Violence of Cotton: Violence of History, #1

About the Author

TOM POPE LIVES IN NEW York City. He started his writing career by serving as a freelance journalist, covering the business of healthcare for a number of publications.

He added teaching to his skills by helping high school students with essays in history and literature.

The teaching expanded where he conducted novel writing workshops. His design focused on character development, worldbuilding, and conflict pacing.

This direction prompted his desire to use alternative history in novels. His novels focus on how forces surrounding characters can be changed through nonviolent action. Besides the Violence of Cotton Series, he has recently completed an unpublished work called, Boleyn’s Alternative England, an alternative history of Elizabethan England.

While he uses actual events, his characters face politics, culture, socioeconomics, and ideology from out-of-the-box thinking. His alternative history is a framework to rethink what could have been. 

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Dedications and Acknowledgements

THIS SERIES IS DEDICATED to those who have the courage to stand for the rights of people over oppressive conditions despite the pressure to compromise. Key people such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Steve Biko, and Nelson Mandela come to mind.

For insight into Black community activism, I thank Glenn Greenidge, a former Guyanese who now operates as an executive director of a Jamaica, Queens community development organization.

For insight into key emotional reactions, I thank David Yale, a novelist who specializes in coming of age characters who work with community activism.

For the sense of expanding the imagination for seeing how future paths divert from changes in history, I thank Jonathan Boorstein, a Manhattan-based freelance writer.  

The Violence of Cotton

By Tom Pope

Part I

1830 — Cotton Sticks

Chapter I 

COTTON CHAINS IN DEM Angry Fields

"Can’t make no music today.

Sounds come from a mean stick.

Sticks should make the soul sing

Dem metal bands round those sticks

make the sticks mean.

So can’t make no music today."

— Home spun melody circa 1830.

The fields took your blood, Luther thought. He stooped over Jimmy Fries’ wounded hand, tried to prick out the thorn from his day’s pickin’.

Sun still beat the head mighty. Luther watched the trickle of blood darken the white bolls in Jimmy’s hand.

Jimmy’s head in a heap of trouble. I just tried to do my lot. Only pulled a hundred pound yesterday.

Luther took a breath, finally lodged the thorn out. He watched the heavy cloth bag ‘round Jimmy that reached almost to the ground, filled with bolls. A picker could empty a boll or the rounded seed ball, and grab four to five parts completely with one swipe.

But you had to keep pickin’, and pickin’while that mighty sun done beat your soul.

Jimmy smiled. Now be the end of the day, recon.

Luther tried to smile back. Evening was some time to let down. Not much. Before the next day dawns with the heat and more blood.

Before he could answer, screams filled the rows of white and beige stalks. They shot glances down the row, past sweaty arms, past the dusty bandanas over furrowed foreheads to the flash of a black line striking a worker.

"Hoe-gang. Dem overseers on Willie’s back agin."

Luther felt the bile rise. What he do?

They sting him. Found him short weight for yesterday. He shrugged. You knows the punishment. An his cotton is not dry.  

Luther felt himself snarling. They haven’t even weighed today’s lot. Can’t give’m a break?

Jimmy just snickered. Nothing he could do.

Luther watched the large split-oak baskets at the end of the rows with an urge. His hand gripped his own cloth bag. Picked up a sharp stick, and started to puncture the bag. 

His hand stopped from the strength of Jimmy who twisted him to the ground.

What that gonna do? You wanna get beat? How that help?

Luther didn’t want to look up into Jimmy’s face. Knew the man was right.  It’d keep some cotton from ‘em.

Then what?

Luther shook Jimmy off, but looked him in the eyes. Saw him right. He dropped the stick.

Luther stood upright, eyeing the split-oak baskets. Sometimes...I want to tramp them down...clear the field oh them.

Jimmy gently tapped his arm. They then tramp you down.

They store it away like hay, all of it. Store us away. We be sent in to tramp it down. They use it to tramp us down.

Seeing Jimmy’s grin of recognition somehow cooled Luther. How did he do that?

Well, time to get the sack weighed. See you later...some music?

Jimmy shrugged. I be tired. I gots to feeds the mules. My night to cut massa’s wood for kindling.

LUTHER SHUFFLED HIS load along the path to the weighing house. Like to use that house for kindling. Like arms holding a chain, that house be standing there, some door a lookin’ like a smile a telling all to behave. Bring in your sweat. We count it. We make it. We gets the coin.

