'T was in Dixie

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Foreword

Preface

Part 1

1: Quae cum Ita Essent

2: Kali

3: Rebecca Eve Miller

4: Lacrimarum Flumen Aureum

5: Leslie Scott Justice III

6: Per Aspera

7: The Market

8: Restitution

9: Little Black Bo

10: Juju

11: Belle Fleur

12: Eugene M. McElroy

13: Mirabile Dictu

14: Magnolia

15: Sursum Corda

About the Author

'T was in Dixie

T. Harper Wilkinson

Copyright © 2024 T. Harper Wilkinson

All rights reserved

2nd Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89061-183-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89061-184-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to Miss Bettie.

Foreword

Carmack's Pledge to the South

The south is a land that has Known

Sorrows; it is a land that has

Broken the ashen crust and

Moistened it with tears; a land

Scarred and riven by the plowshare

Of war and billowed with the

Graves

Of her dead; But a land of legend,

A land of Song, A land of hallowed

And heroic memories.

To that land every drop of my

Blood,

Every fiber of my being, every

Pulsation

Of my heart, is consecrated

Forever.

I was born of her womb; I was

Nurtured at her breast; and when

My last hour shall come, I pray

God that I may be pillowed upon

Her bosom and rocked to sleep

With her tender and encircling Arms.

—Senator E. W. Carmack

Preface

In sitting down to write this historical novel of our Civil War, I have tried to include a number of points to convey an interesting story, while at the same time supplying accurate historical dates, places, etc. But yes, you may well conjecture, you are a Southerner. Yes, that is true, for I am no less than a Southern Partisan to the very marrow of all my old bones. I feel that I was truly blessed to have been fashioned from the tough dirt of this, our Old South, and yes, to me and to all the folks I know, it will always be the Old South. For the valiant Confederacy of these Southern States comprised the very last Christian nation as this our technically spiraling world spins through these last sands of mortal time. These words which I have written may indeed offend a few, but then again, real Southerners around the world will easily understand them. I do believe that many folks—who love freedom and the slower, old days of living, where grace and love and courage existed aside from the coarsening which is so prominently a part of these latter says—will enjoy it too.

Carmack's pledge to the South, which I have already used as a foreword, exactly identifies my position in regard to the Old South, because the blood of that Old South's defenders still flows through my veins, just as it does through the veins of most of the people living here today, though they may or may not realize it. Mark Twain (Samuel Longhorne Clemens, 1835–1910) wrote: Sir Walter [Scott] had so large a hand in making Southern Character as it existed before the war that he is in great measure responsible for the war. I have always found that statement thought-provoking, and so that is the reason for which you, the reader, will find so many references to the writer Sir Walter as my characters interact with one another.

Though I have never been a great admirer of Mr. Abraham Lincoln, I do very much approve of a statement he once made in the support of the proto-Marxist revolution of 1848 (from a speech he delivered on January 12, 1848): Any people anywhere, being inclined and having the power, have the right to rise up and shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them better… Nor is this right confined to cases in which the whole people of an existing government may choose to exercise it. Any portion of such people, that can, may revolutionize, and make their own of so much of the territory as they inhabit.

Historically speaking, never have all the South's people, nor do they all now, nor will they all ever be completely sensitized and fooled by all the whitewashing efforts of our all-powerful, centralized government with all its unchecked power to do so. Here I am referring primarily to historical changes in texts and other books, as well as to revised reinterpretation of historical evaluations, etc.

But back to the book, I most sincerely hope that no race or group of peoples in our South find offense in anything I have written. On the contrary, I merely hope to pique your interest into researching further on your own in the study of primary sources of the history of this our South and at once our Old South.

Part 1

1

Quae cum Ita Essent

The sun, that brightest star of God's heavens, warmed the New World with its radiance. Yet in all that land of promise, only the South took her name from the life-giving star, for Dixie, the sun's one true love, reveled beneath the brightest saffron light. There alone, in that land of cotton, were flowers enchanted, caressed, and coaxed into glowing, living gold, bursting into bolls of white, silken prosperity, dreams flourished and waxed into the reality that was the Old South.

In that sweetly perfumed land of flowers and cotton, master and slave, happiness and his twin brother misery lived together, worked together, and then died and slept in the same, rich, dark earth. The distant firmament shed falling-star tears over the warm, velvet nights while fragrant, shrouded trees bowed and wept for the forgotten, sleeping sons of the land, even as life renewed itself gloriously, in an endless procession of relentless, marching time.

