The year was 1888 and I will never forget what happened during that year. My name is George Beauregard and I am the Hero of this tale. At the time of this story, I was a young Black man traveling on horseback from Georgia to Boston, Massachusetts. Twenty years old, a strapping and muscular lad, that's who I was. I wasn't alone on this trip, folks. My father Lucius Beauregard only let me go on the condition that I had suitable traveling companions. I picked two of the best men I knew to accompany me. I went visiting some family members across the country. It had been decades since the Civil War and although slavery was now illegal, the South was still filled with racist folks. We had been duly warned. I suppose it always will be. I was a young man from Boston and I knew to stand up for my rights no matter where I was in the world.
Most of them Black folks down in Georgia weren't doing too well. They lived in poor, all-Black towns and villages. They still followed the ancient way of kowtowing to white folks. Especially wealthy Southerners. Men and women who expected the world to bow down to them because of what they happened to be born into. The way I see, race and sex are just accidents of birth and don't make one person better than another. Up north, decades after the Civil War, Black folks were working as miners, peacekeepers, soldiers, farmers and industrial workers. We owned our own homes, and many of us had our own businesses.
Any way you looked at it, we were a people on the move. Going to better places. Out of slavery and into life as red-blooded Americans just like everybody else. Black men and Black women were doing alright in the North. Many of us had jobs during the Reconstruction Era and the skills we acquired stayed with us. We put them to good use by starting our own businesses. Black Northerners were ahead of Black Southerners by at least a decade. Yeah, we were leaving them in the dust. Maybe it's because the North saw the light and did away with slavery long before the south did. Oh, well. At this point, I was done with the South and all I wanted to do was go home to Boston where the world made sense.
My traveling companions were a pair of young Northerners. James Verde, a tall, somewhat chubby, chocolate-skinned fellow from Dorchester. His father Michael Verde owned a small store in South Boston and worked as a tailor. He did pretty well for himself, designing clothes worn by some of the city's most fashionable gentlemen and their lady friends. His mother Ellen Verde worked as a nurse at an institution for the mentally ill and the insane. I don't envy anyone who works in an asylum, surrounded by crazy people all day, but she made good money. Yeah, James came from good stock. Like me, he was a college man who wanted to accomplish great things in life. I love it when my people are smart and doing well.
My other companion was Alan Brown, a golden-skinned biracial brother. He was the son of a Black Civil War soldier and a white woman. Alan Brown's father Luther Brown was the minister of a fast-growing church in Boston. Many in our fair city saw him as a leader of the Black community. When I told Alan and James that I wanted to head down South to meet some family members, they were the ones who helped me raise the money. We traveled by train, and also by boat. When we got to the South, we bought some horses and used this mode of traveling to reach our destination, the fast-growing city of Atlanta.
"No fear in us brothers," I said to my friends, who laughed merrily. We had a lot of fun along the way. Why wouldn't we? Here we were, three young Black men from the North traveling through the post-Civil War South. Fortunately, we didn't run into much trouble. We didn't run into marauders, gangsters or Klansmen like some paranoid fool thought we would. Overall, the South was beautiful country. Densely populated, and a lot cleaner than any Northern cities will ever be. Still, so many of the folks down there were living in the past. Especially the Black folks.
They were not exactly living up to their full potential as newly freed men and women. A world of opportunities opened up to them, yet most of them weren't taking advantage of it. They could learn trades, overcome obstacles and grow as individuals and as a community. Unfortunately, most of them had their heads in the clouds. Those who didn't were always whining about how unfair life was. I hate people who play victim and expect rewards for it. The world is a better place without them.
I was born the son of a freedman. My father raised me to never back down in front of anyone. I knew my worth as a young Black man and I would not allow anyone to make me feel inferior because of my roots. Kowtowing to any person was not in my nature. I tried my best to avoid trouble but you know there's always got to be some fool somewhere who thinks they can mess with you just for the hell of it. It happened one night.
