Arts, Books

Book Review: The Sun Does Shine

MEMOIR

Intro: Anthony Hinton tells of his thirty years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit

AROUND midnight on July 25/26, 1985, two things happened 15 miles away from each other in Birmingham, Alabama. At 11.57pm, Anthony Ray Hinton, 29, clocked in for his night shift at Bruno’s supermarket warehouse. He worked in the locked warehouse until 4am.

. See also Book Review: ‘The Innocent Man’…

In another area of the city, the manager of Quincy’s steak house, Sidney Smotherman, was driving home at 12.30am, when he was bumped from the rear and forced at gunpoint to drive back to the restaurant where he was shot in the head but not killed.

Later shown a selection of photographs of suspects, Smotherman identified Anthony Ray Hinton as the gunman who had shot him. As it happened, there had been two murders of restaurant managers in Birmingham in similar circumstances in that same year.

A week later Hinton was mowing the lawn at home, where he lived with his beloved mother – both were regular churchgoers – when two policemen came to arrest him.

After entering the house, the police officers removed his mother’s .38 calibre pistol, which they would wrongly identify as the weapon used in all three crimes.

The nightmare then begun in earnest. Everything would surely be cleared up in a couple of hours, Hinton thought, as he climbed into the police car, hands cuffed behind his back. In fact, he would not see freedom again for 30 years. His home, until he was grey-haired, would be a five-by-seven-foot prison cell on death row in the Holman Correctional Facility in Atmore.

Many readers of Hinton’s astonishingly moving memoir are likely to be devoured with a state of open-mouthed incredulity mingled with rage. His utter powerlessness in the face of State-sponsored racism was pitiful.

“The good old boys had traded in their white robes for black ones,” he writes, “but it was still a lynching.”

It was. Black, poor and unable to afford a private attorney, he was given a State attorney called Perhacs, who appointed a ballistics expert who only had one working eye. The expert pronounced that the bullets in the three crimes did not match Hinton’s mother’s gun, but his testimony was torn apart in court, due to his poor eyesight.

There was another horrible twist. A few years earlier, Hinton had made an enemy of a man called Reggie when he dated a girl who had turned Reggie down. Reggie was jealous and bent on revenge. He happened to work at Quincy’s steak house, and he helped to frame Hinton, telling Smotherman he knew a man who fitted the description of his assailant.

 

YET, it would have been impossible for Hinton to get out of the locked warehouse and drive 15 miles and back to commit the crime. Never mind, either, that he passed the lie-detection polygraph test.

“Anything that didn’t make me look like a killer was left out or plain lied about,” Hinton writes. Shackled in court, he had his final say, protesting his innocence to the all-white jury, but to no avail. The death sentence was pronounced and sanctioned on 15 December 1986.

Welcome to death row: the days before the method of killing changed (in 2002) from electric chair to lethal injection.

The prison guards who fed the inmates and who escorted them to the bathroom six days a week were also the ones who killed them on Thursdays.

In his time on death row, Hinton would hear 54 deaths going on down the corridor. When the death-inducing generator was switched on, the lights flickered; all the inmates would then bang their fists against the cell bars to show solidarity with the person being killed, to make them know they were not dying alone.

The most haunting aspects of this book are the small details of life on death row. It might seem a trivial thing, but because there were so many to feed in the vast prison, the death-row inmates got the worst deal when it came to mealtimes.

For 30 years, Hinton was served breakfast at 3am, lunch at 10am and supper at 2pm. All meals were covered in the dust of death, combined with rat hair and cockroach skin.

Wryly, Hinton notes, there’s no “Welcome to your appeal” brochure waiting for you when you first arrive in your cell. Once you’re in, it’s very hard indeed to get out. The State of Alabama had no intention of admitting it had ever made a mistake.

For the first three years, Hinton was in such a state of rage that he refused to speak, except to his mother and best friend Lester on the monthly visiting day.

His mother, bewildered by the events, would dress in her Sunday best for visits: ivory gloves, flowery dress and wide blue hat rimmed with lace. “Are you coming home soon, baby?” she would ask him, again and again.

