God's Earth: The Life of John Stuart Tapscott in the Great American West: Part 1

By Jason Wallace

John Stuart Tapscott, after service to the Confederacy and his home state of Virginia, heads westward to find a life that doesn't resemble a mockery of everything he's ever known. After brief stops, he finds himself an adopted member of a small band of Osage that have wandered to Texas. A series of events thereafter display the necessity to him of his leaving his new family and trekking further, becoming a miner, scout, vigilante, and rescuer to a young Comanche/Choctaw boy, all the while attempting to return to the Osage and never forgetting Virginia. Everything he finds seems unrelenting in its pursuit of pushing him further away, never knowing where to call home or whom to call family. It is only through immense trial that he finds answers to the questions plaguing him for so long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Wallace
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311794383

Jason Wallace

Make sure to check out my other poetry at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jasonwallacepoetry. There are books on Amazon that are not shown here because they are offered through Kindle Unlimited. There are also books shown here that are not available on Amazon because they are free at all times. http://www.amazon.com/Jason-Wallace/e/B00JG37PVO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1399103321&sr=8-1 Jason Wallace is an Indie author from the Midwest, aspiring to bring his works to the masses and through this, bring joy into their lives. He has been writing for more than 20 years, mostly poetry, but since 2011, he has been writing novels and short stories, in various genres. Come check out my new page and see what's going on. https://www.facebook.com/thepageofauthorjasonwallace

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God’s Earth: The Life of John Stuart Tapscott in the Great American West

By Jason Wallace

All internal artwork by F.E. Hayes

Published by:

Jason Wallace on Smashwords

God’s Earth: The Life of John Stuart Tapscott in the Great American West

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Wallace

This is a copyrighted work. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any way, other than expressly intended, without the written consent of the author. All characters contained herein are purely fictional. Any likeness to names of actual people or their persons is strictly coincidental.

For all of my fans, new and old. You make this possible.

Also, for all of my fellow Indie authors. May the world see your struggle and help to light a path.

And for my family, by blood or by choice. I could not be the man that I am today without you all.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter 1: The War

Chapter 2: Arkansas, Missouri, Kansas, and Texas

Chapter 3: My Life in Camp

Chapter 4: Death comes to us all.

Chapter 5: Awakening Spirit

Chapter 6: Heading West, Back East, and Back West

Chapter 7: Blood on the Washita

Chapter 8: Remnants and Reunion

Chapter 9: The Path Back Home

Chapter 10: Moving On

Chapter 11: There is hope.

Chapter 12: Coming to a New Home

Chapter 13: Though harrowed away, I hear Virginia.

Chapter 14: The Day of Reckoning, to Save our Honorable Name

Chapter 15: Deliver us, oh Lord!

Chapter 16: Triumph, we must.

Chapter 17: Blissful and Bounteous

Chapter 18: Fight or perish, friends!

Chapter 19: A Tearful Farewell Bidden

Notes

About the author

Connect with the author, Jason Wallace

Connect with the artist, F.E. Hayes

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all of those that have encouraged me in my writing, that have asked questions, inspired me to do more and do better, that have purchased my books, or have contributed in any other way.

Most of all, I would like to thank God for giving me the gift that I have and the drive to strive harder and to never give up, no matter what. I give thanks for the same instilling by others. These people know who they are, but I would still like to issue a special thanks to my family, most notably, my stepfather, Fred Hayes, for not only inquiring about this project and others but reading each draft and letting me pick his brain about it and for his countless hours spent drawing pictures and pictographs, all to be included in this book. I have so rarely made known to him how much I appreciate him as a help and as a part of my life. I don’t know that I would have turned out to be a decent person if it were not for him and his guidance over the years. He is my other dad, and though I’ve never told him that, that is what he is. The only thing that some might say keeps him from being my dad is blood, but often, blood is not what matters. It’s who is there for you and who gives you support and undying love. In my heart, Fred Hayes will always be a father to me, in all ways not granted by birth. I have been blessed enough to have two fathers, and each means as much to me as the other.

