Opening Chapters to the unpublished book:
“The Vanquished Plantations”
Part one of book one, of four books and fourteen parts
(Book One: “The Vanquished South”)
Part One: The Tobacco Kings
1650 – 1865
Chapters:
The Tobacco Kings
In a Still Heat
Shep’s Valley
Shep’s Journey
Moonlight through the Pines
“The Vanquished Plantations”
The Tobacco Kings
(Myron Shep Charles Hightower, of Virginia, 1650)
Part one of five parts to Shep’s Story
The first known Hightower, Myron Shep Charles Hightower, who came over to America in A.D., 1650, who built a brand-new plantation in Virginia, as settlements took over Indian lands, brought with him twenty-Englishmen, and bought forty-slaves along the way, to do one thing, and one thing only—some miles outside of Jamestown, and it was to create a private enterprise, backed up by rich and private financial backers, who were bankers in England—capitalists, and grow as much tobacco as possible, to sell back to the English people. After arriving, and unloading, and settling in, they started what history would not record, and hired the immigrants that came to America prior to A.D., 1640, from what was known as England’s marshes. Perhaps a hundred of them, along with the slaves and the men Myron brought with him, within three years he had an enterprise that was paying off.
Although, it was not uncommon for ten or so workers to die each year for so called medical reasons, one year, the third year burials outstripped the hiring. The main cause of death was malaria, along with whatever disease the colonists brought with them from Europe. Malaria didn’t kill their victims right away, just weakened them for months on end, and in many cases the body without its proper nutrition could not fight it off, and coupled with a weak immune system, and lack of nutrition, and no medications, the environmental elements produced a full-blown death; after several relapses.
So here we had an ongoing dilemma, sick people trying to get better, with more than enough mosquitoes, all waiting to hit the bull’s –eye— the worker. It was said, before the Marsh-Landers came to Virginia, from England (so the Indians claimed) there were no parasites, or malaria to be found—who’s to say, it didn’t matter in the long run, the disease migrated to the Carolinas where it crippled and drained large portions of Cornwallis Army.
To Myron Hightower (born 1620), it didn’t become much of an issue, he had his business, and people were replaceable. And he built a large home in upper New York (state), where he planned on retiring. And in time as years passed, late in life he married, and had a son he named: Eugene Shep Hightower (born: 1670, died 1767, whom would die at the ripe old age of 97-years old) Myron had this child at the age of 70-years old who took over the tobacco business in latter years, all seemingly immune to the malarial diseases and relapses.
In 1734, Eugene’s wife gave birth to Charles Shep Hightower, whom was simply called Shep. At which time Eugene retired in upper New York, in his brick built home and invested into a Sawmill and hence, that ended the tobacco kings.
In a Still Heat
(Indian Warfare in Upper New York, 1757)
Advance: There was a painting that shows Myron Hightower, kept high on the wall in Charles Terrence Hightower’s Plantation Mansion, in Ozark, Alabama. He was the first Hightower that came to the America, in A.D. 1650, he was born 1620, and had a son Eugene Shep Hightower, his portrait is next to Myron’s, born 1670, died 1767. And alongside that is Charles Shep Hightower born 1734 died 1800. Charles Terrence Hightower, born 1789 would die in 1869, a few years after his son would die in the Civil War. Charles had fought in the War of 1812, his picture is also there on the wall. But the picture, or portrait that is not there, is that of Captain Pip Greg Hightower, a cousin to Eugene Shep Hightower, born 1673, and this is the story of an Indian raid—less than a battle, that took place in 1757, one that wounded Pip Hightower, and killed him two weeks later. But the essence of the story is not of the Captain, it is of an old soldier named Colonel Colin Martin—for the most part; and it takes place in Upper New York State.
The Story
The old man sat there alone, his face raw from the wind and pained from life, his eyes scared and worried from a skirmish that was now taking place. His pipe fell out of his hand, smoke came out of his nostrils, and a gulp of air filled his stomach, he had inhaled from his mouth.
