bellefonte for a preliminary hearing. He waived examination and was placed in the calaboose at Bellefonte. It was reported that mob violence that very night was prevented only by a heavily armed guard.
The prisoner was taken back to Harrison, presumably on Thursday, and lodged in the county jail to await trial.
On Saturday night, July 20, a mob of about 30 disguised men made an attack on the jail and after about two hours of labor with an ax and a battering ram managed to break into Kirkendall's cell and took him into the street. Looping a rope around his neck, they started off on horseback, leading Kirkendall by the rope, and he was forced to run along behind them to try to keep from being dragged. After about a half mile, he fell down exhausted, and the vigilantes promptly threw the other end of the rope over a tree limb and drew him up. They tied their end of the rope to the trunk of the tree or some other anchor and left their victim hanging. Kirkendall's body was still hanging on Sunday morning about 9 a.m. when a deputy placed a guard around it to prevent mutilation and sent for the coroner.
One interesting tidbit about this case clearly shows the typical mindset of white men in the late 1800s and early 1900s concerning any encounter or interaction between black men and white women. Even though Kirkendall's offense apparently was only that he appeared in the young woman's room or at her doorway, his action was described in newspaper reports as an attempted rape.
Saturday, August 20, 2022
The Murder of Willie Gaines
Most people probably think of white mobs hanging black men when the subject of lynching in the late 1800s and early 1900s comes up. However, it wasn't unheard of for a black mob to lynch a black man. That almost happened in the case of Tobe Lanagan.
On Saturday morning, December 26,1896, the body of Willie Gaines, a 14-year-old black girl, was found at the rear of Stampfli's furniture and undertaking establishment in Jefferson City by an employee of the place. The body was in "terrible condition." The girl had been "ravished," her head was cut as if struck by a blunt instrument, and her stomach was "cut almost entirely away."
Tobe Lanagan, who was also an employee of the undertaking firm, was immediately suspected of the crime. He'd been seen walking with Willie about 5:30 the previous evening toward the alley that ran behind Stamplfi's, and that was the last time the girl had been seen alive. Described as "half-witted," Lanagan was arrested and lodged in the Cole County Jail. He said he had left the undertaking office about 6 p.m. and did not return, but his claim was contradicted by a white man who said he'd seen Lanagan coming out of the alley about 9 p.m. In addition, Lanagan's past record was against him, because he'd previously been charged with attempting to rape a 9-year-old girl and he'd been in jail a couple of other times on minor charges. It was reported later that traces of blood were also found on Lanagan's clothing and that he had given away a knife, thought to be the murder weapon, on the morning Willie's body was discovered before he was taken into custody.
The "excitement among the negroes" was at fever pitch throughout the day on the 26th, while, according to one report, "the white people of the city did not seem to take much interest in the case." Early Saturday evening, the knots of men who'd been on the streets discussing the crime all day grew larger and soon formed into a mob that moved toward the jail. Before any actual effort to lynch the prisoner had been made, Missouri governor William J. Stone arrived on the scene and managed to talk the mob down. Most of them dispersed after receiving an assurance that Lanagan would get his just deserts if he was found guilty of the crime. Lanagan was then taken under guard to the nearby state prison for safekeeping and was kept there for some time before it was thought safe to bring him back to the jail.
On Saturday morning, December 26,1896, the body of Willie Gaines, a 14-year-old black girl, was found at the rear of Stampfli's furniture and undertaking establishment in Jefferson City by an employee of the place. The body was in "terrible condition." The girl had been "ravished," her head was cut as if struck by a blunt instrument, and her stomach was "cut almost entirely away."
