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| Saint Sebastian River Bridge [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Saturday,
November 1, 1924,
8:57 PM
Stuart Police Chief Oren B. Padgett was the second cousin, once removed, of the Padgett brothers over at the Sheriff’s Office, who would later that day be sent to Fort Pierce. He was sitting at a window table in the Victory Hotel finishing his coffee when he saw George Mariot coming out of the grocery across the street.
George had an awful lot of groceries for just him and his wife Lola, John Ashley’s estranged sister, Padgett thought.
George kept looking over at him through the window, making a big show of loading up all the goods he’d bought into a black Ford touring car. He finished loading the trunk, then stood staring at him plain as day before slamming it.
Padgett wiped his face, threw down three dollars and strode out and across the street. He tipped his hat as if this were just a good day. “What’s goin’ on, George? You all right? How’s Lola?”
George Mariot looked around nervously |
With another quick look, George spoke at his feet. “John an’ some boys are a’takin’ this hy’ere car and runnin’ north, today. Soon. Tonight. That’s what this-all is for.” He gulped, his Adam’s apple ricocheting up and down. “We just want to be shut of ’em. Brought us nothin’ but trouble and shame. We just want to live our lives. Can you leave us out of it? Please?”
Padgett sighed heavily. “You bet, George. Just between us, I swear on the Bible. You just leave it to me.”
George Mariot looked like a bag of bricks had been lifted off his back. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he started, but Padgett held up a hand.
“It’s like it never happened. You can stop worrying, George, I know you’re no part of this.”
Before they drew attention, Oren Padgett turned and walked away. Quickly.
Saturday, November 1, 1924, 9:00 PM
Red sat at the big table in the kitchen at the Palace. Senegal was tending a huge pot of pork barbeque, and the aroma of the tangy sauce drew the saliva to Red’s mouth.
In the hallway Scott Joplin pounded out “Elite Syncopations” on the Victor, while the voices of a Saturday night in a whorehouse roared and laughed and shouted from the front rooms and the gambling tables.
“Lemme git’cha a plate,” said the huge black man, and did so.
When he dropped it in front of Red Dedge, the boy’s stomach clenched. He was starving, but also nervous as a whore in church. Then he remembered that he went to church with whores, and Senegal ran those whores. Who was he to talk? This man was his friend, had saved his life. He chuckled to himself, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and took a fork and a piece of Senegal’s homemade bread and dug in.
The barbeque was almost as good as Guy’s. Sometime between now and dawn, John Ashley and his thugs were supposed to come north across the Saint Sebastian River Bridge on the Dixie Highway. Red Dedge intended to be on that bridge.
A large truck pulled up to the back of the Palace, and they heard the engine cut off and then a door slamming, hard. It was a good thing the back screen door had to be pulled open, otherwise Donnie Marshbanks might have busted it off the hinges.
He stomped up behind Red, who was just turning with his mouth open and half full of barbecue and slapped him so hard upside the head the meat and sauce went on the floor.
Red jumped up, his hand going to his back for a gun that wasn’t there, but Donnie had pulled his slim black automatic out and stuck it right under his friend’s chin.
“God damn you Red Dedge, we’re friends! I told you don’t you ever do this to me again!”
Red’s hands were now out to his sides, his eyes wide, eyebrows twitching somewhere on top of his head.
Senegal, big as a house, stood on the other side of the table at the stove, with nothing more than a long-handled spoon in his hand. The noises of a busy brothel had receded into the background, Joplin’s perfect piano just a tinkling.
Senegal’s deep baritone broke the seeming silence. “Don’t fight, boys, it’s too late for that.”
Donnie slumped, the gun went down, and Red just stood for a second. Then he did something he had never done, except in the Reverend Ezekiel Stone’s Grace Baptist Chapel of Love and Forgiveness. He grabbed Donnie around his skinny shoulders and gave him a hug.
“Jesus Donnie, you scared the living shit out of me! Didn’t Miss Lottie give you my message?”
Donnie was so surprised he backed up, nodding. “Yeah, when she heard, she told me it was tonight, but she never said you were here. I went all the way out to Blue Cypress looking for you, I figured you were ditching me!”
Red sighed loudly. “God damn it. We sent one of Senegal’s China boys to tell her, I swear to God.”
Donnie looked over at Senegal, who nodded. “It’s true, son, you can believe it.” No slightest trace of cornpone accent.
Red took Donnie by the shoulder, looking him straight in the eye. “I would never do this without you.”
Senegal Johnson’s two pet addicts showed up at the back door of the Palace, eyes wide and glassy in pale black faces.
Red wondered at a drug that made a black man pale, then remembered how before, Senegal had given them China in their morphine, to keep them alert. He now knew this to be cocaine, some kind of stimulant made from a plant or leaf. It had become very popular in the cities, he’d heard; a man could drink all night and stay awake.
