“Little Earl’s growing up,” a farmer said, mussing the boy’s jet black hair. “You start school next year, don’t you, son?” Earl smiled shyly.
“He’s still a scrawny one,” Levi said. “Ain’t worth two cents on the farm.”
“Takes after his daddy.” Lowell Surratt’s smirk was visible in the moonlight. The others laughed at the blush spreading across Levi’s face. He moved in Surratt’s direction, swearing under his breath.
“Don’t do it,” Knox Bradshaw cautioned, placing his hand on Levi’s chest. “It ain’t worth getting your rear end whipped in front of your boy.”
“Scrawny cuss ain’t whipping my rear end,” Levi said, hopeful it wouldn’t come to that.
“Looked in a mirror lately, Levi?” a shopkeeper kidded. “You ain’t no Charles Atlas.”
“Ain’t no mirrors left in his house,” Surratt grinned. “Levi’s ugly face broke ‘em all.”
The stragglers headed for their vehicles, leaving father and son alone outside the barn.
“Get in there and snuff out them kerosene lamps.” Levi gave the boy a shove, causing him to stumble, then turned and headed for the house.
###
Harvester waited until the voices trailed off before exiting the stall, quietly closing the door behind him. When he turned around his heart almost stopped.
He was caught.
For what seemed like an eternity, they stared at one another.
Harvester had seen him before. He and Harvester’s sisters were the same age and sometimes played together on the levee. He was the most timid child Harvester had ever seen. Seeing the boy’s father tonight, he understood why.
The younger boy broke the standoff, silently snuffing out the kerosene lamps, leaving the barn in darkness before exiting. Harvester allowed himself the luxury of a deep breath, then retreated to the barn’s rear door and the stand of trees that would allow him to move unseen past the Manning house. Reaching the deserted dirt road that circled the island, he took off on a dead run, cutting through fields of overgrown grass, praying he wouldn’t rouse a rattlesnake.
Twenty minutes later, he was home. A kerosene lamp illuminated his parents’ bedroom window. Mama and Daddy had been asleep when he left three hours earlier. They weren’t asleep anymore.
TWO
SAXON COUNTY WEEKLY TELEGRAPH
July 24, 1934
LOCAL MEN BAND TO KEEP COUNTY PURE
Your Reporter: Richland Rice, Editor
A brave and dedicated group of Saxon Countians met on Grebey Island Wednesday night last, with the intent of ensuring racial purity for our region.
Meeting in a barn on the island’s southern end, the group of 24 hearty gentlemen christened themselves ‘The Saxon County Knights’ and unanimously elected the barn’s owner, Mr. Leviticus H. Manning, age 32, as Grand Knight. Manning, a fifth-generation Grebey Island farmer, is of like mind with his confederates that measures should be taken to end the sale of Saxon County land to Negroes.
Manning told Your Reporter that a land deal was recently concluded between two Negro men and former Saxon County farmer Norris Markley. A St. Louis organization of questionable repute acted as intermediary, arranging the sale while keeping the identities and race of the buyers confidential.
“We need to keep Grebey Island and the rest of Saxon County white,” the Grand Knight told Your Reporter. “It’s just a matter of time before the coons want to run everything.”
When asked what plans the Saxon County Knights have to thwart the arrival of the new Negro landowners, Grand Knight Manning was coy with Your Reporter.
“We got to move quietly, when nobody ain’t looking,” Manning said.
While he declined to share a full roster of the Saxon County Knights’ membership, Grand Knight Manning did intimate that several influential citizens are involved.
“Lowell Surratt and some of the West End boys are members,” Manning told Your Reporter. “So is a local tavern owner, a few storekeepers, and some farmers in the bottoms.”
According to the 1930 census, the population on Grebey Island was 38 people, far below the 1,100 who called the island home a century ago. Floods in 1844 and 1881 washed across much of the island, destroying homes and sending many residents packing for higher ground. The Mississippi River Flood of 1927, while sparing Grebey Island, spurred more residents to leave. The Grebey Island schoolhouse closed six years ago, and students now attend classes in Adair.
