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The Mississippi Boys: A Novel of the Civil War
The Mississippi Boys: A Novel of the Civil War
The Mississippi Boys: A Novel of the Civil War
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The Mississippi Boys: A Novel of the Civil War

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Summer wheat, heavy with grain, waved in the July wind, and when touched by the afternoon sun, cast a golden glow on the rocks of Cemetery Ridge. Jonathan stood with his countrymen, rifle drawn, wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of a ragged Confederate uniform. Then the nod, Longstreet to Pickett, whose men charged screaming the blood-curdling Rebel yell. Brave soldiers, strength pressed to the breach, fell like autumn leaves. Blood ran freely down the hill. Gettysburg was a trough.

Jonathan could see with horrifying clarity from the hillside that Kemper, Armistead, and Semmes were dead. Garnett, already wounded in the leg, gallantly rode his horse in the charge facing certain death, and it was so. Jonathan reached the crest of the hill, slashing Union soldiers with every move, the grotesqueness of the hour searing his consciousness. He took a saber slash through the leg, grabbed the rogue Yank, and pulled him from his horse. With his bowie knife, he put an end to the savagery.

But Jonathan was a savage himself. Both countries had gone mad and, in madness, had taken along every southern gentleman.
LanguageEnglish
PublisheriUniverse
Release dateSep 12, 2008
ISBN9780595628469
The Mississippi Boys: A Novel of the Civil War
Author

Jane Bennett Gaddy

Thy bruise is incurable, and thy wound is grievous (Jeremiah 30:12). This was the heart-cry of Rachel Payne, my fictional exemplar of Great-great grandmother Margery Brown Rogers Clark, and all the women who fell victim to such humiliating loss. Rachel was compelled to deal with it the best way she could. And she did it by immersing herself into what she loved best—helping to restore the integrity and dignity of the Old South and its heroes who went down to their graves hopeless and helpless to vindicate the Cause. Rachel would not stop drinking from the well, her pen expressing heart and soul, until there remained nothing more to be written. Beyond that, there would always be an irredeemable love and devotion to the Confederacy and the Old South. Jane Bennett Gaddy, author of House Not Made With Hands, The Mississippi Boys, Isaac’s House, JOAB, Rachel After the Darkness, and co-author of GIBBO-In My Life, is retired and lives with her husband in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She holds a Ph.D. in Religion and administers a course in American Literature and English Composition for external studies students of Bethany Divinity College and Seminary in Alabama.

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    The Mississippi Boys - Jane Bennett Gaddy

    The Mississippi Boys

    A Novel of the Civil War

    Copyright © 2008 by Jane Bennett Gaddy

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

    Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

    iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

    iUniverse

    1663 Liberty Drive

    Bloomington, IN 47403

    www.iuniverse.com

    1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    ISBN: 978-0-595-52792-2 (pbk)

    ISBN: 978-0-595-62846-9 (ebk)

    ISBN: 978-0-595-51583-7 (cloth)

    Printed in the United States of America

    Contents

    Prologue

    Through Eyes of Faith

    Part One

    The Hills of Home

    Chapter 1

    War Like a Whisper

    Chapter 2

    Twenty-Five Pound O’ Flour

    Chapter 3

    Under the Shadow of the Almighty

    Chapter 4

    In This Valley

    Chapter 5

    The Glories of Winter

    Chapter 6

    The Christmas Tree

    Chapter 7

    Don’t Cry, Mama

    Chapter 8

    Benjamin, My Son

    Chapter 9

    Albert Henry

    Chapter 10

    Yalobusha Wilderness

    Chapter 11

    Oil of Healing

    Chapter 12

    O, Day Most Dreaded!

    Chapter 13

    Not for Evil

    Chapter 14

    Far and Away

    Chapter 15

    Grenada

    Part Two

    Mississippi Volunteer Army of Ten Thousand

    Chapter 16

    Gentlemen of the South

    Chapter 17

    Off to Paducah

    Chapter 18

    Unsullied Courage

    Chapter 19

    Cause to Celebrate

    Chapter 20

    The Hornets’ Nest

    Chapter 21

    I Shall Wish for the Same

    Chapter 22

    Stand in the Gap

    Chapter 23

    On Forbidden Ground

    Chapter 24

    In My Lonely Hour

    Chapter 25

    Restless One

    Part Three

    The Bravest of Men

    Chapter 26

    Fighting on the

    Southern Side of the Potomac

    Chapter 27

    The Name is Lee

    Chapter 28

    Life is Uncertain, Death is Sure

    Chapter 29

    Fredericksburg

    Part Four

    Gettysburg

    Chapter 30

    Isaac, Go Home!

