The Secret Boy's Club of Meadowbrook Farms

By William E. Steinberg

This is one of those rollicking old fashioned stories of boyhood with bullies, crooks, witches, drunks, runaway horses, savage Indians and you-name-it skullduggery going on everywhere with great adventure and a good deal of fun along the way
Occasionally you may be tempted to ask yourself if people really did all these things back in the day, but according to the newspaper accounts at the time, yes they did, and even more.
Set in Florida just before the outbreak of the first World War, you will soon see that although they did not have television and the Internet at the time they were doing and thinking about the same kinds of things people do and think about today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William E. Steinberg
• Release date: Nov 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310224195

William E. Steinberg

I was born in Birmingham, Alabama in 1937 and moved to California following World War ii. After High School I worked as an office boy and then a clerk in san Francisco. Nothing spectacular. But I always wanted to write because I like reading and telling stories. For years I labored secretly slowly learning to tell a story. I have finally completed a novel and I hope people will enjoy it. My pen name is William E. Steinberg, which I took from an old family story.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Ritual

As the clock in the town’s square struck eleven two figures dressed in dark clothing met in the woods near the lake. Only moments before, they had slipped from bedroom windows at the back of the darkened resort and gone carefully and silently to this spot. Now they moved quietly through the woods to the creek behind the old slave cabins. It’s rocky course led them to the quicksand bog where they paused and waited.

Soon their patience was rewarded as two more figures darted from shadow to shadow and silently closed ranks with the first two. Then a fifth figure came stumbling awkwardly, noisily picking his way, to where the other four waited. The first four figures could be seen warning him to walk quietly, but no one could have been close enough to hear their admonitions.

Be quiet, Morgan! one whispered.

I’m trying, the chubby figure returned.

The five shadowy figures made their way through the woods, along the well worn path to where the owner of the resort took his rich clients fishing, and located the raft at the edge of the lake.

Under a full moon the lake was as dark and still as a sheet of glistening wax on the overseer’s ebony floor. Not a breeze stirred in the surrounding trees. The only sound was the distant hoot of an owl calling a mate. The forest stood mute, as his call echoed through woods of four-hundred year old hard pine, and the darkened figures walked quietly and spoke in short whispered exchanges.

The lone owl, on silent wings, flapped away into the night to pursue his mate in more isolated surroundings. The forest and all it’s creatures knew people were afoot in it and that it was a night for critters to be scarce in the presence of magic.

At the north edge of the lake four more figures in dark clothing lingered near the shore behind the bulrushes. Peering through the darkness one of their number watched intently with a spy glass as the first group approached the water’s edge.

What are they doing? one quietly asked.

Just standing there. The one with the spy glass replied.

Then, from the other end of the lake a canoe appeared in the moonlight. Sitting straight and tall in the canoe was an Indian in full headdress. He paddled silently straight for the island near the south end of the lake.

One of the figures in the bulrushes was heard to utter in a loud whisper, Who is that?!

I don’t know, another answered, But there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it.

On the Indian came toward the island, gliding silently through the water, his paddle making no discernible sound as it dipped again and again into the lake and he pulled the canoe forward with powerful stokes.

As the canoe approached the island, the Indian placed the paddle in the canoe and stood. Only the foolish and the experienced stand in canoes. The foolish lose their balance and turn the canoe over. The Indian stood with arms raised skyward and uttered a mysterious, unintelligible chant. Ah yah ee yo an da kanda inya.

In the moonlight the ceremonial breastplate of the Creek Indians, forerunners of the Sminoles, shone as it covered the Indian’s chest. The figures in the bulrushes did not know the breastplate was that of a Creek Chief or that the chant was ancient Muskhogean, the language of the Creeks. Had they understood the language they would have heard the Indian give thanks to Creek gods, and ask for their indulgence on this night of magic. What they did understand was that the Indian was tall and muscular and that his face shone in the moonlight with what they took to be war paint. On each shining cheek were three red, white and blue lines. One side of his nose was painted red and the other blue. Down the center of his nose was a white line. Across his forehead were several lines of red, white and blue ceremonial paint.

