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    Generations
    Generations
    Generations
    Ebook99 pages1 hour

    Generations

    By Rushton Woodside

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Reaching deeply into his southern roots the author tells a horrifying tale of racial injustice and murder as multiple generations of white and black families cross paths repeatedly throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. Sympathizers and members of the Klan square off, slaves revolt, and winning at any cost is the only goal for all involved. This is not a story for the weak of heart or mind.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRushton Woodside
    Release dateSep 5, 2010
    ISBN9781452380889
    Generations
    Author

    Rushton Woodside

    Born right at the mid-twentieth century point in Atlanta, still a sleepy southern city at that time. My mother's bookcase was filled with classics and I read them all before I was twelve, and re-read many. Steinbeck, Faulkner, Hemmingway and the like. For most of my life I have always had an active book going, if not two or three. Favorite types of books to read: Almost any genre of fiction, almost any non-fiction. I've travelled the country as a truck driver and as a rambler, and met thousands of people in thousands of circumstances. I've held dozens of jobs, from digging holes to making technical presentations in Board-rooms. I wrote a lot of poetry and songs as a teen. After a successful eight years writing computer programs and technical documentation I entered book retail, and stayed there for nearly twenty years. I read good books to know how to write, and read bad books on purpose to know how not to write. I completed my first novel in 2004 and it was published locally with great success. It was then that I got serious and studied many books on the craft, and began writing as often as possible. My seventh book is now in progress.

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      Book preview

      Generations - Rushton Woodside

      Generations

      Rushton Woodside

      Smashwords Edition

      License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Copyright (c) 2010 Rushton Woodside.

      Cover design, and setup copyright (c) 2010 Rushton Woodside.

      Discover other titles by Rushton Woodside at Smashwords.com

      Cowgirl Blues http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21787

      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.

      Richard looks at his new worker while the man speaks. He is very tall and far too lean. Underfed. Tattered clothing and whip marks, old and new. His bright orange hair and spotted skin make it obvious that the British had invaded his African tribe in more ways than one. The boy has the same hair and coloration, and similar scars from whips.

      The man’s prowess with saw, adze, broad-ax and auger were legendary in Rabun County and when word had come around that Jefferson wanted to sell some of his slaves Polk had immediately sent his foreman Jacob with a full pound of silver ore to purchase the craftsman. The mine was getting deep, and a master woodworker was sorely needed to tightly shore the diverging tunnels that followed the deep veins of precious silver.

      Richard gives a tight-lipped nod. Kitwana it is, then. Now come to your shack. I’ll show you the way. He walks up the hill from the end of the wagon trail, Kitwana and family behind him by several paces. Heads all bent low, wondering why they were not chained or tied together. Expecting nothing but the worst possible conditions. Again.

      When the log cabin comes into view they have no concept that it will be their home; they think it to be the Slave-master quarters and expect to walk on past it and the other cabins along the path.

      But their new owner goes up on the stoop, swings the door wide open and stands with his arm swept inward. Heaven appears before the family: a wood floor, a roughly hewn bench and table in the corner. Fresh straw is piled high in the corner for bedding, and a sleeping loft hangs over half of the room. Clean clothing and blankets sit folded on the table with sweet smelling blue flowers floating in a glass bowl of water.

      The woman begins to cry and grabs her man’s sinewy arm with both hands, babbling gutturally in a phonetic-based language that Polk knows he will never be able to understand fully.

      A small fire pit lined with beaten copper occupies the center of the room. Kindling covered with dried branches lay within. A mound of split logs is visible in the evening gloom against the north wall. Pieces of flint rock sit in a clay bowl beside the firewood.

      While the children dive into the hay playfully Richard says: Watch me Kitwana, and strikes two of the rocks together repeatedly, stroking them toward the center of the pit. The resulting shower of sparks

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