Blowing In The Wind

A Novel by

Jack Newman

an e-book by GLB Publishers
San Francisco

Author's Note

     Although this book follows the amorous adventures of a gay slave in the nineteenth century, it is neither
about slavery nor the gay life. It is the subtle unraveling in the minds of the characters—and the author—
of the notion that being homosexual means being evil, condemned to hell and unable to lead a wholesome,
loving and meaningful life.
     Who would believe this outlandish idea…that being gay means being evil? Well, I did. It was drilled into
my psyche from the very beginnings of my mental processes, mostly by the church. Being brought up Catholic
is a burden of unimaginable weight for a young person who was "blessed" with the homosexual gene. How
could I be queer? I questioned myself when the first inklings began to stir in my inner thoughts. I am a good boy.
I do what my mommy says. I pray to Jesus, just as the good sisters told me. I can't be queer (the term then),
I'm a good boy.
     So, faced with the choice of accepting my fate of eternal damnation or denying who I really was, I chose
denial. I did just what was expected of me, all the time trying to convince myself that I was not homosexual,
just not experienced with girls. It's an all too common story: marriage, children, churched, hard working,
family man, AND, inner stress—being essentially unhappy. Since coming out, I've met dozens of gay men
with the same scenario.
     Here's the thing. We were all lied to. One CAN be religious, wholesome, well-intentioned—a productive
contributor to society and, yes and, be homosexual. It took a long time for me to come around to understanding
that, even a near fatal heart blockage. But the understanding is both liberating and joyous, and I needed to
share the feeling.
     My book is graphic in its description of male homosexual love. Why? Because it is my statement telling the
world that it's okay—just fine—to love passionately, even if you are homosexual. And it is possible to have total,
unselfish, committed and faithful gay love.
     Originally published in a shorter version titled "Antebellum Days and the Epistle of St. John," the novel weaves
spirituality with sexuality together—because that's the way life really is. The story has elements of Shakespeare's
"Romeo and Juliet" (forbidden love) and of George Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion" (benefits of properly-spoken
English). It is an adventure; it is a love story; and it is very gay. Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE
The Beginning

     Standing six feet-four inches tall, Tom Canfield appeared to be the devil himself to this small gathering
of frightened black slaves.
       "We got a nice bunch here, Mr. Canfield," the white overseer puffed. "Any you like?"
       Canfield, hoping to buy a new coachman for his family, marched back and forth in front of the group like
a general reviewing his troops. He finally stopped at a scared full-grown Negro man who couldn't bear to lift
his head. "You there," Canfield demanded. "How old are you?"
       The Negro looked up in horror. "Please massa," he whined, "d'ye not rip me of my brudder. He gon' in
the head from lashes. He gon' die widout da brudder."
       Canfield looked confused. Frowning, he exclaimed, "What?!"
       A voice came from a group of Negro slaves standing to Canfield's right. "He's asking you not to separate
him from his brother, who has been dim witted since he was whipped and nearly bled to death," Willie Boy
proclaimed in his most authoritative and refined voice. Stepping out from behind the other slaves, he continued.
"He fears for his brother's life if they were separated."
       Willie Boy's voice rang out clearly and distinctly. He did not know what came over him or where his new-found
gumption came from. He couldn't believe he just said what he did.
       Dumbfounded, Canfield spun around and saw the defiant slave stepping out boldly from the group. Looking
with astonishment at Willie Boy, he asked, "What's your name, boy?"
       "Sir, my name is Willie…" Willie Boy paused. Grabbing more steel that he knew he had, he continued.
"That is, sir, my name is William Waterman, and I am almost sixteen years of age and I reside here and labor
with these other Negro ladies and gentlemen."
       Canfield smiled and scratched his head. "Well, I'll be damned," he blurted out, surprised… and amused.
"Where did you learn to talk like that?"
* * *
     Willie Boy's short life of less than sixteen years was full of formative events, starting with the night he was born.
That night…in a small plantation in South Carolina, a trusted slave named Rufus rapped frantically on the door
of a black midwife, stirring her from her slumber. He screamed through he door, "Flo, Flo…you gots to come
quick, it's Tessie. She gonna have the massa's baby now."
     Flo rushed over to Tessie's cabin with her crude instruments and found Tessie painfully holding her enlarged
stomach and moaning tearfully. Sending Rufus for hot water, she rolled out her towel exposing a clean knife, a
piece of cord, and some spoons. She was going be prepared if the birth were to be breach. This was no
ordinary slave child; this was the master's child.
       After a torturous night of painful labor in the dingy slave cabin and in the heat of July in South Carolina, 1848,
Tessie, a beautiful mulatto slave and the plantation master's concubine, caressed her tiny newborn boy in her
warm and tender arms, tickling his tiny nose and giggling with joy. Even as a newborn, her boy child whom
she named William…soon to be known as Willie Boy…was beautiful and intelligent. On his first day on Earth,
he was alert and aware. From his mother's arms, he seemed to be focusing his bright, clear, dark hazel eyes
on objects and people as he looked around the room, almost as though he were studying and evaluating his
environment. Most Negroes have brown eye coloring, but Willie Boy's eyes were hazel, almost green.
