Bridge BuildersJohn A. Tures © Copyright 2024 by John A. Tures |
Flint River Bridge. Photo courtesy of the Georgia Archives. |
Walking among the Confederate graves in this small-to-middlin’ Georgia town of LaGrange, my students were astonished to learn that the largest monument at the site was dedicated to a slave-turned-bridge-builder and entrepreneur, who even won a seat in the Alabama legislature after Reconstruction. None of us at the cemetery that day could foresee that in just a few months, our city’s first-ever African American mayor, a unifying “bridge builder” in his own right, would join this historic engineer from the 1800s, in death. When a legendary uniter exits the stage, we must ask ourselves the old question Romans once queried: Quo Vadis? As the Latin phrase asks, where are we going? Our answer will show that there’s hope for this small Georgia town, where we seem to have learned from the mistakes of the Reconstruction Era.
Horace King, the African American subject of a giant memorial inside LaGrange’s Confederate graveyard named “Stonewall Cemetery,” was once born a slave. He only had one advantage: he was sold to an owner willing to break the law. John Godwin taught him to do more than just read. He taught the young African American to build. Unlike the contemporary debate where African Americans allegedly learned “valuable skills” in slavery, Godwin would have faced imprisonment if anyone else discovered the engineering education he provided to King.
Like the story of the Biblical servant who doubles the master’s investment, violating the law about educating a slave paid off. From the Carolinas to Georgia to Alabama, King and his unprecedented company built several iconic covered bridges. He married a free black woman, so his children would not be born slaves. Later, he earned enough to buy his freedom, as well as a plot of land where he constructed a special tribute to the man who taught him so much about bridge building.
Students of mine at the graveyard lecture were surprised to learn that King was contracted to construct the framework and spiral staircase for the new Alabama State Capitol, one which would later house the first capital of the Confederacy.
A committed Unionist despite living in the South, King was pressed into service by the Confederates to build Southern factories for the war effort. Additionally, he was made to construct defenses for the river town of Columbus, Georgia. How conflicted he must have felt to see the success of the Northern forces penetrating deep into the South to provide liberation, while often torching his precious bridges and his personal financial stake in them.
After the Southern surrender at Appomattox Court House, King built other kinds of bridges, this time in politics. Elected to the Alabama legislature, he pushed for reforms common in the Reconstruction Era, while that was possible. But when that time ended, so too did King’s political career. The ex-slave spent the rest of his life with his family, still building bridges, but also constructing businesses, and schools around LaGrange. Next to his monument so close to several small Stars-and-Bars flags, my students could see a replica of a Horace King covered bridge, so they and other visitors could appreciate the beauty and purpose of these structures which brought people together.
The
end of Reconstruction was more than just the close of a chapter in a
history book. African Americans lost their elected positions, as well
as their freedoms across subsequent decades. Their liberty became
little more than it had been before the Civil War, where chains of
iron were replaced by bonds forged in fear. It took more than a
hundred years until incremental political changes could alter the
Dixie days.
In the South, they tell you that religion and politics don’t mix. It must have turned more than a few heads when the Rev. Willie Edmondson, also a funeral home director, would enter politics. But that’s where LaGrange would play host to a second bridge builder, one who linked people, not just lands across a river.
Edmondson didn’t build his bridges out of wood and steel reinforcement, like King. This preacher’s bridges were constructed of bonds between people, across racial and party lines. His infectious smile and firm handshake sealed the deals that shifted the local economy from one of dying textile mills to international investment from Korea as well the hospitality industry from national chains. Over his twenty years on the city council, the city doubled in population.
At a small clocktower memorial for a fellow councilman who had died, Willie told me he’d be running for mayor. “That’s great,” I replied, excited for the possibility. Within five minutes, the most popular white candidate on the City Council told me he would be throwing his hat in the ring too. The dream now seemed a little more distant, as the odds shifted against the preacher.
Yet in an era of negative campaigning and personal attacks, the mayoral race for LaGrange was downright professional. It became a spirited contest largely focused on the issues, with mudslinging kept to a minimum, owing to the character of the candidates. When the last of the ballots had been counted, Willie stunned Georgia with a historic win against a top candidate.
The town turned out for the unprecedented inauguration, but then the politics of the new era returned. Scholar John Mueller once quipped that to be popular in politics, one would either have to become Dwight D. Eisenhower or else resign on day one. Rev. Edmondson did neither. His bridge-building skills were sorely put to the test, as he faced challenges from the extreme right, as well as those on the hard left. The differing races on the council often united, if only to challenge the mayor’s initiatives. Yet Willie persisted, much like King before him, keeping that smile, enthusiasm, and dedication to make things better for all. The strife didn’t always faze him.
Early this year I caught up with Willie, who was in what locals call a shabby-chic coffeehouse in town, where he sipped his drink, surprisingly alone. Yes, he was willing to meet my family and accepted an offer to give a presentation at LaGrange College as our MLK Day Speaker.
It would be the last time I would see him, alive.
Sadly, he had to cancel that speech twice due to his rapidly declining health. A former student of mine, who is also an African-American mayor of a South Georgia town, filled in at the last moment the second time. Locals called for a prayer vigil on the town square. “We knew it was serious when he had to cancel delivering his speech to the college both times,” the local newspaper editor told me, highlighting the community concern.
Earlier this month, I walked up to the large church where Willie once preached. Folks in town arrived three hours early for the funeral, just to get a seat. Friends of the mayor moved me ahead in line, so I could pass his body, lying in state, if only for a moment. Black and white, locals packed the pews to capacity on a day the fire marshal was thankfully absent. Friends as well as rivals were there to pay their respects to one who built bridges across parties, and even race. But would such goodwill last?
On
this subject, history provides a pessimistic lesson. After Horace
King’s service in the legislature 150 years earlier, folks in
East Alabama seemed to forget what he built in the community, as they
rolled back Reconstruction reforms and made it impossible for men
like Horace King ever to be elected again, merely because of their
skin color.
Willie Edmondson’s Lincolnesque legacy of “malice toward none and charity for all” did face some challenges. Local politicians convened to push for a new election before Edmondson’s body was even interred in a grave, a move that infuriated the local African American population. Some began their campaigning even before the funeral started. For a little while, it seemed that those in charge of representing us temporarily forgot Edmondson’s legacy, just as Horace King was once shunted aside after all he built, over rivers and in the legislature.
“Never to forget where we came from, and always praise the bridges that carried us over,” noted civil rights and voting rights activist Fannie Lou Hamer.
Here is what makes people like Horace King and Willie Edmondson great. Rather than carrying you across a river once, a bridge builder makes it possible for places and people to be connected many times, thanks to a solid foundation. The question remains whether we’ll recognize the importance both men provided for the region for uniting people, not just places, or forget those lessons as we did more than 150 years ago.
In Africa, there is a belief that people are either living, or dead, or a special case called “the living dead,” but it’s not a zombie-like state. It’s where the person has passed away but is still talked about. “When that person is remembered by all, that person is truly never dead,” I was told on a trip there.
On the way back from the funeral, I saw a special colorful mural-like painting downtown of Horace King, showing he’s not just confined to a cemetery full of Confederate flags, but in a special spot on our city square. Judging from the funeral, there’s strong reason to hope that Rev. Willie Edmondson could be similarly honored downtown where those who appreciated his sacrifice and accomplishments can see him daily and be inspired to build a bridge to a better future.