    Chapter 31

    The Bloody Trough

    Chapter 32

    Faithful Sons

    Chapter 33

    Infinitely More Precious

    Epilogue

    In Some Golden Age

    Also by Jane Bennett Gaddy

    House Not Made With 1Hands

    To the memory of my great great-grandfather, Captain Thomas Goode (T. G.) Clark, and his sons, Privates Jonathan and Albert Henry Clark, soldiers of the Mississippi Volunteer Army of Ten Thousand, Company F, 42nd Mississippi Infantry Regiment, Davis Brigade, A. P. Hill Corps, Heth Division, Army of Northern Virginia, General Robert E. Lee, Commander, Civil War heroes who fell at the Battle of Gettysburg, July 1 and 3, 1863.

    And to the memory of Sergeant Marcellus Church, Company F, 42nd Mississippi Infantry Regiment, T. G. Clark’s half brother, wounded at Gettysburg in the first day of battle and later died in a Federal prison at Point Lookout, Maryland.

    They gave … the last full measure of devotion.

    The scene was not only magnificent to look upon, but the realization of what it meant was deeply impressive. Even in times of peace our sensibilities are stirred by the sight of a great army passing in review. How infinitely more thrilling in the dread moments before the battle to look upon two mighty armies upon the same plain, beneath spread ensigns and bristling bayonets, waiting for the impending crash and sickening carnage!

    General John B. Gordon

    Of the Confederate Army

    Reminiscences of the Civil War

    Thanks….

    To my cousin, Charlie Clark, great-grandson of Thomas Goode Clark and most valuable keeper of the memories of our Clarks, who shared his memoirs and who edited the manuscript. I’ll always remember the trip to Isaac’s House in Calhoun County, Mississippi.

    To my cousin, Betty Crocker Abdo, whose knowledge of the Clark Family Genealogy and our forefathers’ march from Calhoun County, Mississippi, to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, was most helpful in writing this story.

    To my cousin and lifelong friend, Burlon Crocker, Mississippi born and bred, who willingly edited the manuscript in search of my geographic and cultural errors.

    To the memory of Bill Stenhouse, a most grace-filled man, whose family, at his death, sent me his cherished book, Life Work and Sermons of John L. Girardeau (1916). A portion of Dr. Girardeau’s address in memory of the Confederate dead is cited in the epilogue. To my friend, Barbara Massey, who presented me with that book and the following message: May Bill’s love for writing and for history of Christian faith inspire you in the writing of your next book. —It did.

    To Pastor Decherd Stevens, a great Presbyterian preacher of the gospel, whose knowledge and admiration for Generals Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee inspired me to know more and to imagine their connection to my great great-grandfather.

    To the memory of my grandmother, Vallie Georgia Clark Smith, who first stirred me with remembrance of our Civil War heroes, her own grandfather and uncles, and who encouraged me to travel to Gettysburg to see the place where they gave their lives for the Confederacy.

    To the memory of my loving mother, Lola Clytie Smith Bennett, who brought me into the world of such a wonderful family.

    To all who read House Not Made With Hands. If you had not responded with such interest and affection, I may never have had the courage to write The Mississippi Boys.

    To my own dear husband, the rarest soul I know, who put his needs on hold and made sure I had time and space to write this story on the heels of House Not Made With Hands.

    Prologue

    Through Eyes of Faith

    All hastening onward… Most of us will admit we spend our days connecting with a generation that moves at break-neck speed—the sound of shuffling feet, the deafening clamor of people running to and fro living, moving, and having their being for whatever reason, but mostly in egotistical preoccupation. Shelley wrote in The Triumph of Life …all hastening onward, yet none seemed to know whither he went, or whence he came. The spiritual culture we grew up in shifts beneath our feet and we’re left to tolerate an unkind world, wondering how we will exist, much less make a meaningful contribution.

    Years ago, I began to journal. I wrote on everything. Note pads, lined paper, paper without lines, Bible margins, journal books. There came a day after my visit to the old plantation house where I grew up and where memories came back in waves that I returned to those journals, realizing my life’s page was just about covered and I was writing on the margins. I spent fourteen years with the journals and my memories from the old plantation to get House Not Made With Hands, and letting it go was like saying good-bye to an old friend. I dared to believe this was my meaningful contribution and kindred spirits out there would take the journey with me.

    After all was said and done, I couldn’t bid farewell to certain characters in my story, so I opened a new one from a chapter so deep-rooted in my history that I had to peer through a glass darkly to get images of those about whom I wanted to write. Their heroic story consumed me, and I wrote, realizing my page was not yet full.