This is not at all to say that I don’t have just as much love for my mother. She has been a great inspiration to me in so many ways. I have always admired her for her hard work and constant sacrifice for everyone close to her. She has paid dearly for those sacrifices, suffering so much physical pain for her years of restless toil. She is, perhaps, the hardest working person that I’ve ever met, and I often wish that I could be more like her. In many other ways, I think that I’m too much like her, so much so that it’s frightening. We have a bond, not only because of her being my mother, but because of our similarities and so much time spent working side by side, in various endeavors, that is difficult to put into words. How can you ever show the woman that gave you life what she really means to you and how much you truly owe her? I don’t show you often enough how much you mean to me and how much I love you, but, Mom, please know that I do, with all of my heart, and even if it doesn’t seem like it, you’re the most important woman in my life, and no one could ever take your place.

I can’t leave out my brother, Michael. He asks me often about my projects, past, current, and future and sometimes bounces ideas off of me for things that I haven’t thought of, and though I don’t tell him enough how important he is, I should and wish that I did. We’ve had our differences over the years, but he will always be my Bubby. He’s a tremendous encouragement to me, and I’ve watched him struggle greatly, far more than anyone should have to do. In many ways, he’s an inspiration, through his actions. He’s persevered and in some ways, prospered. I don’t really know what I would do if I woke up one day to find that I no longer had him in my life, that I might never again see his face or hear his voice, just as much as I fear losing my parents or my close friends.

I haven’t mentioned my biological father yet. I thank you, Dad, not only for helping to make me but for so much assistance over the years and so much time that you’ve given me, in your own ways. Thank you for letting me talk to you about my ideas for this book and for giving me small insights. Thank you for passing on a lineage of which I am very proud. It is through you that I am not only able to call myself, Wallace, a name passed on for nearly nine hundred years and that makes me a proven relation to the Barons of Riccarton and to William Wallace but also through you that I have the connection to the Tapscott family, the knowledge of which inspired this book. Though the protagonist of this tale is purely fictional, the surname is not, and the place of American origin for that family is not, nor is our possible relation to Robert E. Lee. Though some might think that that gives me some likelihood of claiming to believe in some lost cause carried over from Lee’s era or in the things that people most often assume that he believed, I only find the connection to Lee interesting, nothing more.

There are a number of friends that have given me great encouragement in my writing and pushed me to continue doing what I do. Without their kind words and praise of my work, I might have given up, or, at least, taken longer hiatuses from writing than I have. With that said, I would like to give a very special thanks to two friends that are always there for me, always willing to help restart my drive. To Justine McFadyen and Barry Molet, I want to not just say, Thank you, but to let you know that you are wonderful people and amazing friends to have. I hope I never lose either one of you, and I apologize if I don’t tell you often enough how important you are to me. Justine, you’re like a sister to me that I wish did not have to live across the pond. Barry, here’s to living that dream we talked about, of us both becoming successes and celebrating that success together, on some boat, lost on what water, no one knows.

To some of my other friends, Bryan Ligget, Laura Holmes Blanchard, and Lisa Ligget, though you seldom ask about my writing or how it’s going, I want to say, Thank you. I wanted to reserve a special place in this for you but not to seem as though the thanks owed to you is any less important than that owed to my other friends. Thank you for always being there for me when I need someone to talk to, for helping me when I have a problem, and for sticking by me when so many other friends turned their backs and walked away. You’re all real friends and as close to me as if you were my brother and my sisters.

I love you all, every one of you reading this, each and every one of you, whether brother, sister, niece, mother, father, nephew, friend, fan, or even uncaring witness to this journey.

If I have missed anyone, I apologize. You are all important and always will be. Please know that, and know that this work has been, though long and somewhat arduous, a real labor of love. I dedicate it to each and every fan, past, present, or future, to every Indie author struggling to make their name ring out from the mouth of every reader, and to all of my family and friends mentioned and all not mentioned. May every one of you know that you have helped to shape me to be who I am, and for that, I offer you my heartfelt thanks and love.