The steadfastness of those two kept him going through the dark decades. It was a seven-hour roundtrip for them to visit. As his mother became older and ill from stress, she could no longer do the journey. But Lester always turned up.

One night, after three years of silence, Hinton heard the man in the next-door cell sobbing. He broke his silence. “Hey! Are you all right over there?”

The man told him that his mother had just died. “And my heart broke,” Hinton writes. From that moment, he began to come back to life and started to engage with others. He requested to the warden that he and some other inmates might be allowed to start a book club, and this was granted.

They sat round discussing Uncle Tom’s Cabin: “The point,” Hinton writes, “was to get them thinking about anything but the dark, grimy, hot hell of the row.” And by hot, he meant it: it was 110f in the summer in the cells. No cooling fans were allowed for fear of the blades being refashioned into weapons.

 

ONE by one members of the club disappeared. Their death-dates were announced, giving them a month’s notice.

In one particular moving section, Hinton makes friends with a fellow inmate and book club member, a white man called Henry. He finds out a few weeks into their friendship that Henry is in fact the murderer Henry Hays, who was on death row for kidnapping and stringing up a black boy.

When Henry is killed in the normal way – bag over his head, generator switched on – everyone bangs their fists on the bars in solidarity, just as they would for a black man.

Death row is a great leveller. “Henry was my friend,” Hinton writes. “I had shown him compassion because that was how I’d been raised.”

After 15 years of hopelessness, with appeals rumbling on but never amounting to a retrial, Hinton at last acquired an attorney called Bryan Stevenson, who meant business.

Stevenson turned out to be a sort of Oskar Schindler of death row. He fought Hinton’s case in the courts, refusing to give up, for 15 years. At last in 2015, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled the lower court had made an error all those years ago. “You’re going home, my friend,” Stevenson wrote to him. “You’re finally going home.”

Now living quietly in his original hometown of Praco, near Birmingham, Hinton makes sure he has an alibi for every day of his life. He has filed a compensation claim for $1.5million, but the State has denied it, saying he has not proved his innocence.

As for the State prosecutor, Robert McGregor, he died in 2010. Hinton was just one of scores of people he sent to death row in his career, feeling no stain on his conscience.

At the end of the book, Hinton lists the 1,200 people currently on death row in the U.S. Statistically, it is reckoned ten per cent of them are innocent.

In one of the many cruel injustices of this story, Hinton’s release came far too late to be reunited with his mother: she had died 13 years earlier.

Yet when Hinton walked out into freedom, cameras flashing, he was asked to say a few words. “The sun does shine,” he said. That’s the title of this unforgettable book.

– The Sun Does Shine by Anthony Ray Hinton is published by Rider for £8.99, 368pp

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Arts, Books, History, Science, Scotland

Book Review: Green Gold

BOOK REVIEW

Green Gold by Gabriel Hemery is published by Unbound. It is the story of a brave Scottish botanist who fell of the edge of the world without a trace.

Intro: In 1850 young Scottish plant hunter John Jeffrey is despatched by an elite group of Victorian subscribers to seek highly-prized exotic tree and plant species in North America. An early letter home tells of a 1,200-mile transcontinental journey on foot.

IN Victorian times, plant-hunters were the astronauts of their age. They captured the popular imagination as they set off on exotic expeditions to discover new flora and fauna.

Like space travel today, these excursions were fraught with danger.

When 23-year-old John Jeffrey left his native Scotland for the Pacific coast of North America in 1850, he would have been familiar with the fate of his compatriot David Douglas 16 years earlier. The man, after whom the Douglas fir was named, perished when he fell – or likely was pushed – into a bull-pit in Hawaii.

At least we know what happened to him. For poor Jeffrey, however, who was last seen in San Francisco in 1854, disappeared without a trace. In this captivating book, forest scientist Gabriel Hemery offers the most informed speculation about his fate. Jeffrey kept diaries, now lost. So Hemery, who probably knows more about Jeffrey than anyone alive, has used his extensive research to fictionalise them.

They are interspersed with actual letters and other documents, which record that Jeffrey was despatched to North America thanks to a Victorian version of crowdfunding.