As the canoe gently touched shore the Indian stepped out and silently came ashore carrying a huge bow and a quiver of arrows. The five figures on the small pier stepped aboard the raft as those hidden in the bulrushes watched.

By light of moon the two taller figures poled silently across the lake to the jut of land called Witch Island. There they disembarked and faded into the wooded area near it’s shore. Ten minutes passed before a fire could be seen at the knoll amongst the trees. Around the fire five shadowy figures danced naked as ancient Indians had done for untold centuries.

They were too far from shore for their words to carry on the still night air. Even so. They spoke little and softly.

Morgan doesn’t want to take all his clothes off, one of the smaller figures told a taller figure.

He’s got to, the taller figure replied. That’s in the rules.

It’s cold, the chubby figure called Morgan said.

Doesn’t matter, the taller figure responded. It’s part of the ceremony.

A bare flicker of flame soon became visible from the place at the top of the island where the small figures danced. Had good eyes stood quietly and looked intently, they would have witnessed the strange spectacle of five young figures dancing naked around the fire like savages, appearing to call on some pagan god for supplication.

Had the four hidden figures in the bulrushes been present on the island, they would have seen the tall Indian dressed in full headdress and a Chief’s breastplate standing among the trees as the smaller figures danced. They would have seen him raise his arms skyward, and heard the low chant he uttered as the others danced. And they would have seen his dark face shining in the moonlight and the red, white and blue paint on his forehead, nose and cheeks.

Ah ya ya maka daya," the tall Indian in the headdress chanted in a low voice.

Witch Island was less than fifty yards across and only a hundred or so yards long. From the waters edge it rose to a tree covered knoll eight or ten feet above the lake. The fire was in an open area at the center of the island where there were vague signs a cabin once stood. Beyond earshot of shore and hidden by trees a magic ritual was being performed.

The ceremony was a mysterious one, appearing at one moment to be an Indian ritual, then elements of the occult emerged, and finally simple, ritualistic pedantry. Their dance intensified and their naked bodies shook with ferocity as the clock in the town square struck midnight, the time when magic is strongest.

The dance of the young warriors was not long, and an observer would have to be quick to see the dancers slip from the glowing coals and appear to melt into the forest. In truth, they had settled into a circle around the fire sitting cross-legged on the ground.

They covered themselves with ceremonial paint, giving them the appearance of miniature Indian braves in a strange midnight ceremony. Then they sprinkled blood in the fire and returned cross-legged to their circle.

The tallest stood first facing the Indian from across the glowing coals.

What have you to say to the Great Spirit for yourself? asked the Indian.

I have come to pledge an oath, was the answer from across the embers."

Let the Great Spirit hear your oath.

With this oath I hereby pledge my life to God and Country. I will be brave in the face of danger.

Have you ever been brave? came the question.

I have helped save another from certain death, was the reply.

Is this true? the tall Indian asked of the circle.

He speaks true, answered one from the circle.

Continue your oath.

I will be honest with all good men, the speaker continued.

Can anyone say the speaker is dishonest? the Indian Chief asked.

No one speaks against him, came the answer from the circle.

I will neither lie, cheat, nor steal from my brethren.

Can anyone say the speaker lies, cheats, or steals? the Chief asked.

Non can say, came the chant.

Should I ever become unworthy of this oath may the devil take my soul.

You shall be held to your oath, came the reply from the circle.

Finally, from a hidden flask, each member of the tiny group took a sip. A fiery brew slid down their throats and warmed them inside against the chill in the midnight air. The ceremony was complete.

The last to take the oath almost choked on the devil taking his soul, but he said it and the others smiled, and crossed hands as he finished his oath.

You’re one of us now, they said. "We are all of us one now, forever.

As they spoke, the tall Indian in the headdress nocked an arrow to his bow and touched the point to a small flame coming from the embers in the fire. There was a flare at the tip of the arrow as it rapidly caught fire. Then he raised the bow and drew it to a full draw pointing it high in the air. As he released the arrow the figures hidden in the bulrushes wondered what the flaming arrow could mean as it shot up from Witch Island and sailed far out over the lake.