       Because Tessie was the master's mistress, she enjoyed special privileges, and Willie Boy too would be
afforded certain unusual luxuries. As he grew, he was separated from the other slave children and was allowed
to stay with his own, loving mother every day. His food was far better than what the other slaves had, as the
master would bring Willie Boy and Tessie kitchen sleavings. Most other Negroes had a steady diet of corn
meal, collard greens and water. What was most peculiar though was that Willie Boy was given baby shoes
when he began to walk. Albeit they were used footwear, shoes were unheard of in the slave compound.
Despite such privileges, however, the young slave boy will be mistreated, beaten, and narrowly escape violent
death twice before he reaches the age of twenty.
       Willie Boy's mother, as beautiful as any woman ever created, was housed in a somewhat comfortable
cottage, distanced by about a hundred yards from a group of large slave barracks on a plantation owned by
Matthew Waterman, a self-made cotton millionaire. Because of Tessie's unusual beauty, she was never
used now for field work, but frequently used for sexual gratification by her master and some of his important
business associates. The cottage she occupied in the slave quarters was only a short distance from the
master's mansion and therefore convenient for his frequent but discrete, late-night visits.
       With light mocha-colored skin that glistened in the sunlight, Tessie focused piercing cat-like eyes right
into the heart and captured the soul of any normal post-pubic male, white or black. Her enigmatic and sometimes
seductive smile showcased her bright white teeth. Blessed with amble breasts, her slight frame tapered to a tiny
waist and she glided on long, slender legs.
       Beauty was both her good fortune and her bane. Years before Willie Boy was born, she labored in the cotton
fields, but when the master saw her getting tired and wane-looking from the toil, he had his overseer lighten her
burden or he would allow her to do light women's work in the slave camp. Nevertheless, he would never even
think of bringing Tessie up to the main house to do house servant work, fearing that her beauty would get the
attention and perhaps the suspicion of his prim and proper wife, Loretta. But Tessie would never have the
privilege of marrying. Her value to Waterman was her sexual appeal, and he used her frequently to entertain
important cotton buyers. She was the master's personal property—a jewel he treasured and kept apart from
his other more mundane assets.
       Addressed by the slaves as "Massa," Matthew Waterman was an authoritative, terse man standing six feet
tall with light brown wavy hair, a wiry frame, and handsome chiseled features. Most days he evoked anxiety in
Tessie. She was careful not to provoke his ire; but she knew when she could be coquettish, and more importantly,
she knew when she should be simply submissive. Despite his cold mannerism, there was a tender and decent
side to Matthew Waterman which Tessie enjoyed on occasions when he came by with less than four shots of
whiskey under his belt.
Matthew Waterman did love his wife, in his way. But their sexual relationship was cold, infrequent, and enjoyed
by neither partner. Still, he respected her intelligence, authority, and spirituality. A stocky women with reddish hair,
Loretta was the ruler of the roost in all things but business. That she left to Matthew, so long as the profit was large
and increasing. She was the disciplinarian to their three children and the glue that bound them all together. Deeply
religious and a pillar of the local Baptist church, she was convinced that the world was much too secular. It was at
her insistence that the local pastor, Bradford Carlson, came to their slave quarters every other Sunday afternoon
to save the souls of the slaves by preaching the virtues of subservience to their master.
Although loved by Matt Waterman, Willie became a deep and troubling problem for his master. By the age of
seven, Willie Boy grew into the mirror image of Waterman except for the color of his skin. He was Matt
Waterman's progeny unmistakably. If Willie Boy were to wander anywhere near the main house, Loretta
would know immediately that he was her husband's child, sure as the sun rises in the east. Fortunately,
Loretta never stooped to the indignity of placing herself anywhere near the slave quarters.
     Still, Matthew Waterman faced a dilemma. If the boy were discovered by anyone and his existence revealed
to Loretta, Waterman's infidelity would be exposed. That would break Loretta's heart, something Matt could not
bear to see. It would also expose his continuing sexual trysts, which would cause him embarrassment and
shame. If he sent the boy away, he would break Tessie's heart, and that, too, was grievously unappealing to him.
So for the time being, he tepidly allowed the status quo to continue.
       With this nurturing arrangement, Willie Boy flourished. He developed the same precocious personality as his
mother, and charmed both the other black children and the white visitors who called on Tessie.
       For hours he would play in front of the shanty cottage with nothing more than a stick and a tin can. Using the
stick to draw pictures in the dirt, he would proudly show his mammy his artwork. "Oh, how beautiful," she would
proclaim. Then she might tickle Willie Boy on his stomach until he laughed gleefully.
       Willie Boy didn't know the pain of slavery yet. His days were full of play and satisfying meals. He loved to
wear his shoes and play all day in the warm sunshine. Cautioned never to wander off, Willie Boy's only tether
was his desire to be obedient to his beloved mammy. When the white cotton buyers came by to "visit" Tessie,
they were amused by his playful manner and often gave him a penny or a piece of candy.
       By far, Willie Boy's favorite visitor was Sir Charles Wellington. Sir Charles bought cotton for several Great
Britain manufacturers and was responsible for more than half of the sales made by Waterman. Sir Charles was
two things in life…a grammarian and a womanizer. On one Sunday afternoon in early spring, he arrived
unexpectedly at Tessie's cottage and found only Willie Boy there. Willie Boy, now nearly twelve years old,
was warming dinner at the stove when Sir Charles entered.
       "Ah, William, my boy, you are looking chipper this glorious afternoon," the jovial gentlemen said as he
opened the cabin door.
     "Sir Charles!" Willie Boy answered smiling. "How nice to see you. How is you today?" He knew the
improper grammar would get a reaction from his language mentor.
       "William! Haven't I taught you the proper agreement between subject and verb?" Willie Boy laughed with
delight at the success of his tease. "Oh, Sir Charles, I was just pulling your leg. I know that it's said how ARE
you, not how IS you. But how is it that you are here today, it being Sunday?"
       "William, my boy, I am here to see your dear mother. Where is she?"
       "Down at the clearing listening to the preacher. He come, eh, he comes here on some Sundays to tell us
all about Jesus."
       "Be a good boy and go fetch her for me, William, will you?"
       Willie Boy answered apprehensively. "Eh, Sir Charles, I am not allowed to go down there when
Reverend Carlson is there. My mammy is quite adamant about that."
       "It's alright, William. Just tell her I insisted, and hurry about it."
       Willie Boy was uncertain, but obeyed because Sir Charles was white and a white man's orders always
took precedence. He nervously walked to the clearing where the Negroes were assembled to worship.
Skirting the edge of the crowd, he found Tessie among others in the third row of those seated on the grass.
Tessie's eyes widened as he approached. She rose and grabbed his arm, rushing him away from the
gathering. "Willie Boy, I told yo never to comes here. What gots into yo?"
       "Mammy, Sir Charles is at the cabin and he made me come for you."
       That bastard, Tessie thought, what is he doing here on a Sunday? The massa said he would never send
anyone on Sunday. "It's alright Willie Boy, not yo fault," she answered as she rushed away with her frightened son.
       Pastor Carlson was storming about the rewards of servitude when his eyes caught a most unusual sight…
a slave boy wearing shoes. He stuttered in his speech a bit as he studied the unusual sight, a brief distraction
from the logical development towards his homily's conclusion. "So serve you master well in this life. Amen,"
he said and hastily headed for his horse and buggy.
       Tessie told Willie Boy to wait outside as she entered the cabin. "What you doin' here, Sir Charles?" she
asked as she burst in angrily.
       Wellington was abrupt. "Take off your dress, Tessie. Now."
       Tessie was surprised by his sternness. The English aristocrat was usually charming and gentle in his
handling of Tessie. His love making was slow, caressing—almost reverent. Today, however, he seemed
desperate. Tessie was aware of his importance to her master, so she spoke softly. "It's Sunday, Sir Charles,
and I am not able to…"
       "I'll say it one more time, Tessie, take off your dress." Tessie put her head down, walked over to the
window and pulled across the drape. She complied with the demand.
     Sir Charles moaned aloud when he saw Tessie's naked breasts. He fondled them softly, kissed them and
drew Tessie to the bed. Tenderly, he removed her panties and spread her soft fleshy legs. Moaning with
delight at the sight, he lowered his pants; the eager lover couldn't wait to thrust himself into the passive
Tessie. His performance was brief.
       Quickly dressing afterwards, he said nothing, just rushed to the door and walked away toward his horse.
Seeing Willie Boy outside the cabin, he smiled, waved and said kindly, "Remember to have your subject
and verb agree, William. Round out your vowels and keep your sentences complete."
       Sir Charles had not initially come to see Tessie this day; instead he was interested in a young slave girl
promised him by Waterman. The girl, not yet fifteen, began to cry and wail when Sir Charles entered her
barracks. Her loud protest drove Sir Charles away, so he sought after a more familiar target—Tessie.
Although he had grown somewhat bored with Tessie, Sir Charles knew he could get what he wanted
from her. He was not a bad man, just sex addicted, and he did love teaching Willie Boy elocution, which
he did for hours on his many visits to have sex with Tessie.
     Although he did so to satisfy his own love of language, Sir Charles unwittingly enriched Willie Boy with a
most precious gift—the gift of eloquent language, a gift that would pay enormous dividends to Willie Boy
throughout his life.
       Waving farewell to Sir Charles, Willie Boy went inside to join Tessie, who was back at the stove hovering
over the twice re-heated beans and ham. "Sit down Willie Boy, let's eat now." She felt ashamed and humiliated
but knew that if she did not obey her master's wishes, Willie Boy could be forced into the fields to labor like
a mule. She would give her very life for Willie Boy, and Massa Matthew was mostly kind to them both.
       All-in-all it was a very comfortable life for Willie Boy and Tessie, and the arrangement lasted until young
Willie Boy approached puberty. They had, however, tempted fate for longer than could be expected, and their
comfortable life was about to come to an abrupt end.
* * *
Reverend Carlson paced in his office as the sun rose over the tree line outside his small roadside church.
He had not slept well the night before and this clear spring morning brought him much angst. Since divinity
school, Bradford Carlson preached or led congregations at seven churches throughout the Carolinas. He
saw so much hypocrisy and immorality that he just grew to accept it, or at least look the other way. Today,
however, he felt he had to take a stand. While preaching to the slaves at the Waterman Plantation the previous
Sunday, he had spotted a Negro boy, about eleven or twelve years old, who looked more like Matthew
Waterman than Waterman's own sons. Matthew Waterman obviously had fathered an illegitimate black child.