While men continued to live and die into sweet, halcyon dreams, the land remained, a silent witness to the mightiest efforts and the lowest degradations of its human stewards. The hourglass of the ages poured its dust from silver to gold and then back again into the cotton blowing over the graves. Unchecked and almost unnoticed, amid the laughter and joy, the blood and tears, men of vision and truth ofttimes lived and recorded the unfolding drama and the irrepressible, inimical singing of the land. Among these were Joel Chandler Harris, Stephen Collins Foster, Robert Edward Lee, and Eli Whitney. Yet always above life's sometimes-fierce cadence, the land breathed a gentle hymn of peace, truth, and freedom.

Today beneath a still-radiant sun, the Old South's, faint, haunting refrain continues to charm the heart of the world, while a few, bold pens still dare to reveal—nay, to restore—its fading memories and lost dreams. Today's descendants of Dixie's, sacred dust, may yet take a stand and clearly view their world, through the indelible truth of a blood-torn heritage. From the cliffs and hills above the delta to the torturous coils of the Mississippi, they may yet look away into the cherished, fabled Dixie of their ever-beloved Southland.

Nevertheless, true retrospection may reveal that the sun was not always kind to the land it sometimes loved too well. In the summer of 1848, the South was burning, choking, and strangling in the relentless grip of unquenchable drought. Death stalked her once-fair land, pointing with his bony finger at both rich and poor, master and slave alike. Rivers shrank within their banks and great, live oaks withered, slowly turned brown and died. Only the magnificent magnolias and lowly cotton survived, immune to the blistering heat. Only in the stagnant waters of her larger rivers and streams were the children of the South able to find sustenance and refuge from the scorching, fiery sun.

While the earth baked, hard and impenetrable, livestock and wild creatures alike turned to the rancid waters. The smell and stench of death lingered everywhere, for many from every life-form had perished of the great heat and thirst. Some had become hopelessly mired in the mud banks left by the receding rivers and streams, and there they slowly died. Still others had drowned, and sometimes the children of the land drowned too, even as they fought to live. For not even in that time of great troubles were men turned from their own true nature. As relentlessly as the summer heat, men followed their own perverse course, and though some lived, many others died.

It was morning and still another hot day was upon the land. The sun had not yet risen far enough to completely burn away the morning mists and gray threads of the tattered night shroud hung breathless and unmoving, a dismal, lingering tribute to the dreaded heat which must soon follow. Although the atmosphere itself was heavy and dank, the mists drifted about as if to foretell of some great, impending destruction. Everything was still wet from the heavy dews of the night before, and withered plants, in the startling contrast, dripped the steamy moisture.

In the river below, the huge cotton camp, catfish in mute testimony to the summer's destruction, turned onto their backs and floated dead in the sloughs. Man and beast alike groaned in the misery of their shared, common plight. Yet a tribulation heavier than the unseasonable drought was upon the land that hot, summer day, and its greed marked a legacy of even greater madness. It was the first day of a new time of change, a time of foreboding trouble and, as always, a time of inhumanity against a few, by a few, who were in fact foreign to that most genteel of the new world's humanity, the Old South.

The funeral service was over. It had been short and austere, for there had been no body, and the heat was so unbearable that no living thing could stand still for very long. It was common knowledge that Jackson Miller was dead, drowned almost a week earlier. After one, complete day in the deadly heat, few had searched further, though no one doubted the fact. Jackson's clothes had been found and returned by Penny, the slave who had also saved the old master's adopted son, the one-armed Adam. The last will and testament of the old master was at last read aloud in the presence of every living soul at the camp. Old Jack had always jokingly referred to his place as The Gate, or The Garden of Hell. The appellation seemed to fit the occasion that day as the spirit of the old man was quickly and dubiously placated and laid to an uneasy rest.

Of the Yankee slave traders who operated out of the port of New Orleans, the largest, the richest, and the most infamous, was the firm of Fairbanks and Farris. Of the two partners in that more-than-usually-shady enterprise, only Mr. Farris yet survived, Mr. Fairbanks having succumbed to a grievous bout of the Yellow Fever. Nevertheless, the double brand, (ff), was still used to mark the left hip of each new slave acquired for their own, unique black market of prostitution. That tiny brand was the personal hallmark of the firm, distinguishing it quickly and readily above all others. Business had remained steadily brisk, and the select, black-market trade had even grown, despite the emergence of the abolitionist movement in the North, at the same time that slavery as an institution was already fading in importance in the South. As always, it was more in the sudden settlement of great estates that the persistent Yankee firm had continued to enjoy its greatest yearly profits.

