The Tuscaloosa Boogeyman: The Forgotten Story Of An Alabama Monster

DISCLAIMER: This story contains graphic language and situations that might not be suitable for readers of all ages.

TUSCALOOSA, AL — A young man in his early thirties sat on a wagon bench holding the reins behind two tired horses as they loped down an unpaved Tuscaloosa street in the fall of 1867. A future biographer would describe him as a man with ambition in his piercing eyes and his later enemies would decry him as one of the most vile human beings in existence.

Click here to subscribe to our free Tuscaloosa Daily newsletter and breaking news alerts

Ryland Randolph had been born a child of privilege to a slave-owning family in the planter aristocracy of Culpepper County, Virginia in 1835. He had traveled the world as a child with his midshipman father, became a decorated cavalryman for the Confederate Army during the Civil War and was later praised for his courage by none-other than Lieutenant General Nathan Bedford Forrest, who would go on to form the first formal incarnation of the Ku Klux Klan.

Randolph — a handsome, sturdy man with a thick mustache and dark curly hair — was one of the innumerable men to survive the war, only to return home to face uncertainty amid military occupation and Reconstruction.

Coming from nearby Greensboro, where he had briefly stayed with a wealthy relative following the war, one account said Randolph had been reduced to a wagonload of possessions — a crude cot, worn bedding, some chairs, and a trunk — and the fractional currency he always carried in a large billfold in his coat pocket.

He had just purchased a Tuscaloosa newspaper for $3,000 and admitted to friends and associates that he had very little confidence in its prospects or his own ability to even fill its columns.

It would be this seemingly simple beginning, though, that would represent the genesis of an unprecedented era of racial and politically-motivated violence in Tuscaloosa County, the likes of which would not be seen again until the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan in the 1950s and 60s.

The Context

Randolph was a polarizing statewide celebrity during his day and well-documented in local newspapers. One illuminating, albeit dated, work of research provides the best verified insight into the life and times of one of the most dangerous men to ever walk the streets of Tuscaloosa.

In 1932, University of Alabama graduate student Gladys Ward published a vivid 64-page biography on Randolph as part of her course work that cited letters, interviews and other primary source material to paint the most comprehensive narrative to date of Randolph's life.

Indeed, the biography was a product of its time, clinging tight to romanticized "Lost Cause" ideology, while exclusively portraying the White players involved in acts of racial violence as chivalrous and noble in their Arthurian quest to preserve the values of their defeated people.

But, after noting the obvious context that can't be ignored with respect to the biographer's own bias, her research gives the reader a stark and, at times, unflinching portrait of who Randolph was and how he lived his life, as provided many times in his own words and those of his friends and enemies alike.

In an effort to collect these fascinating stories of our local history to be saved for future generations, Tuscaloosa Patch set out to contextualize and update the story of Ryland Randolph, who no doubt should be viewed as one of the most sinister and notorious figures in Tuscaloosa history.

'The Fighting Editor'

After dropping out of what would become the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa following his junior year, Randolph enlisted in the 7th Alabama Cavalry regiment in the spring of 1863 and would ascend to the rank of first lieutenant under Lieutenant General Nathan Bedford Forrest. The regiment was disbanded after a forced surrender at Gainesville in Sumter County, Alabama on May 14, 1865.

During his time riding with Forrest and the 7th Alabama, Randolph would be involved most notably at the Battle of Johnsonville, Tennessee in 1864. The rout by Confederate forces would be viewed as one of Forrest's most victorious moments and is credited with contributing to extending the war. In another instance just before the end of the war, Randolph was praised for not losing a single man when he led a unit behind Union lines to cut telegraph cables.

But, the war would eventually end in humiliation for the Confederacy and brought financial ruin to many who survived its destruction. Randolph, however, appeared to be something of an exception.

Randolph’s biography states he made a short tour through Texas following the war, viewing land owned by his father, before returning to Alabama to visit his wealthy uncle Theoderic Randolph in Greensboro. The young man was at least partially college-educated and pondered how he would make his own way in the chaos of the world around him.

That's when he settled on the newspaper business, mainly due to his passion for writing.

After putting down a $1,500 deposit for a business of his own, the first issue of the Independent Monitor with Randolph as editor was published on Oct. 17, 1867.

