Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  HARVEST

  of THORNS

  Paul E. Wootten

  Text Copyright ã 2016 Paul E. Wootten

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. In cases where historical figures or events are used, the incidents surrounding these figures or events are fictitious.

  Of course, the Great Depression and racism in America are very real. I hope I’ve done justice in realistically portraying both. The Great Depression ended a long time ago. Sadly, racism continues to be a problem.

  To my Dad, the best harvester I know.

  CONTENTS

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Paul E. Wootten

  They will sow wheat but reap thorns;

  they will wear themselves out but gain nothing.

  Jeremiah 12:13

  PART ONE

  Leviticus Manning

  and the Grebey Island Negroes

  ONE

  “The first meeting of the Saxon County Knights is called to order.”

  An owl lurking deep in the barn was rousted by the rap of Archie Mueller’s ball-peen hammer; its shrieks pierced the air as it flew over the men clustered in the dim light. Levi Manning shivered and ducked low. Daddy used to say owls were a sign of death.

  Archie watched the bird’s escape before continuing.

  “Will somebody write down what gets said here?” Carter Kaley raised his hand.

  “Thank you, Carter. Let the record show that the meeting was called to order at nine-thirty on the evening of July eighteen, 1934, at the Manning farm on Grebey Island, Missouri. The first order of business is to pick a leader.”

  Two dozen men glanced at one another, hoping someone would volunteer. Nobody did.

  “Why don’t you take the job, Archie?” a grizzled farmer said. “You live out here and have to deal with ‘em. It just makes sense.”

  Archie shook his head. “I’m already a county commissioner and church elder. Somebody else needs to take this.”

  Levi could barely stand still. Saxon County would be talking about the Knights for years to come. He wanted – needed – to be in charge. He’d considered volunteering, but what kind of man nominated himself?

  Then, a flurry of nominations. Yet as quickly as their names were called, men declined. Their reasons ranging from reasonable to absurd.

  “You need a younger man,”

  “I ain’t paid taxes since ’31.”

  “My wife don’t even know I’m here.”

  “Too busy.”

  Idiots, all of you, Levi thought, scanning their faces. Happy being dirt farmers and shopkeepers.

  When nobody stepped forward, it grew quiet. Any vestige of enthusiasm was ebbing away.

  Then, it happened.

  “Why not Levi?” the recommendation, from a long-ago grade school classmate, brought muted response. Levi’s cheeks grew hot, and he was glad the barn was dark enough to hide the schoolgirl blush he’d never learned to control.

  “Anything to say about that, Levi?” Archie asked.

  “I know I hate ‘em more than anybody.” He spit a wad of chaw into the dust for emphasis.

  The barn grew quiet. These weren’t men of words. Most were farmers, hard-working men. A few, from Saxon County’s West End, recently pooled their slim resources to buy a new Farmall F-20 tractor. The rest spent twelve hours a day facing the wrong end of a mule. Those who didn’t farm lived in Adair, the county seat. They were shop owners and laborers. Knox Bradshaw, the most prosperous, owned Saxon County’s first tavern since the repeal of Prohibition.

  Lowell Surratt, a beady-eyed West End farmer with a penchant for making money, broke the silence.

  “That’s what worries us, Levi. You hate ‘em so much you’re liable to do something stupid. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Levi turned to square up against Surratt before thinking better of it. When you took on one of the West-Enders you took on all of them. It was no secret that Surratt and those boys had looked down on the Mannings for generations.

  “If you can keep your temper in check, Levi, I’ll second the nomination,” a shop owner said.

  “Yeah,” another added. “I didn’t join to end up in jail.”

  “You ain’t gotta worry about that,” Levi huffed. “I’ll play it smart this time.”

  Archie banged the hammer. “We have a motion to elect Leviticus Manning as leader. Any more discussion?”

  “What are we gonna call him?” The farmer’s question brought a flurry of debate.

  “The Klan calls ‘em Exalted Cyclops.”

  “We ain’t the Klan.”

  “We’re like ‘em, kinda.”

  “We don’t need no Klan coming in here telling us how to do things.”

  Several titles were offered up. Levi liked Supreme Leader, but Lowell Surratt shot that down. It was Archie who finally threw out a suggestion they could live with.

  Grand Knight.

  Archie motioned Levi forward, where he took his place behind the makeshift podium, a large butcher block still smelling of the hog he and Cora slaughtered the week before.

  “I think most of us know we got a problem
down here on Grebey Island,” Levi said. “If we don’t do something, it’s gonna get to be a problem for all of you.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” a farmer said.

