Nigra Stanley’s land bordered Archie’s to the north and east, with the house located at the island’s northernmost point. From the road, squinting through the darkness at the house several hundred yards away, Levi saw no signs of movement. Satisfied, he aimed the car southeast, toward the old Markley place. Reaching for the jar of moonshine, he allowed the wheel to get away from him. As Model T’s were wont to do, the tires jumped from the deep ruts, veering hard to the right. Levi grabbed the wheel a moment too late. The right side of the car made contact with a pine tree, the only obstacle within a hundred yards. The impact propelled Levi face first into the steering wheel. He felt his nose explode as the car sputtered and died.
The night air was silent when he awakened. Unsure if he’d passed out or fallen asleep, he opened the door and tried to stand. Shaky, but everything seemed to work. Satisfied he was okay, he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his nose. Busted and bloody, but not broken. A staggering walk around the car showed little damage, other than the remaining headlamp being knocked out. He would have to continue the trip in the dark. It was enough to make him swear, but the last thing he wanted to do was rouse a bear or coyote. Folks said bears were long gone in Saxon County, but you could never be sure. He patted his pocket to make sure he still had the Colt.
After several attempts the engine turned over and he continued on his way, driving through the darkness with his head out the window, keeping an eye on the road’s edge. Defeat and anger began to wash over him as he considered how miserably the Knights’ first adventure had failed. What had gone wrong? Could someone have told the coloreds? Nobody he could think of would do that, would they? Archie Mueller had seemed different lately, but he still showed up for his shift at the bridge.
Between watching the dark road and thinking about the failed mission, Levi barely missed hitting a moving figure darting in front of him. Whatever it was narrowly dodged the Ford’s fender before fleeing into the row of trees that served as the property line between Stanley’s place and the Markley farm. Over the engine’s rattle, Levi heard something. Bobcat, maybe? Just to be safe, he pulled the Colt out of his pocket and fired two shots into the darkness. A multitude of sounds answered the gunfire, mostly birds awakened from their evening roosts. Then, it was quiet.
Maybe I got me one of them coons, he thought with a laugh. Suddenly tired, he reversed course and headed back the way he’d come, toward home.
###
“He just shot at his boy!”
Lincoln Stanley leaped from his chair on the dark porch, pointing at the spot where the paths of father and son intersected. They had silently observed Levi’s lurching progress, from the point where he struck the tree to the near-collision with his son.
As Harvester and the men ran to the location where the shots were fired, Levi passed within fifty feet of them, close enough that they could hear him muttering to himself, but oblivious to their movement.
“Drunk,” Granville Dobson whispered. “I’ve seen enough drunk white men to know.”
Within minutes they reached the spot where Levi had fired his gun.
“There’s where he turned around,” Mr. Cornish said, pointing to tracks veering from the ruts in the road.
“Look at this.” Granville Dobson reached into the brush beside the road and picked up a pistol, bringing it to his nose. “Just been fired.”
The men spread out and began searching the area.
“I got footprints,” Depriest Cornish shouted. “Kid size.”
Harvester joined Depriest while the others continued searching. They followed the prints until they entered a scrubby overgrown field on the Markley farm.
“He made it this far,” Depriest said. “I’m guessing he didn’t get shot. There’s no blood.”
Ten minutes later, they reconvened.
“I can’t believe he shot in the dark like that,” Mr. Cornish said.
“Good thing he was using this old pistol.” Granville held up the Colt. “A man’s lucky to hit a barn wall at fifty feet with one of these, and that’s only if he’s sober.”
“You seem to have learned a lot about guns from your time in Memphis,” Mr. Dobson said, eyeing his son in the darkness.
“Should we go to the sheriff?” Mr. Cornish’s question left the men glancing at one another. The answer, unspoken, was obvious.
“Daddy, would it be alright if I go and make sure Little Earl got home okay?”
Lincoln Stanley shook his head, then had a change of heart.
“It probably would be best,” he replied. “Just stay out of sight.”