"The verdant hills

Are covered o’er with growing grain,

And white men till the soil

Where once the red man used to reign."

-source unknown

Introduction

This memoir is of a long lonely man, having spent the majority of my life in quiet solitude and recollection. My days among the Indians well passed, as are my days among the 33rd Virginia Volunteer Infantry Regiment of the Second Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia, which was, before the Battle of Sharpsburg, under the Confederate Army of the Potomac, I have been these past forty-two years living in the western parts of the United States, save a number of years placed back upon the soils of Virginia, now being aged sixty-six years as I begin this, soon to reach my sixty-seventh. I write this so that posterity will remember me to time, yea, but far more so that said future generations be made aware of the true happenings of days long passed. If history judges me to be of a foolish and perhaps, ferocious and atrocious nature, so be that as it may, but I would have those to whom this account comes to judge me furtive and truthful, foolish only at times. My words may seem haughty and high above station to some and, perhaps, contrary proof to their truth, written by a man that has survived so many years by the sweat of his own brow and the hard labor of his hands; however, much was imparted to me by my loving mother, she being of high station, this aside from my years of hard study, most since the days of the better parts of this tale, my words having not always been as eloquent or seemingly educated as they now are.

I have lived many years in the furthest reaches of this country, more time spent in California than I care to acknowledge. My heart is forever in Dixie, the place of my birth and heritage, though I suppose it enough to say that I shall not find my place of eternal rest among those hallowed grounds but here in this land now so familiar but not at all as dear as that sweet Virginia from whence I berthed so long ago. That dear, sweet Dixie still calls to me, though I must endeavor to impart here the misleading of that name, as it was termed for the man, Dixon, who, along with his partner, Mason, formed that dividing line that officially separates South from North, Dixon being a man of the North and Mason, of the South, an almost equivocation of the proper nomenclature. Nevertheless, that wonderful Dixie, that home of my innermost being, holds unending sway for all of my feelings, though the same degree of such is had by the lands of the Osage tribe, my second kin, and more specially, the place in which my beloved was put forever into the Earth. Were it to be that I could have had such lands all be one, it would have been undue bounty but cherished more than all other. My account may not be believed by all, but I would have it ring loudly as the church bell that I am one-half Virginia and one-half Osage in all of my doings, both united within me, my heart seeing no virtue in distinguishing between the two.

I have witnessed the coming of the continental railroad, the telephone, the repeating rifle, the light bulb, the typewriter, and even the motor wagon. Man has found a way to apply many of its greater inventions toward implementations for shedding the blood of their fellows, the sad affair of time. I have seen enough war in my days to last a thousand lifetimes, and, judging from the works of those in lands far off, I believe the greatest and bloodiest of all to be upon us soon, perhaps, before my lifeblood is emptied out of me, and I do not wish for such vicious shedding to be done any longer. May this stand the test of time to prove to those that would read it of the futility, insensitivity, and idiocy of war. Man should shed blood of man no more than should bird make use of horse. War is an unnatural occurrence, given weight only by man's belief in it and his natural inclination toward bettering his own finances and power over those less than is he.

I have taken my part not only in the War Between the States but in many a skirmish on the side of Indians and occasionally, in defense of others facing Indian attack. I was present at some of the worst and most bloody of battles fought between man, in which thousands on either side found their way to slaughter as lambs in the spring. I found employ as scout and aid to cavalry officers well after my days of fighting had ceased, watching helplessly as these men used their superiority in numbers and weaponry to slay innocent red men, women, and children. Though I had vowed myself to a life of no more blood and carnage, I found it difficult to sustain the fulfillment of my needs without the earning of wages, thus my entrance into military service as a civilian.

I took my leave, under threat of military tribunal and hanging, departing short of George Armstrong Custer's blunder at Little Big Horn, making my way to lands where the killing of Indians rarely, if ever, occurred. These more than thirty years since that day have haunted me ever so and since. No war of which I have been part or witness to have profited much of anything for any of its combatants, save the United States gaining more land for itself and more wealth and power for the fat railroad barons. Now, it is the land and oil barons that do such great hurts to their countrymen. Even a few of the Osage, of which I was once kin and still am, I believe, have gained much from the sale of their lands to these barons.