He shook his head, moved on alone. Best let Jimmy tend the wound first, then shake off his load.

Squinted his eyes to check that stranger out. Black waistcoat filling his huge stomach, holdin’ up papers as he counted out the bags. He no plantation fellow of massa Conners. He same as us, but look dressed like a white folk.

Luther spat on the ground in front of the fellow. Stretched his shoulder to let down the load by the scale. "You pretty fancy for a hoe gang seer."

The fellow exploded a wide grin, suddenly filled with joy. No. Good man. I’m inspecting your work, have some business with your boss.

Even talked like one ‘oh them. Where you from?

A hand shot out with strength. Moses. Bill Moses, a freeman from England. I’m here to help your boss with the cotton trade.

Luther looked down at the fellow’s hand. Kept his hands at his side. Then he turned as a White foreman moved behind them.

Moses slapped the man on the back. I’ll need to see the weekly totals.

The foreman shirked off Moses’ hand, a snarl in his face, but he nodded as he walked to the weighing station office.

Luther noticed the hand again. Scratched his head. They don’t like you any more’n me. He pushed his hand out and felt Moses’ strength.

Moses led him past the lineup of men being checked for the daily total. I’m told you are one of the best pickers here. I’m just here to find out how much this place will yield.

Luther stopped, the bag tripping his feet. Why you wanna help this place — they might put you in the fields instead.

The man laughed a friendly bellow, making Luther like him. He looked at his clothes and shrugged. If they did that, they’d have do undo this suit to make it cotton again.

He stood there smilin’ like he was a funny man.

The fella turned real serious. Listen. Cotton isn’t the enemy. Slavery is. My country outlawed it. You can use it. To better yourself. Rise above it. His fists shook. Control it.

Luther hefted the bag over his shoulder. Only thing I control is this bag.

"You all make money from that talk?" A voice boomed from behind Luther. Conners.

The burly owner approached, carrying a whipping stick. He pushed past Luther, towering over Moses. The stick flashing in Moses’ eyes. Those eyes lookin’ for numbers in those books of yours — you see this?

Conners smiled a mean, down-looking grin at Luther, then realized Luther was just standing around. His smile changed. "What good you doing here with this free...man. You spect soon to join him?"

Luther dropped his bag, hands forming a fist. But he noticed Moses shaking his head. Luther remembered Jimmy’s warnings. Instead, Luther stooped to pick up his bag, eyes pulled by the ground.

Now, you best get back to your business. I see a bag unweighted.

Luther turned, surprised that a strong hand from Moses held him. "I am speaking to your slave. I need information for my report to the importer. The importer who buys your cotton."

Luther swallowed at the command in Moses’ voice. Even Conners stood right still.

Conners lifted the whip again. A devilish grin forming on his face. He picked up a boll of cotton from his trousers. "Your books don’t tell you this quality...freeman. Your freemen eyes ever beheld better?"

He scratched his chin with his other hand. Snarled. "We get more oil from the seeds...the weight is better...for me...for your importer." 

He stepped within an inch of Moses’ face. You know what’s best for you...don’t you?

Moses stepped into the whipping stick, fingering it gently. His smile gleamed wide. I personally like the wood from England better.

Conners snarled, but lowered the stick.

That man Moses didn’t bat an eye. "Eastern Georgia topsoil is going dry. The remaining clay is severely eroded. Planters like you are forced to look westward...gives you an impetus to move west. And leave this...better cotton. So, Mr. Conners, you need me to buy your product. Bypass those bankers from New York who loan you money with one hand, and pick your pocket with the other."

Conners shuffled his feet, waved the stick as he paced. He wasn’t used to being told off. Luther had to hold himself from laughing. He continued to look down.

Conners checked to see him gazing away. Now not the time to make him more upset. You lucky to work for some rich cat in London. You don’t know nothing about talking to your betters. See Luther...here. He shows respect.

Moses smiled that huge grin again. You notice we talk differently in England, don’t you? My betters? Sorry, didn’t realize you were related to the Queen.

Luther had to hold hisself from fallin’ down laughin’. Saw that man hold his clipboard with the report in front of hisself. Those words be a weapon. That be right smart.

Mister Conners. I respect your desire to make profits. You want me to paint a rosy picture? Or did you forget eleven years ago...the financial panic of 1819 — I’m trying to help.

