CHAPTER

Natchez, Mississippi

Seasonal Mexican produce pickers toiled in the overcast sky, unable to avoid the mushy, rotting fruit underfoot. The quickness which they usually gathered the fruits was replaced with a slow steady search of the entire field, in which they attempted to salvage every last possible peach. Their mood even more somber than the farmers who wouldn’t profit from a harvest such as this. The rain has doomed the fruit to rot into the earth, attracting swarms of thick black flies. The workers fear they may not afford the trip back home when the picking season concludes.

Two hauling trucks take the ready shipments to the main road leading to town. Vida Gore drove the lead truck. His buddy Joe drove the second. The twenty-minute drive to town took them past several billboards boasting of the superior living quality of the area, the fine church atmosphere, the VFW location, and the food… oh, the food. Weary travelers swoon at the sign, keeping a sharp eye for the corresponding exit number. Southern cuisine was born here. But as tantalizing as the diners, and cafes, and restaurants were, it was the pie that put butts in the seats. The last billboard, right before the city limits, displayed a list of the past “Best Pie” winners. Number one on the list: Auntie Clementine’s Fine Peach Cobblers and Pies. Aunt Clem’s for short.

When they reached town, the second truck peeled west towards the rural back roads. Gore continued into town’s business district, finally pulling over at the most popular diner in town. When he stopped at the loading dock, he didn’t get out. Instead, he surveys the area, casually lighting a Lucky Strike, and greeting familiar faces. The lot is especially full this afternoon. A multitude of automobiles with the U.S Army logo affixed. After ten or fifteen minutes, a large group of moderately dressed men and a couple of uniformed soldiers exited the diner, casually speaking to one another. More of them than not wearing spectacles of some kind or another. Upon reaching the cars, the uniformed men took the driver’s position, and the men gathered the vehicles and drove away. Before long, a white woman, fiftyish, bobbed strawberry hair, comes out dressed as a waitress, holding a ragged clipboard.

“You’re late!” She snapped.

“But I’m here,” Vida Gore replied.

“But you’re late!”

“Come on, Clementine. I don’t load the damn thing; I just drive it. When they say go, I go.” Vida told the owner of Aunt Clem’s.

Clementine frowned but said no more. She walked to the back of the truck and began inspecting the produce. Gore exited the vehicle and followed.

“So, I see you was a might busy, yourself, in there. Who was those men, Clem?”

“Ain’t much for eating, this lot, is they?” Clem asked, rhetorically of the peaches. “Army Corp. of Engineers is what they told us. Good God, Vida! Y’all expect me to pay for this?”

Gore took a silent drag from his cigarette and answered her question with a slow trail of smoke. Then he said, “What that is, Clem? Army Core of Engineers.”

“From what I gather, they meet up and discuss wind rotations and weather patterns and such. And I think some of them build, like, bridges and roads…”

“You don’t say? The Army do all that?”

“Mm, hm.” She replied, barely listening. Clem scoffed and tossed the peach back onto the truck bed. “I’m not sure this is even edible. What do you think?”

Gore shrugged, his face could actually care no less whether it was or wasn’t.

“You know where I stand.” He spoke.

“Well, that’s just some fine customer service?”

“These ain’t my peaches, Clementine. I just drive…”

“Drive the truck. I know, I know.” She frowned at the peaches, pondering. Finally, she huffed her disapproval and said, “I need thirty pies by Thursday! I don’t know if this will be good enough. Got any more coming this way?”

“Joe took a second truck down the valley. Lakeland bought up the rest of what we had.”

“What on Earth for?” Clem asked. “Y’all ain’t even big enough to supply them, regular.”

Gore took the last inhale and tossed the remains. “Like I say, Clem, ‘I just drive the truck.’” Vida smiled and sauntered back to the driver side of the truck. He stopped before getting in, turned to Clementine. “Say? Why they so many Army engineers here, right now? Did they say?”

“The government, Vida. You know how they are. It’s always something. This time round they up in arms about all the rain we been getting. Said the river swelled so bad they worry about a flood coming ‘round. They’re on their way to check the levels. I called ‘em geniuses for figuring the river was going to spill,” She chortled.

“So, you ain’t fearin’ a flood?” Vida asked.

“Been floods before, Vida. Be more floods to come. You just find me some more peaches.”

 

Lakeland Processing Plant RR-17

 

Joe took the second truck along the rural highway, until he reached the Lakeland Processing, Cannery and Distribution factory at the 10am shift change. Lakeland employed over three hundred workers, a majority of them negro. Two masses of bodies moved in opposite directions, aiming to be either at their shift or on the road home by 10:08am.

 

Joe sat in the loading bay waving at familiar faces. A young, balding white man, in a cotton button shirt, waved him inside the administrative offices.

“How ya’ been, Joe? Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m fielding questions from the Army about flood plains and such. I listened, but to be true, I don’t bit more know a bridge from a levy, anyhow.”

“Morning, Mr. Steve. How’s the family?”

“Oh, Maylin’ll make it so’s we all live forever, with her badgering about my bacon consumption. She’s trying to feed me weeds and leaves and call it a meal. Me and the boys are bout ready to run oft!”

