A Crust of Bread: The Winds of Fate

By S. Earl Wilson III

Since man has been placed on earth’s surface, he has had to struggle to better his conditions and to survive. Some accept their fate, others cry, and a chosen few fight to make right that which they perceive as wrong. Between 1870 and 1910, most of the black people in the United States were illiterate and systematically deprived of an education. It is against this background that Moses Leroy Davis, the son of a black Mississippi sharecropper, was provoked into action to alleviate the conditions of his people by extirpating ignorance and substituting the obsolete status quo with actions superseding somnolence.

Throughout this difficult and seemingly impossible task, his wealthy, aristocratic white friend, Johnathan “Little John” Smith, assists him in overcoming his adversaries.

The state of Mississippi has produced many writers such as the following:

Richard Wright
William Faulkner
John Grisham
Lerone Bennet Jr.
Tennessee Williams
Shelby Foote
Eudora Welty

Sam Wilson is just another writer from Hattiesburg. As you shall see, his style is different.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796019568

S. Earl Wilson III

S. Earl Wilson, III comes from a family of educators. His father, a Morehouse College honor graduate, was a high school principal while his mother taught English. He was born and raised in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He graduated from Morehouse College in Atlanta in 1955. He was the first African-American to get a master’s degree in science from the University of Southern Mississippi in 1970. He has taught science both in Mississippi and Rockland County, New York, for a total of forty years. During those years of teaching, he has also coached baseball, football, basketball, tennis, girls fast-pitch softball, wrestling, track, soccer, and volleyball. He attributes his tireless working habits as “taking after his daddy.”

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by S. EARL WILSON III.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019902544

ISBN:                Hardcover                         978-1-7960-1958-2

                           Softcover                           978-1-7960-1957-5

                          eBook                                 978-1-7960-1956-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted 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 copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/06/2019

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

788044

Contents

Introduction

Ebony Venus

The Winds of Fate

Summation of Moses

Summation of Little John

Introduction

I am a schoolteacher. So were my father and mother before me, and so was my father’s mother before him. My two older sisters also embarked upon this seemingly inherent and grandiose profession of educating others to embrace the heart of the American value system, which teaches respect for all mankind, no exploitation of others, no practices harmful to the public, and that color, culture, sex, and religious beliefs should not interfere with the development of the individual to his or her fullest capacity.

Born in a family like this of such magnitude and scope leaves few avenues for self-identity. Life’s constant demand to establish one’s own individuality without simulating parental predecessors and cloning families’ mannerisms, philosophies, and ideologies appears to create an unachievable relentless struggle, yet I prevailed. I became me. My tools of courage, athletics, rebellion, forsaking traditions, and embracing the unconventional all seem inconsequential now. I have swallowed my pride and realized that upon becoming oneself, one is merely an extension of others past and present.

I have written in a style not altogether original but unconventional. My mind has been influenced by the aesthetic and artistic writings of predecessors who left footprints for those of us to follow.

I feel certain that you will enjoy.

So sit back, relax, fasten your chin strap, and buckle your seat belt, here comes Sam Wilson III!

In another epoch, another era, another century, or another time or day, things were quite different from the way they are presently—the days in which we live.

Various writers have written about the times and conditions of their present lives and the history that preceded and influenced their societies, their politics, and their nexus behavior.

Charles Dickens eloquently described a time in 1757 as the best of times and worst of times. An age of wisdom, an age of foolishness, a season of light and a season of darkness. The spring of hope, the winter of despair.

Once there was a time in the 1900s in the southern states of America where similar conditions existed. If you were a wealthy Caucasian or a successful white politician, then it was, indeed, the best of times. On the other hand, if you were poor and either black or white, then it was the worst of times.

For these two subhuman characters, there was no age of wisdom. There was, of course, an age of ignorance and foolishness. There were no seasons of light, only seasons of perpetual darkness. There were no springs of hope, only winters, summers, and autumns of despair.

The Deep South is like an evil, beautiful woman. One look at her and one is easily deceived. Her beauty distracts and fills one with desire and lust. Her sweetness bites with the fervor of a jaguar, and no one notices her bloody hand, for the rings that occupy the fingers reflect a luster that blinds. Its alluvial plain covers the entire western edge of the state and part of the thirty-five-thousand-square-mile plain of the Mississippi River. Not excluding the rich, fertile lowlands, the region narrows south of Vicksburg and spreads out north of the city, covering the regions between the Mississippi River and the Yazoo, Talahatchie, and Coldwater Rivers. Its northeastern section yields vast flat fertile lands that are comparable to the land of Egypt after the flow of the Nile. Flooding of the Mississippi, the Tallahatchie, the Yazoo, and Coldwater Rivers have enriched the soil of the region with deposit of silt, making it famous for its large cotton and soybean crops. The people of the True South call it the Delta.

The region in the west is called the Cane Hills. In the far northeast stands the highest point in the state—the 806-foot Woodall Mountain overlooking the beautiful hills of the Tennessee River.

The True South has not changed that much geographically since its crossing in 1540 by Hernando de Soto along the Tombigbee River. When de Soto first set eyes on this region, 90 percent of it was covered with forest—a unique kind of forest where trees grew not in clusters but with well-spaced intervals and practically no underbrush. It is said that one could run or gallop a horse through it with ease. Its northern lands touch the Gulf of Mexico while the mighty Mississippi River borders its west.