Shares in his expedition cost £5 each, and the list of 140 subscribers reads like a Who’s Who of high society, all looking to enhance their hothouses with the exotica he sent home. Their investment reaped some dividends. Visitors to the Royal Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh can now see the vibrant pink bloom Dodecatheon jeffreyi, also known as Jeffrey’s shooting star, which he found in California.

Jeffrey, a botanist hired by the keeper of that very garden, had never even been out of Scotland before, but soon found himself embarking on the Hudson’s Bay Company ship, the Prince of Wales.

He was tasked with getting across Canada to Vancouver Island, and then down through Washington state, Oregon and California and as far down as Mexico.

His instructions were clear: ‘You will collect seeds of all such trees, shrubs and plants as are not already introduced into this country.’ They wanted him to send back beetles, too. His remuneration was fixed at £80 per annum.

He arrived in Canada in August 1850. He made the long trek west by dogsled and canoe, then crossed the Rocky Mountains on foot. It took him another 12 months to reach the Pacific coast.

In November 1851, a box sent by Jeffrey was excitedly opened in Edinburgh, by members of the Oregon Botanical Association. It contained a few varieties of pine cone, several dead birds, and a small bottle containing beetles. They were underwhelmed.

Jeffrey’s reputation back home seems to have gone steadily downhill after that. He kept sending boxes, but they didn’t contain enough seeds for the Association’s liking. And Jeffrey’s letters and correspondence got fewer and briefer. One tersely explained that, while camping, most of his seeds had been eaten overnight by a rat.

At that time, the California Gold Rush was in full swing. It could well have been that Jeffrey, disillusioned with the comments from Edinburgh, decided that the earth held far more alluring treasures than plants. Hemery’s research has uncovered other possibilities: Jeffrey simply fell in love and absconded, maybe with a Native American woman, and settled down. Or that he was robbed and murdered.

What we know for sure is that Jeffrey’s letters dried up altogether and there were no more sightings of him, to the fury of his paymasters. In March 1854, they decided to relieve him of his duties, even though he had effectively beaten them to it.

The Association’s minutes record little appreciation of what Jeffrey had sent home, yet that amounted to at least 400 plant specimens and the seeds of 199 species.

No attempts were made to find him. But this fascinating book now helps to ensure that he is remembered for his achievements, and not simply for going missing.

– Green Gold by Gabriel Hemery is published by Unbound for £10.99, 280pp

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Arts, Books, Britain, Government, History, India, Politics

Book Reviews: The spectre of Amritsar

Intro: A hundred years ago British soldiers opened fire on a crowd of unarmed Indians. The massacre still haunts the history of empire today.

ON the morning of 10 April 1919, the city of Amritsar in Punjab found itself in the fiery grip of anti-colonial protests. The day had begun peacefully enough, but by early afternoon the town was up in arms as mobs of baying men shouting nationalistic slogans embarked on a spree of pillaging and burning. Britons who actually held power and sway over them were beyond reach, and so anybody with white skin became a target. Officials at the National Bank were severely beaten and stabbed, their bodies badly burned in a heap of office furniture and stationery. At the Alliance Bank, too, the manager was thrown out of the window, his decapitated and mangled corpse set on fire afterwards. While others began to rain blows on a statue of Queen Victoria, this was tempered somewhat as it had been argued that Her late Majesty ought not to be held responsible to the faults of her successors. With only marginal damage, most of her iconic image was spared. Throughout these protests, the air rang with cries of “Gandhi ki jai” (victory to the Mahatma), an irony which had taken a leave of absence at the very first eruption of disorder and violence.

As it happens, this is one of the many striking scenes that emerges from Kim Wagner’s excellent new book on the Amritsar Massacre of 1919. It is, undoubtedly, an intelligent and unsentimental insight into one of the most horrifying moments in the history of the Raj.