THREE
It was a men-only gathering on the moonlit front porch, and Harvester was proud to be among them.
A lot had happened in the seven days since he learned the plans of the Saxon County Knights. Daddy had lit into him when he got home, using the first switch he could pull from a nearby river birch tree. Harvester knew he had it coming. Mama was worried sick that he had drowned in the river or gotten lost in the woods.
Or worse.
Daddy hadn’t switched him hard. He didn’t even take down his overalls. It was more a message than anything. As always, Daddy hugged him when he was done, telling him how much he and Mama loved him, sentiments Harvester never doubted.
After the switching, Harvester told Daddy everything he’d heard and the faces he’d recognized. Lincoln Stanley listened intently, showing neither surprise nor anger. The next morning, however, he jumped in the truck and headed to Shipley, in Sainte Genevieve County, where a colored storekeeper allowed him to use the telephone. More calls followed, formulating plans that brought Aldus Dobson and Herbert Cornish from Alabama for this men-only meeting on the Stanley front porch.
Dobson and Cornish were the buyers of the Markley farm. Sturdy men in their mid-forties, they planned to divide the acreage, sharing with their eldest sons, young married men who would build their own houses as time and money allowed.
Like most July nights along the Mississippi River, it was hot and muggy. The gathering started with prayer. Mr. Dobson prayed for wisdom as the men considered their situation. Like Harvester’s daddy, neither seemed surprised or angered by the turn of events; only determined to protect what was theirs.
Following their amens, they clustered around Lincoln Stanley, squinting to read a newspaper article from the day before.
“Harvester said they found out that you and your boys are moving out here on the seventeenth or eighteenth of next month.” Lincoln Stanley set aside the paper as the visitors returned to their seats, occasionally fanning themselves or swatting at mosquitoes with their straw hats.
“They gonna block the bridge?” Aldus Dobson said.
“Around the clock.”
“Think they’d hurt a man?”
“I don’t know them well enough to guess,” Lincoln Stanley said. “It’s hard to see Archie Mueller causing trouble. We ain’t friends, exactly, but he speaks when we see each other. Now, Manning’s a different story. That one ain’t right in the head. Ruth seen him get mad at his missus and shove her hard against his truck outside Mauck’s Store. He’s got a little boy who looks like he’s scared of his own shadow.”
“It sounds like Manning might be out for some personal glory.” Herbert Cornish spoke for the first time, his deep baritone voice commanding attention.
“He’s a little man,” Lincoln Stanley said. “Probably been on the receiving end a few times.”
The men silently considered the situation, the creaking of their rockers mixing with the call of crickets and other night sounds.
“We ran into something like this trying to get our peaches to the canning house down in Clanton,” Mr. Cornish said. “I think it was ’23 or ’24. Bunch of rednecks tried to block our wagons, said it was a white canning house.”
“I remember something about that,” Lincoln Stanley said. “Seems you figured out how to move those peaches anyway.”
Mr. Cornish smiled. “Pryor, the man who ran the place, he wanted our peaches real bad, said they was the best he’d seen. Anyway, he started telling them rednecks when we was coming in. They’d show up, itc
hing for trouble.” Mr. Cornish started to cackle, clearly enjoying a chance to retell the story.
“Yep, those old boys would be waiting there in the hot sun at ten, eleven o’clock, thinking we was on our way,” Mr. Cornish paused to get his laughter under control. “Shoot, we’d been there at five that morning. Old Pryor opened early for us. By the time those boys showed up, we was already back at the farm, filling our peach baskets for the next day’s trip.”
The men laughed heartily, enjoying a story where the Negro came out on top.
“Those boys said to Pryor, ‘I thought you said them coons was coming at noon.’ Old Pryor, he’d say, ‘You can’t never trust what them coons tell you.’”
The laughter increased. Harvester vowed to remember that story and share it with his own children someday.
“Herb, are you saying we should get here before they expectin’ us?” Mr. Dobson said.
“If we can. They expecting us on the seventeenth or eighteenth. Why don’t we get here a couple days early?”