       By ten o'clock he hitched his buggy to the chestnut mare belonging to the Church and snapped the reins,
starting his journey to the Waterman Plantation. Traveling past the cotton fields, his heart went out to the
dozens of Negro men and women laboring in the fields. Boys as young as ten, attached to heavy plows and
raining sweat, were slicing the stiff dirt in the fields behind sway-backed mules. Old black men planting cotton
were twisting their arms behind them, massaging their aching backs, as they bent over the plowed mounds
without any rest. Mature, strong Negro slaves broke up clods with heavy pick axes. Clothed in rags, the women
carried seeds from the storage sheds. Surely God, Reverend Carlson thought, would not let this suffering continue.
       "Oh, look!" Loretta bellowed excitedly from the veranda of the Waterman mansion as she saw the reverend
approach. "Pastor Carlson is coming by to pay us a visit. Oh, how nice of him. Matthew, tell Betsy to prepare
some cake and lemonade for the reverend."
       Hmmm, Matt thought, what does this old buzzard want?
       "'Mornin', Pastor," Loretta said graciously as he approached the porch. "How nice of you to come by."
       The reverend removed his broad-brimmed hat and bowed slightly. "'Mornin', Loretta. I trust you all are
well today?"
       Delighted at his presence, Loretta answered. "Why yes, Reverend, thank you for asking."
       Matt stepped out on to the veranda. "So what brings you all this way today, Reverend?" Matt questioned.
       The pastor looked sternly at Matthew. "Well, I though I would just stop by to see to your spiritual needs,
Matthew," Reverend Carlson said enigmatically. "Do you have some time to talk about the Lord, Matthew?"
       Waterman cringed, but answered politely, "Of course, Reverend, come on in."
       "Loretta," Pastor Carlson drawled, "May I borrow your husband for some Church business for a short while?"
       Loretta smiled. "Oh, you men go talk; I've got some quilting to attend to." She was convinced the reverend
was there to ask for a contribution or a raise in his honorarium for preaching to their slaves.
       Matthew felt a strange apprehension take hold of him. This could NOT be good, he thought. The pair
entered into Matthew's plush office and rested themselves in the tall, leather wing chairs placed in front of
Matt's large Victorian desk. Matthew looked across at the reverend, and wanting to get this over, he asked.
"So, Reverend, what's on your mind?"
       Pastor Carlson revealed what Matt had dreaded for years…discovery of his shameful infidelity. The
reverend told Matthew how he saw a Negro boy in the slave area yesterday who looked unmistakably like
Matthew Waterman. Reverend Carlson condemned the whole practice of using unwilling slave girls for sexual
gratification, and the disgraceful presence of Waterman's obvious prodigy on Matthew's own plantation was
an insult to decency. The boy and his mother had to be removed from the plantation immediately.
       Matthew was embarrassed, but faked indignation. "How dare you come to my home and threaten me?"
he bellowed.
       "I'm not threatening anything, Matthew," the reverend stated calmly. "I'm here to help you find salvation
and save your marriage." He leaned closer to Matthew and spoke in a hushed tone. "What would Loretta
say if she saw the boy? Have you thought of that?"
       Matthew put his head down. He had thought of that many times, but was caught on the horns of a vicious
dilemma over the matter. Matt slowly picked up his head and, with a submissive look, quietly told the pastor,
"Reverend, I will do as you say. Please keep this conversation discreet and let me take care of things in
due time."
     The reverend was pleased. "That's all I ask, dear Matthew. That's all I ask."
       After dinner that evening, Matthew stepped out on the veranda and stared out over the lawn and flowers
that adorned his front yard. Lifting his eyes over the neatly trimmed hedges, he peered at the trees in the
direction of the slave quarters, toward Tessie's cottage. His back was against the wall now; his day of
reckoning had finally arrived. As usual after his dinner, he opened a bottle of whiskey and began to drink,
but much more than usual this night. Drinking himself into a stupor, he staggered into bed.
* * *
     Matthew Waterman wept as he held Tessie in his arms the next day, and he confessed his shame to her.
He told her he was ashamed that he had fornicated with her for years, ashamed that he used her to bribe
cotton buyers, ashamed about what he was about to do. He told Tessie of his conversation with Reverend
Carlson, and that the reverend saw Willie Boy.
       Matthew steeled himself and delivered tersely his decision. "Tessie, dear, I am going to have to send
you away. I'm so sorry. Tessie, please understand, I simply cannot face the shame. I cannot let Loretta find
out about us. It would kill her."
       Tessie's eyes welled up and she lowered her head, realizing at that moment she was to be sold, and
there was nothing she could do to change it. She looked up into Waterman's eyes. "Please, Massa," she
begged tearfully, her voice quivering, "don't sells me away from my Willie Boy. I loves him so."
       Waterman vowed. "Tessie, as God is my witness, I would never do that. I will make sure you and Willie
Boy stay together and are sold to a kind master, and only for house servant work. Look at me Tessie, this
could be the best thing for you and Willie Boy." Matthew knew he could never really promise that, but the
words eased the pain.