The events at Jallianwala Bagh on 13 April are well documented. Brigadier-General Dyer of the British Indian Army, one of the great villains of India’s colonial experience, had his soldiers open fire on a gathering of between 5,000 and 10,000 unarmed civilians in a confined garden. Hundreds were killed, while a thousand more lay wounded, unable even to seek aid due to curfew orders. As Wagner writes, the episode became “one of the best-known items on the imperial butcher’s bill” – not least because Dyer and his superiors showed little remorse. But while they were quick to telegram support, “Your action correct and Lieutenant Governor approves”, Dyer was lambasted in the House of Commons although he was lauded as a good soldier in the Lords. And as late as 1978, a subordinate defended him: he “killed, yes”, but “massacred, no”. The number of fatalities remains uncertain: Dyer claimed 200-300, estimated loosely from the 1,650 rounds fired, while the Indian National Congress suggested 1,000 people perished. An official commission into the massacre settled for 379, including a six-week-old baby.

A principle intention of Wagner’s study is to make historical and scholarly sense of this tragedy (as opposed to political or emotional). Some might suggest that both parties thought their actions legitimate. But, how did a massacre of this scale resemble justifiable military action for the Raj’s officials? Despite the atrocity he authored and approved, how did Dyer become the man who “Saved India”? To any neutral observer or reader of the situation this is a perfectly reasonable question to ask. He will be perceived in some quarters as butcher rather than saviour. And, how was it that thousands of people who set out with Gandhi’s name on their lips, could burn and loot, assaulting a middle-aged white woman and leave her for dead?

The nuanced approach applied by Wagner attempts to explain the inner workings of both sides. The Indians were certainly the victims, that there is no doubt: despite their violence on the eve of Jallianwala Bagh. Bricks and sticks ought never to have provoked any government to prepare air power against the people it governed. In the end, Amritsar narrowly escaped being bombed, but at nearby Gujranwala gunfire was indeed opened from above, with as many as eight bombs dropped on villagers. It was a disastrous overreaction, but one borne-out of paranoia that was as old as the empire itself.

Wagner scrutinises this paranoia with careful deliberation. Too often, he notes, Amritsar is viewed in isolation or as a catalyst for the concluding chapter in India’s struggle for freedom: it was in response to Jallianwala Bagh that Gandhi launched his movement of non-cooperation. He turns the focus on the decades that preceded Dyer, casting his actions as the culmination of a previous chapter. It is a compelling argument, and it helps us understand the gap between ruler and ruled more fully. The British were, it should be remembered, aliens in a large and complicated country, conscious that their power was never secure. Confidence where it did not exist was feigned. Confronted by bewildering diversity, the British introduced rigid one-size-fits-all rules and a cumbersome bureaucracy that eschewed face-to-face interactions with its people. Racial fallacies and misconceptions, missionary polemics and changes at home all affected India, but instead of bridging gaps, distances were exacerbated by a ruling class that remained perpetually aloof.

Sporadic small-scale mutinies occurred, but in 1857 northern India rose in revolt in the Great Rebellion, when Hindus joined with Muslims under the banner of an emasculated Mughal emperor. Whilst British power had clearly been rattled, instances of violence against British women and children were deliberately exaggerated. Such rumours led to horrified reactions at home and a brutal military response. The debacle saw power transferred from the East India Company to the Crown, and Queen Victoria issued a proclamation with several guarantees to her Indian subjects (later innovations such as income tax were resisted by citing the proclamation). The essential preoccupation of the British in India – of “the men on the ground” – was to maintain control and resist any challenge to what they feared was a tenuous authority.

A great deal came to depend on the attitude of the viceroys appointed by the Crown. Some won popularity among Indians – Lord Ripon’s progressive reforms, for example, alarmed his own countrymen – but, for nearly all of them, concessions would not be traded for control – which, in effect, limited their actions to tokenisms and kind words. Theoretically, rule under the Crown was meant to be more liberal than during the East India Company era. In reality, it soon became business as usual.

Wagner offers an explanation for the unyielding attitude of the Raj’s officials. In 1857 British power had come close to being extinguished: it was reasserted only with spectacular violence. The Mughal emperor was packed off to Burma on a bullock cart and violent punishments were designed for the rebels. In the 1870s, it was proposed that “blowing from a gun is an impressive and merciful manner of execution,” for it was “well-calculated to strike terror into the bystanders.” Or, in other words, for the British to control an unpredictable people, the colonial state had to be prepared to deploy violence – and to make it a public affair. When some openly criticised such methods, there was the press to ramp up support. “The truth is we want omelettes without the breaking of eggs,” declared the Anglo-Indian newspaper the Pioneer. In the years and decades preceding the Amritsar Massacre, these fears played in the minds of colonial officials: as Wagner writes, “In the British colonial imagination, the ‘Mutiny’ [of 1857] never ended.” In the circumstances, it was not surprising that mass gatherings began to look like founts of sedition.