Joe laughed, genuinely. “Said you ‘bout to run oft’, huh?”

“Hells, yeah.” Then he spelled it aloud: “R-U-N-O-F-T!”

“Can’t say I got that issue. my Sara ain’t much more for greens than I is. Lessen you talkin’ collards, or mustard.”

“Well, I’m jealous. Can’t hardly remember what animal fat even taste like. How’s Sara, anyways?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Fussin’ behind me like I’m dying, or something.”

“Well, ain’t we all?”

“Yeah, but not today.” They laughed.

“What you got for me?”

“Just what you ordered, Mr. Steve. Although I can’t right say you gonna be happy with this week’s lot. The rainwater done pretty much drowned the whole season away. Those peaches there that survived look about as appetizing as hog slop.”

“All the same, Joe, I’d better take a look. Mr. Marshall’s gonna ask. Plus, we got no other options. I’m looking at a quarter in the red if our diced peaches don’t turn out.”

The production floor door leading to the supervisory catwalk opened, and in walked Mr. Marshall, short and pasty, the chubby owner of Lakeland, face covered in monkey hair, except the top of his head. His belly balanced dangerously low below his belt.

“Steven!” Mr. Marshall bellowed. He plainly saw Joe in the room. “Steven, damn it! Number nine has shit leaking from the back. I thought you said it was fixed?”

“I’m sure, whatever it is, it must be a different issue, Mr. Marshall, sir.”

“How the hell would you know that?” He yelled.

“I fixed it, personally, myself, sir.” Steven said, proudly.

“I thought you studied funerology in college.” Marshall scowled.

“Mortuary sciences.” Steve corrected, quietly.

“They show you how to calibrate canning machines in funeral school?” Marshall asked, facetiously. “Huh? ‘Da HELL you know about…”

“I’ll have maintenance get right on it, Mr. Marshall.”

Marshall took a moment to acknowledge Joe, the driver, by looking him over suspiciously, grunting a grudging approval of his presence, and left the office through the front door.

“Sheesh! That man ain’t ever changing.” Joe laughed, slightly amused.

“Tell me about it. I’d wish him dead if I was sure he wouldn’t just show up for work the next day. Then I’d have a whole nest of new problems, wouldn’t I?” He sat down behind a desk frosted with papers and charts. “How’s the peach chauffer business, Joe?”

“Better now than it ever was.”

“I’ll take your word for that. You may remember me saying, I’m from Georgia, so it’s no real comparison for peaches.”

“Ah, here we go…” Joe chuckled.

“We grow the finest peaches in the world, we do.”

“So, I’ve heard…” Joe teased.

“If you never been to Georgia, Joe, do yourself a favor and take the little missus for a good trip. Lots of history.” He was using his hands to express the enormity, speaking in general to himself as much as Joe.

“Yeah, Mr. Steve, I reckon one antebellum southern city is as good as another. But maybe one day, I will. The way you brag on them peaches, I’m aiming to try one, some day.”

“You should, is all I’m saying.” He sat up in his chair and leaned toward his guest. “Say, Joe? Can I share a thought with you?”

Joe saw the shift in mood. “Sure, Mr. Steve. What got you puzzled?”

“Well, this being a place with lots of machines and moving parts, and such; Lots of cans, people. Anyway, what I’m saying is: we sometimes damage our own products, you know, or the stores send ‘em back too badly damaged to sell. Instead of tossing those cans, we donate it away. You know, the old timers’ home, the orphanage, the churches, soup trailers, et. Cetera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah? So, I been in Mississippi a while, now. Long enough to recognize something is particularly odd. It’s probably a cultural thing, but, Joe, I find something odd.”

“What’s that, Mr. Steve?” Joe felt his neck heat.

“Well, now… is it me, or do the negro’s around here to not eat peaches?”

Joe exhaled but forced a smile over his reluctancy to answer. “We- we like peaches just fine, I reckon, Mr. Steve.”

“I mean, of course. But maybe the negroes don’t enjoy peaches as much as, say, watermelon?” Steven sincerely asked.

Joe’s gaze faltered. He stammered. Steven continued.

“We see white employees making off with free cans all the time. I don’t believe I’ve never seen a black worker with not one charity can of peaches. Tell me I’m crazy, Joe. Am I seeing this correctly?”

“Wha- uh, yeah, see… I might not be the best person to answer this one. I just drive the trucks.”

“But you eat peaches, yeah?”

“Um, yeah. Sometimes.”

The factory supervisor opened a desk drawer and retrieved a badly dented can from it. He tossed it, casually, in Joe’s direction, who caught it more from instinct than anything else.”

“Eat it.” Steve said, pointedly.

“Sir?” Joe held the can, bewildered.

“Go on. Eat the peaches.” Steve studies Joe.

Joe turns the can over in his hand several times.

“Oh! I forgot.” Steve pulls out a small, hand-rotating, can opener and tosses it, also. “Eat up.”