       Tessie did what all slave women were trained to do from birth. She accepted her fate and acquiesced,
telling Matthew that she was grateful for his favors over the years and that she understood that he had no
choice now. All she asked was that she and Willie Boy never get sold away from each other. Trying to
conceal her tears, she called Willie Boy to her side and put her slender arms around him. "Willie Boy,"
she said softly, "Did you hear what the massa said? We goin' on a big adventure, far away from here.
We be together and have lots o' fun settlin' in a new place."
       Looking confused, Willie Boy asked. "Where are we going, Mammy?"
       Tessie smiled and hugged her son. "Wherever the good Lord wants us to," she answered. "Wherever
He wants us to go. He will take care of us now."
       Feeling sad but relieved, Matthew closed the door of Tessie's cottage behind him and also closed the
door on that chapter of his life. Doors, however, swing both ways. That same door opened on a new and
harsh chapter in the lives of Tessie and Willie Boy.
* * *
     Sitting outside his dour looking house of pain, which he referred to as his headquarters, Pauly Bullock
was delighted to see Matthew Waterman headed his way from the genteel side of town. So now the uppity
bastard wants something from me, he thought.
       Bullock had sold Matthew ten slaves over the years, but Waterman hadn't dealt with Bullock for some
time. Waterman was always appalled by the filthy conditions of the slave-holding areas and the sadistic
and cruel treatment Bullock gave the Negroes under his control. He often chastised Bullock for being the
meanest son-of-a-bitch in the county, complaining that the Negroes he sold were delivered starved and beaten.
       Slave trading was a dirty business, and people with low or no morals dealt in it. Matthew hated having to
do business with the likes of Pauly Bullock, a "broker" for human lives, but, as with everything else that week,
he had no choice. Pauly Bullock had the morals of a snake. Bald, fat, unshaven, he was found to be generally
repulsive by everyone with whom he came in contact. His bulbous belly hung over his belt, which could not
hold up his trousers without the help of broad suspenders that draped over his shoulders and disappeared
below his huge gut. An unpleasant odor accompanied him, and his yellow rotting teeth were repulsive and
odorous. Placing no limits on himself, he overindulged in food, drink, and sex. Sadism and sloth defined his
wretched life. He made it a point to do as little work as possible, allowing lies and cheating to advance his
pocketbook. Sadly, Pauly found pleasure in other people's misery. Slave trading suited him well.
       As Waterman approached, Bullock greeted him politely. "Afternoon, Mr. Waterman," he moaned
solicitously. "Nice to see you on this fine day. I hope I can be of some service to you."
       Matthew frowned, looked at Bullock, and said, "Yes, Mr. Bullock, unfortunately you can. I need your, eh…
professional assistance," he took a deep breath and continued, "as I am desirous to sell two slaves. In the
past, Bullock, I have not liked the way you've conducted your business, but I am hopeful that I can trust you
with a delicate matter at this time."
       The deal was set. Bullock would present a bill of sale to Waterman's white overseer and take
possession of two black slaves, one thirty-six-year old female known as Tessie, and one male known
as Willie Boy, about twelve years of age. Both were to be auctioned off as far away as possible and
sold together…one lot.
****
     The sun hung heavy in the late afternoon sky as Bullock sat on his buckboard and drove his team slowly
up to the Waterman slave barracks. The timing was planned such that the bulk of the field slaves were still
out toiling in the distant fields, as Matthew did not want to set off a commotion or fuss of any kind when
Tessie and Willie Boy were taken away. Bullock was sure he could do what needed to be done without
a hitch. For him it was a lucky break, an easy dollar.
       As he approached the barracks, he was greeted with a surprise. Look at that, he marveled to himself.
Two darkies all dressed up and even carrying luggage.
       Whoa, he thought, no wonder Waterman wanted this handled discretely; the boy has Waterman written
all over his face. This gets better and better.
       When he laid his lustful eyes on Tessie, his libido overcame his reason and any thought he had of
honoring Waterman's request for courtesy and special treatment was dashed from his mind. Humm,
Waterman's been keeping this beauty all to himself, he thought. Bullock couldn't wait to get her back
to his room, a filthy cell next to the prison-like chamber he used to hold slaves waiting for sale or transport.
       Smiling as he pulled up to the cottage, he greeted the two politely. "Afternoon, folks. You must be
Tessie, and I assume this fine young fella is Willie Boy."
       "Dat's right." Tessie answered cautiously.
       Bullock continued in his slithery manner. "Well then, let me help you on the wagon. You'll be
comfortable there."
       As the wagon pulled away, Tessie looked back longingly at the cottage she had called her home
for so many years and prayed silently that she and Willie Boy would be alright.

       The sweat beaded on Bullock's forehead as he steered his team of horses towards his tawdry
business headquarters in Columbia, but it wasn't the heat of day that was causing his body to sweat.
Rather, it was his lust for Tessie, which had taken over his original purpose. The money was now only
icing on this savory cake.
       The buckboard made its usual passageway up to a windowless plank building, down a dirt path
way off the main road. Stepping inside, Pauly could hardly wait to have his way with the beautiful Tessie.