“I’ll go with him,” Granville said.
###
They walked in silence for several minutes. As they passed the Dobson’s farmhouse, Granville sighed loudly.
“You like it out here?”
“I love it,” Harvester responded. “I want to spend my life here.”
Granville’s smirk was visible in the moonlight. “You’re still a boy, Harv. You need to see the world, do some living.”
Harv? That was a new one. Harvester had pegged Granville as a peculiar sort, but couldn’t put his finger on what made him that way. Maybe tonight he would figure it out.
“How about you? Are you going to be happy here?”
Granville took another deep breath. “Well, I wasn’t having no luck finding work in Memphis, so what else is there, y’know?”
Harvester shrugged.
“But I gotta tell you, Harv. City life has a lot going for it. Lots of people. Plenty to do.” Granville held his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “I got this close to making it. A brother, name of Pittsley, was running numbers in the colored section of town, said he needed me to be his assistant. Gonna pay me a good wage, better than any river bottom farmer’ll ever see.”
“What happened?”
“Turned out Pittsley had a boss himself, white man named Taggert. When things started getting tight, he squeezed Pittsley right out.” Granville stopped, grabbing Harvester’s arm.
“We made sure that white sack of slop knew he messed with the wrong people, Harv. Wanna know what we did?”
No. Definitely not.
Yes.
“What?”
“Taggert had himself a fine automobile, a Packard 840 Deluxe. Left it parked on the street in front of his house.” Granville’s laugh had a frightening edge to it. “Old boy never worried about anybody taking it; he kept his prize German Shepherd, called her Lucky, chained to the front fender every night.”
A chill ran the length of Harvester’s spine. He had a sick feeling about where this story was headed.
“Anyway, one morning, the police found that Packard all shot to pieces, parked behind a shoe factory in West Memphis. Guess who – or what - was sitting behind the wheel, dead as you please?”
“Stop talking. Somebody’s going to hear us.” Harvester’s admonition fell on deaf ears. Granville laughed.
“Grrrr… Arf, Arf, Arf. Old Taggert shoulda named that dog Unlucky.”
“I said, keep it down!”
“Don’t worry, little man.” Granville chuckled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the Colt pistol. “Whitey comes looking for trouble, we’ll give him some.”
“We’re not shooting anybody!”
Granville grinned with pleasure at getting under Harvester’s skin.
“Whitey can’t be trusted, Harv. It’s about time you learn that. We need to stop them before they stop us, if you know what I mean.” Granville held out the pistol, aiming it in the direction of the Manning house just visible over the ridge, and made a loud popping noise with his mouth.
“My name is Harvester.” He turned to confront Granville. the tone in his voice leaving no doubt he’d heard all he wanted to hear. “Now go on home. I don’t want or need your help.” With that, he tromped off toward the woods that bordered the Manning farm.
“Suit yourself, Harv,” Granville taunted. “Just remember if things start moving faster than
you’re ready for, I’ll be around.”
EIGHT
It took three hours to get a wagon load of hay out of the field and into the barn loft. For Levi, that was a full day.
“This load’ll do it, Grover. We’re both gonna get sun-sick if we keep going.”
Grover nodded as he stabbed at the hay with a pitchfork. He was a good worker, and at nineteen Levi thought it was about time to give him a little piece of Grebey Island to tend for himself. Maybe a few acres on the creek side where the mosquitos were worst. Of course Levi wouldn’t sell it to him. Just let him till it in return for some of his crops.
After all, he thought, looking at his son sitting on the hay wagon, Earl wasn’t never going to do anything with it. The kid was as useless as a bucket of holes. “Six is too young,” Cora was always whining. “You’re expecting too much.” What did she know? When he was that age, Levi was tending the garden and watering the mules. His daddy made him work hard, and look at the man he’d become.
