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
