Folsom on Fire
Canadian Ladies Book Club "Half our members gave it a 10 out of 10, which is unheard of for us!"
"Orlando is a truly talented author." Rachel MacMillian (Canadian Ladies Book Club) Amazon Review
"This should be required reading for all students. I had our school librarian purchase copies."Canadian High School teacher - Canadian Ladies Book Club.
CHAPTER 8 (Excerpt)
“All my white and Negroe workers are fine folk,” Roman boasted. “I’ve never had a problem. And Maggie Mae’s a fine Negroe gal, too.”
Nicholas offered a weak, noncommittal smile.
“Just because she’s a Negroe doesn’t mean I don’t look out for her welfare. She works for me, and she’s a damn good worker,” he said, poignantly. “She’s been with me ever since I came to Folsom. And while she works for me, it’s my charge to assure that the savagery of this town does not come upon her . . . Negroe or not, she is still but a child.”
“I understand, suh.”
“I don’t think so,” Roman uttered, through barely parted lips. His light, brown eyes were now visible, and Nicholas could now see that the intensity smoldering within them matched his ever-present scowl. “These are most dangerous times for any man, but for a woman, they’re treacherous. Poverty, my young suh, breeds violence. And there is great poverty in Folsom. Surely you know how rampant crime is in our southern states.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Friends have turned against friends . . . brothers against brothers,” Roman continued. “Havin’ lost the war, we seemed to have turned on ourselves. We don’t even have a mayor here, or any kind of law. Most folk can’t even agree whether to hold an election, because they don’t expect Folsom to survive, so what’s the point of electin’ anyone to anything?” Roman was silent for a moment. “A woman like Maggie Mae caught in that cesspool hasn’t a chance. I don’t expect her or any of my workers to fall prey to that type of incivility. You do see that,” he stated, not asked.
“Absolutely, suh,” Nicholas said. Nicholas felt as though he was receiving a lecture not from her employer, but from her father. Roman’s subdued, yet insistent and absolute need to protect her was most uncharacteristic of a white man toward a Negroe woman, he thought. It stroked against stiff, unyielding southern grain. He knew all southern whites were of not one mind. Not all despised Negroes. He was aware that Quakers, a highly religious and devout folk, risked their own lives to help slaves escape by means of the Underground Railroad. He’d learned from his mother and father, and in lectures at the university, that there were many white, southern abolitionists who fought and died to end the barbarism that was slavery. Yet, it was easier for his brain to categorize southern whites as a single, hate-filled, mindless culture. But what had once seemed so absolutely black and white was now mottled with uncertain gray. Truths now seemed like altered versions of lies. And what were lies, seemed truthful. Nothing seemed to fit well in his head anymore.
“I still have much to learn,” Nicholas said humbly.
For the first time, Roman smiled. “Much more to learn,” Roman agreed, “but not as much as you might think. Learnin’ is the easy part . . . not understandin’ what you learned is what keeps a man actin’ like a boy.”
“And as for learnin’?”
Roman again proved to be far quicker than he assumed. “You still want to speak with my Negroes.”
“Yes, suh,” Nicholas replied, effectively hiding his enthusiasm.
“Here—at the farm, I see no problem. They’ll speak to you freely. But . . . ,” The corner of his lip rose. “Venturin’ across the river—hmmm? Like I said the other night, I’m not sure how . . . let’s say, ‘wise’, that is.”
“I don’t fear them,” Nicholas announced bravely. “In my experience with them, I’ve found that the prospect of betterin’ their lives stays their hands against those who extends theirs. Besides, it would be foolish—would it not, for them to even think of harmin’ a white man? You did say you have good Negroes.”
“You’ve cut me with my own sword,” Roman admitted, in mock defeat.
Roman’s ruggedly, lined face revealed little to Nicholas. His lack of visible emotion appeared far too polished. “I’ve been told there’s a certain Negroe man who would be of great help to me . . . a man that . . .”
“Lar,” Roman interrupted, as though it should be plainly obvious to him.
“Yes-yes! A Laurence . . . Lar Cole?”
Roman leaned back in his chair and placed his hand on the ta- ble. “He came highly recommended from Maggie Mae?” Roman inquired.
“She said he was most familiar with all the Negroes.”
“She spoke true,” Roman admitted. “He’s their Negroe preacher —a good Negroe. Hard workin’ and honest to the core. I’ll vouch for that myself. I suppose you would like to meet him, hmmm?”
“With your permission, suh.”
Nicholas followed Roman’s lead and rose when he did, and then followed him to the door, all the while gauging the power Roman wielded and wore so comfortably upon his tall, thick frame. Roman’s mere presence on the porch caused his workers to pause. Nicholas spotted Maggie Mae sitting on the tailgate of the first wagon loaded with sacks of cotton. She looked in his direction for a moment, but then turned away. If she had seen him, he couldn’t tell, for it was a fleeting glance and she was a good distance from him. He could only hope.
Roman called out to one of the Negroes who was loading a wagon. The young, sweaty Negroe he called Eddie, was standing before him, and within moments was off to find Lar. Roman, meanwhile, began inspecting his goods and talking with McMullen. With stern benevolence, Roman had the caravan of goods reorganized, and within a few minutes, departing down the dusty road, along with Maggie Mae.
It wasn’t long thereafter that Nicholas spotted a shirtless Negroe gleaming with sweat walking toward the cabin. He wasn’t the tallest Negroe Nicholas had ever seen in his life, though with his broad shoulders and thick chest, he was the most complete package of a man he’d ever saw. The closer he came, the more handsome he became, Nicholas gauged enviously. He never would have pegged the oxen-like man, whose body seemed to have been molded for the sole purpose of hard labor, as a preacher of the gospel. Standing next to Roman, who was towering in his own right, Lar dwarfed him. After a brief discussion between them, they both looked his way and began walking toward him.
Roman made introductions.
Lar was the first to extend his hand.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Cole,” Nicholas said, in subdued awe, as Lar’s hand covered his own, yet was gentle despite his calloused palm. Nicholas stood as tall as his spine would allow, as he tried to contain the sudden sense of intimidation sweeping over him.