       "You, boy," he bellowed to Willie Boy. "Get in there," pointing to the pathetic-looking holding chamber,
a bare room with no windows and with urine-smelling straw on the floor. Frightened, Willie Boy complied.
       "You, bitch; in there," Pauly barked, pointing to his room.
       Tessie was outraged. "I's stayin' with my baby," she said, surprised and defiant. Riled, Pauly drew his
arm back and swung it forward with all his might, slamming Tessie in the face and throwing her backwards
into his room, where she landed on his bed. He locked Willie Boy, screaming and kicking, in the holding
chamber and entered his room as Tessie sat up tearfully and held her bleeding jaw. Pauly closed the
door behind him.
* * *
     Left alone all afternoon and night, Willie Boy was given no food or water. He was sick and hungry at dawn.
Sleepless and afraid in the dark, Willie Boy cried all night. Finally, he saw some light entering the room,
streaking through the opening door. Pauly entered abruptly and grabbed the boy by his arm. Without a
word, he pulled Willie Boy out into the blinding light of day and shoved him into a waiting wagon. With a
jerk, the wagon pulled away, throwing Willie Boy on his back on the straw bed of the buckboard. He sat up
and looked back at the prison he had spent the night in and saw it fading away, leaving his mother still
held within.
       "Wait, wait!" he screamed over the hoof beats. "My mammy, my mammy! She's still there! We're to be
sold together!"
       "Shut up and sit down, boy." Willie Boy turned to see a crusty, bearded, steely-eyed white man holding
the reins.
     "Where are you taking me?" Willie Boy demanded.
       Without even looking back, the man answered. "You'll know soon enough. Just keep your mouth shut."
       Feeling the effects of his sleepless night, the young slave boy collapsed from exhaustion and hunger,
and blacked out. It was hours later when he came to, shaken awake by the crusty stranger.
       His captor growled at Willie Boy. "Get out. Wait here." Willie Boy looked around, bewildered. He was
standing outside a slave shanty where black men and women were milling around waiting for their mid-day
meal and fresh water. The stranger took Willie Boy by the arm and shoved him towards a heavy black woman.
     "Here, Mammy," he shouted, "take him, feed him, and send him out in the field."
       Willie Boy began to cry. "Wait! My mammy, where's my mammy?"
       "Hush, hush, Mammy Rosanna will take care of you now," she said in a soft, kind and reassuring voice.
"You be fine now. Sits down. I haves some nice warm cornmeal and greens for you."
       Disoriented, Willie Boy sat down and began to eat. For the first time in his life, he felt like a slave, ate
like a slave, and suffered like a slave.
       "Wat yo gots on yo feet?" A voice came from behind him. It was an older boy, about seventeen. He
stared Willie right in the eye. "Yo gives me them shoes, boy."
       Rosanna came to Willie Boy's aid. "What yo doing here, Moses?," she scowled. "Git off with yo!"
Looking down at Willie Boy, she spoke softly and tried to comfort him, "Don't yo pay him no mind, son."
       "I'm not your son," Willie Boy cried. "My mother is Tessie from the Waterman Plantation."
       Surprised, Rosanna replied, "Don't we talks fancy, now boy. You is here now fer good, boy. Best yo
get used to it." A voice came from behind the young, confused and upset slave. "Take this, boy." Willie
Boy looked around to see a lean elderly black man handing him a sack full of seeds. Yo needs to plant
a half acre by dark. Best git to it."
       So, all alone and frightened, Willie Boy tasted the cruel, backbreaking work of slavery for the first time
in his short life. He knew himself to be twelve years old and his birthday was July thirteenth. That was more
than any other black slave boy knew about himself, and it made Willie Boy special. His shoes, which also
made him special, would be gone by morning.
       As the sun slid behind the horizon and darkness set in, Willie Boy was exhausted from bending over
and spreading seeds. He had covered nearly a quarter of an acre, well below what the others did. Hungry
and tired, he left the field and headed for the community table for some food. The other Negro workers
were there first, so little food was left for Willie Boy. What he could gather from the serving bowls with his
bare hands, he shoved in his mouth as rapidly as possible. Abruptly, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.
It was the hand of the crusty man who brought him there. The man's name was Clem, and he was the
White overseer. Clem spun Willie Boy around and grabbed his shirt, drawing Willie Boy to his face.
Staring icily at the young scared slave, he growled, "What you been doin' in that field all day, boy? You
call that work? I'll go easy on you today 'cause you're new here. Tomorrow you plant a full acre or you get
the whip. You get that?" Willie nodded, as tears welled up in his eyes.
       That night Willie Boy slept on a straw mattress pad that was placed on a hard wood rack which he shared
with four other boys. In the dark and before sleep took him away, Willie Boy wept, trying his best to muffle the
sound of his sobbing for fear of being heard by the other boys and facing their ridicule.
       Dawn came too soon, and Willie Boy was shaken awake by the slave boy who slept next to him.
"Best git up," he advised.
       In the field that day, Willie Boy tried as hard as he could, ignoring the burning pain in his shoeless feet,
but he still fell short of planting an acre by dusk even though he worked without supper, until he could no
longer see enough to find the plowed row. Returning to the slave camp, Willie Boy found Clem waiting
for him.