It was a sad and dire occasion when the Northern trader with the long black moustache and the darting black eyes had finally shaken hands with the judge. The final arrangements had been completed, and every slave at Hell's Gate had been bought in one lot, except for the man called Penny. He had saved the young master's life, thus providing that one with the first option to own him. It was an unwritten law in that steamy world, but it was one which even the dealers respected, and the judge had faithfully executed that detail as an addendum to the final bill of sale.

The muffled but unmistakable rattle and clink of slave chains mingled with low, moaning wails as the branding of the very select few was completed. At last, the slaves all stood in a double line. The old, the very young, and most of those of special quality sat chained in the covered bow wagons. The voices of the two white men rose and fell in final agreement, and they each spat decisively at some unseen object in the thick dust. Then at last the wagon wheels began to turn as the oxen strained slowly forward. The voices of human misery were lost in the noise of the chains and the wheels of the creaking wagons, while above it all rose the unrelenting heat of another forbidding day.

A sour miasma of sweat and unwashed bodies hung heavily, and noise and dust filled the sultry air and drifted through the open window of the little log cabin which had served as the lone center of the camp work. No other manmade structures existed, except for the huge barn that was hidden by the crest of the hill and the towering mountain of the handmade bricks that Old Jack had been storing for some unknown, future plan. From inside the cabin, the slave Penny watched in silence as the wagon-train began its hard, hot journey to Vicksburg. From there most of its chattels would be disposed of at the huge slave markets in Natchez. But the greatest profits-per-head would be realized on one, sleepy Sunday morning at an obscure little market in New Orleans.

Though he was a man of great size and prodigious strength, Penny was a humble soul of gentle disposition. Although he was the most obedient and agreeable of all the slaves at the cotton camp, no chances had been taken with him. The judge was certain that no slave could really be trusted when his family was being sold down the river. Penny had been secured with leg irons and long chains to the frame of the cabin's one rusty iron bed. He could move about only with the greatest of difficulty as he cared for his sick master who lay half conscious on the old bed. He had witnessed the entire proceedings in the clearing, and as the last wagon entered the cloud of dust on the narrow dirt road, he raised his hand in final farewell to his wife and five small sons.

Though a continuing, low cry of sorrow persisted and faces were turned ever backward, the sweltering column moved relentlessly forward. At length the last wagon disappeared into the thick dust and wavering lines of heat that had begun to rise wherever the sunlight touched the scorched earth. Penny stared numbly with unseeing eyes as the empty cloud of dust began to slowly settle. He bowed his silver-tinged head and roughly brushed away the hot tears which had left stains on his smooth, dust-encrusted cheeks. Sighing deeply, he turned away at last from the window with the long chains trailing and rattling against the wooden planks of the floor.

Outside, Judge Belton also faced slowly back and laboriously made his way toward the cabin. The judge was not really a judge, but he was a solicitor, and since his youth, he had practiced law for many years in Yazoo County, Mississippi. No one knew his age for certain, but he was considered old, though his unusually heavy appearance rendered him almost ageless in the heat of the midsummer drought. Short and heavy and more round than tall, he seemed to roll rather than walk whenever he moved. That peculiarity had become even more pronounced since his retirement because he preferred to ride whenever his little red buggy could possibly be used. In the early morning, he had come, spilling over the sides of the buggy, as his great bulk completely filled the double seat.

The judge clearly resented having to come out to Hell's Gate, when he would rather to have been sleeping. He resented having to give up his rest and he resented the heat. He resented Jackson Miller, and he resented Adam Hall especially. These people were no friends of his! Nothing but trouble! He grumbled to himself as he labored through the dust and heat. …Still…there was no choice! He deliberately argued the case with himself. …You are the man's attorney…after all!

