Fiction.
University student Polly Peterson interviews her great-great grandfather, Bastion Cartwell, former Southern plantation owner.
“Fear is the cruelest master—in everything we do.” —Bastion Cartwell
Q: (Polly): Poppi, I am your great-great-granddaughter talking to you from 2025. I know the family called you that. I have so many questions for you, but for the purpose of my college paper let’s get to the heart of the matter. Do you still feel resentment about losing your plantation, your way of life after the Civil War? And before the war started, did you ever think that loss would happen?
A: (Bastion): Child, I marvel at that Yankee twang in your voice—where’d y’all end up? … California, you say? Lord, when I was a young buck I heard tell of California, gold dust and fortunes. By the time word reached Virginia, folks swore the gold was already picked clean. I had half a mind to ride west, but my pappy passed, and the land fell to me at just twenty-three. Now, to your question. Resentment? It clings like moss on an old oak, but truth be told, what I carried was more hollow than hate. That plantation was my whole world, and when it slipped away I stood like a man cut adrift. Did I reckon it might happen? No, ma’am. I trusted our wealth and our traditions to keep us safe. I was wrong. The war taught me that no inheritance—no matter how rooted—can stand against the tide of history.
Q: Poppi, to this day our country remains divided. The South still lingers in red states, while the North and West are largely blue. What did you believe would happen to America after you passed on?
A: I figured the Union would hold, but only like two houses forced under one roof—bound by law, not by love. Never once did I picture this nation as one people, truly joined. I surely didn’t reckon the quarrel would still be echoing in your time.
Q: Poppi, the South went to war. Your plantation class was in power. You share responsibility. Why did you and your neighbors talk of secession?
A: Round our supper tables, we spoke of rights—our land, our way o’ livin’. We dressed it up in talk of honor and sovereignty, but under it all was fear. Fear that slavery—the cornerstone—would be pulled out from under us. When the first shot rang at Sumter, most of us cheered, blind with passion, blind to the ruin it would bring.
Q: Are you surprised that even now the South is poorer and more rural than the North and West?
A: Not surprised, darlin’. Saddens me, though. We clung tight to the soil and to memory, while the North forged iron and the West raced ahead with rails and riches. Pride held us back. What I once thought sure as sunrise—land—turned heavy as a millstone without progress.
Q: What did you all think of General Sherman’s march through Georgia and South Carolina?
A: Didn't feel it first hand, but we cursed his name. To us, it weren’t war, it was punishment. Fire in the fields, homes in ashes, rail twisted like a child’s toy. Yet his march, cruel as it was, broke our will. It showed plain the Confederacy could not shield its own. Brutal, yes—but inescapable.
Q: My generation feels slavery was evil. Why did you keep slaves? Didn’t you know it was wrong?
A: In my heart, I reckon I knew. Any man who looked an enslaved soul in the eye and heard the chains clink knew. But pride and profit smothered that truth. We wrapped ourselves in scripture, in law, in all manner of excuses. I kept slaves ’cause I was weak—valued comfort more than courage. That’s the hardest truth a man can own.
Q: What happened to your slaves after the war?
A: They walked off, one by one. Some to seek kinfolk long torn from ’em, some to scratch out a livin’ elsewhere, some lingered near ’cause the world beyond was uncertain. Their leavin’ hollowed my plantation more than any cannonball. Did they find better lives? Some did, many struggled. But freedom—even hard freedom—was theirs at last.
Q: Did you fear they would come back to hurt you?
A: Lord, yes. Nights I’d wake at every creak of the floorboard, expectin’ vengeance. But most freedfolk had no time for revenge—they were too busy survivin’, searchin’ for kin, buildin’ new lives. That fear of mine, it was the shadow of my own guilt.
Q: America is now the most powerful nation on earth, yet we are still divided—red against blue, fearful of immigrants and those of different skin. What advice do you offer? Are we doomed?
A: Fear, Polly, is the cruelest master. In my day, we feared the slave. In yours, it’s the immigrant. Don’t let fear bind your heart. Division’s natural, but hatred ain’t. A house may hold many rooms, but it’ll stand so long as its foundation is justice. Choose justice over comfort, courage over fear, and maybe y’all can break the cycle we never could.
Q: Poppi, I wish I could give you a hug. You didn’t invent the plantation system—you lived in it. The family tree you planted is strong. What happened to your world after the Civil War?
A: It unraveled, plain and simple. Grand houses fell to ruin, fields went barren, pride turned to dust. For a spell, freedmen found voice in schools, in offices, in hope. But white resentment rose up mean and choked it back. My world after the war was ashes. Yours, for all its quarrels, still holds possibility. Don’t lose sight of that.
Q: Poppi, we’re talking because we have imagination, and we love each other. No one will be able to build a machine that can take me back to your Virginia plantation, but through imagination we can see eye to eye and figure out a dream—a dream of how the world can be fair for as many of us as possible, all peoples. I have that dream and it came to me from you, from family. Gosh, my husband and I named our firstborn Sebastian Cartwell Peterson. How about that? I can dream to wish for a better world. I can wish to be able to come to Sunday dinner with you and all my grammies and Poppi’s so we can talk. Talk about that better world. And, until later, let me know what we would have had for Sunday dinner back then?
A: Polly, you honor me with that boy’s name. Sebastian—strong as oak. Last name comes from Derbyshire. We go back to the Mayflower. Makes an old man proud. As for Sunday dinner, well, we’d spread the table with roasted chicken or a fine ham in the middle, corn puddin’ rich with butter, collards stewed down with pork, hot biscuits puffin’ from the hearth, and bowls of beans and sweet yams. For dessert, apple or peach pie, and coffee, dark and strong, poured after grace. It was abundance, sure, but carried on the backs of those not free. I see that now. If ever I could sit again at such a table with you and all our kin, I’d pray the feast be fair—every hand honored, every voice welcome. That’s the better world you dream of, child, and I pray it ain’t just a dream.
Closing Reflection
Polly Peterson: Talking to my great-great-grandfather is both painful and healing. His words remind me that fear, pride, and injustice cost generations their peace. But he also leaves me with a warning and a hope—that justice, not comfort, is the only foundation strong enough to hold America’s house together. And, I loved him for not laughing at my name.
An original concept by Staff of PillartoPost. Illustration by F. Stop Fitzgerald.
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