The old man was seated on a tree stump, in a clearing by the woods, “Listen,” he went on mumbling in English, “I don’t know what I’m doing, wish I could be fighting, and be more useful!” If only someone could take him to the fight, the skirmish—he’d do just that, fight.
He looked at the forest, its edge, knew that there was a valley, more like gorge down its five-hundred foot slope, its progression. He started yelling so much, his voice carried an echo.
For a moment the birds and a fox nearby and a hound nearby gaped at him. He knew the men were scrambling throughout the woods everywhichway to find the party of Indians that raided a homestead nearby killing all. Captain Pip Greg Hightower, and his Sergeant, Gil Brandt, along with forty-six militia men and two scouts, with muskets and blankets, had gone searching for them. “Kill them, Kill them!” were in all the hearts of the one-hundred eyes searching for the party of Indians.
As Captain Hightower’s men searched high and low, they noticed many abandoned fires, much more than the single party they were seeking after would have needed, or used.
For the old man, once a young soldier, and loving the taste of battle, the high, even the kill, born in 1673, was having his first nervous breakdown it would seem, not being able to fight. His heart was beating like a drummer’s partridge. He was too old for sough sounds, but he could hear them carried through the winds, coming from the soldiers and Indians, so there it was.
If only someone could understand the temptations of war a man carries with him who has seen much war—was the inner thoughts of the old man; if only his fellow soldiers could pick out the worry the old man had in his face for his fellow soldiers, he knew some were weak men, young men, men that had never been in conflict, in a battle, he prayed for them.
Now he could hear rapid fire coming from the gorge, down the slope, into the woods. There was a still heat in the woods, he knew such by heart, and he knew they’d be thirsty when they came out of it. He heard the shouts of the men, the stamping hoofs of horses, the treading of feet. If only he could get started, moving. But he couldn’t.
If he could make it to the edge of the hill, roll down it straight to ground level, end up at the edge of the woods, facing the gorge, he could nearly see everything, everywhichway, but the roll down the hill would be ridged and he could get stuck someplace in-between the solid top of the slope, and/or somewhere in the fluttered in-between. And it was fall with a ton of autumn leaves per square meter. And the sun and blue and squirrels would camouflage him, he’d never be found, and that was not the way he wanted to die; in battle, in a fight would be much better.
He saw a porcupine climbing up a tree; he could maybe do the same, halfway, see the fighting, but his arms were no longer as strong as they used to be.
Then it was twilight and he saw one line of marching men, rifles in one hand over their shoulders, their hats in the other hand, only sixty-eyes. When they got to the old man, they all were thirsty and fell out to drink the water he was guarding. The old man handed them cups, and he handed them rags to wipe their mouths, and sweat off their foreheads, “We got them all even two British,” said Captain Hightower to the old man who was looking up, “but I can’t figure out all those abandoned fires we saw.”
“What happened to the scouts?” question the old man.
“Killed in the undergrowth like wild boars,” said Hightower, adding, “the woods were dusty, branches slapping our hot faces, burns like an open wound with salt.”
Then Captain Hightower ordered two men to pick old man Colin Martin (retired Colonel) up and place him on a wooden platform, with poles—one man in front the other in back—and carry him back to the fortress. He had lost both his legs in a battle, several years prior.
The old man looked up, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, high overhead, nothing and in the woods nothing at all but leaves, uproariously, bursting leaves, covering everything. The woods ahead fell even deeper into a sleepy like mode— hollow, a quiet flow and a still heat, no birds, or squirrels, or wind now, instinct told the old man—looking at the heavily laden environment with leaves, noticing the leaves moving without the wind blowing, things were crawling in them, under them, human things.
“What did you say?” asked Hightower.
“Leaves talk; leave me here with a musket, and tarry to the fortress, all those abandoned fires… they’re all around us, all with us.”
The captain knew not to question the old man, he had been around, and fought more battles than any man alive he knew of. His instincts were good; he trusted them, more than he trusted a man’s thinking, or rationalization. And he was seldom wrong.