"I could use a warm bed," Alan said, and James and I agreed. We had been riding all day and didn't feel like staying in the woods or the prairie. We decided to look for a hotel. When we got there, the clerk told us that they didn't take Black folks. I looked at the smirking clerk, a pasty-faced woman, and briefly considered many ways of removing that smirk from her face. I'd like to give her something to remember me by. My friends calmed me down and we walked out. We slept in the prairie and although it sucked, what with the cold and the bugs and all, I was glad that I didn't give one dime to any racist white woman or her stinking hotel. I had better use for my money.
My search for family members down South was not a good one. I mean, in those days, a lot of Black families were torn. So many sons and daughters had been separated from fathers and mothers by the Civil War. People had been fleeing from the South and moving up North. They had been chased by Southerners with guns. They didn't stay in any place for long. How in hell was I going to find any extended family members? If any kinfolk of mine survived in the South, I didn't find them. Without further ado, we decided to head home. The faster we got out of the hellish South, the better.
Yeah, we had our fill of the South and wanted to go home. We had quite a dilemma. Having blown a good chunk of our money in the trip to the South, we were in danger of lacking enough funds to get out of it. To save money, we decided to ride horses rather than take the train, for as long as possible. It sounded like a good idea at the time. Yeah, right. The idea was Alan's, and he may have been sampling some Rum when he came up with it. One night, things took a turn for the worse.
We were caught in the prairie during a thunderstorm. It was not a pleasant thing. So, we sought refuge at a nearby farm. The women farmers greeted us with odd stares. I bet they didn't run into well-dressed, traveling Black businessmen from the North too often. Oh, well. For whatever the reason, they agreed to let us stay. I told them that I was more than happy to buy my way but the Southerners lived up to their legendary hospitality and let us stay the night.
Me and my guys stayed in the barn. The farm was somewhat odd. For starters, where were the men? We had been greeted by the farmer's wife. A tall, plump, matronly woman with long blonde hair and pale green eyes. I'm guessing her age to be around forty five if a day. She had introduced herself as Miss Sylvia Hawthorne. There were two other women with her. A tall, heavyset, pretty-faced Black woman who was their servant. The Black woman called herself Nicole Jade. She looked at us with a mixture of curiosity and indifference. The other woman was Miss Sylvia's ward. A young lady whom she was distantly related to came to live with her after her parents perished. The war had taken the parents of this woman, who answered to the name Emily Johnson.
"You gentlemen have had a rough go of it, wouldn't be Christian of me to turn you away," Miss Johnson said. The lady was kind enough to offer us some food, as well as some sheets for the night. Emily was plain of face, plump-bodied and rather ordinary-looking but made up for it by rather fine-bodied : Large-breasted, wide-hipped and big-bottomed. The young woman was in her twenties. Not someone I'd call beautiful but at her age, women were usually married. Oh, well. That's her problem and not mine. I noticed her looking at me funny. I was used to people looking at me, both men and women. I was a tall, good-looking young Black man. I had an athlete's body and an angelic face. Who could resist me? Back in Boston, I had lots of women. Black women, white women, and even a couple of Mexican chicks. Yeah, I was a real ladies man.
While eating some of the food she offered, I had a chat with Emily. She told me that she lost her father in the war. He was a confederate soldier. I nodded sympathetically, though I wasn't sorry. Confederate soldiers fought to keep Black people in chains. Emily told me that she hated the life of a farmer. She was originally from New York and she hated Georgia. Also, she dreamed of one day going to Boston to find herself an educated man to marry. Boston was still the city with the best colleges in the nation, even in those days. Lots of educated men and women moving about. Myself, I attended an educational institution in the Boston area. I was going to be a teacher. It was my dream one day to start an organization that would train teachers and send them to Black communities to teach my people how to read and write. Isn't that a wonderful dream?
I went on and on about my plans. I noticed Emily looking at me adoringly. Meanwhile, my pals Alan and James ate in silence. They had heard horror stories about white folks from the South and were polite but chilly when Emily asked them any questions. She gave up after the first try. I tossed Alan and James some whiskey. Those fellows needed to relax, seriously. I didn't trust people of any color or sex. Men and women were all evil in my book. Still, that's no excuse not to talk to them. We are a civilized country, after all. We're all Americans, aren't we?
