Chapter 1 (Excerpt) - Fire Starter
The dead stirred restlessly in their graves of dirt and water.
Life was a struggle for whites and Negroes alike, though far harder and more difficult for Negroes.
It was near the end of spring in the year of 1890—the Gilded Age was gasping.
It was hot . . . dry . . .
Hate, lust and revenge were all in great supply.
Hope for a better tomorrow was like smoke—ethereal and easily disturbed.
Salvation was a dream—as was freedom. Any niggah—as all Negroes were referred to in Folsom, Mississippi, by whites—would agree to that.
The soldiers of the Confederate were either long gone, dead, dying or busily fading into a history of what could have been. What was left in Folsom was chaos as all struggled for survival . . . a way of life . . . a reason for living . . . even the slightest justification for being alive.
Reconstruction had failed.
A time ago, before the war, Folsom’s lands had been bountiful—full of peanuts, sugar cane, sweet potatoes, wheat, and of course cotton which was king. Its river had once been a favorite place for young white boys to frolic in on the white side—but only in daylight, for who knew what lurked in those now black waters come nightfall? Perhaps the witch knew, though no one with a hint of common sense would dare ask her such a thing, for she might tell you the truth.
And once upon a time, there were slaves that numbered in the hundreds and thousands to work the fields, clean the homes, feed the chickens and cattle, plant the gardens, pick the cotton, dig up the beets and potatoes. Then, once all strength and will was stripped from them, they filled the graveyards with their broken bones from strong bodies that once were.
Although . . . some things never changed.
On the western edge of town, perched up high like Mount Olympus, there once stood a glorious, white mansion. The manor was the home of Mason Christianson, a wealthy land and slave-owner with more money than he could ever spend or bequeath to his heirs.
Not to be outdone, his rival, old man Monclair, a land and flesh-owner also, but a far more devious businessman, built an even larger home with twice as many rooms as the fifteen-room Christianson manor. It was on the northeast side of Folsom that Simeon Monclair I had erected his pride.
But the blessings had not stopped with the vast, fertile lands of the Christianson and Monclair plantations. The Folsom river that hugged the town flowed into the great fairway that was Old Man River. It gave a path for a better life to poor whites that came looking for such. Crafters, dockworkers, sailors and tradesmen came in droves.
The red-skin savages, as the whites called them with as much pleasure as chewing shit, were long gone from around Folsom and had been driven further west or effectively killed off. Thanks for their removal, by whatever form it took, was then given to Andrew Jackson and his Indian Removal Act many years earlier. We bid thee say goodbye willingly—you of old who art Cherokee, Creek, Choctaw, Chickasaw and Seminole nations—lest we kill thee and thy kin, for our guns are powerful and our desire for thy lands for our ‘king’ hath been stoked and made righteous by the will of God.
Folsom’s center was growing year-by-year, but stalled slightly when the talk of secession and war began. But truly, at that time there was no real fear in Folsom that this would happen. Ruminations of war remained whispers, and soon faded as daily life resumed and rumors of a battle with the north were said to be just that. Plans moved ahead to keep the town expanding.
The cotton gin had tripled the Monclair and Christianson fortunes already—more land—more slaves—more cotton . . . then, even more land and more slaves . . . God had been deemed to be a very good God. The slave trade had been criminalized, but it was of no matter to those who only needed a niggah-buck and a niggah-bitch, which they had in great supply. Each newborn niggah meant another coin in the coffer.
The Christianson and Monclair families began loaning money to would-be fortune seekers in the growing town of Folsom. They salivated in anticipation of future rewards to be made on their investments. Simeon Monclair I, never a man to be second to any, with far greater dreams and more money than Christianson, decided to outdo him one better.
To those deemed a high risk, otherwise known as white trash, he loaned money with a dangerously high interest rate. He was confident that no man in town would dare cross him, let alone de- fault on a loan—Folsom was his after all. He was buttressed by inherited rights of his father before him, who had exerted great influence on those elected to govern the south . . . wealthy businessmen from Jackson, Peak Hills and other neighboring towns. Simeon Monclair I reasoned he was too great to be challenged.
Unfortunately . . . or fortunately, depending on who one was, war did arrive upon Folsom’s doorstep. The two great families of Folsom—the Christianson’s and Monclairs’ were effectively devastated. Their fortunes were but a singular weed in a tempest, and tempest it was that swept down upon them in blue.
The masters and the oldest male progeny of the two great estates joined the Confederate army as officers and never returned—alive that is. The Christianson and Monclair widows were some- what comforted by the deaths of their husbands and sons, for if the war hadn’t killed them, what they would have seen upon their return surely would have. The glorious mansions that straddled Folsom—gleaming white citadels of money, power, greed and self-proclaimed righteousness—were both reduced to ashes, but not before being plundered by the roving armies of the north.
Slaves also joined the blue juggernaut as the prophetic words of freedom sung in code by their long dead kin finally came to pass. The acres of crops that had provided the means for those two towering behemoths of white to exist in the first place were also scorched and rendered useless for years to come. The most damaged areas were carved up and given to the freed Negroes who’d been banished to live on the outskirts of the town across the Folsom river.
Many of Folsom’s men had eagerly joined the Confederate army to protect their lands, their women, their pride, their sons’ and daughters’ futures. Most never returned home. Those that did manage to drag themselves back were never whole again . . . phy ically or mentally. Most bore badges of wasted courage for a lifetime of haunting dreams of death that often slipped into reality. It was the Age of Survival for Folsom, not the Gilded Age as it was for others. For once, the rich and poor whites of Folsom shared more than just white skin in common.
Mary Cole, however, cared nothing about white folks’ struggle and survival, or their dreams of what used to be, especially since she had been scraping by her entire life. In fact, she was glad white folks were scared of what was to come. Now it was they who had to worry about their children’s welfare day to day, struggle to put enough food on the table or wonder how not to lose their once well-built, now mostly raggedy homes.
Ain’t heard about a good reason yet why I should give a damn ‘bout white folk, she’d often thought, and told her husband, Lar.
She refused to be shaken from her belief that all white folks despised all Negroes. No one, not even Lar . . . especially Lar, could put a chink in that dam. Even those whites who appeared to tolerate Negroes, and there were very few of them, would have them all killed and never look back while they walked to church the next day, she felt. She often wondered what all those white folks at church were praying about anyway . . . ‘Please Lord, heavenly Father, take these wretched Niggahs outta our sights and kill’em all dead. In your heavenly name we ask this. Amen,’ she mused.