I have been brother to men of many different of tribes, having joined myself to them in honor, love, and even blood. In my heart, I am Osage, though not born of them. I hold much esteem and lingering hope for all of the red man, but it was the Osage in particular that made me a sacred and beloved member of their people, marrying one of their most loved and beautiful of young maids to me. She was the one great love I have ever had, all previous and since comparing little to her in all conceivable of ways.

She has rested peacefully among the hills of northern Texas since the fall of 1866, our child nestled in that place with his mother. I wait eagerly for the day when I see them in the land of the Great Spirit, the land that my Spring Blossom and I promised to one another would be our home when I got to enjoin us once more. The years since her unfortunate and violent fate have been many and strange, hurtful and solemn.

The days come at will, yet I would have them not. I would have my time on God's Earth be numbered few to remain. Unhappily, my health is far greater than any else of my age that I have encountered. I have had no failures of it to impart belief to me of its end. Perhaps, I will live to finish this work and see of its impact upon man, its wisdoms followed, its words well trusted. This work of my hand is one more of the actions of man than word, as more of them are recalled than of the latter.

Chapter 1:

The War

I aspire to inspire honor and lesson, to delve into the inner workings of all those who read this account. If nothing is taken from this, save the knowledge of what one should never do, I have accomplished my aim and salvaged for posterity the mistakes of their forefathers. My recollections, though faded from the time of many years having since passed, are sensible enough to assemble themselves herein.

I, John Stuart Tapscott, hereby wish that all who may find this account will trust in my words and believe, as I did, in sacred honor, and justify me to the judges of time. Some may condemn me for my choice to defend my home, my Virginia, or for some of my latter choices. In my stern defense, I ask that you consider my actions to be those of a man of such honor, or, as worst that may be accounted, those of a confused and intemperate youth. My choice to join the war effort was just that, a defense of Virginia itself, not of slavery, not of the Confederate States of America, but simply, of my Virginia. Some may condemn me for making my choice at all based upon my kinship to General Robert E. Lee. Though I did not closely know the man, I felt a sense of connection between him and me. Way back, our families joined in marriage, of which I am a product. I knew that Mr. Lee would do all that he could to defend Virginia, and so must I.

Though many have stated that only evil and hatred swam in Mr. Lee's veins, I do not say so. Mr. Lee fought to defend his home and only that, not for defense of his own beliefs in slavery, but only for his own beliefs in honor, duty, and home. I hail from a part of that piece of Heaven’s bounty in which slavery was largely unpopular, and many saw ties to official bodies that would, in any way, support such a thing, as grievous and unmeritorious, though a great many more simply believed that a fight between countrymen, to dissolve the compact laid out in the founding of national time, was treacherous, ungodly, and benefitting only to those with means and powers above those of their own, thus, requiring that I, for reasons of immediate safety, keep my decision to enlist much secreted, thinking first to cross over the Blue Ridge Mountains, into places more in favor of giving such services, though support for the issue was, in no way, despite the former dealings of my family, any of my reasoning for enlisting myself for defense of my home. After giving much thought to this, I recognized that doing so would, likely, prove no better or easier than enlisting near to my home, though troubles with those that would deem the act unbecoming would have to be greatly avoided, so many seeking out volunteers, some wishing to do them terrible harm for it.