In 1907, for instance, the government imagined local leaders in Punjab as being part of a Russian-Afghan conspiracy – and, in 1915, an unlikely revolt organised by Indian expatriates in America reinforced such fears. The Rowlatt Act of 1919 set the stage for crisis as political liberties were curtailed: people could be arrested without warrant and detained without trial, and the press was gagged, all in the name of security.

Public meetings were planned in Amritsar by prominent figures, but on the 10 April, they were taken into custody. The crowds gathered and protested and demanded a meeting with the authorities. The sheer size caused such concern to British officials that shots were fired. Several Indians were killed: the riots, in which bank officials were lynched and the banks looted, was the response. “Just as the British misread the nature of the protests,” writes Wagner, “so too did the population of Amritsar fail to grasp the extent to which their mass protests sent the authorities into paroxysms of panic.” Officials were hardened by seeing a “fanatical” mob; the masses saw nothing but arrogant officialdom. Add to this mix “the brute reality of popular politics” and the “dynamics of crowd violence”, and the stage was set for Dyer.

Dyer, the head of the 45th Brigade at Jalandhar, some 50 miles away, was not summoned to Amritsar, he appeared uninvited. He told his son: “There is a big show coming.” Martial law was imposed, and all public gatherings banned, but the men sent out to announce this did a hopeless and poorly executed job of the orders. Most people remained oblivious as to what was happening. A meeting previously planned went ahead, with Dyer promptly decreeing this as undisguised provocation. “I was conscious of a great offensive movement gathering against me,” he later wrote, “and knew that to sit still… would be fatal… I knew a military crisis had come and that to view the assembly as a mere political gathering…was wholly remote from the facts.”

For Dyer, Amritsar was “the storm centre of a rebellion”. Other officials, too, interpreted every hint of discontent as the rumblings of a treacherous conspiracy. “My mind was made up… If my orders were not obeyed, I would fire immediately.” To not act would entail the military losing face, and this would embolden refractory “natives”. Dyer insisted that he was simply doing his “horrible, dirty duty”.

There was another figure, aside from the synonymity of Dyer with Amritsar, whose views shaped British responses at that time: the man who telegrammed Dyer his words of approval, Sir Michael O’Dwyer, Lieutenant Governor of Punjab. Born and raised in Ireland to dislike nationalists in his own country, O’Dwyer brought his imperious style to India. As Anita Anand writes in her new book on Amritsar, ever since his arrival, “the new Lieutenant Governor had been categorising Indians like a botanist documenting interesting but potentially dangerous specimens”. The Mahratta Brahmin was “intelligent… but often treacherous”. O’Dwyer’s language was often putrid and unseemly labelling many in India as “virile” and, unless firmly and tactfully handed, “obstinate to the point of fanaticism.” When legal obstacles were raised, the trenchant O’Dwyer dismissed the courts as taking “too technical and narrow” a view of evidence. It should come as no surprise that he and Dyer got along just fine.

The Patient Assassin by Anand is primarily the story of Udham Singh, the revolutionary who would assassinate O’Dwyer in 1940 in belated retaliation for Jallianwala Bagh. The narrative is dramatic and fast-paced, with the protagonist bringing everyone together from the Soviets to the Americans. Very little is known about Udham’s early life, and what is known is enveloped in myth and misconception. When Udham claimed he was in Jallianwala Bagh on that fateful day in 1919, it was unclear whether he was even in the city. Either way, as he put it after shooting O’Dwyer, “For full 21 years [sic] I have been trying to wreak vengeance.” For him “the real culprit” who wanted to “crush the spirit of my people” was not Dyer but the ex-Lieutenant Governor.