     Clem Hobson had worked as white overseer for only five months now, having inherited the job when his
father suddenly died of a fever. Hobson, a shabby-looking, blond, thin, unshaven, and mean-spirited man,
had worked previously at the feed and seed store in town for three years, but leapt at the chance to take
his old man's place. Clem suffered from low self esteem, so mistreating the blacks gave him a sense of
self worth. He demanded respect from the slaves he controlled, and insisted that they call him "Sir," a title
he enjoyed nowhere else.
     Hobbling from working without his shoes, Willie Boy tearfully approached the cruel overseer. "Sorry, sir.
I…I did the best I could."
       Clem put a condescending smirk on his face. "Well, at least you tried, boy." With that, Clem raised his
boot and slammed his heel into Willie Boy's left foot. The blow broke several bones in Willie Boy's lowest
extremity, and he bent over with the sudden pain, let out a wail, and collapsed on the ground in tears. Clem
just smirked. "Just be thankful I didn't give you the whip, boy."
       Rosanna came running to the injured boy, giving a hateful look at Clem. Bastard, she said to herself.
Lifting the slight-framed boy in her arms, she carried him, crying with pain, to her cabin, where she attended
to his injury as best she could. She wrapped his foot tightly in rags and held him in her arms until he fell
asleep. Although his foot was swollen and painful, Willie Boy was forced to join the others in the field
early the next morning. From that day forward, Willie Boy walked with a limp, carrying most of his weight
on his right foot and carrying the weight of hatred for Clem in his heart.

     For the next few months, Willie Boy labored in the fields from sunup to sunset. His tender feet slowly became
calloused like the other field slaves but his limp became more pronounced. Unable to run as he did before
Clem broke his foot, Willie Boy could only manage a fast skip as he hurried back from the fields.
       When the crop was ready, Willie Boy could not meet the harsh quota of picking a hundred and fifty pounds
of cotton per day, no matter how long the light of day lasted. He hid his shortfall for a few days by double
counting and confusing Clem. Fearing that would be discovered, he increased his yield by starting earlier,
before sunup, and working later. To bring in less than a hundred and fifty pounds of cotton meant a flogging,
and Willie Boy feared that more than anything.
       He had seen Clem administer this harsh punishment shortly after he arrived. The cruel White overseer
lashed into an elderly Negro named Ole Robertson, who had missed the quota by only a few handfuls of
cotton. Willie Boy's eyes widened when he saw the blood streaming from the unfortunate man's already
scarred back. Clem had no mercy, even when Ole Robertson's blood soaked the soil beneath him as he
hung suspended from a tree limb. Clem kept lashing the poor man even though he was unconscious. Ole
Robertson never recovered.
       The "massa" was angry with Clem for going too far and killing a slave. This depleted his property and
destroyed an asset, which he could have sold for about a thousand dollars or so.
       The master was furious. "That happens once more," he roared, "and you're through!"
       This chastisement made Clem even meaner to the slaves. It's their fault that I got into so much trouble,
he told himself. He ordered three strong mature slaves to bury Ole Robertson behind the shanties the next
day. Ole Robertson wasn't given so much as a prayer or a hymn…just dumped in the ditch like yesterday's trash.
       The incident stayed with Willie Boy a long time, and he would do anything to keep from feeling the sting of
the whip. He considered running away, but instinctively knew he would not get far on a crippled foot.
Despairing, Willie Boy just got through one day at a time, with his only goal being to survive just one more
day. He missed his mammy more and more, and fantasized that she would return and rescue him from this living hell.
       While picking the hated cotton in the oppressive heat, Willie Boy never joined in the rhythmic songs of the
other workers. Instead he chose to daydream to occupy his mind while pulling the cotton balls from their thorny
perch. He enjoyed the memories of his sweet mammy as she told him stories and sang to him in their small
cabin, fondly recalling how Tessie told him about the Savior, Jesus, who was sent from God to save all
peoples from the devil.
       "When you die," she declared, "Jesus sweetly carries you up to paradise." Tessie quoted scripture from
memory after listening to powerful sermons from Reverend Carlson. "The meek shall inherit the earth,"
she would tell Willie Boy. "If not in this life, than surely da next, you will live in comfort in the land of milk
and honey. An' da white folks will do for you because of your suffering here."
       Willie Boy so desperately wanted to believe all of that. He always felt comforted and warm when he
thought of Jesus, and how He so loved all mankind.
       "To prove His love," Tessie told Willie Boy, "Jesus suffered and died, nailed to a wooden cross. And
He was poor like us and had nothin', just like us. Yet…He was King of all Heaven."
       Willie Boy wondered where Jesus was now. Why must we have to die to find His salvation?
       "Willie Boy!" Sammy, a slave boy about Willie's age, shouted, bringing Willie Boy back from his thoughts.
"Take this and shut up about it. Let Clem count this as yours," and he handed Willie Boy a nearly full bag of
cotton. "Yo can git back to camp on time dis night," he said with a smile and a wink.
       Using the usual dialect, Willie Boy responded to Sammy's generous gesture. "Shucks, Sammy, yo
don't gotta do dat fo' me."
       Sammy smiled. "Just take it an' keep yo mouth shut. I got lots mo cotton than yo."