Perhaps, some would not think that such a place in northwestern Virginia fostered so much Unionist support and contrary feelings against anyone joining the Confederate cause, but one has only to look at any modern map or at the politics of that time and of that place, it being immediately adjacent to many lands that became a part of that state that separated itself from Virginia halfway through the war, largely due to its Unionist population. How it was that my small pocket of Virginia did not also secede from the government in Richmond and join up with West Virginia, I do not know. By some strange occurrence, it did not, just barely clinging to its old ties and remaining a part of Ole Virginny. There were many men signing up for the war in my vicinity, including a little bit west, in Harper’s Ferry, that place where John Brown made his famous raid on the arsenal, an act that sparked tremendous debate and only further fueled the ire of so many and became a rallying cry for men wishing to join up. We, the loyal boys of the Transmountaine, knew it to be duty and unmistakable trust to give our all for keeping Virginia unbroken. Before the war even took us much into any kind of fray, we kept ourselves mindful of all that we were fighting for, always loudly singing Carry Us Back to Ole Virginny, to never forget its message or the sacredness of what we were to protect.

I had already heard many claims made against any such thoughts and about our need to remain a nation intact, this, sometimes, leading to squabbles and even, to bloodied conflict. I would have no part of that or of any dispossessing words of anyone not willing to do their duty to home, wishing to save all of my energies for the war and, more specially, to waste no time that could delay or deter my choice. I was thankful for my opportunity to perform such duty and more so, that I was not at home when the vote for separation of our western and eastern parts into two states occurred, as it would have, surely, sent me into a maelstrom of emotion, ready to fight any man that voted in its favor. I had too much of it in me in those days, much as any other inexperienced boy, it all only looking for a cause to unleash it. I, instead of crossing east, went a bit north, enlisting in Shenandoah County, where, even though there would, surely, be many Unionists that might seek to do harm to me and any others of volunteers for defense of Virginia, there would be none that would know me and attempt personal leanings to garner favor with me that might alienate me from my purpose.

To better display my particulars of the temerity of struggle between Unionist and Confederate in the South and grave result of such a thing, I offer description of the Shelton Laurel Massacre of 1863. Only one state to the south of mine, in the westernmost reaches of that place, it being also a part of what has been known by so many as Appalachia, a band of staunch Union sympathizers raided stores in the town of Marshall and even the home of a Confederate Colonel, one Lawrence Allen. This outraged some in the Confederacy much, none more so than Colonel Allen, that the band was hunted down and massacred, but not before Colonel Allen, believing the ill health of his children to be due to the looters, joining with Colonel Keith, to torture many of the local population, including whipping and hanging a very elderly woman and doing much the same to many others, to gain information as to the whereabouts of the local Unionist band. There has been some debating of what it was that took place at Shelton Laurel and its surroundings, but there some word spread that there was even a child stripped from its mother, left in the cold, naked, unless the mother gave up information. The small band, once found and all but two kept from escape, was marched into the nearby woods and shot, execution-style, without trial or ability to explain their actions, among them, several boys. This was the distinction so oft made between bushwhackers and soldiers, there being no opportunity for those not any formal part of a military unit to persuade others of their status.

Some of the soldiers of the 64th North Carolina Volunteer Infantry Regiment, that commanded by Colonel Allen, are said to have, at first, refused the order to slaughter the men and boys in those small woods and only after threat of their own deaths, did they finally obey and give into the callous hand of their officer. Such things are the consequences of war, especially one so disruptive and voluminous as what we faced then, such a small number of private soldiers, after being taken captive and showing no further fight, robbed of life because of the ferocity of another. They were no more able to give trouble than are fish caught in a net and could have been spared, to, at most, be taken away to some camp of prisoners; however, this was never in the mind of the man bidding the action, he being one swayed by devious intellect and awful retributive vengeance and nothing more.

The South was never one unified place, and neither was the North. The division of man in belief of right and sovereignty of nation led so many to separate themselves, and though one would expect this to have taken only a divide between those of the North and those of the South, the Mason-Dixon being their line of demarcation for such things, that was never the case. All throughout the North, many a Southern sympathizer was found, some sparking riots, various attacks, plans to give monetary and other aid to the Confederacy, and even to house deserters from the Union Army. Throughout the South, the very opposite was quite common. This only grew worse with the progression of the war, but it was present from the very beginning, and I admit that my own beliefs were much in line with many of the Union sympathizing men, but my beliefs and feelings toward honor, duty, and home were always with Virginia, not allowing that I could ever take up side against that place or the greater number of its people. I believed, as much as I do now, that my actions were simply to give hope and defense to one and all Virginians, no matter their own leanings. Had that work sufficed to send the Union Armies back into the North forever and ended any requirement of my service, I might have been quit of it all then and felt my duty done, though I know that a large part of me would have cried out to continue, in defense of all fellow Southerners, in whatever states the invaders attempted to prevail.

