Little Black Girl Lost (28 page)

A
few days later, Johnnie kept hearing Goode's screams in her head. Day after day, the images of his beating would come to her from nowhere. This wasn't the way justice was supposed to work, she thought. Justice was supposed to feel good. After all, he got what he deserved, didn't he? Nevertheless, she regretted what she'd done. On top of that, Lucas was still hurt. He knew Johnnie enjoyed that one night with Napoleon, but she believed he'd get over it eventually.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Johnnie sipped her morning coffee and read the previous day's
Sentinel
while she waited for Sadie to come over for their usual gossip session. The article was about Richard Goode's brutal death, stating that his wounds and injuries were similar to Marguerite's. She turned the page to the opinion section and saw an article by the paper's editor. Her hand started to shake uncontrollably when she began reading it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Johnnie's hand shook even more when she finished the article. She hadn't counted on this happening. Napoleon was supposed to be an expert at this sort of thing. It was just a matter of time before the New Orleans police would come to talk to her, she thought.

Johnnie recoiled when she heard the rapid tapping on her back door. She looked up in horror, scared to death it was the police, forgetting that Sadie was coming over. When their eyes met, mutual fear could be felt as well as seen.

“Come on in,” Johnnie called out.

“Have you read Rahim Muhammad's article in the
Raven
today?” Sadie asked, almost in a state of panic. “That nigga gon' get us all killed.”

“No. Have you read yesterday's
Sentinel?”
Johnnie queried with equal consternation.

“What did it say?” they asked in unison then exchanged papers.

“Oh no,” Johnnie mumbled as she read the article.

 

 

Shame on the
Sentinel
for publishing the work of totally irresponsible journalists, stirring up the white population with unsubstantiated theories about Richard Goode and Marguerite Wise. And for what reason? To outsell the
Tribune
and the
Times,
their chief competitors? Didn't they know an article like that could cause a race riot? We haven't had a race riot in New Orleans since the late 1800s. There hasn't even been a Klan uprising in nearly fifteen years. Well, let me be the first to say that the Negro isn't going to take it this time. We will not stand by idly and watch angry Whites destroy what we've built for no other reason than jealousy and blind rage over our prosperity. Just as the black Tulsans defended themselves and their property in 1921 against white rage and aggression, so shall we if it comes to that.

 

 

The
Sentinel
does, however, make a compelling argument for what happened to Marguerite Wise. And if they're right in their supposition, justice has been done. The black people of New Orleans didn't know who killed Marguerite Wise before yesterday's article appeared. But as far as we're concerned, this is divine justice. Whoever killed Goode did so with the same ferocity he himself meted out. As the article so vividly stated, his wounds were reminiscent of what the
Sentinel
presumes he did to his victim. As for the castration, we ask only this: Has he ever castrated anyone? The Ku Klux Klan is known for castrating Negro men. The question that begs to be asked is this: Were Richard Goode and Marguerite having relations?

 

 

According to the
Sentinel,
they were. Assuming their conjecture is correct, maybe Goode did kill her. Maybe she was going to reveal that a Klan leader, of all people, was frequenting black prostitutes on a regular basis. That information would have destroyed his standing with the Klan, would it not? And for that very reason, we say again that justice has been served in this city. Let us lay aside our anger and continue on, lest we destroy our city and ourselves along with it. Let there be no further bloodshed in this sordid matter. I appeal to the white community with sobriety of thought and sincere forbearance of spirit. But I also say this: If Whites will not lay aside their anger, neither will we lay aside ours.

 

 

They finished their respective articles at precisely the same time. Then Johnnie, with a heavy heart said, “What have I done?”

T
he riot started on Main Street at 9:30 that same night. It was nearly a hundred degrees, and tempers flared within the white community, aided by Joseph King, Richard Goode's fiery acolyte, who learned of the piece in the Raven when a Negro tried to explain that Rahim Muhammad didn't speak for all Negroes in the parish. King convinced Whites to join his cause to right the wrong perpetrated by the black heathens, who were just waiting for an opportunity like this to rape their wives and daughters. His passionate lies led even the decent white men and women, along with their children, to join the volatile mob.

Nearly five thousand Whites armed with rifles, knives, clubs, and torches swarmed into Sable Parish and completely plundered it, hanging men, women, and children, who weren't prepared for the assault. The rampage went on for nearly three hours and fueled their ever-growing thirst for blood. Having conquered Sable with relatively no resistance, they proceeded on to Baroque Parish, where they planned to sack the town the way the Romans demolished their enemies.

From nearly a mile away, the black citizenry of Baroque Parish could hear horns and a cacophony of endless, mindless banter. The angry mob started the riot by throwing a brick through the window of Philip Collins' barbershop, and the looting began. From every quarter, shattered glass could be heard. Then from the rooftops, shots rang out and Whites began to fall to the ground, their bodies having been pierced by bullets. Pow! Pow! Pow! They took cover and returned fire. The shooting went on until the black citizens ran out of bullets. That was when the pillaging went into overdrive.