Conners stopped pacing. That’s not going to happen again.

Fine. Good for you. But small planters all over this fine state of Georgia are going bankrupt...even here in Macon county.

Conners snapped his stick in half. You best give me a price that I can use...for me to sell direct to your boss. This is a big risk.

Moses nodded, shook Conners hand. Mister Conners, your risk is the larger planters snapping up your land and slaves.

MOSES LED LUTHER AWAY, out of hearing distance as they turned the corner of the weighting station. His eyes took on a calculating look, peering deeply into Luther. Tell me honestly. Is this amount of cotton usual each week?

Luther felt the laugh coming. You the same. No different from massa. You got your profits...he got his.

Luther. I’m like you. I just want to get above it. People respect me.

Luther shook his head. Lota good that do me. Profits don’t help me none.

Luther. We can help each other. I want to build my importer’s dream to bypass those banks in the North. You can be part of the people I need to sort it out.

Luther just scratched his chin. Right nice offer. And the fellow seemed to mean it. Could never happen though. Not in this place.

Moses turned from Luther to the view the fields. Listen. The yield per acre for upland cotton in the South ranges from 100-1,500 pounds per acre. Upland cotton production has blossomed from around 150,000 pounds in 1793 to over 10 million pounds a few years ago.

Luther pushed Moses away, picking up the stick from his pants that he used to try to stab his bag. He waved the stick at Moses, not sure why’n his anger rose. Not used to this...are you? What you offer me? Some coins from your pocket?

He staggered back a step. Some coins when you get that Conners under you? That your answer?

Moses face turned sour. I’m not trying to control him...the way he controls you.

Luther flashed the stick, forcing Moses to step back. No? What you call it? Your coin be another chain. I be here...a slave to the massa cause oh my skin. You be running around grabbing cotton cause oh your need to have that coin. He’s gotta have coin too. We all slaves to somethin.

Moses shrugged his shoulders. "At least I wouldn’t use that to hurt people."

Luther glanced from Moses’ face to his stick. His hand slackened. Lowered the stick. Shoulda used it to open the bag. Let it flow over the ground. Get rida it.

The cotton, or your anger? Which is the real devil?

COTTON CLIMBS ON YOUR back. Your shirt ring with it. Cling with it. That shirt take your water, drain you down. Pull you all the time.

Luther couldn’t recall the first time he saw that soaked shirt on pa. Pa didn’t even mind it none. But that wet shirt would sit on the wooden chair at night and pull Luther from sleep.

Couldn’t sleep none as a child. That shirt called him. Called him to raise at the four o’clock bell. Pa already up and smiling, that shirt on his back again, pulling him into those fields.

That sleep went too fast. That shirt just laughed at you. Didn’t mind none that it just sat there, soaking you up for another day. Another night too short to feel strong again.

Pa paid no mind. First step inside, he throwed it on that chair. Went to that stick oh wood with string to play some tunes. He awake all night with ma, and those others from the cabins down the way. They didn’t mind the hours slip away. They thinkin’ only about those tunes. That shirt mind none too.

Luther minded. Luther saw those people playing with smiles on their faces. Sitting around with other shirts. Other cotton, clinging, clawing their skin with hopes of the next day.

Sapping the next day, same way as the shirt locks you away in those quick hours. Hours that cut to the bone. Cut with the heat, the whip and the coin.

That shirt done come from another place. Some say mills where women grind their lives away. Some say far away homes where children cry under machines as mothers stitch those shirts.

No mind to Luther’s dad. He don’t think on that much. He play that stick all night. Get him not to cry for real. Get him thinkin’ on another way.

Luther saw that for years till he be a man and work those same long hours. Till he fit into that shirt. Need that shirt now to fill in for pa. Pa now part oh the fields for sure.

That man should’a been playin’ that stick for years. Not right he drain hisself in those fields. Luther had just started his turn. Right usual for a 12 year-old. Luther thought he could help, give pa more time to rest those coughs. Let him sing more.

But that be ten year ago. And each year pass, Luther still think of ways to stick it to those fields. Make them go away. Each day he rise, he thinks of that thought. About those fields bein’ gone. No more sweaty shirt awaiting.

Pa won’t like that. Like the day he found Luther playing in the gin.

Even then, Luther watched the men. Wanted to stick the gin. Stop it working. To let the men go.

