Authors: Michael Phillips
Never Too Late
© 2007 by Michael Phillips
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwiseâwithout the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
ISBN 978-1-4412-1134-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover photography by Steve Gardner
Cover design by The Design Works Group
To those young people I have been privileged
to teach and coach in track and cross country
through the years, from Winship Junior High to
Eureka and Fortuna High Schools. You have
enriched my life in many ways, and I thank you
for the pleasant memories of wonderful
experiences and friendships.
C
ONTENTS
2. A World Long Before the War
6. A Cup of Sugar and Two Sweet Biscuits
15. Sweet Biscuits and What Became of Them
16. More Biscuits and a New Job
33. A Coat of All Sizes and Shapes
P
ROLOGUE
It's mighty strange how you think you know folks so well, when you really don't know them as well as you thought
.
Everybody's got more thoughts and feelings going on inside than you realize. People have pasts too, whole lives you don't know about, and might never find out about either if you don't take the time to try
.
I reckon that's what makes getting to know people so interesting, almost an adventure you might say. The stories people have to tellâeven just about themselves and what has happened to them and where they've been and what they've seen and what they've learnedâare some of the most interesting things there are in life. Maybe that's why they say that everyone's life is interesting enough to write a book about if you just knew how to go about it
.
That's probably why I've enjoyed telling stories ever since I started spinning yarns for my kid brother Samuel. Back then, when we were slaves, I just
made them up to pass the time. Or, I'd retell the old tales I'd heard around the fireâthe ones about Mr. Rabbit and Mr. Fox were my favorites. But later as I grew, I discovered that the best stories of all were about peopleâtrue stories about what happened to them. Maybe they're not really “stories,” then . . . I'm not exactly sure about that
.
But they're still fascinating, and I still enjoy telling them just the same
.
F
IRE
1
H
ENRY PATTERSON WAS A MAN WHO HAD NO
enemies. At least that's what people thought.
Why danger would stalk such a peace-loving soul was a mystery no one in Greens Crossing ever quite understood except those involved. And they were not the kind of men who talked.
The previous day had not been unusual. There were a couple visits from men Henry did not recognize asking for the owner of the livery stable. When told that he was not there, they had looked about in an odd sort of way before riding off. Henry thought little of it at the time. Yet the peculiar exchanges played on his mind long afterward, and kept him from sleeping soundly that night.
He was awake as usual at daybreak the next morning. Most of the rest of the Rosewood family were talking around the breakfast table about going into town that day too. But as Henry and his son Jeremiah both had to be at their jobs early, they were the first to ride away from the plantation house about half past seven.
The secret men's vigilante club known as the Ku Klux Klan had spread rapidly throughout the South after the War Between the States, dedicated to the preservation of white supremacy and Southern tradition. Its members viewed it as their sacred duty as loyal Southerners to exact retribution on whites who embraced the new order . . . and on blacks who did not know their place.
The Klan was not the only such vigilante group that roved the counties of the South, tormenting and killing what they called “uppity niggers.” But it was the most powerful and the most feared. The very thought of the silent night ridersâclad in white sheets and hoodsâawoke dread and terror.
The Klan's weapons of choice were three: the gun, the torch, and the rope.
In the North Carolina communities of Greens Crossing and Oakwood, some twenty miles from Charlotte, a number of prominent men had been initiated into the mysteries of the Klan. Although there had been one attempted hanging, their mischief in the area had thus far produced no deaths. That seemed, however, about to change.
On this particular day in the fall of the year 1869, the local KKK had decided to modify their tactics. They would strike in broad daylight and in plain sight, in order to teach a lesson none in the community would forget. Their target was a black man every one of them had known for years. If the truth were known, none had any personal quarrel with Henry Patterson. He knew his place, spoke respectfully, and never gave any trouble. But he was also involved with people who didn't seem to know the difference between blacks and whites.
It was what he represented. He had been the first free black to settle in the region before the war. Now with unsettling changes taking place everywhere, it almost seemed as if he had been the start of it all. The fact that he now lived out at the Daniels place made killing him the easiest way to get back at the whole pack of themâwhites and blacks together.
And so as the fifteen or more white-robed riders galloped toward Greens Crossing a little before noon, the burning torches in their hands were not to light their way, as would have been the case had the raid come in the middle of the night.
They intended to put the fire to another use.
Mary Ann, Templeton, and Ward Daniels, Kathleen Clairborne, and Josepha Black had all arrived in Greens Crossing sometime after eleven o'clock, and were now about their own business. The two Daniels brothers had gone to the bank. Josepha was in Mrs. Hammond's general store picking up Rosewood's mail and a few supplies. Mayme and Katie had gone to the shoe and boot shop.
The thundering approach of the riders, coming from the far end of Greens Crossing where the livery sat as the last building in town, did not at first attract the attention of any of the townspeople.
Inside the livery, the moment Henry heard the angry shouts, he knew they were meant for him. He started to walk outside. Several gunshots at his feet stopped him in his tracks.
“Get back inside, Patterson,” called one of the hooded riders, “or you'll be a dead man!”
Several more shots followed rapidly to enforce the threat.
The livery was quickly surrounded by the horsemen. Escape on foot would be impossible. The first torch landed on the roof before the echo of the last shot had died away. It was followed by over a dozen more lighting the wall. Within seconds, the small building was encircled in a ring of fire.
Henry heard the crackle of flames and smelled the smoke the instant the first torch landed. He ran to the stables to free the three or four horses inside. Their wide nostrils had also smelled the smoke and they had begun to whinny and rear in growing fright.
With effort, Henry got them loose, then unlatched the rear door and kicked it wide. A blast of heat from five-foot flames sent him staggering backward. He shouted and kicked and whipped at the terrified horses, until at last, shrieking in panic and confusion, they bolted through the smoke and flame to safety.