Tom Franklin, "Hell at the Breech" (2003).

Having sampled Tom Franklin's writing in his short story collection Poachers, I thought that I'd return to the well for a novel. Hell at the Breech is (nominally) historical fiction about a backwoods war pitting town vs. country folk in Alabama's Clark County. Apparently the author first heard tales of this feud while growing up in the very state where it happened. One might expect a litany of violence, unremitting vengeance and good old Southern backstabbing- and if that is the type of thing you are interested in, you can indeed find it all right here. However don't expect to find some pulpy, breezily entertaining read. Franklin's got the goods, and while comparisons to William Faulkner and Cormac McCarthy may be presumptuous, they may not be completely out-of-order.

The cycle of mayhem is set off when two young rural brothers decide to play 'highwaymen" along an isolated dirt road out in the sticks. Macky and William Burke merely want to get a few funds so they can visit the local prostitute, but they inadvertently set off a chain of events that builds steam until the region's inhabitants become inextricably involved in a series of bloody conflicts. Sheerly by accident they manage to kill a man. Fortunately for them, they are able to slink away without their deed being witnessed. When the murder is discovered by the victim's cousin, an insidious plot is hatched to extend the violence outward. The poor folk of the Mitcham Beat have been oppressed by the 'city ways' of nearby Grove Hill and Coffeeville for far too long.

County Sheriff Billy Waite is growing weary and preparing to retire from his long career as a lawman. He understands the barely repressed hostilities and resentments borne on the chests of the cotton farmers in Mitcham Beat. When he learns of Arch Bledsoe's death, he knows there is going to be trouble. Bledsoe was a popular store owner and aspiring politician who was extremely popular in the outlying rural areas of the county. Not only was he free with the bootleg whiskey he stocked at his shop, but he had the only outdoor croquet court for hundreds of miles. When his surviving kinsman "Tooch" Bledsoe decides to form a local gang called 'Hell-at-the-Breech' to avenge his cousin's death, he is able to recruit a small band of potential outlaws, ready and wiling to take the fight to the towns. Soon he has built his own little fiefdom in the wilderness.

"Tooch" begins his efforts close to home. He and his men (including the Burke brothers) start to lean on the neighboring farmers. They let them know that sides must be chosen. Either they will assume the banner of the 'Breech', or they must keep silent and stay out of its way. When several independently-minded dirt-scratchers challenge his growing authority, they find themselves on the wrong end of some unlucky mishaps. A few of them end up six feet under the cold, hard ground. As news of this filters back to Grove Hill, pressure builds on Sheriff Waite to get some satisfaction. He intends to get to the bottom of this rash of violence and bring the appropriate ne'er-do-wells to justice. Problem is there isn't a lot of love for him out in the cut. And eventually the "Breech" strikes closer to home.

Franklin's prose is spare and precise. He doesn't waste a lot of time examining the inner lives of these simple and brutal men, but rather conveys character and motivation through their laconic verbal interchanges, and their deeds. Many of the incidents he describes are brutally violent and gory- yet never sensationally so. The visceral nature of the evils perpetrated among the cotton fields and dense woods is conveyed without unnecessary elaboration. And yet even within the most malicious perpetrators, he finds strains of humanity. The reader understands how the hardscrabble conditions of life in rural southwestern Alabama (in 1897) led to bloodletting and betrayal. Franklin's account is all-the-more convincing because it is essentially true. This is exactly how historical fiction should be written, even if it doesn't adhere strictly to the 'facts'.

A Trip to the Library. Tom Franklin, "Poachers" (1999)

Having whet my appetite for Southern Literature, I went to the Carnegie Library main branch in Oakland for some reading material. With a new baby in the house, I figured I'd try to find ways to save money. I used to frequent the library a lot more than I have in the last couple of years. When I started exploring the world of graphic novels and comics, I decided that I didn't want to spend an inordinate amount of money just trying to familiarize myself with what was available. At the library I could find out which ones should be in my collection, and maximize my resources. I'd stumble out with arm-loads of stuff. I discovered plenty that was worthwhile, and a fair amount that made me thankful I had merely borrowed them.

On this trip I wanted to concentrate on finding novels written by authors I had either read previously, or had learned about through Amazon. I had to make a stop in the 'graphic novel' section first. I've been receiving 'snail-mail' notices that I owe money for a comic I took out two years ago. The few times I've gone to the Carnegie recently, I've always made a point of locating that particular item on the shelf (no one ever borrows it) and showing it to the desk clerk nearby. Invariably I am told by staff that I actually owe nothing at all, and shouldn't be receiving those notices. It's a bit of a hassle, but I'm never actually kept from grabbing more books, so I don't complain too much. Believe me, if I owed for the thing I'd simply pay the fine and be done with it.

Anyway I did find a few choice items with pictures, and then made my way into the low-ceilinged concrete rooms in the back. This is where they keep the fiction, jammed together and lit with God's awesome fluorescence. Overwhelmed by the claustrophobic atmosphere and the quantity of books, I tried to recall the name of an author I was interested in. After a few minutes I settled down, and was able to concentrate. I chose writers who I associated with the Southern Tradition- George Saunders, Charles Portis, George Singleton, Harry Crews, and Tom Franklin. I didn't really think that I could read all 9 or 10 books within the initial three-week lending period, and so I planned to renew whatever was left by accessing the Carnegie site on the internet.

I started in on the stuff this past week. I read the A.M. Homes book that I reviewed earlier. I went through a collection of Singleton's stories that lacked focus, and failed to match the expectations I had formed based upon previous readings of his work. And I followed that up with Franklin's Poachers (1999). Tom Franklin was born in the small town of Dickinson, Alabama and received an MFA from the University of Arkansas. He currently teaches at the University of Mississippi. His short stories reflect the untamed interior landscapes of the Deep South. In his introduction to Poachers , Franklin sheds light on his upbringing with tales of his nascent hunting career. To hear him tell it, it was an activity that he felt pressured to engage in to prove his manhood. But whatever nostalgia he has for hunting is tinged with gore and self-doubt.

However the three brothers featured in the eponymously-titled story of Poachers take to the wilderness with such natural aplomb that it is impossible for them to function in polite society. They are teenage orphans, who rely on their deep knowledge of the swamps and woods to sustain them. They have very little contact with any of their own species, and would be perfectly happy if it were to remain so. But after a run-in with a new game warden, they are inevitably targeted as transgressors. Their confrontation with a shadowy vigilante is brutally savage, yet deftly told. Franklin has a way of miring his readers in the kudzu-choked corners of his stories. There are plenty of grisly details and horrific consequences accompanying plaguing the author's gritty characters. Yet the humanity at their core is made undeniably present through Franklin's keen observations.

Fortunately I picked up another of Franklin's titles in Oakland the other day. When I finally make it through the Portis book, and some of the other dross I no doubt accumulated, it will be refreshing to return to the fierce places of this writer's fresh imagination.