From Gone with the Wind (the most famous modern example of the Lost Cause narrative) to Roots (the most famous recent repudiation) to The Known World (the most recent attempt at a more sober examination), slavery and the lives lived around it remains as hot a topic as it ever was in American literature. Beulah Land is a relic from fifty years ago, an attempt to find some middle ground. Lonnie Coleman set out to present for readers of his era a portrait to explain what was to be lost without ignoring why it was okay that it was destined for such a fate. He presents a massive Georgia plantation by exploring several generations of people who operated it, how their lives were ruled by melodramatic romances (Coleman himself was gay and he fills his narrative with with all possible connections, both successful and otherwise, which makes it odd for the book to exist in the limbo of memory today). Where he significantly errs (while following a track Edward Jones so famously acknowledged in his book, the existence and complicity of black leadership in the institution) is making the one true villain of the piece a black man (evoking the old lies that helped spur so much interest in the first film entitled Birth of a Nation, the inherent bad character of black peoples). Which is not to say all Coleman’s black characters are of bad character, since we meet at the very beginning the first of a long string of good ones (which is to say, he writes them as any other character, trapped up in circumstances, fully worthy of the reader’s sympathy).
Coleman often takes shortcuts when he didn’t really give the time an arc needed, which is not to say anything about the time jumps, but where and how a character who otherwise develops feelings began them or has their basic character explained, such as the de facto main character Sarah Kendrick, who begins as one half of an anonymous pair of sisters. He juggles a massive cast of characters, and sometimes it works, how he chooses to dwell on someone, and sometimes it doesn’t. He’ll change who he’s tracking from one paragraph to the next, which is one of the book’s most challenging aspects. Also, sometimes he makes general statements he thinks are common sense, but aren’t necessarily so. It is not a book of wisdom. It is an imperfect work.
All the same, by the time the war comes and you realize some characters are rooting for the South, you also know the ones you care about most see things from a perspective modern eyes are hopefully more willing to oblige. Sarah fights her whole life to have the plantation run in the ideal way Coleman knows wasn’t standard, most pointedly when he acknowledges the lack of an overseer until someone briefly claims the role. The absence of the expected is not to manufacture paradise. His characters often make bad choices, but they also are depicted as suffering for them. The book as a result is a case study of even plantation life in the best possible light often requiring the right people in the right places, and what happens when they aren’t.
This is not a lost work of classic literature. It might be closer to the mark in the genre than anything else, making an effort to explain both the people who most benefited the institution and even those who didn’t, although where Coleman falls shortest of the mark is his failure to include any depiction of the common field hands, those most likely to have a truly different perspective than anyone he does spotlight. In that sense, it’s best understood as an attempt to balance the ledgers still left lingering in the myth that won’t die, that Gone with the Wind is a reasonable way to remember the Old South and plantation life.