Tobe Lanagan, who was also an employee of the undertaking firm, was immediately suspected of the crime. He'd been seen walking with Willie about 5:30 the previous evening toward the alley that ran behind Stamplfi's, and that was the last time the girl had been seen alive. Described as "half-witted," Lanagan was arrested and lodged in the Cole County Jail. He said he had left the undertaking office about 6 p.m. and did not return, but his claim was contradicted by a white man who said he'd seen Lanagan coming out of the alley about 9 p.m. In addition, Lanagan's past record was against him, because he'd previously been charged with attempting to rape a 9-year-old girl and he'd been in jail a couple of other times on minor charges. It was reported later that traces of blood were also found on Lanagan's clothing and that he had given away a knife, thought to be the murder weapon, on the morning Willie's body was discovered before he was taken into custody.
The "excitement among the negroes" was at fever pitch throughout the day on the 26th, while, according to one report, "the white people of the city did not seem to take much interest in the case." Early Saturday evening, the knots of men who'd been on the streets discussing the crime all day grew larger and soon formed into a mob that moved toward the jail. Before any actual effort to lynch the prisoner had been made, Missouri governor William J. Stone arrived on the scene and managed to talk the mob down. Most of them dispersed after receiving an assurance that Lanagan would get his just deserts if he was found guilty of the crime. Lanagan was then taken under guard to the nearby state prison for safekeeping and was kept there for some time before it was thought safe to bring him back to the jail.
Lanagan was convicted of first degree murder in Cole County on May 1, 1897, and sentenced to death a couple of days later. He was originally scheduled to hang on October 1, but the execution was stayed until June 22, 1898, when Lanagan and another black man were hanged together from a scaffold erected inside a stockade on the yard outside the Cole County Jail. It was reported that Lanagan "held his nerve well" but that the other man had to be dragged to the scaffold.
Saturday, August 13, 2022
Another Lynching in Pemiscot County
Last week I wrote about the May 1927 lynching of Will Sherrod at Braggadocio in Pemiscot County, Missouri. Several reports at the time, including one in the Democrat-Argus of Caruthersville, the county seat, claimed Sherrod's hanging was the first lynching in the county's history. However, this apparently was not true, because another extralegal killing of a black man had occurred in the county less than sixteen years earlier.
During the first week of October 1911, a black man was arrested in Caruthersville for allegedly attacking two white men with a knife. For safekeeping, the prisoner was taken to the Kennett jail in neighboring Dunklin County. A mob formed at Caruthersville and took a train to Kennett but found, upon arrival, that the prisoner had been spirited out of the jail and hidden at an undisclosed location, thus thwarting the vigilante action.
This incident and a rash of other petty crimes allegedly committed by "troublesome" blacks from the cities who'd arrived in Pemiscot County in recent weeks for the fall cotton picking season had aroused the white citizens of the county. One report claimed that many of the migrant blacks who came to the county were there ostensibly to work in the cotton fields but in reality were there only to prey on those who did work.
In this atmosphere of racial animosity, a black man named Ben "High Pockets" Woods followed two young white women home from work in Caruthersville on the evening of October 10. Frightened by the man's behavior, the women gave an alarm, and High Pockets was found hiding in some shrubbery not far from where the young women lived. At least one exaggerated report claimed High Pockets had assaulted the women. At any rate, he was arrested and taken to the Pemiscot County Jail in Caruthersville.
Later the same night, another black man, A. B. Rich, was arrested for possession of stolen merchandise and lodged in the jail alongside Woods. It was thought Rich had stolen the merchandise himself, and he was also suspected of other petty crimes. He was considered "a worthless character" who was "insulting to white people."
As word of High Pockets's alleged stalking of the young women spread, a mob quickly formed. Shortly after midnight, the vigilantes broke into the county jail and took both prisoners from their cells. The black men were taken to the local baseball field, from where sounds of the two men being whipped could be heard.
A short time later, an abandoned "negro boarding house" in Caruthersville, with a reputation as a place where gambling and other vices flourished, was set ablaze, and it quickly went up in flames.
The next morning, Rich's body was found lodged on the near bank of the Mississippi River about a half mile north of Caruthersville. The body bore numerous cuts, bruises, and abrasions. Reports in the immediate wake of the incident also said Rich had been shot. High Pockets's body was not found, but it was concluded that he very likely suffered the same fate as Rich but that his body floated away down the river. Therefore, initial headlines mentioned the lynching of two black men.
