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Pinkney and Micah grow up friends on a Virginia tobacco plantation. 16 year-old Pinkney is a poor and uneducated worker, while Micah, two years his senior, is the rich son of Big Master.

When Micah joins up as an officer in the Confederate Army his mother asks Pinkney, who is more experienced with firearms, to follow and protect him. During the summer’s battles at Falling Waters and Manassas, Pinkney does his best to do so.

But the Civil War has other plans.

Review

“Bitternut Creek follows Private Pinkney through skirmishes and battles of the Civil War as well as clashes with his own conscience. He crosses paths with finely developed characters, not the least being the object of his adoration: a female reporter much in the mold of Nellie Bly. And by these relationships we glimpse the war from both the bottom up and top down. Reminiscent of Cold Mountain with the innocence of Huckleberry Finn, any buff of the period will be clamoring for a follow-up.”

—Gaoler, Amazon reader

Sample chapter: © David Andrew Westwood 2024, all rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

Chapter 2.

Lilliputians, trout, and a new colonel

[malapropisms intentional]

The Big House is all prettified up with lanterns for the belling. The scent of the hysteria growing under the eaves is on the air. Musicians hurry into the servants’ entrance with their instruments. 

I am walking the northern fences nearby when the guests arrive. Men and women spill out of landaus and rockaways and such, all driven by black coachmen. I can nigh hear the rustle of crinolines from where I stand. One of the guests is John Letcher, governor of Virginia. I have seen his picture in the Vindicator. He always looks like he has just swallowed a bug.

The Wickliffes meet him at the front door, decked out in all their finery. Miz W wears what looks like every sparkly bauble she processes, and a slew of pointy lace. Micah, too, is all dressed up, his hair slicked down, face shiny as an apple. His boiled shirt is so white it hurts my eyes, and he wears a swallowtail coat. I do not recognize my fishing friend from the afternoon. Here he is now, all scrubbed up and looking every inch the gentleman.

It is at that moment I fully understand our differences. It had been easy, when him and me was in our getting-into-trouble gear, to believe we was alike. Not this evening. The gap atween our worlds hits me like a slap. I will never be a smart young feller shaking hands with bigwigs, dancing with ladies, sipping fancy wines. I can’t never picture myself wearing a swallowtail coat neither, even at my own wedding.

After this, I ain’t likely to forget he is Quality and me poor. I want to be like him, but I know I can’t. Still, we will never turn into master and servant—we been through too much together. Long as we are on the plantation, our old playground, we are equals. Outside, howsomever, things are different. Soon, it will not be possible to ignore the world no more, and the way it pens people according to their class. 

The music goes on long into the night, and scares away most of the critters.

*  *  *

When the sun comes up I figure someone somewhere is doing a big burn. The air is blue with smoke, and you can taste it. It hangs around the hills, and unlike fog, it does not lift as the morning warms.

I am about to walk home for breakfast when the bell calls us all to a meeting. I do not remember this ever happening afore.

I had not realized how many men and women worked on the plantation till this moment, as maw and me stand in front of the Big House among two hundred or more men and women, young and old, white, black, and mulatto. We look at each other, puzzled as to why work has been stopped.

The second surprise is that Big Master, when he appears on the steps, is in uniform. Long gray jacket with gold sash, dark blue britches with a gold stripe down the leg. On his head is an old-fashioned fore-and-aft hat. He has a sword at his side, and so much braid on his sleeve he looks like he has been stirring a pot of gold.

He looks around at us and puffs up his chest. “I expect you wonder about the smoke from the east,” he says, pointing his saber in that direction. “It is of no concern. The Penross plantation, our neighbor, has faced many problems this year—flea bugs early on, horn worms recently—and they made the mistake of trying to continue with too few workers. Their tobacco crop has been ruined.” 

I was on the Penross plantation once. Last year their groundsman was down with the measles, and Big Master lent me to the owner for three days to keep the critters from getting out of control. It meant I didn’t get much sleep, since I worked my own job on top, and I got so tired that in the end I didn’t know where I was. But I made double my wages, so it was worth it.

I was not impressed with the Penross property, howsomever. Big Master is a hard taskmaster, and we workers oftentimes resent his orders, but he runs a tight ship. Mr. Penross was of a different breed. People said he drank overmuch to be a good boss—the one time he passed me he reeked of whiskey and his face had that boiled look of a heavy soak—and his place was messier. I could tell the hands was taking every opportunity to slack off whenever they could. The plants looked sickly compared to ours, and sorely needed topping.

“Due to these unfortunate events,” Big Master continues, “they have been forced to default on their land payments. I have had no choice but to step in and buy their property. I have ordered the burning of the parts of the crop that are diseased, and we will replant from scratch in the new year. ’Tis a sad development, to be sure, but this means that Wickliffe’s is now the largest tobacco plantation in Virginia!”

There is silence for a moment while we all consider this. Then, once we understand what is expected of us, we clap our hands.

Big Master allows a minute of this, and then waves for quiet. “In recognition of our new status, the governor himself has awarded me the rank of colonel in the Confederate Army.”

Now I understand the meaning of the uniform. And last night’s shindig.