    And this is it. Though historical fiction, I hope its dynamic will touch you in a way you never thought possible, for we each have an investment here. Our forefathers—yours, mine, Blue and Gray—left DNA on battlefields all over the South. Their blood was sprinkled—yea, freely poured out—from Shiloh to Fredericksburg to Chancellorsville to Antietam to Gettysburg.

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    It was fall 1984, and in sacred privilege, I stood looking out over the Wheatfield. A mist of rain fell across my face and the Pennsylvania Battlefield. This was hallowed ground for reasons you will know all too soon. My great great-grandfather Thomas Goode (T. G.) Clark, and his sons, Jonathan, and Albert Henry spent invaluable time here. Just three days. Invaluable, nevertheless.

    My grandmother, Vallie Georgia Clark Smith, told me parts of the story some years ago. She knew far more than she revealed to me but there would come a day when I would learn more of the story, for those Mississippi Boys wrote letters home to my great great-grandmother, Margery Brown Rogers Clark. The originals are archived in the Mississippi Room at the University of Mississippi in Oxford. Appropriately so, for they were Rebels of the most splendid sort. Confederate soldiers who gave it all—for the South.

    They sat by lonely campfires in the mountains of Virginia, chilled to hurting, feet propped on fire logs for a measure of warmth, so tired and cold they could scarcely hold pen in hand, words emanating from a rare place, one where few have dared to go, one from which many nevermore returned. I read those letters some one hundred and forty-four years after the war, and I was inexorably attached to these men. My forefathers. I reckoned for myself why T. G. went to war at the age of forty-six when the maximum requirement age was forty-one. Jonathan, nineteen, and Albert Henry, seventeen, would have to go, and he could not let them go alone. The way I see it, he gave three times. Once for himself, once for the Confederacy, and once for his sons. He was a real hero, this Mississippian.

    For the space of five years, Mississippi and ten other southern states were a country with a flag, a president, and with fearless men who, as Jefferson Davis said, just wanted to be left alone, but who, when pressed to the wall, became willing to fight defensively for their Confederate States, for their flag, and for their homes.

    I’ve read the letters over and again, and I see these men through eyes of faith, but I’ve thought about how it will be when I see them face to face for the first time, and if it be in clouds of glory or by way of the grave, I will know them. They will know me. And, any way you view it, that’s a wonderful declaration of truth.

    For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known (I Corinthians 13:12).

    Jane Bennett Gaddy, Ph.D.

    Part One

    The Hills of Home

    Chapter 1

    War Like a Whisper

    In the year 1860, in the hills of Mississippi, summer lingered. September, then October, and October begrudgingly allowed an unforgettable autumn. Unforgettable because it would be the last for many of Mississippi’s native sons. South Carolina was pulsing with talk of secession. For Mississippi—it was bound to happen. Whispers of war traveled on the breeze, across hills, from Corinth to Vicksburg, and over the flat cotton fields of the Delta. From Natchez to Pascagoula, whisper gave way to voice, deep and resonating, made full circle and returned to fall on every ear of the Mississippi hill folks. Men reached into the past and pulled forth their birthright, their blessing, a craving to protect. The right of southern men to fantasize—the right of all men to fantasize—a lust for war. The words of their mouths were smoother than butter, but war was in their hearts, their swords drawn, the biblical warrior had said. Soon the whisper was no longer a romantic, far-fetched melody played on a fine-tuned violin, but real, the sound of thunder—the bugler’s call, the beat of the drum, beating faster still, pounding out a marching cadence. The Mississippians were destined to tramp their way to the Potomac River. The birthright was now a curse.

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    The brooks rippled, rivaled by the shuffling sounds of the deer that cavorted on the banks, and the mocking birds stopped singing long enough to dip their beaks in the cold water. Cottonwoods, ash, and longleaf pine rose to meet a blue autumn sky, splashing colors of brown and green over the red clay slopes. Hillsides blistered with yellow and orange leaves and, except for those that covered the ground like a patchwork quilt in the making, they clung to the maples and oaks in a last effort to prolong autumn. The noon sun leaned toward the horizon, detained by nothing in a slow pass over the peaceful homestead in the valley.

    Smoke rose from the chimney over the kitchen. The smell of side meat frying and crackling bread baking tantalized the two Payne boys.

    Mother knows how to call us in, Albert Henry said, taking one last fish off the line.

    Man! said Jonathan. When she cooks, it drives me crazy from afar. I’m starved. Let’s go on now. We need a little time to clean the fish and drop them in cold water. Knowing her, she’ll fry these up tonight.