All five were now members of a secret group. From that day forward they would live their lives by their solemn oath. Each would hold the others to be true. As they poured water on the last of the glowing coals and left the clearing for the raft, all were quiet, somber. Each knew something had happened inside them. This was magic. By this act they had changed their lives forever. Each now saw the world through the eyes of their secret bond. From this time forward their every act and thought would be carefully planned and deliberate in every way.

As they boarded the raft, taking their places for the return trip each was deep in his own thoughts. Again the two taller figures poled the raft with a somber and quiet confidence.

The tall Indian slipped into the canoe and paddled silently away in the direction from which he had come. Far out on the lake he retrieved his arrow as it floated on the water. Then, as silently as he had come, he slipped across the lake and out of view as darkness closed around him near the distant shore.

Then, across the lake in the direction of the town there was a commotion. Beyond the bulrushes at the edge of the lake a party of local revelers out for a midnight buggy ride could be seen. A runaway horse burst into view pulling it’s buggy wildly, but they were too far away and too busy to notice the members of the secret group.

The revelers were yelling loudly and one of the other buggies took up a pursuit of the runaway. With buggies bouncing wildly and people screaming at the tops of their voices it was difficult for an observer to say whether it was a race or a rescue.

Nevertheless the secret group poled harder for the shore. People were yelling at the runaway, and paying no attention to the secret group. Then there was another commotion in the bulrushes at the edge of the lake. Dark figures ran around near the lake’s edge and someone yelled, then plunged into the water. The secret group had been spied on. They hurried with the poling of the raft hoping the distance was too great and the night too dark to make them out.

When they landed the raft no one spoke. Everyone seemed to know that with the sound of the first words the spell would be broken, the magic gone. Each knew what he must do. The three smaller figures stepped off the raft and waited for the others to secure it to the pier. Then, without a word, they hurried on their way.

The trail was a narrow path from the pier to the top of the bank. Where it topped the bank it intersected with the main trail. There it widened, broad enough for a horse drawn wagon to pass. The members of the secret group disappeared into the bulrushes at the edge of the lake and slipped into the woods and undergrowth. The spies at the edge of the lake could not see them as they disappeared into the woods behind the resort. There were many trails into the woods, and not even the best of spies could discern where they had gone as they melted into the forest.

Upon reaching the main trail, the small chubby figure left the others and headed for Cobbler’s Mountain. The others headed in the direction of the resort. Still, no one had spoken. The spell was not yet broken. The magic was still with them.

Even as they reached the edge of the woods behind the resort no one broke the spell. Two figures turned and nodded, and faded down a trail deeper into the woods. The remaining two figures nodded in return as they parted. Then, the last two figures silently crept towards the resort, each to his own darkened and waiting bedroom window.

Chapter Two

Southerners

One travels south, down a long, dusty road as it winds through the countryside, past fields of corn and sugarcane till you come to a bend in the road, and there, in a falling down, deserted, old Southern Mansion, once lived a boy and his family. His name was Joe, and he had an older brother named Willie. The two often played in the woods and along the creek that runs behind the old place. The mansion wasn’t deserted then, the old place had life, and new paint, and many happy voices with cherry faces running through it.

Willie was the oldest at sixteen, tall for his age, already filling out with broad shoulders and muscles beginning to swell to the size of a man’s. Joe, almost fourteen, was short, muscular, with dark, curly hair and eyes as blue as the midday sky. Joe had a little ski nose the girls would think was cute when he was older while Willie had a prominent hawk nose like his father’s.

The two brothers had two friends named Candy and Grady. They were also brothers, and the four boys played along the creek on many an afternoon. They had a secret club, and a secret hideout, and did secret things that no one, not even the most trusted outsider was ever supposed to know about.