At least he had Grover. That boy grew up hungry. His daddy was gone before he was two years old. His mama did what she had to do to put food on the table. She’d gone to jail a couple times, leaving Grover to fend for himself. Levi had stepped in a few years earlier, putting the boy to work and helping make him a man. He’d done a good job, if he did say so himself. They were a lot alike, he and Grover. More alike than he and the boy would ever be.
###
“You heard anything else about them nigras?” Grover asked as they stretched out in the shade of an old elm behind the barn. Little Earl had disappeared into the house.
“I rode over there Saturday night,” Levi said, conveniently leaving out the details of his misadventure. “No sign of ‘em. Probably heard we was waiting for ‘em and turned tail.”
They lazed under the tree for the better part of an hour, dozing and sharing snippets of meaningless conversation. Just after three, Grover got up and stretched.
“I’m gonna head home if you don’t need me no more, Levi. Mama’s garden needs tending and there’s been a couple of new girls hanging around Knox Bradshaw’s place.”
Levi nodded. “That’s fine, son. We’re done here. You go see if you can catch one of them girls.” Then, remembering that Grover’s only means of transportation was an old bicycle, Levi added, “Take the truck. That’ll help you with the ladies.”
Grover’s face brightened. “It sure will. Thanks Levi.”
“Think nothing of it. We got a Knights meeting tonight anyway, so I won’t be needing it. Oh, and one more thing. Something happened to the headlights. How about stopping by Mauck’s on the way home and get him to order me a couple?”
###
It had been one of the best days Harvester could remember in a long time, and he hardly noticed the oppressive heat filling the truck as he crossed the bridge, Depriest Cornish riding shotgun. With the help of their new neighbors, they moved seven hundred melons to the Shipley depot, more than they could have hauled in three days by themselves. Best of all, there was the promise of even more in the future, and they owed it all to Depriest’s wife, Naomi.
Naomi’s uncle was prominent in the Negro business community up in St. Louis, owning three grocery stores among his varied interests. His son, Naomi’s first cousin, Hanford, had attended Howard University Law School, but rarely practiced law, spending most of his time making deals, whatever that meant. Recently he had gotten involved with Negro businessmen at other points along the Mississippi River, operating a barge and towboat operation. Once he found out about the easy access Naomi’s new home had to the river, Hanford promised to arrange regular stops at Grebey Island for watermelons and cantaloupes, promising even more business in coming years, provided the three island families would expand their farming operation to include tomatoes, cucumbers, and other fruits and vegetables not usually available so close to the city. Until the dock was finished, Hanford’s associates had agreed to take all the melons Lincoln Stanley could send by rail. The future looked good. Upon receiving the news, Harvester’s daddy and the other men stopped what they were doing and offered prayers of thanks. It did indeed seem God’s blessings were upon them.
Despite an eight-year age difference, Harvester and Depriest had struck up a quick friendship. Dee, as his family called him, was thrilled to have a place to call his own, even if it was a crowded house he shared with his parents and younger siblings. Painfully shy, it had taken him a few days to grow comfortable enough to hold up his share of the conversations that now flowed effortlessly.
They were approaching Mauck’s Store when Harvester remembered his promise to pick up some fabric that Mr. Mauck had ordered for Mama. They pulled up in front and went in, Harvester leading the way. Dee was still hesitant about entering a white man’s store, something that was prohibited in much of his native Alabama.
“Afternoon Harvester, Mr. Cornish,” Mr. Mauck said cordially, holding up a package wrapped in brown paper. “Harvester, here’s your mama’s fabric.”
Cyrus Mauck had turned out to be a real ally, willingly sharing snippets of conversation he heard as customers came and went. Few customers knew his background. To them, he was the old storekeeper who’d moved to the island twenty years earlier, taking over after Ansel Wainwright passed. They were unaware that the gentle merchant was raised in a Quaker family, and that his parents and grandparents spent their lives helping Negroes, Indians, and other persecuted minorities, sometimes putting their own lives at risk. Mr. Mauck admitted to Harvester’s Daddy that he spent a period of his life running from the causes for which his parents fought so bravely. He also shared his belief that their arrival on Grebey Island was God’s way of bringing him back.