  “Don’t need ‘em making their way to the West End,” another added.

  “Before you know it, they’ll be hanging around town,” Knox Bradshaw said.

  “Like I said,” Levi continued, “It’s our problem now, but it’s gonna be your problem quick enough.” He nodded at a man standing in the rear. “I’d like Mr. Hatcher to come up and speak. He can tell us how things got this way.”

  They parted, allowing Finley Hatcher to make his way forward. His dusty suit stood out in the gathering of men in dirty overalls. Hatcher’s family ran the Adair Building and Loan. Herbert Hoover’s Great Depression was in full gear, but most people still trusted Hatcher enough to leave their meager savings on deposit with him.

  Hatcher loosened his tie, waiting until he had their full attention.

  “Everybody knows that Lincoln Stanley’s been farming out here for a couple years.” The faces surrounding the banker clouded with contempt. Several expressed their displeasure.

  “Shouldn’t never have happened.”

  “Uppity coon thinks because he’s tight with that Tuskegee nigra Carver, he can waltz in here and bring his friends.”

  “We shoulda done something back when he got here.”

  Hatcher shrugged. “Maybe so, but he and his family are here and I don’t think they’ve caused any trouble.”

  Silence

  “Stanley loaned me his mule when Hardhead went down last fall,” Archie Mueller conceded. “Wouldn’t take a dime in payment.”

  “You’d never catch me hitching a nigra mule to my plow,” a West-Ender said.

  “Been me, I’da shot the mule and hitched up the nigra,” someone added, drawing a round of laughter.

  Hatcher held up his hand for silence. “Last month, an outfit from St. Louis approached Norris Markley about buying the land him and his boys own.”

  Everybody knew Norris and his three boys. Before times turned bad they farmed the east side of Grebey Island, between Levi’s place and the land now owned by the Negro Stanley. Good people. Awful farmers.

  “The deal appears to be done. Like Stanley, the new owners are Negroes.” Hatcher’s words met with open hostility.

  “How did the property get sold to coloreds?” a farmer said angrily. “Archie, didn’t you and the commissioners pass some kinda law against selling to them, after Stanley snuck in here?”

  Archie nodded. “Yeah, but we found out it’d be hard to enforce, especially when it involves people who ain’t local. The outfit that buys the land turns around and sells it to the coloreds for a small profit. It’s happening a lot of places. We could go after them in court, but state law’s against us and the county ain’t got money for a lawyer.”

  “Why doesn’t somebody talk to Markley?” a shopkeeper suggested. “Maybe he doesn’t know who’s buying his place. He ain’t been around much since his last crop failed.”

  “He knows,” Hatcher said. “He needs the money to pay off his debts. Two of his boys haven’t found steady work. They’re all crammed together in a ramshackle old house down in Cape Girardeau.”

  An East-End farmer raised his hand. “How about somebody here buy up the land before the coons get their hands on it.” The recommendation met with resounding, but short-lived enthusiasm.

  “Which of you can put up the money to buy that much land?” Hatcher asked.

  Silence.

  “Maybe a couple of you could make it work, but you’d have to borrow it from me. That’s the last thing you want to do during these times. The outfit fronting the coloreds is paying cash, then making low-interest loans to the new owners.”

  “If I’d known Norris wanted to sell, I’d bought the land myself,” Levi said, banging his fist on the butcher block.

  Laughter echoed off the barn walls. His face reddening, Levi pounded the hammer for order, but it wasn’t enough to stop the wisecracks.

  “With what?”

  “You ain’t paid your feed store bill in three months.”

  “Two-thirds of the land you already got’s covered in scrub brush.”

  “That’s what Levi grows best. Scrub brush.”

  “And cats. Don’t forget them.” Mention of the scores of feral cats roaming the Manning homestead brought more laughter.

  “I got family money,” Levi said hotly. “Us Mannings come from money! St. Louis money.” The statement was ludicrous. Everyone knew the truth. Any family money was used up two generations ago. Levi was as broke as the next guy.

  “The fact remains,” Hatcher continued, “when this transaction is complete, Negroes will hold the deeds to some pretty good Saxon County bottom land.”

  “More land than Levi and me got between us,” Archie said. “Almost half the island, but what’s got us worried is that they got big families. Kids and all, we’re hearing there’s thirty of ‘em.”

  “Two things they’re good at: having kids and avoiding work,” someone cracked.

