Through Tender Thorns

by Barbara Morriss

  Praise for

  Through Tender Thorns

  “In Morriss’ Depression-era drama, an orphaned girl finds unexpected sanctuary on a horse ranch in Missouri. In 1874, a rioting mob of “Red Shirts” perpetrated the massacre of more than a hundred freed Black men, women, and children in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Among the victims of this bloody violence are the Black de-facto wife and unborn child of Buckus Del Henny, son of an antebellum plantation owner. Bereaved and enraged, Buckus retrieves the family’s hidden treasure and heads north until he reaches the outskirts of Springfield, Missouri, where he purchases a vast tract of land marked by a 50-foot-long hedge of thorny Osage orange trees...It is within this protected enclave, in 1931, that we meet the nervous main protagonist, 16-year-old Maizie Sunday Freedman, bereft of family and seeking employment at what is now the Glidewell Ranch. But the ugliness of racism, with which the novel opens, is a continuing thread that pierces the entire narrative, even within the welcoming arms of the ranch. Morriss’ character-driven tale is a poignant period piece covering the next five years of Maizie’s life....Morriss generates solid tension in sections devoted to the thrills, disappointments, and dangers of horse racing, treating readers to a primer on the public and private details of the sport.

  “Engaging and tender, with vivid characters.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  Through

  Tender

  Thorns

  Barbara Morriss

  THROUGH TENDER THORNS

  by Barbara Morriss

  Copyright © 2021 by Barbara Morriss

  Published by:Bygone Tales Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to the author.

  This is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Jana Rade

  ISBN:978-1-7362066-1-4 Paperback Edition

  978-1-7362066-0-7 Digital Edition

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021902627

  Author services by Pedernales Publishing, LLC

  www.pedernalespublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  XX-v9

  Author’s Note

  In the year 1874, Peter Crosby, a former slave and veteran of the Civil War, was elected sheriff in Vicksburg, Mississippi. As a result, Mr. Batchelor, a white planter enraged by the rising political power of the freed slaves, called for a race war. He acquisitioned brand-new Winchester rifles to remove Sheriff Crosby, to terrify his supporters, and to suppress their involvement in politics. In December, white men wearing red loose-fitting tunics disrupted a meeting of Sheriff Crosby and his supporters. These men, firearms raised, removed the sheriff from the meeting, essentially kidnapping the duly elected official. As Crosby’s supporters ran for safety, many were gunned down. Over several days, the Red Shirts, an armed militia of white supremacists, swept through the area killing and lynching Black people in their homes and in the fields. Although statistics vary, recent historians speculate that as many as 150 to 300 innocent freedmen and women lost their lives during the Vicksburg Massacre.

  Chapter 1

  The Vicksburg Massacre

  1874

  When Buckus Del Henny returned to his farm, he was filled with anticipation. His trip up the Mississippi to St. Louis had been fruitful, his pockets full of money. As Buckus approached his family home resting in cotton fields, he knew immediately something was wrong. The deafening silence alerted him to unimaginable horror. Looking toward the sky he saw a circling of broad-winged, crimson-headed birds, suspended in time like a Devil’s curse. In the distance he saw two bodies hanging from a low limb of an old gnarly oak. “Dear God,” he whispered. He stopped, immobilized by fear, then summoned his courage and ran. Heart racing, feet pumping, he hurried through the killing fields toward his family home, stepping over the bodies of his farm workers shot in the back, the head, and the heart.

  “Hattie! Hattie!” he cried, his voice filled with raw fear.

  He stopped to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. Nauseated, he bent over and retched. Wiping the vomit from his mouth with his coat sleeve, he looked around. “Hattie!” he yelled again. He squinted into the winter sun, his fair skin now red from exertion. Adjusting his hat to block the sun’s rays from his deep blue eyes, he noticed a body lying near the back porch of the house. The sight filled him with dread; his knees buckled.