It was true. The judge had agreed to hold the will, the estate and of course, as always he himself did hold the mortgage. With that thought he cursed silently because he only wished to be home with his beautiful, precious daughter Millie. He only wanted to be free to run his cotton gin. It would soon be that time again, slim as the pickings were this year! The judge was proud of his gin, for it was the only one within fifty miles! Everyone needed him! Moreover, it was profitable too! But lawyering wasn't. No, not anymore! He would have to retire altogether, spend more time with his daughter Millicent. Poor Millie! No mother! Perhaps his poor child would marry someday. And so his thoughts accompanied him through the sweltering heat. By the time, he had reached the door of the cabin, the judge was laboring and breathing with great difficulty. His health was not excellent, and this summer's heat had proven just too, too great!

Inside the cabin, there was to be found only shadow and heat. Adam Hall was still weak, but he was at last almost completely awake and alert, propping himself up slightly with his one arm. In his infirmity, he had been unaware of much that had transpired, but even more annoying than the terrible heat, he had continued to experience nausea. Having spoken to no one, he kept a grim silence as his huge neighbor paused briefly in the doorway. The judge had to turn sideways to enter the small cabin, and for a moment, the hot, dank room was plunged into a more dismal gloom. As he sat down heavily in a complaining, cane-bottomed chair, his breathing sounded more like a groan, and when he finally spoke, it was in short, belabored gasps.

Penny! Sit down, you damn fool darky!… And quit rattling those infernal chains!… And stay out of that window! No air in here!… Hot as hell itself! Running his finger around the inside of his stiff collar, as if to let out the steam, he moped his forehead with a huge damp kerchief, blinked at Adam, and then frowned again. The window was a brilliant square of white light, and his eyes had not yet become accustomed to the darkness of the room.

I'm just gonna sit here…rest for a minute or two… He wheezed like a blacksmith's worn-out billows. …Then I'll finish up this little mess o'business with you, Adam… Though no response was forthcoming from the figure on the iron bed, Judge Belton could feel the intensity of the uninterrupted gaze of those blue-black eyes. Sighing heavily, he shifted his weight and tried to relax a little more fully in the groaning, squeaking chair.

Adam Wesley Hall was a big man. Even though he had been born with only one arm, that arm was strong enough to withstand the weight of three men. He was considered the strongest man in the county, next to the slave Penny. Adam and Penny had shared a close, if uneven friendship, from their early youth. Adam was only sixteen years old when his parents and younger brother had died of the fever on their fateful trip to the West. After the last of his family had been buried at the edge of Jackson Miller's place, he had stayed on. Eventually, with all due legality, he had been adopted by old Jack, whose only daughter lived far away in New Orleans, at the old homeplace, which was, in reality, a grand old, shuttered Creole mansion.

Adam was a learned man, though his was not a great mind. All his accomplishments had been well-earned, and he depended rather on his great size and the prodigious strength of his one, great arm. Though his mind was good, Adam's body was further marred by a great scar. It began in a thin line at the very edge of his chin and plunged downward, in an ever-widening white band. It was an old scar, and only Adam and Penny knew that old Jack had tried to kill him once before this last time. It was just one of the many secrets of old Jack's villainy which was shared by the two friends, master and slave.

Adam coughed, and the judge appeared to writhe beneath his intense gaze. The man was wheezing audibly as he tried to cope with both the oppressive heat and Adam's severe countenance within the same, darkened inferno of the cabin. Adam rarely smiled and he had found little joy in his life at Hell's Gate. Still there was about him the air of a gentleman, for by himself, he had mastered both Latin and Greek, though he had accomplished very little in the way of figures. Adam had never realized an end to his self-education, and after his return from a trip to Europe, a gift from his stepfather at the time of his adoption, he had begun to study the Bible and other religious works on a regular basis. He had become quickly known as the one-armed preacher. Nevertheless, in spite of his concerns and his somber appearance, there did bubble deep inside Adam's heart a small but sure and joyous relief in the death of old Jackson Miller. Some justice did happen—sometimes! Some good had entered his life again, after all!

The silence was broken at last as Adam attempted to raise himself completely, but he had been weakened even more than he had realized in his recent fight for his life in the nearby river. He was not able to sustain his own weight, and though he had almost sat up, he fell back heavily again. The rusty, iron bed complained noisily, and Penny shuffled across the room with a great rattling of chains.

Watah…Marse Adam? he asked with lips that trembled as he held out a dripping gourd from the bucket which hung from a great iron hook in the ceiling. Adam glanced at the tepid water and then up at the hook and shook his head. Penny seemed to be hurt by his reply and he sobbed as he retraced his steps. Adam watched him, and when the bright sunlight from the window fell across his bare shoulders, he saw clearly the heavy scars of old Jack's horse whip and again he was glad that the man was dead. Still, Adam said nothing, and at last Judge Belton found his voice once more.