A prideful man, Randolph turned down any and all help in his early days. And despite being a well-travelled and educated man from the upper levels of society, his fighting spirit had only been emboldened by defeat during the war. To make matters worse, fomenting tensions due to the Union occupation of the city and the newfound freedom of many African-Americans began to manifest in the form of unfettered barbarism.

"He had to work the greater part of two nights to get the paper ready on time, because the numerous visitors in his office during the days took up most of his time," his biography states. "On the desk in his office these visitors saw a collection of weapons, a double barrel gun, two derringer pistols, and a spring blade knife, and began to speak of him as the ‘fighting editor.’”

A Campaign Of Terror

Due mostly to Randolph's lack of decorum and raw approach to his craft, The Independent Monitor quickly developed a reputation as the most ravenous local opponent of expanded rights for freed slaves. It regularly took harsh aim at policymakers, university officials and those in the Black community as it railed against what it viewed as an unjust occupation of The South.

The newspaper's motto was direct with this sentiment:

"The White Man—Right or Wrong—Still The White Man."

While its first issues stirred immediate controversy, it also was met with an outpouring of support from other former Confederates and locals who viewed themselves as "Unreconstructed."

A range of academic research shows that Ku Klux Klan organizations began forming in unofficial, somewhat disorganized chapters — or Klaverns, as they would later be known — in certain parts of Alabama in the winter of 1866.

Two years later, in the spring of 1868 and while riding a vitriolic wave of White anger throughout The South, Randolph would form the first official Klavern in Tuscaloosa County.

"It was an independent organization, having no connection with the general Klan," Gladys Ward pointed out in 1932, citing letters written by Randolph. "About twenty men banded together and chose Sipsey Swamp, which was about fifteen miles west of Northport, for their headquarters. New members were added until there were finally about sixty men in this Klan."

Still today, many argue that the Ku Klux Klan was originally intended to function as a well-intentioned vigilante group with the noble task of protecting virtue in their communities in the face of Union oppressors.

However, even Randolph's 1932 biography states "The purpose of the Klan was to terrorize and punish insolent negroes and disreputable whites who seemed to affiliate socially with them. For protection and to frighten the negroes, a disguise was worn."

The Tuscaloosa Klavern would reportedly meet in the Sipsey Swamp once a week during its early days, but the men seemed to grow bored with clandestine grandstanding and began to thirst for direct action. Targets for lynchings or violence would then be voted on by a majority of the Klavern, before the hooded men set out under the cover of darkness to try and strike fear into anyone who opposed them.

In his letters, Randolph described how some victims were taken to the “old boneyard” on the outskirts of town and given "sound whippings" before being left tied to trees to either die or be rescued by residents of the surrounding area who heard their screams for help.

Back inside the Tuscaloosa city limits, Randolph reportedly made no attempt to hide his private affiliations as he posted "Klan Orders" on city streets and regularly in his newspaper, despite running afoul of United States General George G. Meade — the world-famous military icon and commander of the district that included Tuscaloosa. Meade had issued an order prohibiting newspapers from committing acts of intimidation that threatened the new established order.

By this time, Randolph had been elevated within the Klavern to the title Grand Giant of the Province of Tuscaloosa County — the highest ranking KKK figure in the region.

Instead of lowering his profile to avoid the attention of authorities, Randolph doubled down upon receiving news of the mandate, even publishing a "Black List" of those in the community who were deemed particularly "odious and incendiary." These included freed former slaves and the White business owners and farmers who legally employed them.

As Randolph's biography explains, a Black man could have his name removed from the list by withdrawing from the local Radical Party and making a public declaration of the action in the Independent Monitor. Ward even goes so far as to claim — while providing little evidence to the contrary — that those removed from the list would then be placed under the protection of the Klan from their "former political friends."

While rabble rousing in town and stirring up fears in the local Black community had developed into Randolph's favorite past time and most lucrative business venture, it was clear he was on an obvious path to escalation that would only intensify as social tensions mounted.

On March 28, 1868 — just a few weeks after the Tuscaloosa Klavern was formed — Randolph was reportedly involved in a fight at an auction sale in downtown Tuscaloosa that resulted in him stabbing a Black man numerous times. The attack was so vicious, in fact, multiple accounts state that Randolph actually broke off the blade of his knife in the other man's back.

