Memory of Light: An Aftermath of Gettysburg

By Mollie Cox Bryan

Jefferson Coates signed on for the War Between the States, ready to give his life for his country. He wasn't prepared for blindness.

He lost his eyes. He lost his livelihood. But he never lost the stubborn grit that kept him upright. From the Battle of South Mountain to the bloody fields of Gettysburg, through the daily struggle to live as a blind man on the unforgiving American frontier, this Medal of Honor winner never flinched.

Rachel Drew was no ordinary woman. In a world when girls grew up quickly, she left home to forge her own dreams. She never expected to marry or raise a family . . . not until she met a broom maker named Jefferson Coates.

Based on a true story, "Memory of Light" is about two independent souls forging their life and love on the Nebraska frontier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fish Pot Road Publishing
• Release date: May 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533777096

Mollie Cox Bryan

Mollie Cox Bryan writes cozy mysteries with edge and romances with slow, sweet burn. The first book in her Cora Crafts Mystery series, Death Among the Doilies, was a "Fresh Fiction Not to Miss” selection and was a finalist for the Daphne du Maurier Award. The second book, No Charm Intended, was named a “Summer 2017 Top 10 Beach Read” by Woman's World. She also wrote the Agatha-award nominated Cumberland Creek Mysteries. She makes her home at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, where she works as a researcher and fact checker and writes in the early morning hours. Visit her and sign up for her newsletter at molliecoxbryan.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

July 1, 1863

Gettysburg, Pa.

A crow’s silky blue-black wing swept against the cupola. It flew on, leaving the men inside unfazed as they peered out. Below them, two armies were converging in the crossroad town of Gettysburg.

The white cupola jutted out of the top of the old dorm of the Lutheran Seminary. Its occupants saw fences being ripped down for a more unencumbered advance of the oncoming Iron Brigade, to defend the town, the state of Pennsylvania, and the Union. But, even as they advanced, it was clear the Union troops were vastly outnumbered.

Lieutenant Jerome shooed away the curious students who kept coming into the cupola for a view, after allowing them a quick glance.

A caretaker family lived in this old dorm gradually being taken over by soldiers. The mother had sent her son off to town early that morning. A young Hugh Ziegler had also been given money by a soldier to bring him bread.

Hugh, excited by the activities and the soldiers, chose the farthest watering hole and bakery so he could witness as much as possible. He talked with the soldiers, took in the fences being torn down, heard shots in the distance, at first. He snaked through the trails of horses and soldiers.

By the time Hugh returned late in the morning, shooting had escalated. He passed a soldier whose face was marred and bleeding. This was war. This was life and death. This was ugly. The boy's stomach heaved and he fell to his knees and vomited. Now, he simply yearned for his mother’s arms. When he spotted her, she was busy at the water pump, washing soldiers’ bloody wounds. Not once did she look his way. He stood aching for his mother for a brief moment.

The invisible thread between mother and son tugged at him, and the world expanded momentarily for him as he considered the men and boys on the battlefield, and watched his mother’s arms waving away a couple of crows.

The boy made his way up the stairs to the cupola, his favorite spot in the whole dorm. There stood two imposing men in blue uniform. Well, Reynolds, one man said. Our eighteen thousand to their thirty-two thousand. It ain't looking good, sir.

The man the boy supposed was Reynolds replied. We'll defend these good people of Gettysburg. It won't get into the Rebels’ hands. You hear?

Yes, sir, the other man said, looking out over the view with a grimness that frightened Hugh.

We'll defend Gettysburg, Buford, Reynolds said again and gazed out over the landscape that Hugh knew so well. The pike, the railroad grading beyond it, provided hours of entertainment for Hugh after he'd done his chores and his studies, and sometimes when he was supposed to be doing those things. He loved running the ridges in the fields in front of the seminary and exploring the woods—McPherson's Woods, Herbst Woods, that edged along the field—crawling with soldiers who once had excited him but now frightened him. Another crow dove toward the cupola. The two men ignored it and the others that came along behind it. But Hugh watched them as they swooped down on the fields.

The birds flew off with caws and a flapping of their grand wings toward the battlefield.

One young solider, Jefferson Coates, noticed the noisy birds after he counted two cracking discharges as he held his line of soldiers. They'd been hearing the skirmishers all morning as they advanced through the town. The large crows flew into the woods to find safety, Jefferson supposed.

His orders were to stand fast, come hell or high water. What were they waiting for?

He scanned the field and the mountains in the distance, with the air hazy and thick and puffs of smoke dotting the landscape. What was happening?

He didn't know for sure, but he reckoned troops were ahead of his and firing back at the Rebs. His unit waited for others to join them as the hillside in front of them rippled along its crest. The Rebs were coming on. A gray-brown mass wove together in the distance. It was too big to be anything other than a regiment, or maybe a division.

The Rebs, Will Johnson said as they advanced straight for them—the Seventh Wisconsin. He held his Belgian with his steady hand.

Jefferson’s men, part of the Iron Brigade, sure-footed and brave-hearted as any soldier fighting this War of the Rebellion, knew their orders. No repetitive commanding barks necessary. A mere lift of his chin, and eye contact with those near him, rippled down the line. They knew. Hold the line. They stood in wait, readying their weapons, with the sounds of metal clanking, until the Rebs moved in closer. Silence and stillness fell over his men as the enemy’s flag peeked over the hill’s crest.

More shots sounded.

Sweat formed in rivulets and trailed down Jefferson’s back. He tried to shake off his discomfort. Eager and ready for battle, yet, damn, it was hot.

Johnson mopped his brow with his sleeve and spat.

As he was Wisconsin born and bred, the humid heat cruelly clung to Jefferson from the minute  he’d marched up the gently sloping hill, with the sun at his back. Earlier that morning, they’d advanced by the buildings that someone had said were a Lutheran Seminary. One building was an imposing red-brick, sprawling structure nestled among the trees and surrounded by long, tumbling fields of grass, edged by woods.

Jefferson’s gut tightened.

Soldiers developed a sense of danger—some reported nettle stings on the backs of their necks; others claimed a rush in their ears. Jefferson’s gut had tightened the moment they’d marched by the big red seminary. Always his gut.

It had been quiet out there on the horizon, too quiet, then.

And hot. Hot, even that early in the day, and as they’d marched, a sweet scent had wafted by them. Lavender? Wild grapes? Some unknown eastern flower?

Commander Robins finally gave the order the men had been waiting for. Charge!

Jefferson felt a rush of adrenaline as they darted into a huge ravine and fired rapidly. One, two, three rebels down. One went down with a scream Jefferson knew would haunt him—but it was them or him. Jefferson loped through the grass with every sense on alert. 

Was that a Reb behind that tree? Jefferson lifted his Belgian and fired—the shot rippled through the muscles and sinews in his arms and shoulders.

The smell of discharge mingled with the odor of fresh blood and vomit. Jefferson's eyes slanted as he searched for the enemy. The next thing he saw was the backsides of them as they ran, backing off from the Seventh. He and some others pursued them over the next slope, where they were halted by their commander. The line was holding, mostly, but they took the moment to reform, reline, and breathe.

As any good soldier would, Jefferson stopped. But every part of him wanted to continue his pursuit. