Generations
Rushton Woodside
Smashwords Edition
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Copyright (c) 2010 Rushton Woodside.
Cover design, and setup copyright (c) 2010 Rushton Woodside.
Discover other titles by Rushton Woodside at Smashwords.com
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Sarasota Bay http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21446
Panther Run http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21583
The following story is a work of fiction, and all events portrayed herein are products of the author's imagination, as are the characters. No actual persons, living or dead, have been intentionally represented, and any coincidental resemblance is just that.
Many of the locations are real and factual.
Author's Note
When my family home was purged I received two items that struck my soul.
The first was a book: "History of Fulton County. In this I found that my mother's maternal grandfather had been instrumental in founding the first recognized church for Negroes in Atlanta Georgia in the 19th century.
The next was a business brochure from 1910 or so by my father's paternal grandfather. Part of that brochure is shown on the cover of this book. When I read: "We only employ experienced white packers." it hit me pretty damn hard.
Having grown up in the racially charged environment of the Deep South through the second half of the nineteenth century I eventually became compelled to write about that diversity.
Please bear in mind that some scenes in this story are quite violent.
Please bear in my mind that some words within this story are quite offensive.
If any scene or word makes you angry, I'm sorry. Many of them make me angry, too.
Also, there is no happy ending. Not yet, anyway.
I'll let Richard take over from here, but I will be back.
North Georgia Mountains
Richard Polk Speaks
“Hello. My name was Richard Harrison Polk. I died from the Bad Winter of 1841. We were all sick, and the fire barely warmed the corner of the big room each day. Once I got to shivering so much that I couldn’t even stand Clara called Kitwana in to keep the fire stoked. His was the last face I saw, his touch the last I felt. The best coloured we ever bought, and I’ve always treasured the day he and his family came onto the property. I feel saddened by all that he told me, but am glad I heard it before I left the mortal realm.”
“The shame of it all was that none of the slaves knew how much their lives would change again so drastically once I fell ill and my son John took over the mine. The worst part of my last months alive was hearing chains rattle, whips crack, and the screams. Dear God, the screams. ”
1823 - Now
The wagon rolls to a bumpy halt with a cloud of dust at the top of the ridge, horses wide eyed as usual after the steep climb, muscles bulging. The driver pulls the squeaky brake lever tight and spits in a worn handkerchief to wipe the red Georgia clay dust from his face before speaking to his employer, who had heard the loud approach and then met them at the stable area.
“Here they are, Master Polk. Jefferson accepted your offer and sold you the whole family!” he yells over the baying of the gathering pack of hounds.
Richard Polk tries to wave the colored down from the back of the wagon, but the adult male, the head of the family, points at the dogs and shakes his head. Polk lets loose a whistle to call the dead. His tongue is held just so behind the gap in his front teeth. The children in the wagon clasp their hands over their ears. The dogs all sit immediately: panting, waiting, and obedient.
The sinewy worker slave tentatively stretches one hand down towards the largest of the pack. A loud double sniff is the only response from the animal, so the man puts a hand on the railing and vaults down beside the pack, grins at his new owner. He is greeted with wagging tails and more snuffling sounds. After some head rubbing and sloppy tongues he reaches up for his son, a spitting image, and sets him on the ground. The dogs approve of him as well.
Woman and daughter climb down next. The driver takes a sly drink from a battered tin flask and leads the team and wagon off to the barn with dogs scampering along beside the rig, knowing water will be spilled when the horses are cooled down.
Polk looks at the adult male slave and speaks the only words he knows in Yoruba, the native language of Nigeria.
“Mo-ma-jeh Polk… Ma-jeh?” (My name is Polk. What is yours?). He wears the first smile of compassion the slaves have ever seen on a white man.
“Dey’s allus called me Red, Suh. But if’n you really wants to know, my name’s Kitwana. Means pledged to live. But you jus’ call me Red. My other Mastahs did. The white what first sol’ us down to the ocean give me dat one, so I’s used to it over da years. You kep’ us all together Suh, so call me what it is you wanna. My woman Batini, call her Betty. Boy Senwe and girl Sharik don’t have no ‘merican names yet.”