He remembered the gambler who’d pulled a gun on him, sniffing the stuff up his nose at a side table in the gambling room. He’d seen enough destruction when a man couldn’t hold his ’shine. He didn’t reckon folks needed anything more to hurt themselves with.
The addicts, sniffling and scratching their arms, had a low conversation with Senegal out the screen door, and he handed one a piece of twisted newspaper.
They smiled dreamily at what it held and drifted into the night.
Senegal turned back to Donnie and Red. “It’s time, boys.”
He went to the new telephone in the hallway, tapped the handle and asked the operator for the residence of the Reverend Ezekiel Stone.
Stone answered almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting for the call. He had.
“Reverend,” said Senegal, “we’ve heard news.”
The voice through the telephone sounded more like tires on crushed shell roads than the Reverend’s usual deep baritone. “I know.” After a glacial pause it said, “We’ll be there, Brother.”
Saturday, November 1, 1924, 10:30 PM
Red Dedge and Donnie Marshbanks arrived and saw a group of men gathered at the Saint Sebastian River Bridge. Saint Lucie County Sheriff J.R. Merritt was there. Sheriff’s deputies from Saint Lucie County included “Three Fingers” Wiggins, and a Sheriff’s sergeant who would go on to be Sheriff of Saint Lucie County himself for twenty-four years, from 1929 to 1953, B.A. Brown.
Red and Donnie knew them from the Village. A Palm Beach County deputy was there with three others. His long arms bulged with muscles and his hands were like an ape’s. He moved like he could twist a tire iron into a knot without much sweat. Red didn’t know it then, but the four were deputies Elmer and Ollie Padgett, L.B. Thomas, and Henry Stubbs.
Red came from the north end of the bridge with Donnie Marshbanks, Senegal Johnson, and his two addicts, who stared nervously at all the uniforms and scratched their arms.
They’d come in the laundry truck, parked on the shoulder, and walked in. Behind them, “Three Fingers” Wiggins and Sergeant Brown hung a chain across the bridge, clearly not happy with the civilians joining in.
They walked to the south end. There was a chain on that end too. When a fancy car pulled up and parked on the shoulder there, perilously close to the riverbank, it caused a stir in all of them. Two black men got out, one small and neat, in a black shirt with a clerical collar, one very large, also in black, also with a white collar and wrapped in a worn black driving coat. They carried shotguns and walked to the chain.
Red recognized the car. The Reverend Ezekiel Stone, and The Deacon. He called out to the Sheriffs that they were friends, but the deputies knew two black pastors were not their targets tonight. If any of them were surprised that the pastors had showed up with guns, they didn’t show it.
Merritt strode up to Stone but kept his voice low. “Could you move the car, Reverend? I cain’t say it looks much like what a feller would drive to go fishin’ from the bridge. If they see it, it, might spook ’em.”
The Deacon touched his hat and turned back to the car without a word. Stone admitted the Sheriff was likely right. He sounded more like himself to Red, only a few feet away, than he had on the telephone. He’d only heard the Reverend speak this much in church or before the raid on the Frankenfield’s islands. Red realized he could not remember if he’d ever heard The Deacon speak at all.
“All right boys, listen up!” Sheriff Merritt spoke, not shouting, but his voice travelling. He stood on the bridge north of his force, as a stiff November wind was blowing south down the river to their right, his left, and it carried the instructions to every ear.
They would leave red lanterns on the chains, as if the bridge were closed for repairs. They would hide on either side of the bridge in the darkness, down on the aprons and under the span, and stop every car coming north until they caught the last remnants of the most notorious gang in Florida history and exterminated them.
There was no other road the gang could take.
There was no other solution to the problem of John Ashley.
_______________
[Editor’s Note: Look forward to the final installment on Christmas Day!]
When he dropped it in front of Red Dedge, the boy’s stomach clenched. He was starving, but also nervous as a whore in church. Then he remembered that he went to church with whores, and Senegal ran those whores. Who was he to talk? This man was his friend, had saved his life. He chuckled to himself, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and took a fork and a piece of Senegal’s homemade bread and dug in.
The barbeque was almost as good as Guy’s. Sometime between now and dawn, John Ashley and his thugs were supposed to come north across the Saint Sebastian River Bridge on the Dixie Highway. Red Dedge intended to be on that bridge.
A large truck pulled up to the back of the Palace, and they heard the engine cut off and then a door slamming, hard. It was a good thing the back screen door had to be pulled open, otherwise Donnie Marshbanks might have busted it off the hinges.
He stomped up behind Red, who was just turning with his mouth open and half full of barbecue and slapped him so hard upside the head the meat and sauce went on the floor.
Red jumped up, his hand going to his back for a gun |
“God damn you Red Dedge, we’re friends! I told you don’t you ever do this to me again!”
