operation to another ex-rebel o cer turned
entrepreneur.
Scipio worked under his supervision at the Bibb furnace where
he had spent so much of the wartime years, stil laboring at the task
Elisha had sent him to learn in the e ort to save the Confederacy.
He traveled daily to the furnaces, several miles away, usual y in the
company of four much younger black men who boarded in a smal
house near the dry goods store in Six Mile. Sometimes, Scip would
spend the night near the furnace in rented lodgings with two of the
men, Toney Bates, twenty-two, and Alex Smith, nineteen.4
The free lives of Scip, George, and Henry were hardly easy. But
for the rst time they were truly autonomous of Elisha Cot ingham
and his kin. How long such black men in the post-emancipation
South could remain so would become the de ning characteristic of
their lives.
As slaves, men such as Scipio and Henry were taught that their
master was a palpable extension of the power of God—their
designated lord in a supremely ordained hierarchy. In the era of
emancipation, that role—now stripped of its religiosity and pared
to its most elemental dimensions of power and force—was handed
to the sherif .
This was a new capacity for local law enforcement o cers, and
the smal circles of elected o cials who also played a part in the
South's criminal and civil justice systems. Prior to the Civil War, al
of government in the region, at every level, was unimaginably
sparse by modern standards. In Alabama, an elected board of
county commissioners oversaw local tax col ections and
disbursements, primarily for repairs to bridges, maintenance of the
courthouse, and operation of a simple jail. The sheri , also chosen
by the people, usual y spent far more time serving civil warrants
and foreclosing property for unpaid debts than in the enforcement
and foreclosing property for unpaid debts than in the enforcement
of criminal statutes. The arbiter of most minor legal disputes and
al eged crimes would be a justice of the peace, normal y a local
man appointed by the governor to represent law and government
in each "beat" in the state. In an era of exceedingly di cult
transportation, beats were tiny areas of jurisdiction, often limited to
one smal quadrant of a county. One rural Alabama county elected
thirty justices of the peace in 1877.5 But within those boundaries,
the justice of the peace—more often than not the proprietor of a
country store or a large farm—held tremendous authority, including
the power to convict defendants of crimes that carried potential
sentences of years of confinement.
In most southern states, county sheri s and their deputies
received no regular salaries. Instead, the law enforcement o cers,
justices of the peace, certain court o cials, and any witnesses who
testi ed against a defendant were compensated primarily from
speci c fees charged to those who voluntarily or involuntarily came
into the court system. A long schedule of approved fees designated
the cost of each o cial act those o cials might undertake: 50 cents
for serving a warrant in a lawsuit over a bad debt; $1 for making an
arrest on an indictment; 35 cents for a clerk who certi ed a court
document. Payment was enforced at the resolution of every court
proceeding, with the accumulated fees lumped into whatever other
penalty was ordered by a judge. After the advent of widespread
convict leasing, the fees—which usual y amounted to far more than
the actual nes imposed on defendants—were paid o from the
payments made by the company that acquired the prisoner.
Before the war and immediately afterward, the cases brought
before the county judge and his fel ow commissioners in most rural
southern counties were drearily routine, and rare. In the great
majority of cases in Bibb County and similar places, the penalty for
guilt was a ne of $1, regardless of the o ense. The point of the
prosecution and conviction was not so much to mete
entrepreneur.
Scipio worked under his supervision at the Bibb furnace where
he had spent so much of the wartime years, stil laboring at the task
Elisha had sent him to learn in the e ort to save the Confederacy.
He traveled daily to the furnaces, several miles away, usual y in the
company of four much younger black men who boarded in a smal
house near the dry goods store in Six Mile. Sometimes, Scip would
spend the night near the furnace in rented lodgings with two of the
men, Toney Bates, twenty-two, and Alex Smith, nineteen.4
The free lives of Scip, George, and Henry were hardly easy. But
for the rst time they were truly autonomous of Elisha Cot ingham
and his kin. How long such black men in the post-emancipation
South could remain so would become the de ning characteristic of
their lives.
As slaves, men such as Scipio and Henry were taught that their
master was a palpable extension of the power of God—their
designated lord in a supremely ordained hierarchy. In the era of
emancipation, that role—now stripped of its religiosity and pared
to its most elemental dimensions of power and force—was handed
to the sherif .
This was a new capacity for local law enforcement o cers, and
the smal circles of elected o cials who also played a part in the
South's criminal and civil justice systems. Prior to the Civil War, al
of government in the region, at every level, was unimaginably
sparse by modern standards. In Alabama, an elected board of
county commissioners oversaw local tax col ections and
disbursements, primarily for repairs to bridges, maintenance of the
courthouse, and operation of a simple jail. The sheri , also chosen
by the people, usual y spent far more time serving civil warrants
and foreclosing property for unpaid debts than in the enforcement
and foreclosing property for unpaid debts than in the enforcement
of criminal statutes. The arbiter of most minor legal disputes and
al eged crimes would be a justice of the peace, normal y a local
man appointed by the governor to represent law and government
in each "beat" in the state. In an era of exceedingly di cult
transportation, beats were tiny areas of jurisdiction, often limited to
one smal quadrant of a county. One rural Alabama county elected
thirty justices of the peace in 1877.5 But within those boundaries,
the justice of the peace—more often than not the proprietor of a
country store or a large farm—held tremendous authority, including
the power to convict defendants of crimes that carried potential
sentences of years of confinement.
In most southern states, county sheri s and their deputies
received no regular salaries. Instead, the law enforcement o cers,
justices of the peace, certain court o cials, and any witnesses who
testi ed against a defendant were compensated primarily from
speci c fees charged to those who voluntarily or involuntarily came
into the court system. A long schedule of approved fees designated
the cost of each o cial act those o cials might undertake: 50 cents
for serving a warrant in a lawsuit over a bad debt; $1 for making an
arrest on an indictment; 35 cents for a clerk who certi ed a court
document. Payment was enforced at the resolution of every court
proceeding, with the accumulated fees lumped into whatever other
penalty was ordered by a judge. After the advent of widespread
convict leasing, the fees—which usual y amounted to far more than
the actual nes imposed on defendants—were paid o from the
payments made by the company that acquired the prisoner.
Before the war and immediately afterward, the cases brought
before the county judge and his fel ow commissioners in most rural
southern counties were drearily routine, and rare. In the great
majority of cases in Bibb County and similar places, the penalty for
guilt was a ne of $1, regardless of the o ense. The point of the
prosecution and conviction was not so much to mete
Similar Books