However, much as it was ever so in the times of the ancients and ever evident from the words of the golden pages of scripture, violence only begets violence, as if it has a lineage to continue, and that violence begotten by the first moves of secession only created more of it, on both sides and within each, spilling over and never finishing. To this day, numerous swarms refuse to forget what was done in this land in those four years and have used it only to further add to the pains emplaced and deeds committed, dividing more this country since its new infusion of togetherness, given illusion by promises of stitching up the wounds opened. I hold no real thought of hatred or enmity toward anyone of my fellows of this country, be they Northern or Southern, excepting for those of great power, as theirs is a cause always the same, never severed or trodden by that war or anything since, one only of imparting their terrible works of economic and social betterment of self as bastions of control over the masses below them. Duty was performed, on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line, whatever its beginnings and urgings that prompted it to come to the fore of each and every man, and though I do not like the roots of that fight or the arguments used by the powerful men that laid it all out to the poorer classes, I judge that every man below that line of power that risked his very blood, no matter his degree of honor, his exact station, or his place of reference and reverence, did all that he could, making him deserving of much thanks. This thanks that I state as being owed to all that took upon themselves such fight, I do not say was always counted by me to be any such debt, as, even though I never held much grudge toward very many Union men that hailed from the northern places, I held, at least, for much of the war, one of terrible and growing increments toward anyone of Virginia that chose such a side, among them, a few of my not-too-distant kin, making it difficult to speak of them for much time. Even though this rift was not had among my immediate blood, there was enough of it between us and those cousins mentioned prior that it was never repaired, some of my dearest friends in boyhood, they never returning to Virginia or never speaking again to me.

It took a number of years before the more peaceable view on these things was fully reached, however, the larger part of those years spent in a confused sense of it all, unsure of what to hold to each emissary of his respective leaders, though always trying to hold such in my heart. For me, time has passed, enough that I could revisit and conquer all of the unaired grievances within me and force them away, resounding such notions of peace as I now espouse, but for so many more, time has only lulled over what happened, reinforcing their hateful mongering of those earlier days, never to relinquish their bitter envies and spiteful derisions. In all truth, I suppose, I never actually held embittered hardening of heart toward those that were once my enemies but only toward some of their more non-pacific men, those that did such unforgiveable acting upon their Southern neighbors, scorching and scavenging the vaster stretches of the lands, torturing and pillaging wherever they could, but more than these, those that came after them, to rip up what was left for personal gain, to vindicate their taking of only the stance of greater probability of wealth by voicing the need to help rebuild what had been torn asunder. In all essence, these were the worst of all men, men like J.H. Pendergrass Harrington, taking advantage of those whom had already suffered so much, in order to line their pockets with what little could still be found in the war-ravaged places of Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, and a great many others. Such men were only evil opportunists, bent on profiting from the downfall of Southern society and its economy, not inclined to give any real aid but only to scavenge what small morsels of strength still remained there.

My family’s days of claiming ownership to others ended during my boyhood, but if they had not, I would have wholly and unselfishly relinquished those poor and wretched persons to their own desires of life, much as I believe that Mr. Lee would have done for his own. Much was said of his desire to see the institution ended or to, at least, have no further part in it, even, much later, to enlist all able-bodied Negro men to the effort of war, exchanging freedom for defense. This, however, was never done, hanging upon the hesitant and recalcitrant natures of Jefferson Davis and the Congress of the Confederate States toward the suggestions of their inferiors.