Well, there's one thing I'll have to own up to old Jack Miller! He exploded hotly. …He sure as hell named you right Penny! You're not even…worth a tinker's dime…for all your muscle! Shame though! Without those scars, you'd have brought a pretty penny…even for a ‘fetch-it boy'! Adam understood his words, for no man bought a whip-scarred slave without careful consideration, though he knew that the scars on Penny's back represented no disobedience. Jackson Miller had simply been one of the few in his position who had always been sadistic, and that was the entire truth of the matter. Furthermore, in his life the man had expressed his curious rage against everyone and everything and now that he was dead, everyone had to be pleased—except for the forced sale of Hell's Gate.

You're not even…worth a tinker's dime for all your muscle!

The judge's words pierced his thoughts, and he glanced at Penny who had paused and was gazing toward his master, waiting for permission to speak. When Adam nodded, the black man addressed the judge with more than a hint of real pride in his humble voice.

Marse Miller allus did said dat Ah wuz de lowestest demondedination dah wuz. He sniffed meekly, but the judge only shook his head. After spitting in the general direction of the open door, he wiped his face again and then spoke directly to Adam. He did not even glance at Penny again, because slaves were useful tools and nothing more. He was used to ignoring their presence and because he was hot, and tired and disgusted, he was growing careless in both his thoughts and words.

Adam, as long as I can remember…this place…and everything here…has been just plain ‘cracker'…and nothing else! And you…haven't been particularly different either! Even for all your Bible-thumping-hell-fire-preaching and learning! Being educated's not everything. No…not everything! He peered cautiously at Adam but he was met only with impotent silence.

Well… he began again after a deep, quick breath. …I'll go ahead and say it…seeing as how you're too sick and weak…to jump up and pounce on me! The darkies do whisper, Adam… He took another, deep breath and then ceased in abrupt astonishment as Penny broke in.

Ah ain't nebber sayed nuttin, Marse Adam! Not nebber nuttin t'nobody! His eyes had grown large and frightened in the shadows of the room but though the ragged old quilt trembled, Adam maintained his angry silence.

Lookeer, Adam! The judge began a slow, careful circumvention. "…Ain't nobody here but me and you, and I'm not gonna say anything to anybody. I'm just saying what's about…everywhere! Don't you see, son? I'm trying to talk straight with you, boy…be honest! That's all, and it's morn' anyone else's done…right? Look boy…you can't…begat…have a family…ever! This place will never be a real home! It'll never be a real…plantation! Hell! It'll never be anything at all! All the slaves are gone! You got no plantation here! Just some stock, some dried up crops…and land! That's all you got here, boy! You're land poor! Here you all've been living in tents…and…sheds…up the river! Eating hominy grits, sorghum, and black-eyed peas…some pork now and then I reackon! Why…there's never even been a cook here! Don't know how you all've lived through this old hell-on earth! Why, shoot boy! You know you really do deserve a better chance in this life! Look boy…I'm trying to make you an offer…wake you up to th'facts!" He squinted through the darkness in his finest, modus arbitrii, but he was plainly startled when Adam finally broke the silence.

Where's Kali? He demanded quietly, while the judge stared at him in astonishment. That local squire had always considered himself the epitome of a Southern gentleman, and as such, he always tried to refer to all inferiors as darkies." Yet in the case of the boy, Kali, he was more than willing to make an exception because he truly hated nothing in life as much as he hated the gentle, and maddeningly overgifted young scholar.

That yellow nigger? That half-breed octoroon? That mulatto? You know he's sold! Sold with all the others…and I'm glad for one…to get that nigger out of this woodpile! You know how I feel about mixing up the races! Not so bad if you can always remember to sell 'em off though, afterwards! Let me tell you something Adam! That boy's gonna bring a good price, down at the private sale! He is a good-looking buck, for all his smart-mouth impertinence! I'll have to admit…and just the right age too! No scars on his back, either! Least…not yet!

Kali's not black, Adam replied in the same even voice.

Course he's black! The judge retorted impatiently. "…Either old Jack…or you maybe…when you were younger! Just slipped up, I guess. That's all…but he's black all right, and he should