In October of 1942, a Black man named Howard Wash stood trial in a Mississippi courtroom. He was convicted of taking the life of a white man. The jury spared him the death penalty. The law had spoken. But in Jim Crow’s America, the law was never the final word. That word belonged to the mob. And just hours after Howard was sentenced to life in prison, that mob stormed the jail, dragged him to a bridge, and lynched him.
This is the story of Howard Wash. And this is what happened when the law tried to speak—but injustice shouted louder.
A Life in Mississippi
Howard Wash was a 45-year-old Black man living with his wife Louise and their eight children on the Welborn Dairy Farm in Jones County, Mississippi. He worked as the livestock overseer; Louise worked as a maid for the white family that owned the land. They lived in a two-room shack on the property—modest, cramped, and surrounded by a system designed to control every part of their lives.
Howard, by all accounts, was a hard worker. But he wasn’t liked by Clint Welborn, the white man who owned the farm. Clint thought Howard drank too much. He wanted him gone. On May 18, 1942, Clint called for Howard to report to the barn. What happened next would change everything.
The Fight in the Barn
Witnesses later said Clint had to call Howard repeatedly. When Howard finally arrived, carrying milk buckets, the two began arguing. Then shouting. Then fighting.
Howard said Clint tried to hit him with a shovel. Howard defended himself with the buckets. When the fight ended, Clint lay bloodied on the barn floor with a broken nose, cuts across his face, and a nearly severed finger—bitten during the struggle. Howard fled. He had been in a fight for his life.
But in Jim Crow’s South, there was no such thing as self-defense for a Black man. His victory meant he had to be punished. And the punishment would not be decided in court—not really.
On the Run
Howard fled to his cousin’s home, asking for shelter. His cousin refused—not out of coldness, but fear. The mob didn’t just come for the accused. They came for anyone who helped. He gave Howard what money he could and told him to go.
Sheriff J. Press Reddoch launched a manhunt with bloodhounds. Clint Welborn died two days later. The pressure to capture Howard intensified. Howard managed to evade capture for weeks. But in late June, he was found seventy miles away in Poplarville. He told police the truth: he had defended himself. But truth meant nothing when a white man was dead. He was charged and returned to face trial.
The Trial
Howard was defended by an attorney named Luther Saul. Saul pleaded with the state to accept a manslaughter plea. Howard had no criminal record. The attack was not premeditated. It was self-defense. But that was not something Jim Crow could accept. Clint’s family rejected the plea. So did the state. Howard would be tried for murder.
On October 15, 1942, the trial began. Clint’s daughter testified. Howard took the stand in his own defense. He told the jury what happened: Clint had cursed him, then tried to hit him with a shovel. He used the buckets to block the blow.
The all-white jury deliberated and convicted Howard. But several jurors refused to vote for the death penalty. So under Mississippi law, he was sentenced to life in prison. It was rare—a small act of restraint in a system that usually showed none. But even that was too much mercy for the mob.
What the Court Gave vs. What the Mob Took
That night, fifty white men gathered at Ford’s store near Shady Grove. By 11:30 p.m., the mob had grown to nearly one hundred. They surrounded the jail.
Howard’s wife, Louise, had visited him just hours earlier. She brought their two youngest children. They talked. She asked if he had been praying. He said yes. He told her to raise their children the best she could. Then he whispered in her ear: a man was not born to live forever. That would be their last moment.
The mob stormed the jail. Howard was dragged out of his cell. He wasn’t even allowed to put on shoes. He was taken to the Welborn property, a noose placed around his neck, the other end tied to the Welborn Bridge. Then they threw him over. Seven hours after his sentence, Howard was dead. The mob did what the court would not.
Aftermath and Silence
Howard’s death made national headlines. Governor Paul Johnson pledged action. The FBI got involved. The sheriff arrested a few men. But after pressure from local businessmen, charges were dropped or reduced.
A grand jury was convened. It issued a report that never even mentioned Howard’s lynching.
Eventually, the U.S. Justice Department stepped in and brought charges against several white men. The federal government took notice. Days after Howard’s lynching, U.S. Attorney General Francis Biddle ordered the FBI to investigate—not just Howard’s death, but a string of lynchings that had shamed the nation. On January 13, 1943, a federal grand jury indicted five men: Barney Jones, a plant worker; Nathaniel T. Shotts, a grocery clerk; Allen Welborn Pryor, a pipe fitter; William Johnson, a farmer; and the jailer, Luther Holder, the jailer who was accused of helping the mob gain access to Howard’s cell. It was the first time since Reconstruction that the federal government had brought criminal charges in a lynching case in Mississippi. It wouldn’t be the last time Black resistance forced the hand of American justice—but it was one of the first.
The trial began in April at the federal courthouse in Hattiesburg. The courtroom was filled with tension. Federal prosecutors presented eyewitness testimony, FBI findings, and the men’s own words. Sheriff J. Press Reddoch testified. So did Judge Burkitt Collins and District Attorney Alexander Currier. Even with all of this—confessions, evidence, witnesses—only two of the five men remained on trial by the end. And the jury? All white. All male. Mostly farmers. One banker.
When it came time to deliberate, one juror reportedly wanted to convict. But he was silenced. And just like that, the verdict came down: not guilty.
These were not random men. These were not questions without answers. The case was clear. But clarity didn’t matter. The truth didn’t matter. Howard Wash had been convicted by a jury for surviving. His lynchers were cleared by a jury for killing him.
The law had spoken. And once again, it spoke on behalf of Jim Crow.