Much as many will find this difficult to believe, I am also of not too distant relation to another great Virginian, General J.E.B. Stuart, and though I found the man to be nearly as honorable and forthwith as Mr. Lee, he no more inspired me to duty than did the former. Both of these men were of that aristocracy that for so long freighted individuals of darker color into the servitude of many masters, but in their claims and aspirations for the fight, they made no such demands for sanctity and preservation of that way of life that so many have laid at their doors but only demands for defense of home and country. If others have bound themselves to discovery of falseness in the words of those men or of those of myself, I can only regulate my soul by knowledge to the contrary, and though I could even be separated from this thought and from those more righteous than I in that Hereafter so often spoken of by lessons given by a Master more peaceable and possessing of record than I, I hold strongly to said belief for so long as time on this Earth will allow me so to do.

We, as Virginians, and as those charged with carrying out and fighting for the honor of the family, knew that we must perform our sacred oaths and march out to meet our enemies head on, with no question or qualm, with no tremble in our voices or in our limbs. That is why we could not watch helplessly and carelessly as others did as we should have. Duty to one’s own outshines any to all others who may call upon it when their own lacking necessitates such.

When I was a boy, I could always hear my mother's voice calling to me, letting me know that I was surrounded by those who loved me dearly. By the time that I grew to be a man, I could not hear that voice so much anymore, we being so separated by the geographies of cursory affliction. It was as if her voice somehow began to die as I was led away from our quiet corner of God’s Footstool and almost entirely when she died. Her voice, even when she was not around, always taught me right from wrong and how to be a goodly person. When her voice was there for me less and less, I could no longer tell right from wrong so much as I had in days previous. I made choices then, on account of such, that some folks might call downright awful.

My first love was the sweet hills of Virginia, married closely to the mountains and river, all enveloping and cascading their harmonious bestowals of life. Those hills were where I could call home, no matter life’s circumstance. Even when I was not near my home, fighting to defend that home on some battleground in Pennsylvania or in Tennessee or wherever else I went, Virginia was in my heart. She, too, called my name and told me how to be the better man that was in my heart, but the further I got from her, the less she called to me. It took me many years before I realized that Virginia and my mother were almost one and the same thing, forever entwined, enfolded to fondest memory.

I got word, about halfway through the war, that my mother had passed on, taken away by consumption and heartache for the sons she bid goodbye to two years prior. I could feel my heart breaking, much like my mother's, and from that moment on, I was not certain that Virginia was home any longer. It was that love for Virginia that caught me up in the fight, knowing that if I really loved my home, I could not sit idly by and watch as it was invaded. I never did fully agree with the minds of many of my fellow Virginians regarding the Negro or his supposed place in this world, but I could not urge myself to take public stance one way or the other at that time, as it comes to fighting for any such belief. The only belief that found its way enough into my heart to make me fight was that love I had for my home.

I remember, as news came, day after day, about the fear that President Lincoln was going to strip away our sacred rights and take from us our blessed institution of slavery and how we should follow in South Carolina's footsteps to secede from the Union, one that we helped build and which held sway over each sovereign state no more than the power of any country across the seas, cruel and incalculable weights of iron pressing me as if facing those penalties granted to the heretic of olden days. An odd occurrence of things, I have always believed, is that Thomas Lincoln, the President’s father, had been born in the same place from which I hailed, so close to the land of my family that I knew, in my earlier days, a good number of folks claiming relation to the man. I had just had my nineteenth birthday when the finality of the issue was being debated by our esteemed state legislature. I had read, with great fervor, all issues of the Staunton Spectator and the Staunton Vindicator that I could obtain, daily searching my heart for my reservations and leanings in regard to all causes of the debate and for the defenses for both sides of it. It did not much matter in my mind, except for the promise that the whole thing brought, the promise that the only land I had ever known or loved could soon be trampled upon by those whom had never as yet set foot on its ancient and giving soil, those whom would curse it and bring it shame, if I were to be called to answer duty to ancient honor. All fight and strengthening of the Lord’s will would be found to sense through me at moment’s notice.