The sixty-eyes ran, never looking back, but could hear the crackling of arrows, and rattle of leaves and the old man’s heart started drumming again, as he shot one enemy in the chest. His half-body swayed suddenly against the branches and leaves piled up against a tree and went slack, like it had fell off a cliff, and his mind went into a galvanized senselessness, yelling like a wild dog at the Indians. It was the way he wished to die, in battle. His face gray and smiling and his lips moved, but his voice was lost.
An Indian stood before him (the militia now safe within the fortress). The Indian was oddly silent. He took the musket from the clutches of the old man, and could hear the old man discharge his last breath.
Shep’s Valley
(Upper New York, 1775-1786)
Part Three
In the old days, in upper New York, Charles Ship Hightower, lived in what was back then a rich and lumbering town. His family had come over to America in 1650—Shep was born 1734 (would die in Alabama in 1800). He, married Emily Hightower, grandmother to Emma, born 1755, died 1790, Charles’ mother, and Emma being Charles’ daughter. For a number of years there were plenty of logs to be cut, at which time Shep’s father owned the mill that cut the logs, and stacked them in the yard, sold them as needed, piles of lumber were carried away and many houses were built from his lumber. His son, Charles Terrence Hightower, would be born after all the Indian, and British and American conflicts were over, born 1789, a year or so after he would have moved to Alabama, from upper New York State.
He worked in the mill those prior years, with the great saws and wheels, belts and iron, operating the mill, and loading lumber. And he fought the Indians in-between. He had built himself a small cabin, which got burnt down by the Indians, one-story. Then years later there was nothing of the mill left, again the Indians did their dirty work, broken white limestone for its foundations—all crumbled to nothingness. Oh he had his neighbors come and clear the debris, his land, trying to rebuild the cabin and mill, and he had hired help, but it all seemed so fruitless, and then Shep and his wife became the hired help. His father being killed by the Indians, and his house burnt down likewise, and his mother had died prior to most of this ongoing conflict of pneumonia.
“There it is,” he’d tell his wife in later years, the mill, the cabin; he couldn’t even remember how it was what it was suppose to be. “I just can’t remember,” Shep would say in those far-off years. Perhaps didn’t want to remember, they were trying years to say the least.
“No,” Emily would say if her kids asked too many questions about those years “ask your father!” She was intent on supporting her husband no matter what, all their life they were sidekicks, so it would seem. She loved those younger days in upper New York State though. But Shep left the Valley, and they both moved down to Ozark, another member went on a little further, to New Orleans. Shep, he simply said one day to Emily, “It isn’t fun anymore here,” and he laughed, and Emily said, “I don’t know what to say,” and after that statement, she didn’t say a word, they just packed up and left; but there is an in-between to all this, prior to making it to Ozark, Alabama.
Shep’s Journey
((Atlanta) (1787-‘89))
In 1787, Shep and his wife Emily Hightower was traveling by covered wagon, from upper New York, down to Alabama, carrying just the basic needs from what was left out of Shep’s father’s belongings, and his burnt out homestead, which the Indians shattered. He and his wife suffered much under the Indians of the region, and requested no aid from anyone. He was very hungry for starting over and knew his youth was on his side, he had time to do what he needed to do, and he was going to build the most magnificent plantation in all of Alabama; although he had only a little money.
He was delighted with upper New York. It was a beautiful country, he said, just a bit too hostile for his blood, as was the previous war years. On his way through the costal states, territories, such as: Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia, they had gone through many towns, walked much, and seen much. Georgia he did not like. Yet they had a good time together, up to a dividing point there. It was early October, and the country was pleasant, but the Indians and the British had done some bad things. He talked about it a little in Atlanta, in spite of the war; he believed altogether in the Revolution, clearing the country of savages and the British completely. He asked in Georgia, “How is the movement going in Washington?” to a group of war veterans (which would turn out to be a mistake).
“Confusing,” a solider of the Revolution commented, “But it will get better, this is just the beginning, we won the war, but there will be more battles with the Indians. Why not settle here?” he commented.
“Why should I?” questioned Shep.
“You have everything here. It is the main spot down south here, everyone is sure of. It will be the starting point of everything down south, not Alabama.”