  He approached Hattie, lying motionless in her favorite sky-blue dress. A dark red stain on her side confirmed his fear. Squatting, he put his hand to her wrist, throat, and chest. A pulse, a heartbeat. She was alive. “Praise God,” he whispered. He settled into the earth and began to sob as he shook her gently.

  Her eyes opened and she reached for his hand, her fingers trembling. “Buck?”

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

  “Buck,” she whispered. “You gotta run. They’s gonna kill you.”

  “Shhhh, don’t you fret, Hattie. Who did this?”

  Hattie’s deep brown eyes were glistening with tears. “Red Shirts. I heard ’em comin’. I tried to run.” She put one hand on her side and with the other found Buck’s hand. She gripped tightly to lessen the agony.

  Buck lifted Hattie’s head into his lap and gently rubbed her swollen abdomen. He rocked her and kissed her head. “Hattie, please. Stay quiet. I’ll get you in the house. You and the baby gonna be fine.”

  “Leave us. Go, Buck. They’s lookin’ for you,” she said weakly. He placed her head against his chest, her coppery skin moist with perspiration. Holding her in his arms, he provided what comfort he could, her body warm against his, her eyes closed. He said a prayer. Kissed her forehead, stroked her cheek and then her hair. He waited. After what seemed an eternity filled with desperate prayers, her eyes fluttered softly.

  She took her last, quiet breath. He laid Hattie gently on the ground. He removed his coat, raised her head and placed the soft sheepskin lining under her head and shoulders. He stood and walked to the water trough, took off his hat and dunked his head in the icy water, hoping he would wake up from this nightmare. But there was no awakening.

  Looking to the heavens he asked, “Dear God, what would you have me do?” He gazed across the field. Seeing several buzzards land in the hanging tree, he had his answer.

  Buckus left Hattie where she lay. He ran to the tree and threw small fieldstones, hitting one vulture on its breast. Reluctantly, all the birds gave up their roost and flew to a nearby fence rail. He reached in his pocket for his knife, opened the blade and placed the handle in his mouth. Climbing to the hanging limb, he cut the ropes. Amos and Pap, a father and son, fell the nine feet to the ground, one at a time. The thuds sickened him.

  He climbed down and walked back to where Hattie lay. He covered her with a blanket he found on a rocker near the back door. With Hattie safe from the gathering buzzards, he returned to the oak tree. With all his strength he picked up Amos and carried him to the barn. He laid the young man gently on the barn floor, brushed dirt from his hair and said another prayer. He returned for Old Pap. Finding strength he didn’t know he had, he dragged or carried the rest of the ten bodies, one by one, down the cotton rows and into the barn. He could only imagine the terror his freedmen had suffered as they
tried to flee from the marauders through the barren cotton fields. He had known these men and women all his life. A sob caught in his throat as rage boiled inside him. There would be no seed planting this March or perhaps ever, the songs of their voices silenced.

  He grabbed a shovel and walked to the corner of the barn. He lifted an old rug and threw it to the side, then began the task of digging up a large strongbox that contained the family’s antebellum gold and silver. His thoughts went to his younger brother Tyler, a Red Shirt, a confederate sympathizer. He was certain his brother had participated in the raid. He dragged the strongbox to his buckboard, opened it and removed the gold and silver bricks, which allowed him to lift it into the bed of his buckboard. He then placed the fortune back in the strongbox. He would leave no gold or silver to support his brother’s beliefs and hateful actions. He presumed it was God’s will that he, Buckus Del Henny, put the money to a better use than killing freedmen and women. The Civil War was not over in Vicksburg.

  Buckus hitched his mules to the wagon and tied his horse and cow to the rails. He placed the old carpet from the barn over the strong box and began to place items around it. He loaded half his wagon with the necessities for travel: food, warm clothing, a pan, a few utensils, a bedroll, lantern, a canteen, more hay and his Bible. Placing his shotgun under the seat, he returned to Hattie and rolled her body in an old tarp. He carried her and placed her gently in the wagon bed on a cushion of straw, and then covered her with hay.