  “What’s Silas have to say?” Lowell Surratt asked, referring to Silas Mauck, owner of the Grebey Island General Store. “Why ain’t he here?”

  “Silas allows ‘em to trade in his place,” Archie said. “It’s all he can do to make ends meet as it is. I don’t see him turning away the business. Ain’t but a dozen families left in Grebey Township.” Archie was referring to the small community at the center of the island. “A couple extra families will put money in Silas’ pocket.”

  “Nigra money,” Levi snapped.

  “It spends just like the white kind,” Archie retorted.

  “You’ll never see a coon drinking in my place,” Knox Bradshaw said. “They’ll find me at the door with a shotgun.”

  Bradshaw’s words brought a hush. These were rugged men, many large and imposing, with hard physiques derived from working with their hands and backs. Still, they weren’t fighters. It wasn’t necessary. Talk of raising fists or weapons left them disconcerted to a point where they barely noticed the smooth-faced teenager pushing his way into their midst.

  Until he opened his mouth.

  “You ask me, I think we should string ‘em up from a tree and hang old man Mauck up there with ‘em. Who’s with me?”

  They gawked at the undersized boy sporting the first signs of a wispy mustache.

  “Grover Petty, you got no business here,” someone said angrily, breaking the silence. Others piled on.

  “Your worthless family don’t even own no land.”

  “And your Mama, everybody knows how she—”

  “Hold on now,” Levi said quickly. “Grover’s been working for me going on three years. He’s got as much right to his opinion as anybody else.”

  “His opinion don’t matter a whit to me until he owns more than the clothes on his back.” Lowell Surratt’s words met with agreement from the others. Emboldened, he took a menacing step toward the boy.

  “Now get out of here.”

  ###

  From his hiding place in a back stall, amid dusty saddles and long-forgotten tack, Harvester Stanley listened as they made plans to drive his family from their home. Each time they mentioned his father’s name, he shuddered.

  He had snuck in through a back door before the first farmers arrived, stifling a scream when the spooked barn owl took flight in the dark, inches from his face.

  Harvester had overheard Archie Mueller talking about the meeting outside Mauck’s Store. Mr. Mauck was kind to the Stanleys, allowing them to purchase from his store and, in recent months, extending them credit. Harvester was glad the storekeeper hadn’t come tonight. Archie Mueller was a different story. Daddy did him a good turn last fall, loaning him their best mule when it was already overworked. Mueller had seemed a decent enough man, but Harvester didn’t like the side of him he was seeing tonight.

  They had moved to Grebey Island on Harvester’s thirteenth birthday, work
ing hard to fix up a house and barns that were in woeful disrepair. Two years later, their farm looked as good as anything these men owned.

  Daddy was a good farmer, one of the few who could put away a few dollars on the tenant farms they’d lived on before. He’d quickly seen how farmers for generations hadn’t appreciated Grebey Island’s rich river-bottom soil, planting corn and wheat year after year on land that was capable of much more. They brought large bags of seeds given to them by Doctor Carver: melons, cantaloupes, cucumbers, and more. The fifty acres of melons they’d planted the last two years earned twice what the rest of their acreage produced in beans and corn, allowing Daddy to buy and pay cash for a well-used 1925 Ford farm truck while still getting ahead on their farm loan.

  Still, Harvester knew there were people like the men in this barn, people who didn’t want Negroes to get ahead. This had made Grebey Island particularly appealing. The island was big enough for them to run their operation and not bother anybody. Their farm was on the far north end, a mile by road from the bridge that connected the island to the rest of Saxon County. The distance had allowed for an unspoken truce between the Stanleys and the rest of Saxon County.

  Until now.

  The impending arrival of the Dobson and Cornish families excited Harvester. He’d heard there were daughters close to his age. Also, there was talk of a colored school. Mama worked with Harvester and his sisters when she could. They could all read, but having a school of their own would be better. Since he had first set foot in Doctor Carver’s laboratory back in Alabama, not far from where they were tenant farmers, Harvester knew he wanted to go to college and learn to become an even better farmer. Mama and Daddy had given him a unique name, a name to live up to. Now, with the farm, they were giving him the opportunity.

  An opportunity he wasn’t going to let these narrow-minded white men take away.

  ###

  The meeting broke up just after eleven. Levi walked out of the barn with the other Knights. Most drove trucks and automobiles purchased before times got hard, older Model T’s and a smattering of Model A’s. A couple still traveled by horse and buggy.

  “What are you still doing up?” Levi spoke brusquely to the slender little boy who came out of the house and joined the group of men.