They worked too hard. They handled the overflow bin, watched all that seed cotton spill on the floor. Too much work to throw it all back to the press. Luther saw five or six people stompin’ the cotton lint. Into those holes in the floor. Into those sacks hanging through the holes. Into those sacks oh cotton. Stompin’ it down. All day long, the stompin’. Stomping above the men on the ground below. Stomping by the cotton chains over their heads. 

He could hear the sound. The clankin’ of the chains.

Luther had played with a stick then. Forced it into one of the holes. Tried to knock the hole away. Tried to help the men... stop them from stomping.

Didn’t help. One of pa’s friends saw the stick in the hole. Thought to use a wider stick. To screw the stick into the hole. They ended up with a screw slowly turned by hand or mules. The movement put pressure on the cotton. Compressed it.

Didn’t stop the gin. Luther made it work better. Luther hated that stick. Made you think you had power. Then you found out you didn’t control it. Somethin’ else always happened. Helped the stompers instead.

Made others think Luther be smart. Made pa think Luther was smart.

Luther didn’t feel smart.

Pa ended up working just another week afore he fell in those fields. Too much stomping. Luther hated the stomping. Hated the stick. The stick was part oh the cotton chains.

Chapter II

STRING THE MUSIC TO Plough the Fields

"She live down the road.

Be a mighty long road, only cross the field.

Field filled with metal chains,

but she done seed that metal,

twist that metal to make the road short."

— Work Gang Chants circa 1830.

LUTHER WATCHED JIMMY play the stick in the old cabin once belong to Skitter, this side oh the line. Night time music drew the hands, the families and the stick players. Some really had guitars of a kind. Others like Jimmy reminded Luther of pa. Put a few strings down a length of stick, then cry out your tunes.

Dust swirled up from the floor as feet flew back and forth. Twangs from the sticks went up and down your spine, but the people who stood by minded none. They smiled. Took their mind away from the coming day. They watched Jimmy smile, and strum.

Luther shifted his back against a beam. Made an old chicken squawk from behind him. Rotten wood siding creaked mighty loud as the people danced and the chicken flailed away.

Luther done sat between Jimmy’s girl and old Hank who was too old to work the fields. Thought Jimmy was too busy wit kindlin’ wood to come tonight. 

Thelma laughed. Said the massa’s daughter didn’t need none tonight.

Luther took a good look at Thelma. Fine looking woman. Most like he saw you coming tonight.

She laughed again.

Jimmy had stopped playing and walked down the aisle to where they sat. Another man took the center place. But he held no guitar.

Jimmy nodded in the fellow’s direction. Old Jake really likes to be massa.

Luther sighed. He had enough of massa today. Didn’t need more of the man at night.

Thelma saw his chin dip. Come on now. He do the best impression. 

Luther started to rise. He best. He in the big house, with all the kitchen food around him all day long. No sun beat on him.

Jake stood in the center. He stiffened his shoulders square. He took a mean look in the eyes and spotted one family sitting near, fixing on some chitlins and pigs feet. Pointed his finger sharply, same as Luther saw Conners do earlier. "Here now...you eatin’ too good. Think you some kinda free...man?"

The group laughed at the sight. Jake was good. Real good. Took up the meanness like he an owner.

Made Luther watch the child eat the cornmeal and pigs feet. He wondered what food Jake saw in the Big House.

The child got up and offered some cornmeal to Jake. The mother  jumped, grabbing the child away from Jake. No...no...honey child. Don’t show you feel bad for him. He’s massa. Don’t trust him none.

Jake bent over with laughter. He knew the mother was helping teach the way to her child.

Jimmy all over hisself in admiring the mother. She good. She done teach us better than massa. Massa be lazy.

Luther snapped around, feeling stung. He not lazy with the whip none.

Jimmy’s smile melted away. The beat of a guitar in the next cabin lasted longer than usual. Longer than the beat of the sun on your back. The beat took you away some place else. They all knew it.

He took a sip oh his water. Maybe this learn’ be the way so she not feel the whip.

Made Luther laugh inside. You still under them. I gotta find another way to stop that whip. That mighty strong whip.

Jimmy tilted his head, had a knowing idea. You keep pounding your head agin’ that big wall oh massa...you gonna hurt yourself...never gonna knock that big wall down.

Oh it come down. I finda way.

Jimmy took out his stick and picked on a string. Your daddy knowed that big wall. He played the string so he not think on hittin’ his head on that wall.