Red’s hands were now out to his sides, his eyes wide, eyebrows twitching somewhere on top of his head.
Senegal, big as a house, stood on the other side of the table at the stove, with nothing more than a long-handled spoon in his hand. The noises of a busy brothel had receded into the background, Joplin’s perfect piano just a tinkling.
Senegal’s deep baritone broke the seeming silence. “Don’t fight, boys, it’s too late for that.”
Donnie slumped, the gun went down, and Red just stood for a second. Then he did something he had never done, except in the Reverend Ezekiel Stone’s Grace Baptist Chapel of Love and Forgiveness. He grabbed Donnie around his skinny shoulders and gave him a hug.
“Jesus Donnie, you scared the living shit out of me! Didn’t Miss Lottie give you my message?”
Donnie was so surprised he backed up, nodding. “Yeah, when she heard, she told me it was tonight, but she never said you were here. I went all the way out to Blue Cypress looking for you, I figured you were ditching me!”
Red sighed loudly. “God damn it. We sent one of Senegal’s China boys to tell her, I swear to God.”
Donnie looked over at Senegal, who nodded. “It’s true, son, you can believe it.” No slightest trace of cornpone accent.
Red took Donnie by the shoulder, looking him straight in the eye. “I would never do this without you.”
Senegal Johnson’s two pet addicts showed up at the back door of the Palace, eyes wide and glassy in pale black faces.
Cocaine had become very popular in the cities |
He remembered the gambler who’d pulled a gun on him, sniffing the stuff up his nose at a side table in the gambling room. He’d seen enough destruction when a man couldn’t hold his ’shine. He didn’t reckon folks needed anything more to hurt themselves with.
The addicts, sniffling and scratching their arms, had a low conversation with Senegal out the screen door, and he handed one a piece of twisted newspaper.
They smiled dreamily at what it held and drifted into the night.
Senegal turned back to Donnie and Red. “It’s time, boys.”
He went to the new telephone in the hallway, tapped the handle and asked the operator for the residence of the Reverend Ezekiel Stone.
Stone answered almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting for the call. He had.
“Reverend,” said Senegal, “we’ve heard news.”
The voice through the telephone sounded more like tires on crushed shell roads than the Reverend’s usual deep baritone. “I know.” After a glacial pause it said, “We’ll be there, Brother.”
Saturday, November 1, 1924, 10:30 PM
Red Dedge and Donnie Marshbanks arrived and saw a group of men gathered at the Saint Sebastian River Bridge. Saint Lucie County Sheriff J.R. Merritt was there. Sheriff’s deputies from Saint Lucie County included “Three Fingers” Wiggins, and a Sheriff’s sergeant who would go on to be Sheriff of Saint Lucie County himself for twenty-four years, from 1929 to 1953, B.A. Brown.
Red and Donnie knew them from the Village. A Palm Beach County deputy was there with three others. His long arms bulged with muscles and his hands were like an ape’s. He moved like he could twist a tire iron into a knot without much sweat. Red didn’t know it then, but the four were deputies Elmer and Ollie Padgett, L.B. Thomas, and Henry Stubbs.
Red came from the north end of the bridge with Donnie Marshbanks, Senegal Johnson, and his two addicts, who stared nervously at all the uniforms and scratched their arms.
They’d come in the laundry truck, parked on the shoulder, and walked in. Behind them, “Three Fingers” Wiggins and Sergeant Brown hung a chain across the bridge, clearly not happy with the civilians joining in.
There was a chain at the south end too |
Red recognized the car. The Reverend Ezekiel Stone, and The Deacon. He called out to the Sheriffs that they were friends, but the deputies knew two black pastors were not their targets tonight. If any of them were surprised that the pastors had showed up with guns, they didn’t show it.
Merritt strode up to Stone but kept his voice low. “Could you move the car, Reverend? I cain’t say it looks much like what a feller would drive to go fishin’ from the bridge. If they see it, it, might spook ’em.”
The Deacon touched his hat and turned back to the car without a word. Stone admitted the Sheriff was likely right. He sounded more like himself to Red, only a few feet away, than he had on the telephone. He’d only heard the Reverend speak this much in church or before the raid on the Frankenfield’s islands. Red realized he could not remember if he’d ever heard The Deacon speak at all.
“All right boys, listen up!” Sheriff Merritt spoke, not shouting, but his voice travelling. He stood on the bridge north of his force, as a stiff November wind was blowing south down the river to their right, his left, and it carried the instructions to every ear.
They would leave red lanterns on the chains, as if the bridge were closed for repairs. They would hide on either side of the bridge in the darkness, down on the aprons and under the span, and stop every car coming north until they caught the last remnants of the most notorious gang in Florida history and exterminated them.
There was no other road the gang could take.
There was no other solution to the problem of John Ashley.
_______________
[Editor’s Note: Look forward to the final installment on Christmas Day!]
| Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens |
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