“Can we pull that off?”
Lincoln Stanley leaned forward. “I think you can do it. You’re borrowing some trucks for the move, ain’t you?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Dobson said. “Herb’s got two lined up. I got three. We could unload ‘em overnight and run ‘em back down to the bootheel. Folks who’s loaning ‘em to us said they’d meet us halfway.”
Harvester marveled at how the plan came together, magnificent in its simplicity. Everything would take place at night, while Saxon County slept. By the time the Dobson and Cornish families were expected to arrive, they would have already been there for several days.
Still, one thing bothered him. He considered bringing it up, but knew it wasn’t his place. Thankfully, Mr. Cornish thought to ask.
“What’ll happen when they find out we’re already here?”
Silence.
“I don’t want to put my family in danger.”
“None of us do, Herb,” Lincoln Stanley answered. “But do we just give up?”
In the moonlight, Harvester could see Mr. Cornish chewing his lower lip.
“What’s the law like out here?” he said.
“Sheriff, but I don’t know that we can trust him,” Lincoln Stanley said. “I ain’t never seen him on this end of the island.”
“I guess we’ll find out one way or another,” Mr. Dobson said, as they again lapsed into silence.
Harvester wished he could provide an answer to their concerns. He’d never seen grown men this way before. He sensed that neither of them feared for themselves, but desperately wanted to keep their families out of harm’s way.
If only there were something he could do.
And then, there was.
“Didn’t Harvester hear they’re getting together again next Wednesday?” Mr. Cornish was speaking to both men, but mainly to Harvester’s daddy. “Lincoln, would you let him sneak back over there, maybe—”
“No!”
Mr. Cornish lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. I shouldn’t have—”
“I want to go.”
Daddy glared at him.
“No.”
His tone was sharp, a clear signal to drop the matter.
Harvester took a deep breath. He had never challenged Daddy before.
“Daddy, I can do it. I want to do it. I’m old enough to help protect our family and our farm. It’s going—”
“Did you hear me, boy?”
The visitors flinched at their friend’s flash of anger, but Harvester pressed the matter.
“It’s your farm, Daddy, but I want it to be mine someday. Let me do this. For my family and myself.”
Father and son locked eyes. It was a tense moment, particularly for Harvester.
And the decision was made.
FOUR
Saxon County Knights
Meeting Minutes – August 8, 1934
The second meeting of the Saxon County Knights was called to order by Grand Knight Leviticus Manning at 9:30 p.m. Twenty of twenty-four Knights and three visitors were present.
Knight Surratt read letters from Caleb Thomas, Oscar Murphy, Daniel Cox, and Bert Radcliffe requesting their names be removed from the Knights’ membership list. In their correspondence, the men stated they were unhappy with the news story in the Saxon County Weekly Telegraph on July 25. Knight Surratt and six other Knights rebuked Grand Knight Manning for talking to the press. A motion to remove the aforementioned men from the membership roster was made, seconded, and passed. Knight Surratt made a motion to remove Manning from the position of Grand Knight, but the motion died from the lack of a second.
Three men came forward and asked to join the Knights. Samuel Melville, Philetus Birch, and Harry Emmendorfer were approved unanimously, bringing the membership roster to 23. Grand Knight Manning recommended Grover Petty for membership. The motion died from the lack of a second.
Knight Archie Mueller heard from storekeeper Cyrus Mauck that the Negro farmers who purchased the Markley farm are still planning on arriving on the seventeenth or eighteenth of this month. The Negro Stanley was seen in Mauck’s Store purchasing items in preparation for their arrival. Twenty-one Knights signed up to serve sentry duty on the bridge, beginning at six in the morning on the seventeenth. Knights will work in groups of five, taking six hour shifts through the weekend until the Negroes arrive. The aim of the group will be to prohibit the Negroes from crossing the bridge onto the island. Sentries will be armed, but will only use their weapons if provoked.
The Knights will meet again on August 29 at eight-thirty. The location will be the same.
The meeting was adjourned with the Lord’s Prayer.