The wrathful mob looted Dennis Edwards' clothing store, Addison's bakery, the Baroque Parish Bank, the grocer, restaurants, and anything else in sight. They hanged the captured men on light poles and raped the women—even the little girls. It was when they reached the Savoy and saw the mixed couples that they decided to torch the community for vengeance.

Richard Simmons and his employees did their best to defend the historic building, but in the end, there were just too many of them, even though many would-be assailants had been wounded or killed. Simmons was forced to watch the Savoy burn to the ground and witness Trudy's rape before they tied him to a telephone pole and set him on fire. White men, women, and children watched him burn alive, listening to his gut-wrenching screams as if his death was a delectable treat.

From there, they went to the
Raven
and destroyed the printing presses before setting it ablaze. Growing ever confident, they proceeded to the library where Reverend Staples, wearing his clergy garb, sat on the concrete steps waiting for them. When they approached him, he stood up and said, “Men and women of New Orleans, fear God! Take your children home! This is madness! Surely you won't destroy this building. It is rich in culture and serves as our only means of history. Please, leave us our library and our school, lest we perish as a people.”

“That's the idea, you dumb nigger,” Joseph King shouted from the massive crowd as he fired his rifle. Reverend Staples looked surprised when the bullet pierced his forehead. He dropped to his knees and fell face forward on the hot concrete. “Come on, boys!” King shouted. “Let's burn the school too.”

H
aving ransacked Main Street, the volatile mob proceeded to Ashland Estates, where they planned to burn the homes of the affluent Negroes. “Why should they live so good?” one man shouted. “A nigger is a nigger, no matter how much money he's got,” another shouted. “They all deserve to die for what they did to Richard Goode,” a policeman dressed as a civilian said. “No white man should ever have his balls cut off.”

Napoleon, being white, easily mixed in with the mob and waited until they left Main Street before he called Bubbles to let him know the mob was on its way. The men of Ashland Estates knew they couldn't defend Sable Parish or Main Street. They planned to give token resistance to the rioters, hoping they would be overconfident by the time they reached Ashland Estates, where fifteen hundred Negro men were waiting, armed to the teeth, along with a hundred or so white men who had families there. The plan was to let them in then close the door behind them, leaving no avenues of escape. The Negroes were outnumbered three to one, even with the Whites who joined them.

When Sadie told Santino Mancini, her benefactor and the father of her children about the coming riot, he started a chain of calls to all the white men who had families in Ashland Estates. Mancini called Sheriff Tate and the police for assistance, but got no satisfaction. That's when they decided to use their considerable wealth and resources to defend their women and children, even at the risk of being found out by their wives. The white men stood shoulder to shoulder with the black men, determined to be victorious in this battle.

In the distance, they could see the headlights and torches. A moment or two later, they could hear the angry mob. Their approach was swift, completely unaware that they were in the crossfire of well-armed black men who were willing to die rather than see any more destruction of their property on that blistering night in August.

“That's far enough!” Mancini shouted from behind a barricade of sand-filled sacks. The men of Ashland Estates decided to let a white man assume the position of leadership, hoping the mob would listen to him before more people were killed. “There's been enough killing tonight. You all just go on back home and cool off!”

“We ain't leavin' 'til we burn this place to the ground,” Joseph King shouted. “And no nigger-lovin' white man is gonna stop us. We got you outnumbered. No way you can stop us from coming in there.”

“Maybe not,” Mancini shouted. “But we're prepared to die trying. Besides that, you all are surrounded. Look around you.” The black men came out of the shadows like ghosts. “It's suicide to try. Now, go on back home and cool off!”

The mob heard numerous rifles and shotguns being cocked. They looked around and began to assess their chances of survival with all those rifles cocked and aimed at them.

“I see women and children in the crowd,” Mancini began again. “We don't want to kill anybody, let alone women and children, but you leave us no choice, sir. I beg of you, leave this place in peace and don't come back.”

The mob began to murmur among themselves, shaking their heads.

“They killed and mutilated a white man,” King said to the crowd, who had lost their desire to continue after seeing so many well-armed Negroes. “We can't let them get away with that. If we let them get away with it, they'll rape our wives and daughters next.”

“Isn't that what you just did?” Lucas shouted. He was standing next to Bubbles with his rifle aimed at the leader.

The murmuring grew louder. A different voice from the crowd interjected, “I'm taking my family home. It ain't worth it.” Another voice shouted the same thing—then another and another. Several had already turned to leave when Rahim Muhammad shot Joseph King in the forehead. Suddenly everybody was shooting; Blacks and Whites alike fell. So many bullets were fired that the air was filled with smoke and the smell of sulfur. When the hail of bullets finally ceased, amazingly only two hundred men, women, and children were dead, with two thousand wounded—but the homes in Ashland Estates were saved.