He said quickly his good-byes to the few and the group of revolutionists he met, to head on down to Ozark, Alabama, his father knew the banker there, a Mr. Ritt, and he would provide a loan for land, payable in ten-years. He couldn’t do any better than that. But before he got to go on his way, the revolutionists knowing—or figuring it out, that Shep didn’t do any fighting in the war, spoke to him about it.
“Why not?” asked one of the several revolutionists, “why didn’t you fight, it was a requirement!”
“No,” he said, very shyly, “I was never asked…” he did not like Georgia, and he didn’t want to offend anyone, lest a Revolutionist who fought in the war for his independence, so he said little more. He was very eager to get on his way, as was his wife likewise; he was sure he’d love Alabama now that it was autumn.
When Mr. Ritt, sent out inquires, seeking what might have happened to Mr. Shep Hightower, the last he heard was he was serving time in jail in Atlanta for draft dodging, for it was mandatory during those war years, to be in uniform, or hung, and there was no requirement that he had to be asked, it was his job to enlist voluntarily. His sentence was limited to three to six-months in jail—depending.
Moonlight through the Pines ((1788) (Jail time in Atlanta))
You know how it is there early in the morning in Atlanta, with the bums in jail still asleep against the walls of the jail cell; before even the jailers are awake to eat their breakfast, before the wagons come by with goods, go across the square, and there be still the beggars just coming awake in the square, looking for their next drink, or getting a drink out of the nearby fountain. But if you are inside the jailhouse, in one of the side cells, you stand up, there waiting for you in the not so far distance, is the moonlight through the pines. The longer you look towards it, the more it seems to crawl over to you.
“Well,” said Shep Hightower to his three other jail mates, “I sure can see it,” he told them. “But yesterday morning, I couldn’t, I wonder why?”
“It isn’t that you couldn’t” said Rum Bum Raphael “you couldn’t have seen it. That’s all that’s too it.”
The other two came over to the bared in windows in the cell and they stood there looking out into the far-off pines. “There nice looking trees but I can’t see the moon,” one of the two said. “I don’t mean to make you two feel bad… (Referring to Shep and Raphael), he told them; “I tell you true I can’t see it!”
“Afterwards, when you’re feeling better, things will change, and then you’ll see it,” said Rum Bum Raphael.
“I know it,” he replied, “I’m all for it now. But later on I’ll be…” and he went silent.
“He makes his living with the boats,” said Raphael. Yes said Pig’s-eye Peter, from the upper Mississippi, “if I lose all this time here in jail, I’ll lose my living, I hope I can get out in ten-days, drunken and disorderly conduct, that’s why they put me in here, how about you?” he asked Shep.
“I think the fellows who put me in here,” said Shep, “needed me to argue with them so they could put me in here, because the one kept on…I can’t even pay my way out.”
“All this will not last, you know,” said Pigs-eye Peter, “maybe I’ll go back up towards Pig’s Eye, that area on the Mississippi, by what they call Minnsota, and build a bar; I’m getting too old for this.”
“Listen,” said Shep. “I don’t give a hoot, who’s president of this country, or mayor of this city, I haven’t done anyone any harm, that can talk.”
“Well, you’re here for somthin’” said Pig’s-eye.
“Yes, I’m here because of someone with a long tongue,” said Shep, “I was accused of evading the draft, I wasn’t in the war!”
“Do you know what we do with them?” said Rum Bum Raphael.
“Don’t get tough with me,” Shep said. “You folks asked me. I didn’t offer it freely.”
“Shut up,” said Pig’s-eye Peter to Raphael, “you’re liquor is still in you talking.”
“So you wouldn’t,” said Raphael.
“It’s just like I told you,” answered Shep.
“But you didn’t tell us much; I don’t understand right off, I don’t mean to be nasty. I guess it’s a disappointment, too. You look like a fine man.”
Shep didn’t even answer him.
“Maybe he’s not so fine a man,” said the third man, with no name.
“What’s that? A threat?” said Shep.
“Listen,” said Pig’s-eye Peter, “Don’t everyone be so tough so early in the morning. I’m sure Shep has done his share of fighting, he’s a broad man, he just didn’t fight in the war, and he’ll tell us why when the time comes.”