Following the fight being broken up and the injured man, who would ultimately survive, whisked away for care, Randolph was matter-of-fact about the bloody incident and returned to his downtown office. His demeanor was reportedly easy-going, despite the calls of his friends to leave town and hide out in the Fosters community until the potential subsided for any retaliation against him.

Randolph ultimately turned himself over to authorities and a military tribunal was convened for his trial due to justifiable fears that a local circuit court would fail to convict him. He was put on trial in Selma and ultimately found not guilty of attempted murder after a concerted push by White power brokers in Tuscaloosa to lobby military authorities on his behalf.

He would return to Tuscaloosa in May of 1868 to a hero's welcome, as he was driven in a coach by a Black Tuscaloosa barber named Dossie Roberts.

As they made their way down what is now Greensboro Avenue, church bells rang out in celebration of Randolph's freedom and speeches were given by local dignitaries upon his arrival.

"Randolph considered his fight with Balus Eddins the proudest act of his life," his biographer wrote less than three decades after his death. "He believed the results advantageous to the whites of Tuscaloosa … and helpful to other communities that had 'insolent, overbearing negroes.'"

The cheering crowds would only give way to anger and hostility, however, in the weeks that followed as calls for federal suppression and censorship of Randolph and his newspaper mounted. The pressure got so bad, in fact, that Randolph was left with no choice other than to take up his previously declined offer of a hideout in Fosters in rural Tuscaloosa County.

After extensive debate among provisional government officials, during which time two weekly editions of the Independent Monitor were not published, Randolph was allowed to return to Tuscaloosa and resume regular operations at the newspaper.

Emboldened by the authority’s unwillingness to hold his actions to account, Randolph's regular behavior became even more violent and antagonistic. In once instance, he reportedly slapped a rival newspaper editor — Dennis Dykous — in the face on a Tuscaloosa street after taking issue with his portrayal in the opposing newspaper.

He then leveled a pistol at Dykous and threatened to kill him as the older man raised his cane to fight back. For that offense, Randolph would be cited and fined $20, but the harassment continued as Randolph would regularly threaten to beat Dykous if he ever saw a negative word printed about him or the Independent Monitor.

The public attacks were relentless and eventually Dykous would be forced to leave Tuscaloosa, fearing for his life.

Zenith & Decline

Despite the regular acts of terroristic violence and constant public backlash, Randolph found time to marry and make trips to Blount Springs to visit his ailing father. One account states that Randolph would regularly take his wife to a local cemetery early in their marriage to teach her how to shoot a gun, as she constantly feared for her own safety due to the violence caused by her husband’s politics.

But it would be in 1869 that Randolph's fury reached its most volatile point, resulting in those in his own political party turning their backs on him. His downfall would start following the death of a White man involved in an attempted lynch mob, which saw Randolph raise a bloodthirsty posse of about 80 men on what is now Main Avenue in Northport. One Black man was eventually captured by the mob and taken from the Old Tuscaloosa Jail, before being hanged in front of the former State Capitol building.

Another man allegedly sought by the mob would be on the run for a year before being found dead on the side of a rural road in Hale County.

What's more, it was in 1869, with his reputation in need of rescue, that Randolph turned his focus to what would become a short-lived political career. Securing a seat in the state House of Representatives, he would go on only to become a pariah amongst his colleagues and be expelled from the legislature before his first full term was up.

Randolph especially took issue during this time with the reopening of the University of Alabama as a "Reconstructed" institution run by "scalawags and carpetbaggers." He rode that attitude into office and devoted most of his energy to attacks on the new university administration and faculty.

Chief among his new enemies were State Superintendent of Education N. B. Cloud, and Rev. A. S. Lakin, whose likenesses would be portrayed in a controversial woodcut drawing showing the two men hanging from a tree, while a horse with the letters "KKK" on its side is pictured in the foreground. While Randolph hoped the woodcut was scare the men into leaving town, they would reportedly never see it because they had already left in the wake of sustained threats and harassment from those in Tuscaloosa.