The larger concourses of the delegation sent to debate the issue were staunch Unionists, they believing along the same lines as Governor Letcher, that secession could only breed war, that war was an infinitely cruel result of any such decision of leaving the federal compact, and that the opposite of it would surely provide safe harbor against that storm. Some believed then, and I would say, since that time, that that delegation of men was impressed upon endlessly by forces from without our borders, to infiltrate their feelings of justice and care of their citizenry, though, in the end of all things of that day, it was only that fear of exacted invasion, for deeds undone by Virginian hands, and more specially, of the calling up of the soldiery of those born and bred within those lines separating us from Kentucky, North Carolina, and so many other States, to fight, each and all of those men, against his neighbor, to bring invasive assemblage against those borders, to do dishonor to geniality, to upheave the sacred keep of time-bound esteem of trusted faith, that swayed those desperate men to any realizing of necessity that dictated for them to renounce such establishments of injustice. Even had there been no condemnation of our State, there would have been countless who would still have raised arms on the opposition, forcing Virginian to encounter and repel Virginian, and all of that land would have been immediate path of nefariousness toward all states to our south. The Mephistophelian pact had been brewed by conjuring stirs of various self-claimed seers, and there could be no retreat of its bloody inauguration. When announcement was later made, all souls were ceded for illusory safeguard of body. I believe that in the dirge laid out to all of this Nation, all claims of Divine protecting, grace, and knowledge succumbed to all such things of the physical, though no more on one of the sides than the other.

I knew, in my heart of hearts, that that invasive attempt by unwelcomed hordes could not be tolerated any more than could be the trampling of our state flag. It was up to me, as much as it was up to every other honorable Virginia boy, to take up arms and repel the invaders. I did not have a quarrel with anyone from the North and even found myself, a time or two, wanting to believe as many of them seemed to, in the inseparable bonds of government and in the necessity of wresting all forms of undue servitude from the Earth; however, it was undue servitude to said government that so largely brought the beginnings of so much bloodshed, though, underneath all of that great measure, was the unadmitted hands of greedy masters. I knew that my duty was to my Virginia, to my mother, my family, my God, and I could not uphold my honor without doing my part.

That April, when it was announced that the state legislature had passed the vote to secede from the Union, all of me sank down hard into a dark chasm. It would only be a small matter of time before the fight was upon us and we were required by our honor and duty to defend our Virginia. I did not wish to cause one bit of harm to my fellow man, but in the end, I knew that it would be him or me, freedom and honor, or chains and the unbridled shame that would follow.

As a Virginian, and as a cousin of General Robert E. Lee, who was chosen to lead the defense against Northern aggression, I could not stand by and watch as the invasion would claim those dearest to me. The Lees had always been a gallant and noble family. Though I did not agree wholeheartedly with their predominant choice of occupation, a proclivity to bond their fellow man in chains, I still felt the fuse of Lee blood stirring through me.

I quite expected that I would remain in Virginia, fighting only in its defense, but as luck would have it, we were soon sent away to fight in other places. We fought under General Smith against McClellan in his Peninsula Campaign and many other of places, against Negley at Chattanooga, finally back to Virginia for a short while at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and after those victories, happily into the North to take on Meade at Gettysburg, though we had lost our much loved General Jackson and were much beleaguered there and unable to offer real relief to our fellows, despite fighting hard up to Culp’s Hill and a small retreat of the Yankee forces, after which, haggard and weary, we reluctantly marched back to Chattanooga to attempt a relief of General Bragg, our numbers greatly depleted, I being one of the very few to survive all of these harsh encounters and we now being much re-outfitted and reconstituted. How it is that I made it through those times with nothing more than minor scraped to my person, I do not know, except that the Lord must have been with me through all of those days. We faced so much loss at those places, including so many commanders, whether in battle or due to relieving of their duties, being led by Smith, later, Jackson, Hill, very shortly, by Stuart, followed by Ewell, Early, and by the very end of the war, by J.B. Gordon. Of course, when I state these men’s names, I do not speak of our field commanders,