Chapter Text
Plantation Gentry
Society in the 1800s was incredibly stratified. Meaning…?
Layered. Okay…?
As in social structures. Classes. Classes layered on top of one another. At the top, there were Aristocratic planters, people who owned land/plantation plots, probably never even stepped foot on the soil, and made money simply by exporting.
Way at the bottom of the white social hierarchy were the "mountain people” (which we will look at later) and poor farmers, like Trevor. These farmers grew subsistent amounts of food to feed themselves and their families, seldom having enough to ship off for profit. Most were Irish, Scotts, Irish-Scotts, and Germans. Germans would go on to get more settled in and become Aristocratic planters but…
Everyone starts somewhere.
Benjamin Netanyahu was part of the plantation gentry. Why him? I didn’t feel like subjecting my friends to such a terrible and demeaning position.
Yahu was part of the “1%”; the rich elite who owned at least 1000 acres of land with 100 slaves. At the very minimum. Because Yahu was so rich, he could afford the lucrative slaves, he could afford to treat them like shit. And when they got old or… too broken to work?
It was easy. He was protected by the partus sequitur ventrum law, stating that if an enslaved African Woman were to give birth to a child, that child is born… the same as their mother. Not the father.
So guess what the yahu did? Guess why his enslaved population increased so much? Well im sure you can guess but- It was all terrible, absolutely dehumanizing sexual violence.
Yahu and his fellow elites were down in the deep South, spread across the Carolinas and Georgia. They dominated the state legislatures, buying their way to representation aka pay to win, passing laws that would protect the way they lived and made their money.
They didn’t care for what they did. They didn’t care for the numbers branded on enslaved peoples.
All they cared about was the number of slaves and money going up - while his worries went down.
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The term “hillbillies” is a derogatory term to refer to the poor whites of America. Think… white trash. Drunk farmers going around partying and owning a billion dogs and having a ton of babies. I like to think of Kenny McCormick from South Park and his family when thinking of this awful term.
In truth, Hillbillies were at the bottom of the stratified system. They made up 75% of the Southern population, residing in hills and practicing subsistence farming. Hillbilly. With their crooked teeth, alcohol usage, and their dirty ways of living.
They weren’t true whites, is what most argued. They were Scots-Irish that had gone the wrong way. Many didn’t want to admit their cruelty to people of their own skin ton but… oh well. Welp. What can you do?
Such a hillbilly was our little Ethan.
Ethan had made his way back from New York in search of his brother in Ohio. Little did he know that Miles had made his way over to New York in search of his brother.
Aiden had to let Ethan go. The demand for jobs was high. He needed assets. So, Ethan no longer had a job.
Virginia, 1862
November 2nd
Ethan had spent the last of his paycheck taking the steamboat down the Erie Canal to reach Virginia. He thought he might walk over to Ohio, search the who damn state up and down if needed. He just need to find Miles.
Instead, he was met with tomatoes being thrown at him, and the jeering of people chanting “Clay-Eater!” while others went on to throw gluten on him and call him a “Cracker”. The term cracker actually comes from this.
He had to hide away deep in the hills, shrouded by the lush agriculture in order to get by.
Months had passed… He couldn’t even recognize himself as he went down to the creek to wash his face.
“...” He scrambled backwards, chest heaving up and down. “Well, hot dang— Is that me?!” He tentatively crawled back over to chest his reflection again, flinching as the umber eyes pierced back into his.
His hair had grown incredibly long now, sweeping across the side of his eyes like a… side part. His skin was tan now, a honeyed ton from all the work he had to do. He was dusty, muddy, scleras bloodshot like he had pinkeye. He probably did. There was dirt under his thick, clamshell like fingernails, calluses mounding on his palms. His golden brown hair frayed at the ends and tangled, and O MY GOD he barely had a little mustache.
Just a few tiny whiskers.
“... Oh my god-” He whispered, feeling blood rush to his ears. He looked around, finding a jagged rock and trying to cut his hair, splashing water on his dirty face in order to try to purify himself in any way, shape, or form.
But it didn’t work. That same boy, the boy who was taken into the British army, the boy who fought against the Americans, who was shot, who was captured, put to work, taken to France and ridiculed, and an unnecessary amount of other things… that was him. Looking back at him.
He was a complete failure.
Later that day, Ethan had gone into town to trade some fish he had caught, still deeply shaken by his own appearance because he seeks approval from others. As he hid himself further in his cloak, he wondered…
Was he really that screwed? I mean- He wasn’t on the lowest rung of society, after all…
He slammed the fish down onto the counter with a heavy slap, looking into the eyes of the man willing to buy it.
“I’ll give you 6 cents for this.”
“Well, shoot, alrighty then.” Ethan rummaged around, pulling his handsewn wallet out.
“Ya ain't a hillbilly, are ya?” The man asked, placing the coins down on the table.
“No.” Ethan shook his head, grabbing the coins before making a break for it. “Much obliged, sir…”
“... What in tarnation-?” The man shook his head, taking the fish off the counter.