But an unintended consequence of Randolph's actions would manifest shortly thereafter when his political allies argued that the controversial cartoon would be used against them in upcoming elections — a notion that proved to be well-founded. To save face, Randolph would issue a hollow apology, claiming the woodcut has been misinterpreted and was nothing more than a joke.

Numerous attempts were made in the spring of '69 through Randolph's campaign of fear to block the opening of the University of Alabama. A long list of administrations and university leaders were run out of town, but there would always be more bodies to replace them, prompting Randolph to saddle up for a long battle.

It would be in vain, though, as his life was about to take a turn for the worst.

It was on the morning of April 1, 1870 that Randolph was standing on a street corner talking to some associates when a man walking by brushed up against him. Angered by the passerby, Randolph punched the man, before both of them drew their pistols. The other man fired first, with the bullet striking Randolph but being blocked by the heavy billfold he kept in his coat pocket. Another bullet fired by one of the men struck and killed an innocent bystander where he stood.

Randolph's assailant then ran, with the former Confederate army officer giving chase and firing all of the rounds in his revolver before simply throwing the pistol at the man as he tried to duck into a downtown store. As he stumbled through the store, the man turned and fired a final shot at Randolph, striking him just above the knee. Despite trying to continue the pursuit, Randolph passed out from blood loss and later saw his leg amputated after gangrene set in — leaving a stump of about four inches that made it impossible for Randolph to walk with a prosthetic leg.

For the rest of his life, Randolph suffered from neuralgia and intermittent bouts of morphine addiction, in addition to being limited to the use of a cane and crutch for his mobility.

He would undertake a failed bid for state senate in the 1870s and ultimately return to the newspaper business as he feared his family would fall into poverty. However, the attempt at a comeback would accomplish little in elevating his station to its former glory.

"In the latter part of 1871, Randolph admitted that the Monitor had received more censure than praise in its impartial exposure of evil and evil doers, and that he had grown tired of making war alone," his biographer wrote.

Randolph and his wife would leave Tuscaloosa in that year and try their hand at farming and owning a hotel in St. Clair County, before briefly returning to Tuscaloosa, where Randolph was the editor of a small, antagonist newspaper called The Blade.

The couple would ultimately move to their final home in Birmingham for Randolph to become editor of a newspaper called True Issue. While his public demeanor was much more tempered, Randolph continued to use incendiary language in the newspaper as he railed against pro-Black lawmakers and his ever-growing list of enemies.

The last true rough-and-tumble action Randolph would see in his violent life would be the result of one-such printed attack on Alexander Lane — a rival newspaper editor who would later become the mayor of Birmingham. Lane was angered by Randolph's mean-spirited tirades and after seeing his enemy sitting outside of a downtown restaurants, he decided to take action.

Randolph's biographer, who interviewed Lane, said he walked up to where Randolph sat, yelling at him to defend himself, before he took out a gun and shot the crippled former Confederate calvary officer in the neck, narrowly missing his carotid artery. The bitter old man would manage to survive, but would never work in the newspaper business again.

By all accounts, declining health following two serious injuries, coupled with the death of his wife in 1901, left Randolph a defeated and broken man in his last couple of years.

In the spring of 1903, though, the 67-year-old Randolph boarded a trolley in Birmingham bound for his home and reportedly "rested heavily" on his crutches as he stood in the aisle.

"The car started with a jerk, and he was thrown backward full length," Ward wrote in the closing of his heavily-sourced and annotated biography. "His head struck the iron plate which covered the door sill, and he was knocked unconscious. He never recovered his strength, and he died April 5, 1903."

Little was mentioned about Randolph's two sons, one of whom died before his father's biography was written, while the other resided in Birmingham and participated in an interview with the biographer.

Randolph was buried in Birmingham's East Lake Cemetery in a Confederate memorial grave showing his rank as a 1st lieutenant in the 7th Alabama Calvary. The resting place is a peaceful and dignified one for a man who spent so much of his life on a violent quest to oppress others. Many walk within eyeshot of the headstone every year, likely unaware of the real-life monster buried there, which stands as another example of how easy it is for the stories of our community to be lost to history if not remembered.

Have a news tip or suggestion on how I can improve Tuscaloosa Patch? Maybe you're interested in having your business become one of the latest sponsors for Tuscaloosa Patch? Email all inquiries to me at ryan.phillips@patch.com