 

The Devil’s Punchbowl - Natchez, Mississippi 1863

 

The road leading in Natchez sunk a foot over a period a few weeks, after thousands of migrating feet pressed into their city, exploding the population from about 5,000 people before the start of the civil war, to more than a quarter of a million by 1860.

 

Newly freed negroes flooded the city after union soldiers expelled the remaining members of the confederate army, hoping for union protection from the harassment and re-enslavement of angry, white successionists.

 

However, the people of Natchez were unhappy with this sudden influx because the result meant that for the first time, the 350,000 white residents were now outnumbered by the 437,000 free blacks and former slaves combined. In 1860, that number had been close to 800. The drain on the system was unmanageable. Every day, hundreds of new arrivals sought refuge from a moving war. Along with shelter, food sources, and honest labor expectations, thousands were hoping to rebuild their lives, finally free from bondage.

The new population found a few allies in the Mississippi town, but as the numbers kept rising, it created a mountain of anxiety over being overrun by bands of angry ex-slaves. Union troops were charged with managing the integrations of the new population. That the troops were, literally, fighting the slave owners, caused a number of people, both black and white, the perception that these union soldiers, or the army, itself, had the vulnerable negro population’s best interest at heart.

Citizens began revolting at what they considered a totally different kind of invasion. At first, verbal mutters undermining efforts were barely concealed. Then collaborated sabotage. Local leaders met with the union army for solutions to problems that appeared to have long legs.

Outside the town existed a natural ridge above a semi-circular bowl-shaped valley. It was proposed, then decided, that a proper refugee camp for the asylum seekers would be built there. A concrete structure went up to support the open mouth of the ridge, and they placed a gate and guards there to monitor safety and activities. Or so they said.

It was not long before overcrowding became a big issue, but not the deadliest. There were factions inside the city that thought it best to appeal, not only to city officials for respite, but to the blacks themselves. Many white leaders, spurred by the public for some type of action, even attempted to convince the former slaves that the best, safest, course of action might be to return to their old plantations, to their old masters, and encourage reconciliation, or to find some compromises to forge working relationships that would be beneficial for all.

Men and young boys of fighting age were directly targeted to enlist in the union army so they may fight for their own freedom on the battlefield. Many went voluntarily. The premise grew more enticing as hunger grew more prevalent. Men who were able, fled to fight rather than starve. Anyone else would be forced into hard labor jobs where multitudes of sick individuals, simply, died working. Leaving behind the women and small children to suffer horrific episodes of hunger, non-potable drinking water from the Mississippi, disease, and increasingly hostile treatment by the same group that was supposed to be caring for them.

Present

Clem barked as Vida pulled away. “God dammit, Vida Gore. What the hell kind of pie could I make with mushy peaches?”

“I hear bananas make for better baking when they going bad.” He yelled from the window.

“Bananas, not peaches, Sug.”

“Boss ain’t gonna be happy. Already had four turnouts this month.”

“Too damn bad. When he comes by for Sunday dinner and his weekly slice, he can bitch and moan, then. He can see to the lack of quality, hisself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’ll you do with these?”

“Toss ‘em, I guess.”

“You know they ain’t all bad. Why don’t you take ‘em and sort ‘em out. Maybe folks across the tracks would appreciate some free fruit. Food is still food when it’s free. Right?”

Natchez, Mississippi

Prunus Persica -- the scientific name assigned to peach trees, native to China. Peach trees were first introduced into North America by Spanish monks in the mid-1500s, and grew so abundantly, it’s considered, along with wild pigs, to be America’s first invasive species. It grows wild now in many places around the world, including an heirloom variety along the Mississippi river, Natchez, Mississippi.

Devil’s Punchbowl Encampment 1863

When the bodies began falling from dehydration, starvation, and illness borne of inhumane living conditions, the camp residents begged permission to leave the now locked gate of the campground, if only long enough to bury their dead. Soon, the requests were so overwhelming, it elicited annoyance by the union troops more so than sympathy. Eventually, their requests to bury loved ones would be routinely denied, as the soldiers took to dropping shovels over the edge of the ridge to the pathetic creatures down below and told them to “bury them where they dropped.”

Future excavations would uncover not one, but a total of three mass grave sites within the belly of the camp, suggesting that not only were bodies shallowly buried beneath the feet of their survivors, but those same survivors would die on top of the bodies they buried. Worse yet, the camp officials allowed it to repeat at least once more.

One can imagine the irrepressible stench of rotting flesh, rigorously excreting bodily fluids. All of those bodies left to erode into rich Mississippi soil, producing orchards of the most resilient fruit tree on the planet. The rich, delicious flesh of heirloom peaches in Natchez, Mississippi were fertilized with the remains of hopeless human sufferers, who suffered torture in the hands of armed caretakers, and died undeserving deaths. The local blacks who know this history, naturally, refuse to eat of the trees’ fruits.

In all, more than 20,000 people perished inside the makeshift encampment, hereto after referred as the Devil’s Punchbowl.

Present

Gore gave the woman a friendly salute of the hand, and told her, “Thank you, kindly, Miss Clementine. But you couldn’t pay me to hold this fruit to my lips.”

-- coming spring '25 --