On the night of the 23d of November, 1871, there assembled in the woods
near Cross Plains, Alabama, a band of men armed and disguised as the White
Brotherhood. Their persons were enveloped in long white gowns, white masks
covered their faces, high white conical hats surmounted their heads, their
hands were encased in white gloves, and white stockings were drawn over
and completely covered their boots.
The object of this gathering was the punishment of one William Fletcher, a
white Unionist and Radical, who had the temerity to vote the Republican
ticket, advocate the supremacy of the Government, and aid the officers
thereof in the enforcement of the laws. These were crimes in the eyes of
the Ku Klux Klan sufficient to warrant their taking the offender in hand.
The customary warning was not sent in this case, but a friendly hand
penned a note to Fletcher, informing him of the danger, but this,
unfortunately, never reached him.
At the time of the assembling of the band, as above stated, the "Night
Hawks"[1] of the Camp came up with the intelligence that Fletcher was then
in a grocery store kept by a man named Flanders, and that it would be
better to decoy him out of there, and get him on the road towards the
woods, where he could be the more easily mastered.
Fletcher was a cool, resolute and brave man, was supposed to be well
armed, and the members of the Klan knew that unless some strategy was used
with him, some of their number must suffer the consequences. One of the
Klan, named N. G. Scott, was accordingly detailed to decoy Fletcher away.
Scott removed his disguise, and started for the store, followed at a
convenient distance by several members of the band. He was successful in
his undertaking, and in about twenty minutes he and his intended victim
were walking down the road, in the direction of the ambuscade.
In a moment more, the Klan sprang upon and overpowered Fletcher. Pistols
were presented at his head, threatenings of death were made if he uttered
a cry; a towel was tied tightly across his eyes as a bandage, and he was
led away to the woods on the north side of Cross Plains. Upon reaching the
woods, his coat and vest were removed, and he was stood up with his face
pressed hard against a tree. His arms were drawn around the trunk of the
tree, and tied together, and his legs were firmly secured by ropes.
John Yeateman, who had charge of the proceedings of the Klan that night,
then stepped forward, and told Fletcher to say his prayers, as he had but
a short time to live; that it had first been the intention to give him a
whipping and let him go, but that they had now decided to whip him to
death.
Fletcher replied by asking if there was no mercy to be accorded him, and
inquired to know for what he was to be killed. The only answer to this was
that they never gave mercy to the "infernal radicals, who wanted niggers
to rule the country." This remark was followed by his shirt being torn
completely off his back.
Meantime the "executioners," who had gone for the "rods," returned, and
upon the order of their leader fell to their work, cutting the back of the
poor victim most dreadfully, and causing him to lose all his stoicism at
last, and shriek from the effects of the blows. The "executioners"
becoming exhausted, Yeateman himself seized a knife, and cutting away the
garments that encased Fletcher's lower limbs, took a "rod," and commenced
beating him about the loins with great ferocity.
Fletcher fainted under the punishment, and as his screams had ceased,
Yeateman desisted, remarking, "There's one Radical vote less, by ----."
The band continued consulting together for some time, when, Fletcher being
heard to groan, one of the Klan, named James Bierd, said: "He ain't
finished yet; I reckon he'd better have the whole of it."
Yeateman then approached the miserable victim, and having succeeded in
arousing him to consciousness, asked: "Have you anything to say before you
die?"
Fletcher responded faintly, saying: "Write to my mother, Mrs. William
Fletcher, Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, and say how and why I died." In a
moment afterwards he asked: "Is there no chance to live?"
The band consulted together again, when Yeateman said: "There is just one
chance for you, and that is that you agree to leave the State in three
hours, and never come back."
Fletcher gladly gave the required promise. He was then untied, and two of
the band supporting him upon either side, led him to the railroad track.
The bandage was then taken from his eyes, and he was told he must walk on,
and that if he looked back, he would be shot. A row of revolvers pointed
at him gave evidence that he was not being trifled with, and summoning all
the resolution and strength which he could command, he slowly hobbled
away.
William Fletcher is no mythical creation. He lives to-day, a scarred and
maimed monument of the demoniac brutality that instigated his scourging
for opinion's sake; his property destroyed, his health ruined for life,
his spirit crushed and broken. The naturally indignant reader will ask if
justice has overtaken the miscreants who committed this outrage, and will
be gratified to know that it has; and that the principal offenders have
felt the weight of the strong arm of the law, now being vigorously
enforced throughout the South against the execrable Klan to which they
belonged, and in whose interest, and that of bigotry and persecution, they
committed this dreadful outrage.