Respectfully submitted,
Carter Kaley, Secretary
FIVE
From the bed of the truck, Harvester tossed the last of sixty watermelons to Pruitt Warfield who stacked it under a shade tree with the rest. It was four o’clock, and this was the fourth load of melons Harvester had transported to the depot in Shipley. Daddy paid Pruitt, a down-on-his-luck white man from Sainte Genevieve, two dollars a day to be at the depot to help Harvester unload. Pruitt’s day would end after he loaded the melons onto the late afternoon train bound for St. Louis. The arrangement started last summer, and Pruitt had proven to be worth every cent.
Hauling the melons to Shipley was a two-hour round trip, with a half hour on each end to load and unload. Harvester, Daddy, Mama and his sisters stacked the first load on the truck at five in the morning, when the air still held a hint of coolness. Like clockwork, Harvester would return to the farm at eight, eleven, and two-thirty to find the next batch picked and ready to load.
Shipley was seven miles further than Adair, but Daddy wasn’t dumb. The road into Adair was rutted gravel, and even a slight miscalculation could send melons toppling from the truck. The road northwest, toward Shipley, was paved with macadam. It was smooth, allowing Harvester to drive faster without worry of spilling the load.
There was also the reception they had received in Adair. When he first started shipping melons by rail two years earlier, Daddy planned to meet the train there. Harvester had gone along. On their third trip of the day, the town marshal made a show of informing them that coloreds weren’t welcome in Adair, and that waiting for the train would be viewed as loitering. Loiterers were jailed, the marshal said, adding that bad things happened to coloreds in the Adair City Jail. For emphasis, he reached into the truck bed with his nightstick, splitting a watermelon with a single blow. Harvester seethed at the show of force, before noticing Daddy’s stoic response. Lincoln Stanley stood for a moment, face-to-face with the law in Adair, before getting into the truck and driving away. It was a moment Harvester wouldn’t forget. Daddy hadn’t cowered. He moved away in his own time, with dignity.
“Fighting’s a weak man’s response,” Daddy said once they were on the road. “Romans 12:17 says to repay no man evil for evil.”
Since then, the Stanleys rarely ventured into Adair. Things they couldn�
��t get from Mauck’s Store were purchased in Shipley, a smaller community more accepting of colored trade.
The sweltering afternoon heat was worse inside the truck, and stopping at the filling station in Shipley had become an afternoon ritual. Shipley had electricity, and the taste of a cold Coca Cola while Harvester filled the truck with gas was close to heaven itself. Daddy understood and never begrudged him the nickel.
The last ride home was Harvester’s favorite time of day. The work was done, and Mama would have supper ready by six. The remaining hour of after-dinner daylight was his to spend as he liked. Sometimes he read books passed on from acquaintances in Shipley or exchanged with family back in Alabama. Other times, he made his way through the stand of trees that separated the homestead from the Mississippi River several hundred yards away, where he fished for catfish and drum.
In postcards exchanged with friends back in Alabama, Harvester was sometimes asked about life on an island in the Mississippi River. First, he would write in reply, Grebey Island wasn’t really an island. Most of the year, Grebey Creek, the tributary that separated the island from the rest of Missouri, was little more than a trickling ditch. Come spring rains, however, and she became a raging torrent of water a hundred feet wide. There had been occasional flooding in the past, but nothing like that experienced by Kaskaskia to the north. Landowners on Grebey Island had long resisted the urge to fell the tree stands that helped keep the Mississippi within her banks. Their foresight, along with some well-built levees, kept the island mostly high and dry. Overall, it had proven an almost idyllic place to live.
Until recently.
The image of the Saxon County Knights clustered in Levi Manning’s barn brought a chill that defied the heat in the truck. It wasn’t the first time Harvester had experienced racism, but it was definitely the closest to home. Gripping the wheel tighter, he thought of the potential for trouble when the Knights discovered they’d been outsmarted. The Dobson and Cornish families would be arriving during the dead of night, in just a little more than a week. Harvester was excited and scared at the same time. So much could go wrong.
Harvest of Thorns Page 2