Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, January 18, 1994 TAG: 9401180056
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DWAYNE YANCEY STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
\ A century after the bloody shoot-out, the remnants of Roanoke's Riot of 1893 remain.
In the Shady Grove community of Bedford County, Juanita Wheeler still treasures the tiny pearl-handled pocketknife her great-uncle, George White, was carrying when he was shot down.
"My mother always told me about it," Wheeler says. "She was only 4 years old when it happened." But White, a bachelor who showered attention on kids, was her favorite uncle.
On the evening of September 20, 1893, that uncle was walking home from his job at the railroad in downtown Roanoke when he came across a frightful scene. Outside the Roanoke city jail, a howling mob some 5,000 strong had gathered, demanding that the authorities release a black prisoner accused of attacking a white woman.
White chose an unlucky time to be walking past: The moment when the panicked militia inside the jail opened fire on the mob outside. Soon, eight men lay dead or dying in the streets - George White among them.
To this day, the two items White was carrying in his pocket, his knife and "a big penny, as big as a 50-cent piece," are precious heirlooms to Juanita Wheeler and her family.
Her son Dale (who might be better-known as a member of the Bedford County Board of Supervisors) says the family never knew much else about the riot until he read the newspaper accounts this fall on the 100th anniversary.
So he was intrigued by two things - three of the other victims were also identified as railroad workers. Were they White's co-workers, perhaps all walking home together when the shooting broke out? And two of the 33 people wounded also carried the surname White. Were they perhaps relatives also accompanying his great-great-uncle George?
The Wheelers aren't the only folks in Bedford County family whose family memory extends back to the Riot of 1893 - an event that stands out in the turbulent history of the South because it's one of the few instances where authorities not only tried to protect a black suspect but actually fired on a white lynch mob.
Hallie Hubbard of Goodview unfolds the crumpled lyrics to a folk song that was written not long after the riot. "The Roanoke Outrage," it's called, a 12-verse ode that takes a dim view of Mayor Henry Trout's decision to call out the militia.
"The captain gave the orders to fire
when he heard the people shout
for he said he had instructions
from the mayor - H.L. Trout.
\ It was the awfullest outrage
that we ever read about
and I think it was very foolish
to have called the militia out . . . "
"My mother sang it to us when we were little," says Hubbard, now 89 years old. "I used to sing it, but I don't have the lungs for it anymore."
William Watts of Roanoke holds onto another piece of paper related to the riot - a letter.
His grandfather was Allen Watts, a prominent Roanoke lawyer who at some risk to himself took to the streets to plead "in vain" with the rioters to disperse. Not long afterward, Watts received a brief note from Eppa Hunton Jr., a former University of Virginia law school classmate and son of the one of the state's U.S. senators at the time.
"Permit me to congratulate you upon your splendid and courageous bearing at the recent horrible affair in your city," Hunton wrote from his home in Fauquier County. "It is a source of great pleasure to me that your courage and prudence did not cost you your life. I trust every thing is now quiet and that your city will now resume its normal condition."
Beyond that, the hand-me-down memories about the riot of 1893 are dim - although family pride isn't.
Kathryn Coughlin of Radford is the granddaughter of Alexander Griffin, the police sergeant who was escorting the prisoner - Thomas Smith - to safety when vigilantes ambushed them and dragged Smith away to be lynched. Griffin was demoted in the wake of the riot, but Coughlin wrote to point out that was only a temporary setback in his law enforcement career; Griffin later became Roanoke's police chief.
"I wanted to give my grandfather his due," Coughlin said. "I heard my mother mention the fact that my grandfather was connected with a hanging, but she never called it a lynching. We didn't know much about it."
Gary Shaver of Salem also takes pride in his great-grandfather, who, like the Wheelers' ancestor, was one of those killed in the riot.
John T. Mills was a farmer and "distiller" from Back Creek, apparently in town to sell his wares when he was shot down. Over the years, Shaver has combed genealogical records for information about his great-grandfather, searching in vain to figure out where Mills is buried.
The records say "Back Creek Cemetery," but Shaver's never been able to figure out where that is. He's hoping anyone who knows will write him at 500 Poage Lane, #14, Salem, Va., 24153.
For Shaver, though, his heritage isn't something confined to musty books.
On the rainy night of September 20, the 100th anniversary of the riot, he and his mother paid a visit to the site of the riot in downtown Roanoke - and held their own memorial observance.
by CNB