  Buckus waited for the sun to set, hoping the Red Shirts and his brother would not return. Under the cover of darkness, he poured kerosene around the barn and struck a match. He stood for a moment saying a prayer for all the freedmen’s souls. Jumping on the seat of the wagon, he snapped the reins and headed up a back country road to the north. He planned to bury Hattie in a beautiful place away from here, a place secure and safe. A place where nothing could hurt her. If he’d been home when the Red Shirts attacked, he would have fought to his death. He would have died with Hattie and their unborn child. As the barn crackled behind him, Buckus slapped the reins and began a journey north.

  After a few days on the road Buckus neared the town of Yazoo City. He had an errand to run. Just outside of town he visited the Old Livery Mercantile and saw a five-foot-long pine toolbox. It appeared that the box was not being used, so Buckus inquired about it. “You know, I could use that box. It for sale?”

  “Yep. Don’t have no need for it now.”

  “How much?”

  “Seems you need it and I don’t. You got three dollars? Real money. Coin is what I want.” Buckus nodded, produced the coins from his pants pocket. The two men lifted the old box behind Buckus’s seat and secured it to the rails with rope.

  Later that day, Buckus made camp and reorganized his belongings in the wagon bed. He pulled the pine box from its roost and placed Hattie’s shrouded body gently in the makeshift coffin. He took a loose photograph and envelope from his Bible. Thumbing through the well-worn pages he found a verse and tore it out. He carefully placed it, along with the photo in the envelope, at the top of the coffin. Then he set the lid on top and covered the box with hay. The task caused his knees to grow weak. As he fought back tears and feelings of anger, images of that horrible day combined into a terrible truth that tore at the fiber of his being. Hattie, his child, and his happy future were gone. An image of Hattie appeared in his mind, her smile warm, her laughter engaging. In that moment, as tired as he was, Buckus found renewed strength. Breathing deeply, he returned to the business of bedding down for the night.

  Weeks passed, and Buckus Del Henny, exhausted and cold, neared Springfield, Missouri. As he sat on his wagon, he raised the collar on his coat and blew warm air into his cold hands. He remained motionless and deep in thought. A fellow traveler on the road told him about an area north of Springfield—beautiful country with rolling hills and a natural well that bubbled to the surface. “It was sacred ground to the Osage Indians,” the man said. “They are all gone now, relocated.” The traveler described an outcropping that rose high into the sky on a hill about a half mile from the road. “If you keep your eyes open, you’ll see a nearly overgrown trail that winds towards the hills. It is marked by a row of hedge trees. Why, it’s beautiful up there. Used to go there when I was a kid. Think folks have forgotten about it.”

  “You say not much going on up there?”

  “See most folks scared ’cause the Indians were there and buried their dead on the land. But I never saw nothing that scared me ’ceptin’ a bear that was sleeping in the cave near the spring.”

  “Think I could squat there for a while?”

  “Think you could.”

  Buckus thanked the traveler and shook his hand. He offered the man a ride into Springfield, but the traveler declined. “Got kin in Tennessee. Haven’t been back since the war. Don’t know if they’ll want me since I fought for the north. Seems the wounds of war cut deep.” Buckus understood the pain of kin problems. He nodded and went on his way.

  When Buckus was close to Springfield he pulled to the side of the road. He jumped from his seat and stretched his weary legs. Unhitching the mule team, cow and horse, he led them to a nearby stream, and then tied them to saplings near the water’s edge. He removed what hay he had and spread it for the animals. The snow fell in earnest now; he needed to find shelter and start a fire before the cold settled into his bones. Searching through the wagon bed, he found a few small limbs and kindling, enough to keep him warm, he hoped.