Luther heard the bouncing of the strings, and the movement of the floor from the dancin’. He watched the group of people wavin’ their arms and noddin’ to the music. We got more than dem on this plantation.

Jimmy sat upright, like a bolt done hit him. And they got that whip...and the gun. What ya gonna do...take that away from them?

Maybe...just maybe.

Then what? Go where? Other whips be down the road. Other guns.

Luther started to get up. Rubbed his legs. Maybe those slaves be there instead...doin’ like me.

He laid down his strings. Slapped his stick hard. Slapped again.  You know, Luther. Our daddies played the drum. We can’t do that. That no mind. Now we play the guitar. We still have the beat. You keep the beat...you live.

Luther watched the people dance and raise their arms, smiles wide on their faces. They be foolin’ if they think they be livin’.

Jimmy got up to face Luther. Luther never saw him so riled. You can’t tear it down. How? You gotta flow agin it. Like the music. It go one way...you go the other. You still get to where you want.

He reached out to grab Jimmy’s stick. His hand grabbed the instrument. Felt the wood...strength. He was ready to rip it from him, throw it down, and stomp it. Had to hold back though. It stopped him.

Looked into Jimmy directly. Part of what he said made sense. Luther didn’t know what to do. Had to do something. He loosened his hand though. Had to. Jimmy liked that stick. Like his pa. Not their fault.

Luther let it go. He shrugged, then turned to the door, passing some dancers who seemed swept away with the long notes that swam around the cabin. 

Didn’t want to swim like that. He wanted to walk away. Find another place...away from them.

He found his way to the steps of the cabin outside, moon lighting the path to the line, across the way where the White folk lived.

Sat down on the step, let the fresh cut grass fill his insides. Soak in that sweet peach from the orchard.

He shook his head. Find the way the cotton runs the place. That was the tune that Moses fellow played. Sounded right like Jimmy. Play the guitar when they take away your drum.

How does that cotton work? How did it get that fellow to England...to speak the way he did to the massa’s men? Well Luther could find that out. Maybe then that would help. Help find some way to knock down that wall. Luther was always good at finding a way with tools. He put the stick into the gin, didn’t he? That made the gin work better — more cotton came out. He could work with another stick now...he could do it again.

Can you help me fix this?  

Luther cleared his eyes of the night to see her standing there under the willow, just to the side. Her long, light hair curled around soft cheeks. What she doin’ here where we live? Massa’s daughter. Her white skin stood out in the night.

I’m sorry to bother you. I just thought...

She started to turn away, lookin’ almost sad an embarrassed. She held an old guitar.

Luther never heard a White folk say sorry or worry about bothering anything. He sighed. What you got there?

She turned with such a pretty face, a smile that seemed to bring you right into her. My guitar strings don’t work. Something’s wrong.

Luther stepped up to her, taking the guitar in his hand. Shouldn’t be playin’ with no stick...sticks’ll aways get you.

What? She looked confused.

Luther brought her to the side of the porch where the lantern licked the night mist. Little mites crowded under the brightness. But he saw she squirmed none.

Mites not trouble you none?

She raised her hands in excitement. They look like the busy overseers who rush around, never knowing which way to go.

Luther put the guitar down a moment. That be a surprise. Her saying that.

The wails of Clara-May from inside screeched to cut the night. Her sad notes held long in the air, making Luther think of the long hours of pickin’, and the music he now held in his hand.

He turned the guitar over. The bridge was in the wrong place. Some fool done played with it. Why’d you bring it here?

She sat down on the bare wood plank floor. No grimace though. She was just thinkin’ about her music. Luther felt bad for her.

She looked up an brushed some hair out her eyes. We play a different music in the Great House. Mostly violins. The best of chamber music from France and England. No one there knows anything about guitars.

Her head dipped. I wanted to play something differently. She ran a finger along her lips like she was a thinkin’ hard. I thought I could shrink the violins so they’d become guitars, but I didn’t have a violin shrinker.

A what? Luther had to wait to see the smile on her face before he knowed she be joking. All right, so she like to laugh. That’s good.

Luther adjusted the bridge, the guitar feeling odd, like from another far off place. Yet it was a good guitar.

Luther pulled a string tight and then twined another.

Can’t play no chambers with this. You gotta feel this music.

A smile jumped on her face. "Yes. I know. They don’t feel anything with