“So you’re sure I’ll do as you say,” said Shep.
“No,” said Peter, “and I don’t give a damn, but I may cut your throat when you’re sleeping for being a coward or draft dodger. I am angry now,” he said. “I’d like to kill you but you’re younger and tougher, so I’ll just wait!”
“Oh, hell,” I’ll tell you. “Don’t need to threaten so much.”
“Come on, Shep.” Raphael told him. The third unnamed inmate said, “I’m very sorry for what I said, I think we all are but we still got to know.”
The three of them stood in front of him, and watched and waited for him to speak. They were all older men, in their late forties or early fifties. They all wore bad clothes; none of them wore hates, and they looked like they had not a dime to their names. They talked plenty among themselves, knew each other, and they spoke the kind of English bums with no money spoke, drunks. Peter and Raphael looked like distant cousins; Peter being a little taller than Raphael and the third inmate. All three slim, dirty thick hair. Shep figured none were as mean as they talked, but he was plenty nervous when Peter threatened him, and no one said a word.
Then they threw a Blackman into the cell with them. The one with no name cried out, “Get this nigger out of here, what the hell is the matter with you jailers,” and the two jailers were laughing fiercely, holding their stomachs. One of the three men stood behind the Blackman, the other two (not to include Shep), stood in front of him, blocking the sight of the jailers, then there was a smash, Peter had hit the Blackman in the face, while the other two started kicking him, and Peter plunged his head onto the wooden floor, nearly broke his neck. One of the jailers’ shot a bullet over their heads. “Nigger,” yelled the jailer, “get on over here,” and the jailer took him out of the cell immediately; said Shep, “Take me out of her also; I’ll bunk with the nigger! It’s safer!” And the three white men took offence to that.
“They calls me Isaiah, cuz I looks fur the hand of God in all I does,” the Blackman told Shep, while both sitting on the lower section of the iron bunk beds, in the next cell, the Blackman trying to get his head and neck back up, it had been twisted and bruised pretty bad. “Here,” said the jailer, handing the Blackman a cup of rum, to settle his pain. And he stood up, walked over to the jail bars and grabbed the rum, and drank it, and Shep took a sip out of the same cup, right in front of the other three bums in the next cell, which infuriated those men more. The beating the three men gave the Blackman didn’t make them feel one iota bad about what they had done.
“You seem awfully brave about it all, over in that cell,” said Peter to Shep.
“I was watching how brave you were, one against three,” then the Blackman looked up, saw Peter, the Blackman was taller than all of them, pert near six-foot three. He looked in pretty bad shape.
“I’ll see you when you get out of jail,” said Peter.
“Don’t talk about it,” Shep said, “you don’t scare me, I’ve beaten better men than you, it makes me sick to even think about what I’d do to you, should you want to find out what sort of day it would be, you need only stick around.”
“Well,” said Peter, “we’ll see.”
“That’s up to you.”
“What sort of day do you think it will be?” asked Raphael.
“Just about like today, as you did to this nigger!” said Shep.
“All right, as soon as that day comes, we’ll both be looking for you.”
The man with no name simply said, “That’s fine, you folks just put it down against what you think you owe each other, I’m out of it.”
Said the jailer, “Have a bottle of beer, shut you guys up for a spell,” and he handed them a quart of beer through the jail bars.
When Shep Hightower served his time in jail, and was released—having told his wife, Emily about that situation, she was fearful they’d be after him.
“Don’t worry,” Shep said, “it was all big talk by drunks, rum business. Their lives are all drinking, no money, and big talkers; they have other business to attend to, just say your goodbyes to Atlanta, and don’t worry either about those boys.” And as they rode out of Atlanta that early Saturday morning, he showed his wife the moon’s glistening light through the pines, and noticed on the grass in the park area, Peter and Raphael, both sleeping off a previous night’s drunk.