    Here, Jon, grab the canes and I’ll get the fish.

    Jonathan and Albert Henry mounted their horses and rode. When they reached the top of the ridge, they stopped and waved to their mother in the valley below. She was predictable, but so were they. She waved both arms in response.

    Rachel Payne was beautiful, refined. She was soft-spoken and smart, but unaffected. And she was of French descent. Long dark hair hung to her shoulders in tight curls pulled back from her face with a colorful ribbon, and a handmade cotton dress touched the tops of her bare feet. She dared to do it, breaking one of the rules of the chaste women of the South—until winter’s chill forced her to put on warm woolen socks. She willingly submitted, in silence questioning why every inch of the body must be covered at all times, especially her feet. She needed freedom. But inside the cabin—the choice was hers. The wood floors, sanded free of splinters by her sons, were partially covered with Persian rugs her mother had given her years before, treasured pieces that brought back memories of days stashed in the corners of her mind. Better days if measured in dollars and cents, things you could put your hands on, but never so pleasurable as now. She had everything. Absolutely everything.

    Rachel lifted the iron skillet from the wood-burning oven and turned the cornbread onto a plate, crusty side up. The boys liked it that way—crusty and crunchy. She cut large wedges and pushed it to the back iron burner plate to stay warm and put the second one in to bake. She always made two cakes of cornbread. The boys would devour both. Especially today, for she had added cracklings.

    The stove was hot, and little beads of perspiration formed on her face. A wisp of hair fell to her forehead and she tucked it behind her ribbon. She brought the pot of beans that hung from the Dutch oven in the living room fireplace to the stovetop. Everything was done except for the second cake of bread, and it would be ready by the time the first one was gone.

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    Thomas Goode Payne was not himself these days. He looked and acted like a man much older than his forty-five years. It was the talk of war in town, at the sawmill, anywhere men gathered; and the simple fact was, he could break the news to Rachel any day. She expected it, but she refused to add to his anxiety by revealing her uneasiness because of it. Not now.

    Benjamin, run to the cellar and get a jar of peppers, she said. And bring up some apple butter. I’ll need it for the afternoon surprise.

    Yes, Mama. What is it?

    Can’t tell. If I did, it wouldn’t be a surprise. You’ll like it, though.

    He scurried out the back door with visions of something warm and sweet from his mother’s stove and took the eight steps down to the cool, mossy-smelling cellar where herbs and spices hung from the ceiling, adding their nuances to the earthy fragrance, and where dried apples and peaches dangled from the rafters in flour sacks.

    Fruits, berries, and vegetables lined the shelves fastened to the walls of the cellar. Benjamin was familiar with every jar. He helped put them there, for Rachel and the boys had canned, preserved and pickled all summer. Just five paces beyond in the shade of the giant oaks and ash trees and facing the cellar was the door to the smokehouse. At the first hard frost, Thomas and the boys would slaughter another hog and add to the supply of pork that hung from the hooks in the rafters—two hams, a slab of bacon and several bags of sausage. That is, if the men were not off to war by then. Rachel was no stranger to reality. She and the boys would soon fend for themselves. And they would not touch the meat in the smokehouse until … until the time came.

    Here, Mother, Ben said. Are these okay? I got those cayenne peppers Papa loves.

    Perfect choice, son. Now, run get Isaac for me. Tell him to bring Samuel.

    Isaac was thirteen, tall and lanky. He was mature beyond his years, and he loved everything about the hills of Mississippi. Ben knew where to find his brother. Using both hands, he dropped the latch and pulled the heavy plank gate open, fastened it behind him, and walked to the last stall where Isaac stood grooming his horse. Too small to see over the top rail of the stable gate, he peeked between the wide planks into the stall.

    Mother said come on in and get Sam for her. It’s about time to eat.

    Okay, boy, I’ll be right there. Five minutes. Tell Mother five minutes.

    Isaac led Glory out of the stable and into the lot. He removed the bridle, hung it on the rough-hewn wall of the barn, and slapped the rump of his sorrel mare. She romped through the back gate to the pasture beyond, and Isaac headed for the cabin.

    He found his two-year old brother entertaining himself with wood blocks Jonathan had cut and sanded for him. Ten-year-old Joab sat on the floor beside him, responsible for his brother’s well being. Isaac reached down and scooped Samuel into his arms. He glared at Joab.

    You washed up yet?

    No. Am I that dirty?

    Isaac gave him a side-glance that answered the question.

    Where’s Ben?

    Outside.

    Call him in and get on out to the back porch.