The next day, however, High Pockets turned up at the farm where he worked a few miles outside Caruthersville. According to his employer, he gathered up his things and took off for Tennessee. He said he'd been whipped, but he had not been shot or thrown in the river. Whether Rich was shot was also called into question when a coroner's jury convened after his body was pulled from the river. The body had several holes or cuts, at least one or two that looked like bullet holes. On closer inspection, however, the coroner concluded that the wounds had probably been made by the spike on the end of a pole that had been used to help drag the body from the river. The jury, therefore, ruled that Rich had come to his death by unknown means. It wasn't even definite that he had died as a direct result of the mob action.
Whether the findings of the coroner's jury were part of an orchestrated cover-up is speculation, but little was done to try to bring to justice the mob who broke the two black men out of jail. Local authorities declined to pursue the matter, and even the Missouri governor, who initially offered a reward for the arrest of the vigilantes, withdrew his call for the mob to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law after he learned of the coroner's verdict.
Many blacks fled Pemiscot County in the wake of the mob action, and as far as many white citizens were concerned, it was good riddance, although local observers took pains to distinguish between honest, law-abiding black citizens and the "worthless characters of their race." And apparently the whole incident was soon forgotten, so much so that editors of the Caruthersville Democrat-Argus, a local newspaper that gave the lynching of A. B. Rich extensive coverage, could not recall just sixteen years later, at the time of Will Sherrod's lynching, that a previous lynching had ever occurred in the county. Perhaps it was just a matter of nomenclature, because it's true that Rich was not lynched in the sense of being hanged, but the true definition of lynching involves any extralegal killing, regardless of the means. Or maybe the editor who asserted in 1927 that no previous lynching had ever occurred in Pemiscot County was falling back on the coroner's dubious 1911 verdict that Rich might not have died as a result of the mob action.
During the first week of October 1911, a black man was arrested in Caruthersville for allegedly attacking two white men with a knife. For safekeeping, the prisoner was taken to the Kennett jail in neighboring Dunklin County. A mob formed at Caruthersville and took a train to Kennett but found, upon arrival, that the prisoner had been spirited out of the jail and hidden at an undisclosed location, thus thwarting the vigilante action.
This incident and a rash of other petty crimes allegedly committed by "troublesome" blacks from the cities who'd arrived in Pemiscot County in recent weeks for the fall cotton picking season had aroused the white citizens of the county. One report claimed that many of the migrant blacks who came to the county were there ostensibly to work in the cotton fields but in reality were there only to prey on those who did work.
In this atmosphere of racial animosity, a black man named Ben "High Pockets" Woods followed two young white women home from work in Caruthersville on the evening of October 10. Frightened by the man's behavior, the women gave an alarm, and High Pockets was found hiding in some shrubbery not far from where the young women lived. At least one exaggerated report claimed High Pockets had assaulted the women. At any rate, he was arrested and taken to the Pemiscot County Jail in Caruthersville.
Later the same night, another black man, A. B. Rich, was arrested for possession of stolen merchandise and lodged in the jail alongside Woods. It was thought Rich had stolen the merchandise himself, and he was also suspected of other petty crimes. He was considered "a worthless character" who was "insulting to white people."
As word of High Pockets's alleged stalking of the young women spread, a mob quickly formed. Shortly after midnight, the vigilantes broke into the county jail and took both prisoners from their cells. The black men were taken to the local baseball field, from where sounds of the two men being whipped could be heard.
A short time later, an abandoned "negro boarding house" in Caruthersville, with a reputation as a place where gambling and other vices flourished, was set ablaze, and it quickly went up in flames.
The next morning, Rich's body was found lodged on the near bank of the Mississippi River about a half mile north of Caruthersville. The body bore numerous cuts, bruises, and abrasions. Reports in the immediate wake of the incident also said Rich had been shot. High Pockets's body was not found, but it was concluded that he very likely suffered the same fate as Rich but that his body floated away down the river. Therefore, initial headlines mentioned the lynching of two black men.
The next day, however, High Pockets turned up at the farm where he worked a few miles outside Caruthersville. According to his employer, he gathered up his things and took off for Tennessee. He said he'd been whipped, but he had not been shot or thrown in the river. Whether Rich was shot was also called into question when a coroner's jury convened after his body was pulled from the river. The body had several holes or cuts, at least one or two that looked like bullet holes. On closer inspection, however, the coroner concluded that the wounds had probably been made by the spike on the end of a pole that had been used to help drag the body from the river. The jury, therefore, ruled that Rich had come to his death by unknown means. It wasn't even definite that he had died as a direct result of the mob action.
Whether the findings of the coroner's jury were part of an orchestrated cover-up is speculation, but little was done to try to bring to justice the mob who broke the two black men out of jail. Local authorities declined to pursue the matter, and even the Missouri governor, who initially offered a reward for the arrest of the vigilantes, withdrew his call for the mob to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law after he learned of the coroner's verdict.
Many blacks fled Pemiscot County in the wake of the mob action, and as far as many white citizens were concerned, it was good riddance, although local observers took pains to distinguish between honest, law-abiding black citizens and the "worthless characters of their race." And apparently the whole incident was soon forgotten, so much so that editors of the Caruthersville Democrat-Argus, a local newspaper that gave the lynching of A. B. Rich extensive coverage, could not recall just sixteen years later, at the time of Will Sherrod's lynching, that a previous lynching had ever occurred in the county. Perhaps it was just a matter of nomenclature, because it's true that Rich was not lynched in the sense of being hanged, but the true definition of lynching involves any extralegal killing, regardless of the means. Or maybe the editor who asserted in 1927 that no previous lynching had ever occurred in Pemiscot County was falling back on the coroner's dubious 1911 verdict that Rich might not have died as a result of the mob action.
Saturday, August 6, 2022
Lynching of Will Sherrod
I've written quite a bit about lynchings in Missouri, including a book called Yanked Into Eternity: Lynchings and Hangings in Missouri https://amzn.to/3X9dZrd. There are still quite a few lynchings that occurred in the state, however, that I have never previously written about. One is the lynching of a black man named Will Sherrod in 1927 at the small community of Braggadocio in Pemiscot County (in the bootheel). As was common when African-Americans were lynched in the United States during the late 1800s and early 1900s, the cause of the mob action was an alleged attack on a white woman.
On Saturday night, May 21, 1927, a black man entered the home of 31-year-old widow Mary Ella Hendershot in Braggadocio and, according to the Caruthersville Democrat-Argus, "subdued her by threats of death and by clubbing her with a revolver he carried." He "forced her to submit to his evil desires," allegedly raping her repeatedly over the next three or four hours in the presence of her two young children. The assailant reportedly threatened the oldest child, a 7-year-old boy, with death if he tried to notify neighbors or otherwise go for help. At one point he supposedly knocked the boy across the room when the lad tried to come to his mother's aid. At some point during the man's attack on the woman, she bit him on the arm, leaving an imprint of her teeth, a clue that was later used to help identify the assailant.
After her ordeal was over, in the wee hours of Sunday morning, Mrs. Hendershot notified local constable Aubrey Dye of the attack and described her assailant. Based on her description, Dye suspected that the rapist was Will Sherrod, a black man in his early thirties who was already in custody, having been arrested just a short time earlier for breaking into the home of another Braggadocio resident, R. D. Kersey, and firing shots at the man early Saturday night, before the attack on Ella Hendershot. The teeth mark on Sherrod's arm seemed to confirm the constable's suspicion, and, when the suspect was taken before a local justice of the peace for the Kersey crime, he supposedly admitted the criminal assault on the woman as well.