“How’s the land-clearing going, Mr. Cornish?”
“Pretty good,” Dee replied quietly, eyes glued to the counter.
“They’ll be ready for spring planting,” Harvester added.
“There’s not been much talk around here since they blocked the bridge,” Mauck said. “Most of the farmers are in the middle of harvest, and others,” he looked in the direction of the Manning place, “are too lazy to...”
“I can’t believe it, Mr. Mauck,” Harvester said, shaking his head. “It’s been almost two weeks. Don’t they have eyes? Dee and I drive past here four times a day.”
Mauck shrugged. “I prefer to think God’s got his hand on this.”
The sound of an approaching vehicle drew their attention to the store entrance. There had been a couple occasions when customers came and went while Harvester was in the store, but never when Dee was with him.
A small bell tinkled over the doorway. From his perch on a raised platform behind the counter, the storekeeper let out a quiet moan when he caught sight of the arriving customer.
“I need two headlamps for Levi Manning’s truck.”
Harvester tensed when he heard the voice. It was the boy who mouthed off at the first meeting of the Knights. He made his way through the shelves of merchandise, scowling when he spied Harvester and Dee.
“Two coons? Didn’t know you had a brother, Stanley,” the boy said menacingly. “When’s them other nigras gonna—” A look of sudden realization crossed Petty’s face.
“So, they done snuck in.” Petty clenched his fists, stepping closer. “Well, that’s too bad for you, ‘cause by the time—”
“My goodness, Petty. You really are as slow-witted as people say.”
Petty wheeled to face Mr. Mauck.
“Better watch what you say, old man. There’s people around here think you need to be brought down a notch or two.”
Mr. Mauck nodded slowly. “So I’ve heard. Like all the men who stepped forward when you mentioned hanging me from a tree?”
Mauck’s mention of Petty’s action at the first Knights meeting flustered the boy.
“How do you know so much, old man?”
“Because I keep my eyes and ears open,” Mauck said simply. “Something you’d be wise to do yourself.”
Harveste
r watched Grover’s face tighten and his fists clench. If he made a move on Mr. Mauck, Harvester would jump in to stop it. Though several years younger, they were about the same size, plus he owed Mr. Mauck that much.
Aware he was outnumbered, Petty made his retreat. At the door, he turned, a broad smile crossing his face.
“Forget about the headlights, old man. My boss don’t do business with nigra-lovers.” He paused as he pulled open the screen door.
“Besides, who’s to say this place ain’t burnt to the ground before those lights come in anyways.”
NINE
Saxon County Knights
Meeting Minutes – August 29, 1934
Called to order by Grand Knight Leviticus Manning at 8:35 p.m. Seventeen of twenty-three Knights present.
Five men came forward to join. Marvin Balsman, Axle Hinderliter, Thomas Moak, Frank Perkins, and Joseph Victor were approved unanimously, bringing the membership roster to 28. Secretary Carter Kaley read a letter from Archie Mueller, asking to have his name stricken from the Knights’ roster and all mention of him in past meeting minutes be removed. Mueller’s name will be stricken from the membership roster, but no change will be made in the minutes.
Grand Knight Manning reported that his farmhand, Grover Petty, had learned that the new Negro farmers had arrived on Grebey Island undetected.
Grand Knight Manning recommended that a small contingent of Knights be given the responsibility of rendering the two houses on the Markley farm unlivable. Discussion on this topic was mixed. Several Knights thought a fire or other such disaster occurring at just one house could send the desired message. Others in attendance were concerned about the possibility of injury or death through retaliation, as there have been recent news stories about Negro violence against white people in Northern cities. When a vote was taken, the motion to burn to the ground one of the two Markley farm houses was supported by a vote of fifteen to twelve. After the vote was taken, Knights Oscar Trimble and Matthew Wilkins renounced their memberships and left the meeting.
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