Now you can read the entire first chapter of Where Southern Cross The Dog!

Chapter 1

No power on earth dares to make war upon it. Cotton is king!
—Senator Hammond of South Carolina, 1858

The road—a common mixture of packed reddish clay, pebbles, and stones, dry and sharp—stretched out in front of Travis Montgomery for what seemed like a hundred miles. The breeze stirred gently that afternoon in late August 1938, just enough to lift the top layer of dust off the road and into Travis’s face. The grit stuck to his skin and intensified his thirst as the blistering sun beat down on him.

An old farmhand had once told Travis that when he was thirsty, he should place a pebble or a piece of clay in his mouth, like chewin’ tobacco, until his craving subsided. Travis had tried it several times, but having swallowed a small wad of clay on the last try, he decided to forego the practice. Now he stared at a pebble in the road and tried to imagine it quenching his thirst. Remembering his resolution, however, he stepped squarely on it as he continued his journey.

Travis squinted toward the horizon, where row upon row of white-tipped cotton plants grew. To the twenty-one-year-old who had never left Mississippi, the patchwork landscape of brown and white looked like pictures he had seen of springtime in New England, when retreating snow exposed the earth and rock below. The bulbous plants swayed gently, reminding Travis first of legions of soldiers marching in a parade, and then of jaunty white pompoms waved by fans at a football game.

What lay before Travis was more than just a crop or a commodity; it was treasure, cared for and cultivated more tenderly than many of the people who lived within a three hundred-mile radius of this very spot. This crop was considered God’s greatest creation, and the Lord himself had granted a select few the divine right to cultivate it as they saw fit, often at the expense of all others. Deep down in the Mississippi Delta, this was King Cotton.

In his mind’s eye, Travis visualized his journey across the rectangular state: it bordered the Gulf of Mexico at its southern edge, Louisiana and Arkansas to the west, Alabama to the east, and Tennessee to the north. He could see the foothills in north central Mississippi dwindling, like a roller coaster easing into the end of its run, into the productive and provocative Mississippi Delta. Dark, rich land once covered with thick forests was cleared when the earliest settlers—his forebears—realized the farming potential of the New World’s earth. Each time the Mississippi River had overflowed its banks, it deposited yet another layer of soil throughout the Delta, increasing the land’s fruitfulness. Twenty years after the War Between the States ended, the Mississippi’s waters were at last tamed by levees—long mounds of dirt piled high upon the riverbanks—in hopes that they would impose some genteel Southern manners upon the unruly river. The Delta became an agricultural holy land, a fertile mecca stretching for miles to the horizon.

Geographers, historians, and cartographers might delineate the Delta as the oval-shape “island,” 250 miles long, between Memphis and Vicksburg. But Travis knew what book learning could never impart: The Delta didn’t exist merely in geography, an area defined by landmass within natural borders. No, the Delta existed somewhere a little more obscure. More than a place, the Delta was a spirit.

For the past four years, Travis had been attending Millsaps College in Jackson, about 150 miles south of Clarksdale, a town founded in 1848 and nestled near the head of the Sunflower River’s deeper waters. Each time he returned home, the serenity of the Delta overcame him anew. Even with his eyes closed he was always able to tell that he was home.

The sun was beginning its descent when Travis heard the familiar rumble of a truck carrying cotton pickers headed north toward Clarksdale. Travis stuck out his thumb, hoping for a ride. The truck’s brakes squealed; it slowed to a stop, and Travis ran up along the driver’s side and put a foot on the running board.

“Headed to town?” Travis asked.

“Yeah, boy,” the driver said, never taking his eyes off the road before him. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he pulled it out and flicked it past Travis’s head. “But you’re going in back, with the darkies.”

Travis clenched his fist and felt his nails dig into his palm. He wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes and looked past the driver. Another man sat motionless in the front seat. They could have made room, but Travis wasn’t going to argue. He smiled his appreciation and climbed onto the truck’s bed.

The pickers moved only slightly as he settled on the outer edge, facing the passengers’ side. His right leg hung off the back and his right arm crossed his body to grab a slat for support. His other leg was tightly bent, his knee jammed under his chin. Travis didn’t have to sit in this contorted position, hanging off the end of a truck barreling down the road. He could have, if he liked, forcibly made room for himself anywhere, with no worry of retribution. But he didn’t.

The passengers were quiet, exhausted after a day spent picking cotton, and Travis tried to avoid meeting their tired eyes. Their shirts clung to their bodies like skin, sweat still oozing from their pores. Some dozed; others stared aimlessly into the darkening sky. The backbreaking work of picking cotton every day for several months every year would silence anyone. The monotonous task pared a person’s acuity, robbing life of the vitality that God bestowed upon it.

“Hard day?” Travis said.

“Every day’s hard, suh,” one of the men said.

The drone of the engine and the bumpy ride lulled them into a semiconscious state; a quick meal and sleep was on everyone’s mind. The darkness that immediately precedes the dawn would come too soon.

The truck chugged along, halting often, slowly unraveling its tangle of riders. They jumped from the truck bed, the driver barely stopping, until only Travis was left.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the edge of town. Travis hopped down, waved an arm in thanks, and walked the last quarter-mile home. He crept in the front door and immediately made his way to the kitchen after a wave of hunger overcame him. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights; after living in the same house most of his life, he could walk around with his eyes closed. He prowled the counter, searching for one of his mother’s freshly baked cakes or pies and didn’t notice the figure sitting at the kitchen table.

“Well?”

Travis jumped and took a step back. “Gee, Dad, I thought everyone had gone to bed early,” he said, his voice slightly shaky.

“No, everyone’s not asleep,” Bill Montgomery said.

“All done. I got everything packed up and sent. I’m officially a graduate even though it took an extra summer to do it.”

“It was nice they let you go through ceremonies in the spring. Anyone ask you what your plans were?”

“No, sir. I think most everyone was ready for a quick break before fall classes begin. Campus was quiet.”

Mr. Montgomery rose and stepped to the sink. He washed the remaining milk out of his glass, dried it with a towel, and placed it in a cabinet. “Well, I’m going to bed. See you in the morning?” he said, cinching up the belt to his robe.

“You’ll see me tomorrow, sometime. Good night, Dad.”

Travis listened to the creaks of the old stairway as his father climbed the stairs. He looked around for something to nibble on then realized his exhaustion trumped his hunger. He didn’t have the energy to make a sandwich or even to pour a glass of milk. He tiptoed upstairs and stopped in the bathroom to wash off the parts of Mississippi he had brought home with him. Then he went to his bedroom, undressed, and slid into bed. He stared at the ceiling, muttered the prayer he had said every night since he could remember, and reflected on the day—especially the field workers. Picking, eating, sleeping. He’d been around them all his life but still couldn’t imagine how they could go through that routine, day in and day out.

His body felt heavy, and Travis sank further into the soft mattress. His mind blurred. With a last gust of breath, he slept.

You can purchase Where Southern Cross The Dog and the accompanying CD here!