Candy and Grady were Black boys who lived back in the woods behind Meadowbrook and their mother helped out at Meadowbrook and occasionally around town when she could find work. Their father was a bad man who drank and gambled and had beaten their mother and finally gotten himself in the kind of trouble that landed him in prison.

Now, everyone was glad he was gone and no one spoke of him if they could avoid the subject. Their mother was a good woman who worked hard and willingly at what she could find which was mostly helping in the kitchen and around the house at Meadowbrook

All that was back when Willie and Joe’s father first told them about men’s clubs and how they should have a club of their own so they could learn to be loyal to one another so they would grow into fine young men and prosper. He told them their club should be a secret club so they could learn to keep the secrets grown men kept, and that they should have an initiation so their members knew they were in a good club.

They had liked what they heard him say, especially the part about prospering. Prospering sounded good and adventuring sounded like fun. They had been anxious to form their own secret club, and start growing into the fine young men his words had promised.

They were supposed to have great adventures that would last a lifetime from which they would draw wisdom and guidance. Their father told them such things came to boys who had each other’s loyalty and trust. He said they would grow into fine young men who would join the clubs of men and become good citizens in the community.

And so it came to be that on a warm spring day all four members of the club were down at Simpson Creek playing their favorite game. It was a simple game, requiring only a tall tree from which a rope could be hung, allowing one to swing across the creek. Joe said it was best when there was something dangerous to swing over. The boys had the quicksand bog of Simpson Creek.

On this day they were preparing to initiate a new member into the club. His name was Morgan. Morgan was one of Joe’s very best friends in town. This is not to say that Morgan was a better friend of Joe’s than Candy or Grady or even his older brother, Willie, but Morgan was pretty high on Joe’s list of best friends. Joe thought he was good material for their secret club.

When a new member was to be initiated, everybody in the club had to play hooky to do it. That was because Joe thought it was better that way. He said if you initiated a fella when there wasn’t any school anyway, it just didn’t get a person’s blood up the way it did if he was looking over his shoulder for the Truant.

They didn’t usually have such a special reason. Usually, if the weather was good and the fish were biting, that was all the reason they needed. But on a day when a new member was to be initiated, it was necessary that they play hooky and go down to the creek, and run the risk of being caught by the Truant.

Morgan didn’t belong to anything, and more than all he wished for in the whole world he wanted to be a member of The Adventurer’s Club. Joe said there was a lot of work to be done to get him ready.

Behind his back Morgan was called a Teddy, a derogatory Southern term meaning he was a sissy. Southern boys liked to think all Yankees were sissies and President Roosevelt was a Yankee, therefore he must be a sissy. Joe couldn’t understand how a sissy could become president of the whole United States. It was very complicated. Joe would have to work that out later, but for now he clung to the very Southern conviction that all Yankees were sissies.

Morgan was a soft kind of kid, with round, steel-rimmed glasses, short blond hair, and khaki shirt and pants. His parents owned the local clothing store and dressed him like Teddy Roosevelt because they admired Teddy Roosevelt. If they could have had their way they would have dressed all the kids locally like Teddy Roosevelt and because they owned the local clothing store, made a small fortune doing it.

Joe asked Morgan if his parents were trying to make him look like a sissy so Wayne Carson would pick on him at school.

Don’t they know ‘ole Wayne just looks for some sissy to make fun of and pick on? Joe asked Morgan.

I guess not, Morgan answered in his soulful way.

Wayne picks on me all the time, Joe, and when I tell my parents they just say I should tell the teacher.

Joe said he just about couldn’t believe his ears.

That’ll just get you picked on even more, Morgan. Ms Middleton ain’t gonna do nothing but tell Wayne to stop picking on you and that’s gonna just make ‘ole Wayne want to pick on you even more. You gotta stand up to him like I did, Morgan.

The year before Wayne had made the mistake of trying to bully Joe. Wayne was a year older than Joe, and bigger and stronger. Wayne had pushed him around on the playground, trying to impress some of the girls. But he had pushed Joe one time too many and Joe picked up a branch the size of a baseball bat and struck Wayne in the side of the head splitting his right