Udham Singh began life as Sher Singh – and, in his lifetime, would also become Ude Singh, Frank Brazil, Mahomed Singh Azad, and finally Prisoner 1010. He had lost both his parents and his brother by the age of 16. Raised in an orphanage, he acquired carpentry as his only skill. Towards the end of 1917, he enlisted into the British Army, serving briefly in Basra before being deemed unfit for service. There was an impetuosity and impulsiveness about him, a yearning for greatness, a confused but determined love for his country, and a charm that often got him out of tricky corners.

It was thanks to his powers of persuasion that in 1918 he managed to re-enlist in the army, before retiring to Amritsar in more honourable circumstances after the war, in 1919. He was attracted to the politics of the Ghadar Party – that network of expatriates who sought unsuccessfully and often amateurishly, to liberate India by force – and became a pamphlet mule, spreading their message around Amritsar and in the wider Punjab. The urge to make a difference, though, had to be carried alongside that other urge to feed himself, so that by 1920 in was in Africa working for a railway line like thousands of “coolies”.

Anand does a meticulous and determined job of tracing his steps and is able to debunk more than one theory about him. Surprisingly, given that the Ghadars are integral to Udham Singh’s tale, Anand doesn’t offer anywhere near as a complete treatment of the political party as one would reasonably expect. He encountered them again in Africa: later sailing back to India with more sedition in his suitcase. By 1922, he embarked to the United States, where he rose in their underground ranks while working as a mechanic. Whenever immigration caught up with him, Udham moved, until 1927 when he quit the country. Returning to Amritsar, he was apprehended, and, after confessing to his political activism with the Ghadars, was imprisoned.

In another mystifying twist, he had acquired a fresh passport by 1933, and set out for London. In the years that followed, he found himself a mysterious English girlfriend, working as a peddler of clothing and household goods, sang the praises of the revolutionary hero Bhagat Singh, appeared as an extra in the 1937 movie Elephant Boy, and in 1940 finally accomplished what he had pledged to do: by assassinating Michael O’Dwyer.

On the afternoon of 13 March, O’Dwyer attended Caxton Hall in Westminster to hear a lecture on Afghanistan. His assassin was waiting in the audience. When at the end of the event, the 75-year-old rose to talk to the speakers, Udham approached and shot him twice through the heart at close range, before turning his revolver on three other senior Raj officials, who were injured but not killed. One of the first things Udham did after being taken into custody was to ask police for a cigarette.

After he was hanged in an English prison, Udham laid for decades buried under English soil. In 1974, his remains were handed over to the Indian government, and in 2018, a statute was installed at Jallianwala Bagh. But Udham Singh remains an enigma: he was resident in London in the 1920s when he could easily have achieved his goal – why he didn’t we cannot say. Despite the almost impossible task of truly understanding Udham’s motivations, Anand does produce an engaging account of the times and of this unlikely hero. And though she is gripped by her subject, the author does not shirk away from his human failings. His legend now has it as picking up the bloodied earth from Jallianwala Bagh and vowing revenge for his murdered “brothers and sisters”. That his how his new statue depicts him. A century on, understanding the events of 1919 in a dispassionate historical sense, is essential. Anand achieves that in diligent and studious literary style.

 

HOW these two remarkable books will be received in India is uncertain. A hundred years later, Amritsar is still a deep wound that has still not healed. There are portions in Wagner’s book which will sit especially uneasily with hyper-nationalists. Visiting British dignitaries, from Queen Elizabeth to David Cameron, have expressed regret about 1919 – the former called it “distressing” while the latter saw it as “deeply shameful” – but an outright apology has never been offered.

Perhaps this year the British government might be inspired to say the words it has so far avoided. So central has Amritsar become in collective memory that a sincere expression of remorse would not only offer closure for relatives of those who suffered from the orders issued by Dyer but could encapsulate all other acts of injustice sponsored by the Raj. Surely this is something worth the British government’s attention, 100 years after one of its own instigated a massacre against unarmed civilians.

Appendage:

Amritsar 1919: An Empire of Fear & the Making of a Massacre, by Kim A Wagner, is published by Yale University Press, for £20, 360pp

 

The Patient Assassin: A True Tale of Massacre, Revenge and the Raj, by Anita Anand, is published by Simon & Schuster, for £20, 384pp

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