The Ozark Ritt Bank
1788-1789
Shep Hightower went into the Ozark Bank (owned by the Ritt family) and sat down at a table. He and his wife Emily noticed the bank had new panes of glass in their windows, as if the war had at one time shot it up and was now fixed up. There were a few drunks on the wooden sidewalk outside, and a few drinking standing outside of the bar across the street, and some folks eating in a nearby restaurant.
An elder man was playing dominoes sitting at a table in the bank with a younger man; said the older man to Shep, “You must be Shep Hightower, I’m Albert Ritt and this is my son John, have you eaten yet I know you’ve been on a long journey, but I’ve been expecting you?”
We’ve had some boiled cabbage and beef stew, and black bean soup last night, even had a bottle of beer. My wife and I are both still plenty full. I’d like to get down to business. This is my wife Emily.”
And thus, Albert took a liking for them both immediately.
“How do you do,” said Emily.
“You will have some coffee?” he asked Emily.
“Thank you,” said Emily. “We are quite alone here?”
“Except for me and my son,” Mr. Ritt said. “You have land about seventeen miles outside of town, four-hundred acres of it.”
“Ah,” said Shep. “I had imagined it was something bigger.”
“It can be…!” said the elder Ritt, “we can triple that, when you pay for the first four-hundred!”
“On what terms?” asked Shep?
“I see,” said Albert, “would you mind leaving us?” he said to his son, although he looked as interested as ever and smiled at Shep and Emily as he left.
“He’s noisy,” said Albert. “He doesn’t understand much business yet, only nineteen.” He motioned for his lawyer and accountant to join them at the table.
“Oh, yes,” said Albert. “Now these are the circumstances that would—that have made me consider you for a non-collateral loan. I knew you father, and my father knew your father’s father, while in the tobacco business.”
“I’m broke,” said Shep.
“I see,” said Mr. Ritt. “But do you owe any money to anyone? Can you be libeled?”
“No,” said Shep.
“Quite so,” said Albert, “that in itself is something accommodating. I know that the good business folks in England trusted their fortune with your father and grandfather, and made well by doing so, I’ll trust you likewise. Your name is as good as gold.”
“I’d leave the next two years to you, land and all, plus $2000-dollars in cash.”
“Then what?” asked Shep.
“Of course you have to start paying back the loan, with interest and the cost of the land. Buy yourself some niggers to do the work, you can get them cheap now, fifty dollars a head, seventy-five next month, and ten-years from now they’ll be worth $800-dollars a head. You see it is quite simple, just don’t betray me. I expect you all paid up in five-years, land and all, plus twelve hundred dollars interest a year, and we’ll settle on a price for the land.”
“When would I get the money?” asked Shep.
“Five-hundred when you agree and sign this paper, and the other fifteen-hundred, when you start loading up your wagon with needed supplies, and buy those niggers I told you about. You can get them here, but they’ll cost you a little more or go on down to New Orleans, they got a market place for them. You don’t need the real fit ones; they cost you more, buy the weaker ones, and feed them.”
Shep and Emily went off with the five-hundred dollars, and they both smiled at Mr. Ritt. He hid his money in his sock, and in the morning, asked the store keeper, “Where do you want us to start loading our supplies?”
“Alright,” said the storekeeper, “Mr. Ritt, said to let you charge up to $1500-dollars.”
Said Emily, as they were loading the wagon, “Shep, I think I’m pregnant, it feels like a boy. If it is, I’ll name him Charles, I like that name.” Shep immediately said, “No more lifting for you.”
A Rebirth of Shep’s Love
1789
After a while, after they settled in, built their first log cabin, bought three slaves, started to plant their first crop, he seemed to be in a circle of life, a perfect geometrical circle, with no beginning or end, with the child on its way; hence, there appeared even a to be a new and more softer love he had for his wife, as if he’d caught the early morning sun hitting a raindrop on their bedroom window, as if it had come all the way from heaven just to look upon her. And the sound of her voice appeared to change for him, as if it was Beethoven’s 5th Symphony. And he carried a letter in his pocket as he was doing the planting, as if it had kept the scent of a thousand roses on it, he’d look at it as if it was Emily herself. All in all, it was a kind of rebirth of his love for the woman he loved, and the child she carried inside of her for him.