"This elongated shaped state has an area of about 47,000 square miles of which 490 square miles is inland water. Compared to the other states, it ranks thirty-third in size.

Once tribes of Indians roamed these lands. Indians like the Choctaws, Chickasaws, Natchez, Acolapissas, Biloxis, Pascagoulas, Yazoos, Tunicas, Muskhogeans, Choulas, Homas, Ibitopas, Koroas, Taposas, and the Tious.

These tribes were witnesses to the arrival of René-Robert Cavelier, sieur de La Salle in 1673–1682. And to Pierre Le Moyne, sieur d’Iberville in 1699.

"The early white settlers paid very little attention to religion, unlike their predecessors of other parts of America such as the pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. The early settlers were too much concerned with amassing fortunes. Perhaps the lure of money set the precedent of the ill-treatment accorded to Indians and Negroes. Later to present it is a most religious state.

Today, geographically, the state remains about the same. Only the New Madrid earthquakes in 1811 and 1812 dared to interrupt the perpetual sequence of remaining the same. Perhaps this set the precedent of the people who occupy the land today to maintain the status quo. This natural disaster caused river bends to become straight and the Mississippi River to flow in reverse. Natchez, which lies on the extreme southern edge, gave way to violent swells, sudden slides, and floating trees. No number is kept on the amount of lives lost."

The True South’s beauty has many extremes and variations—vast, flat fertile lands and hilly sections that giant conifers occupy along with oaks, willows, and magnolias. Its flowers possess aesthetic beauty and are comparable to those of Holland or any other place on earth. The flowering crape myrtle trees seem to have originated there, for they are bountiful, and their beauty speaks in different shades of purple and red and blue and pink. Its beaches stretch for miles in majestic splendor. You will see beautiful blondes receiving their tans, all-American heroes displaying their masculine physiques in some jive-ass games as volleyball and beach ball. Fabulous resort homes, along with hotels and motels, proclaim that this is beauty, profitable beauty.

Listen, can’t you hear the music playing, banjos strumming, people laughing, and children munching sweet honey rolls, drinking lemonade, and playing Ring around the Roses or Little Sally Walker? Men talking loud and sipping juleps, bourbon, and Southern Comfort and proclaiming this election as the best in the history of the state, perhaps even the country or the world as far as they are concerned?

Around the late twenties or early thirties, Mississippi had a new governor, and everybody had reasons to celebrate because he was a true son of the South, having been born in the great Magnolia Estate established years ago by his great-grandfather Ebenezer Smith, a dedicated Confederate veteran and slave owner who stood for all that the South stands for and against all who opposed the great Southern ways and traditions.

Johnathan Smith was tired, for it had been a long and gruesome campaign. He had traveled to the backwoods of nearly every county in his state. He had shook hands with die-hard rebels, kissed farm ladies who dipped snuff or chewed tobacco, held babies with dung in their diapers, crowned queens, spoke at livestock shows and country fairs, and ridden horses at rodeos.

His competitor, Carl Beck, was no pushover. Being a former governor with Klan support, he never ceased to challenge Johnathan or, in any manner, conceded defeat. Yes, Johnathan was tired as he ran his fingers through his cropped black hair with its grayish temple edging. The gin and tonic he sipped was soothing, and as it glided down his esophagus, it appeared to have a relaxing effect on the sphincter muscles in his anus. He farted. Slightly embarrassed, he was relieved as he remembered that he was alone.

Johnathan was a handsome man by Caucasian standards. His six-foot, well-muscled frame had not sagged unlike other former football players twenty years after finishing Ole Miss. Daily exercise, golf, and tennis were his secrets to melting away the pounds that his colored cook Nella added to his epicurean delight. He was a gourmet, and Nella shore saw to it that he remained one. Eat, Johnnie, its good fa ya, she would say. Dammit, that black bitch never seemed to recognize the fact that he was now a man and the master of the house, not still the little curly haired brat that she had helped raised. When he reminded her that he was now full-grown and should be referred to as Mr. Smith, she would laugh out loud in that nerve-racking nigger tone and reply, Mister? Mr. Pot-of-Slop, thank you for not being a hog. Then she would become hysterical with laughter. He could find no way of taming this black woman, whom he secretly loved as a mother. When he ate, all was forgiven.

As he tried to relax, he remembered the agony that Carl Beck had pushed him through by constantly bringing up the racial issue. It was an issue Johnathan wanted to avoid, but it was an unavoidable one. Any successful politician in Mississippi, local or state, must cry Hate the nigger. He who cries loudest usually wins. Carl hated niggers and said so and seemed to have had the election locked up when he called Johnathan a nigger-lover. Had it not been for Johnathan’s rich heritage, quick wit, and the flow of Ebenezer’s blood through his veins, voters might have believed Carl.

It was true that darkies on the Magnolia Estate were healthier, better fed, and lived better than most plantation niggers. There were never more than seven or eight in one shanty. Each shotgun house was equipped with a woodstove, a heater, and plenty of kindling wood and lighter knots for making fire. The old women made quilts from scraps of cloth gotten from the great Magnolia Estate, so they all had cover. Each Christmas, each male, young or old, was given, from the goodness and graciousness of the Smiths, a new pair of overalls and a five-dollar bill. The grown men also received a gallon of white lightning (moonshine). The women were given molasses, flour, cornmeal, and a pig that