As Ethan ran home, he thought about one day becoming a rich plantation owner with Miles. He would… he would marry Aiden and have a huge family. Every night, his small stomach would be warm with food and he would sleep on a mattress on silk sheets- with a pillow!
Every night, he would host a party and invite all his friends. They could play poker and drink-
All he had to do was own a slave. And then he’d be able to buy a plantation. It was simple!
He knew, deep down, that this would remain a dream. Each night he would twist and turn on the floor, dreaming that the grass was a vast mattress. He would continue to support slavery, in hopes that he might one day be able to own one.
Maybe. Maybe one day.
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Somewhere near Appalachian Mountains
Virginia, 1862
November 2nd
Trevor grit his teeth as he looked out on the frontier, watching slaves carrying large hay bales while families were being torn apart, right before his eyes.
He hated it. This wasn’t farming. Farming was the art of being one with the lan, enjoying the actual experience. It wasn’t all about money-
Why couldn’t these plantation gentry chuds understand that? Slaves were not necessary.
Freaking Yahu. Yahu and his policies.
As the South continued getting rich from all this… garbage that people in the Mountains could do, others grew poor. It was a competition.
For most mountain men.
Well. Sure, Trevor felt that way too- It wasn’t fair that they couldn’t own any plantations on the mountains due to the region. How come they got to be rich? And sure. Sure… he didn’t really enjoy having people of color in his backyard. He was a nativist- God’s child! God gave him the right to be here, not.. Not them!
But he was a bit of a Quaker. And it hurt seeing all of this happen.
Sometimes, when Yahu would come out of his house to pick up the paper or smell the roses, Trevor would throw rocks at the back of his head. Just because he hated the idea so much.
Maybe it was a blessin’ living on the mountains, overlooking the prideful country that the United States of America was. Freedom and Glory. For whites. Watching the sun rise as he milked his cows and plowed through his land. Sure, going into town he was targeted for being a “Mountain Man” and backwards in his thinking but-
He stood for the right things. Most Mountain men did.
Others didnt but-
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George Fitzhugh
Absolute bollocks to this lad
His importance in history is to show the growing tensions between the North and the South. Slavery was becoming a more political rhetoric. North started hating South because they had more slaves and were getting more money. South hated the North because... i dunno North? No, actually. They viewed them as washed up abolitions. That not wanting slavery made them religious dissidents and just... bad people. You're not a true christian!
This guy wrote books backed by "social science" to argue that slavery is a necessary evil and both a positive good! Without it...
the world
would
EXPLODE!!!
no But he did argue that without slavery the Economy of the United States would go to trash. Which is true to an extent but...
it'd be easier to pay our workers... oh well!
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Atlanta, 1862
November 2nd
The Yahu whistled as he strolled down the… cracked pavement of the streets, tipping his hat to random women. Women counted for all. 16, 17… 17 year old women, yes.
He had always considered himself to be a Southern Gentleman.
Holding the door open for women, making incredibly polite comments on their… their their uhhh looks, stopping them in the middle of the streets to flex his bands. Yes, sir! He was the Yahu and he needed to show these commoners who was boss!
As he hopped into a coffee shop (get it get it get it get it 😂) to pick up an order of his coffee with NO creamer NO sugar and just straight sludge to show that he was a REAL tough man, he saw a cloaked old man sitting at a table, surrounded by…
Them.
The enslaved Africans (he probabl would have called them slaves but i want to be respectful).
He stomped over, gripping his cup tightly, eyebrows furrowed as the men turned towards him.
“Oh. Hello, Sir.” One nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to take a sip of his tea. “How’da do?”
“Well now, how do I—how do I do, you ask?!” He slammed his cup onto the table, pulling a chair out and staring them all in the eyes. “Why, every last one of y'all are nothin' but runaways from bondage! Fugitive slaves! Why, I oughta-” He looked around, a smirk pulling at his lips as all eyes turned towards him.
“Settle down now, folks. I've got this all in hand. No need to fret none. The yahu's here.” Yahu stood up, pulling a man up by the collar and dragging him outside. He grunted, pushing the man to the ground.
“Why, you oughta be out there in the fields!” The man who wiggled under his foot looked up at him with gleaming eyes, hands shakily extending parchment to him.
“Here sir... my papers…” Yahu snatched them from his hand, jumping up as he screamed.
“WHAT?!” Well now, we can't be havin' any of them free slaves 'round these parts, NO SIR!”
“I’m free sire, let me be-”
“As a RICH gentleman of property, I reckon it’s high time I give you a piece of my mind!” A crowd suddenly burst out of the coffee shop, tearing the Yahu away from the free man.
“Oh, my golly- He saved us! Thank you lord!” They carried him into the coffeeshop, offering a toast to his manliness.
Southern Gentlemen are like the stereotypical Andrew Tate type people. They were the incredibly rich gentry (Plantation Gentry) and presented themselves as honest, noble men. They tried to be chivalrous and treated those inferior to them incredibly badly.
Yep.