While still at the justice of the peace's house, Sherrod tried to escape. Dye gave chase and shot the fleeing man twice, inflicting a dangerous wound that entered his shoulder and penetrated into the chest. The wounded prisoner was then forwarded to the Pemiscot County Jail at Caruthersville early Sunday morning.
In response to rumors of mob action, Sheriff J. Ham Smith considered moving Sherrod to jail in a neighboring county, but a doctor who examined the prisoner said his condition was too serious for him to be moved. Late Sunday night, May 22, the rumored mob from Braggadocio showed up at the Caruthersville jail, and some of its leaders went to the door and called for the sheriff. The men were so orderly and quiet that the sheriff didn't suspect anything amiss, but when he opened the door, the men promptly got the drop on him and forced him to surrender the keys. I
After gaining possession of the prisoner, the vigilantes, numbering about 100, loaded him into a car, and drove in a procession back to Braggadocio, the scene of the crime, where Mrs. Hendershot readily identified him as her attacker. Sherrod was then hanged from a crude scaffold that had already been erected for that purpose. While he was hanging, several shots were fired into his body, and it was left hanging all night and into the next day.
As was the case in most lynchings during the late 1800s and early 1900s, little effort was made to bring the mob to justice. The sheriff, for instance, said that most of the vigilantes wore masks and that he didn't recognize any of the ones who didn't. And no one else came forward to identify any of the mob.
On Saturday night, May 21, 1927, a black man entered the home of 31-year-old widow Mary Ella Hendershot in Braggadocio and, according to the Caruthersville Democrat-Argus, "subdued her by threats of death and by clubbing her with a revolver he carried." He "forced her to submit to his evil desires," allegedly raping her repeatedly over the next three or four hours in the presence of her two young children. The assailant reportedly threatened the oldest child, a 7-year-old boy, with death if he tried to notify neighbors or otherwise go for help. At one point he supposedly knocked the boy across the room when the lad tried to come to his mother's aid. At some point during the man's attack on the woman, she bit him on the arm, leaving an imprint of her teeth, a clue that was later used to help identify the assailant.
After her ordeal was over, in the wee hours of Sunday morning, Mrs. Hendershot notified local constable Aubrey Dye of the attack and described her assailant. Based on her description, Dye suspected that the rapist was Will Sherrod, a black man in his early thirties who was already in custody, having been arrested just a short time earlier for breaking into the home of another Braggadocio resident, R. D. Kersey, and firing shots at the man early Saturday night, before the attack on Ella Hendershot. The teeth mark on Sherrod's arm seemed to confirm the constable's suspicion, and, when the suspect was taken before a local justice of the peace for the Kersey crime, he supposedly admitted the criminal assault on the woman as well.
While still at the justice of the peace's house, Sherrod tried to escape. Dye gave chase and shot the fleeing man twice, inflicting a dangerous wound that entered his shoulder and penetrated into the chest. The wounded prisoner was then forwarded to the Pemiscot County Jail at Caruthersville early Sunday morning.
In response to rumors of mob action, Sheriff J. Ham Smith considered moving Sherrod to jail in a neighboring county, but a doctor who examined the prisoner said his condition was too serious for him to be moved. Late Sunday night, May 22, the rumored mob from Braggadocio showed up at the Caruthersville jail, and some of its leaders went to the door and called for the sheriff. The men were so orderly and quiet that the sheriff didn't suspect anything amiss, but when he opened the door, the men promptly got the drop on him and forced him to surrender the keys. I
After gaining possession of the prisoner, the vigilantes, numbering about 100, loaded him into a car, and drove in a procession back to Braggadocio, the scene of the crime, where Mrs. Hendershot readily identified him as her attacker. Sherrod was then hanged from a crude scaffold that had already been erected for that purpose. While he was hanging, several shots were fired into his body, and it was left hanging all night and into the next day.
As was the case in most lynchings during the late 1800s and early 1900s, little effort was made to bring the mob to justice. The sheriff, for instance, said that most of the vigilantes wore masks and that he didn't recognize any of the ones who didn't. And no one else came forward to identify any of the mob.
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