       Willie Boy was touched by Sammy's kindness and said simply, "Thank ye, brudder."
       Sammy was a jovial, overweight Negro co-worker about sixteen or seventeen years old, and he felt
sorry for Willie Boy. He also lusted for him, noticing how handsome Willie Boy had become. For months,
Sammy watched as Willie Boy bent over again and again in the fields, admiring Willie Boy's maturing body.
Sammy's eyes stayed open for several minutes in his bed each night before falling asleep. He was
watching Willie Boy's handsome face as Willie Boy slumbered peacefully just a few feet away on the same rack.
       Like Sammy, Willie Boy was developing an adolescent libido, but not like other pubescent males who
began to notice girls. Willie Boy was interested in the other boys in the bunk room they commonly occupied.
Once a month, the boys would bathe, using a rusted old tub hauled in by Rosanna. She would collect their
soiled clothes and distribute clean shirts and overalls.
       Willie Boy stared at a young slave named Luke, as he took off his clothes. He could not keep his eyes off
Luke's naked body. Luke was about eighteen, lean and muscular from field work, and had developed pubic
hair around his long and thick penis. Willie Boy did not know exactly why, but he felt a tingling in his stomach
and stiffening in his groin when he looked at Luke. Flushed and embarrassed, Willie Boy had to sit with his
arms crossed over his enlarging member as he waited for his turn in the tub. Desperate, he would think of
Jesus and his mammy to contain his growing embarrassment. With his mammy in mind, Willie boy forced
this feeling to pass, and he would be able to walk over to the tub to take his turn in the soapy water.
       Although a loner, Willie Boy often found himself unavoidably chatting with the other youths on the plantation.
A fairly small spread, Massa Joe's plantation housed about twenty-five Negro slaves, including the small children,
so Willie Boy casually knew most of his fellow slaves. However, he never joined in the sophomoric sexual
conversation with the other young bucks. Luke often nudged Willie Boy and asked rhetorically, "Some big
teats on Hattie, huh?" or "Wouldn't ya just luuuuve to see that Maggie girl naked?"
       Just smiling slyly and nodding, Willie Boy thought to himself, no, I wouldn't like to see Maggie naked, but
God help me, I do like seeing you naked, Luke. Feeling shame, Willie Boy would shake his head loose of the
thought and chastise himself. I wonder if I am…a queer boy, a sissy. He just put that thought out of his mind.
Only bad people are queer, not me.
       Often on Saturday nights the house Negroes would come down from the "Main House" to share a little
home-made whiskey, sing some songs, and do a little joking with the field slaves. Marcus, the massa's
personal servant, would entertain the black folks by mimicking the "massa."
       Putting his thumbs under his arm pits and leaning back, Marcus would growl like Massa Joe. "Marcus,
you dumb ass nigger, git your fat lazy ass in here and empty my stinking bed pan."
       This delighted the field slaves and the home-made whiskey made it seem funnier. The songs were
composed from snatches of hymns which they heard sung by white people.
       They sang mournfully:
"I wants to go where Moses goes, Glory hallelujah!
Sweet milk and honey overflows, Glory hallelujah!
I wants to go to the Promised Land, Glory hallelujah!"
     The lyrics would be repeated over and over, just to fill the time. Willie Boy could barely stand the
repetition and would just retreat to his sleeping rack early, to escape to another world.
       After songs and whiskey one Saturday night, Sammy followed Willie Boy into the sleeping rack.
All ready asleep, Willie Boy felt someone touching his leg. He jolted awake. Opening his eyes, he was
staring right into Sammy's chubby smile.
       "Shussh," Sammy said softly. "Just lie still." He crunched down along the rack and moved down to
Willie Boy's groin. Pulling up his night shirt, he quickly engulfed the innocent young slave's penis in his mouth.
Despite his hesitation, Willie's penis grew stiff and he thrilled to the sensation. Willie Boy gasped and pulled
back, but Sammy reached over and grabbed Willie Boy's waist, pulling his slight frame back to meet
Sammy's eager lips. Clamped by Sammy's powerful arm, Willie Boy had no option but to stay put and allow
Sammy to complete his mission. When he was finished, Sammy scampered out and did not return that night.
       All the next day, Willie Boy felt ashamed and dirty. He could not bring himself to go to the Sunday Bible
meeting and wondered what his dear mammy would say if she knew what he had let Sammy do to him.
       Willie Boy faced Sammy that afternoon and angrily warned him never to do that disgusting thing again
or he would tell Rosanna. Sammy said he was sorry; the older Negroes gave him whiskey, and it got him
drunk out of his reason. He said that he decided that it would be better for him to move out and live with the
older slaves. Relieved, Willie Boy forgave him and shook Sammy's hand.
       For several months after that incident, Willie Boy worried about his sexual identity, hoping he would
outgrow his shameful attraction for the other boys. Except for a few light-hearted Saturday night moments,
Willie Boy's life was miserable and he was morose most of the time. He labored in the fields each day to
near exhaustion, ate cornmeal and greens every night, and lived mostly in his imagination to escape the
pain of reality.
       This was Willie Boy's life for the next two years. Better times awaited him, however, and fate did
eventually smile on the young Willie Boy.

(To be continued.)

To order  Blowing in the Wind