  Nearly two months on the road had given Buckus plenty of time to think. He knew what God meant for him to do. He’d find that spring and cave, bury Hattie and build himself a cabin and a small barn. He’d live out his life in peace where there was no hate. He wouldn’t bother no one.

  Chapter 2

  The Destination

  Springfield was more city than Buckus had seen in his entire life. Buckboards, men on horseback, and enclosed carriages moved along the town’s muddy roads. The boardwalks were crowded with pedestrians—men, women, and children going about their business. In all the hustle and bustle, it took Buckus a while to find a general store. He parked his rig on a snow-dusted vacant lot. He worried briefly about the security of his load and gave a young lad a few coins to sit on the wagon seat.

  Buckus returned to his wagon with several store clerks who helped him load his provisions of dried meat and fruit, a few tools for digging, and enough wood posts to build a holding pen for his livestock. He would need other things come spring, like a chicken or two and seeds for planting, but for now he felt he could hold out in a cave just fine.

  Sensing his job was finished, the young boy climbed from his seat. “Where you headed with all that stuff?”

  “Home,” Buckus said and stepped up into the wagon, tipped his hat to the lad, and picked up the reins.

  “Where’s home, stranger?” Buckus smiled for the first time since that awful day. Turning back to the child he simply pointed north and said, “Yonder, son. Home is yonder.”

  Unlike the city of Springfield, the road out of town was lonely. He was encouraged as outcroppings began to appear on the landscape—limestone just like the traveler had said. He kept his eyes to the east looking for a significant rock formation jutting from the top of a hill, an overgrown wagon trail and a stand of hedge trees. He began to worry that he might never find such a place. Perhaps the traveler had made it all up. The drifter seemed like a good sort, but you never know.

  And then, without rhyme or reason, his mules stopped short, braying loudly. “Giddy up, you dang mules!” But the beasts wouldn’t move. Buckus sighed and put down his reins. Tired, he leaned back on his seat and closed his weary eyes. As Buckus rested, a thundering in the distance echoed against the hills. He opened his eyes and looked toward the sound. There, due north, appeared a soft, brown, low moving cloud. It gained size as it came closer. As Buckus’s eyes focused, the brown cloud became instead a mass
of shapes: horses, wild mustangs galloping toward him. As if on cue the horses turned to cross the road on which Buckus and his wagon were parked, one after another, a string of them, taut and beautiful, headed into the hills.

  Buckus sat up quickly, picked up his reins and slapped the mules with authority. The team complied and headed to where the mustangs had run. He noticed a large limestone outcropping on the top of a high hill. And then, a stand of hedge trees and a trail, trampled with fresh mustang hoof prints came into view. He turned off the road onto the wagon trail. Confident now that he was nearing his destination, Buckus felt his energy return.

  When the trail ended, high up on the hill, he climbed from his seat and looked up at the outcropping. He felt dwarfed by its scale. As his eyes scanned the face of the rock, he felt a surge of vertigo and stepped back. Walking around its base, he came upon the cave, positioned near an artesian spring and natural reservoir. He found the cave to be free of bear, cat, and wolf scat. Feeling quite secure that at least for now the cave was his, he got to work. He fed and watered his animals. Taking his pickax from the wagon he dug a fire pit in the floor of the cave and lined it with stone. He gathered wood and built a fire. He rested and fell asleep, enjoying a deep slumber, too tired to worry.

  The next day Buckus buried Hattie under an oak tree in an open field. The ground was packed hard, but not frozen. Broken limestone bits made digging a challenge even with his new pick and shovel. When he finally laid her coffin in the grave, he said a silent prayer. And then he quoted John 16:22 aloud: “And ye now therefore have sorrow but I will see you again and your heart will rejoice.”

  Taking up his shovel, he covered her with the loose dirt and limestone. He gathered sizable fieldstones and placed them on top to discourage any resident scavenger from disturbing her grave. Looking up into the stately tree that stood as her protector, he was satisfied. This was the spot he’d sought. This was Hattie’s place of rest.