    He drew fresh water from the deep cistern just beyond the steps, brought it up to the wash pan where Samuel waited like a little man, and he washed his brother’s face and hands.

    Cold, said Samuel, shivering.

    I know, little brother.

    He dried Samuel’s face and hands with the towel from the nail, patted him on the seat of his overalls, and sent him off with instructions.

    Now get on in the house and don’t get dirty before you go to the table.

    Isaac dumped the water and drew fresh for Joab and Benjamin.

    T.G. arrived from the sawmill, tied his chestnut mare to the hitching rail, and headed for the kitchen. He kissed Rachel and stepped out on the back porch to wash up before gathering with his family around the long, narrow parson’s table made from pieces of lumber he salvaged from the mill years ago. Joab lugged Samuel over to his father, plopped him in his lap, and then took his place next to Ben and Isaac on one of the handmade benches. Jonathan and Albert Henry sat across the table on the other bench. Rachel’s place was nearest the stove and T. G. sat at the head of the table holding Samuel on his lap. The boys bowed their heads and their father prayed the Lord’s blessings on his family and the food. Rachel served their plates and passed around the hot crackling bread slices.

    How’d you do this morning, boys?

    Joab and Benjamin sat grinning. Cunningly, from ear to ear, caught in the moment if not the conversation. They knew better. But they had overheard talk. They weren’t totally unmindful to what went on around them, and Joab, unable to hold back, dared to break into laughter and speak.

    We heard they could have done a lot better if Henry didn’t yap so much about Cassie Walker.

    Well, where did you hear such a thing as that? said Rachel, squelching her own laughter—not at Henry, but at her little boys who had obviously been eavesdropping.

    Isaac ducked his head in time to stifle his own desire to guffaw.

    They were biting. We got a fair string of bream and perch, Henry said, attempting to avert the innuendo, considering the source.

    Are we to expect a good fish fry for dinner? T. G. looked at Rachel with hopeful eyes, ignoring the conversation on purpose. If anyone knew about being in love, it was Thomas Payne. And as far as he was concerned, it was nothing to joke about.

    You never can tell, she said, teasing her husband.

    Not that we’ll need it after this good food, he said, pushing back and sighing from satisfaction.

    Rachel poured him a fresh cup of coffee. He leaned back on the sturdy legs of his cane-bottom chair and relaxed a few minutes before turning to his two older sons.

    We better drink our coffee and ride so’s to take advantage of the daylight. We’ve got to make up for your fishing time this morning. There’s a pile of new logs head high waiting for us.

    Yes, sir! Let’s go, said Albert Henry stumbling over the bench and grabbing his hat. We’ve got work to do.

    He was crazy about Cassie Walker. Translated when he thought about her. No one could possibly understand the way he felt. He didn’t understand it himself. In fact, when he thought about it, he was mortally terrified. Either this was really happening or it was a mockery of delight come to haunt him. When he closed his eyes he saw brown hair, like coffee with the slightest drop of cream, and blueberry eyes that smiled and cried at the same time. The stage of his life was set, its backdrop sapphire skies, mossy riverbanks, and peaceful waters; but the accompanying music, doleful—reminding him he would soon be courting storm clouds threatening death. If that be the case, he had earned temporary happiness. He was man enough to fight a war. He was man enough to fall in love. He dared to be joyous of heart when such a sad calamity hung over their heads. Anyway, try as they may, no one knew what he was thinking in this moment. He chose to believe it was really happening.

    The Payne men rode silently to the mill.

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    When Rachel had dried and put away the last dish, she called the children to the front room of the cabin where the once-blazing fire burned to glowing coals. The wind whispered through the barest of cracks in the log cabin, October’s chill blending with the warmth of the dying embers to give the room a comfortable feel. Now cool, now warm. Samuel nodded and fell asleep beside his mother in the rocking chair. Rachel put him in the crib Thomas had made for Jonathan almost twenty years ago. Isaac, Joab, and Benjamin sat working at the mahogany table.

    Bring your books, and come closer. We’ll read until the fire goes out.

    Rachel was educated and clever, and teaching her children at home was far better than sending them off on the two-mile trek to the little one-room schoolhouse in Sarepta where the wood-stoked potbelly stove was either too hot or not warm enough in the winter, the room stifling hot and fly-filled in the summer, and all that aside to a teacher who didn’t meet Rachel’s expectations.

    You start, Ben, and read with feeling, she said. "Pilgrim’s Progress, page seventy-four is where we left off yesterday."

    Almost five thousand years ago there were pilgrims walking to the Ce …

    Celestial, said Rachel.

    "Celestial City, as these two

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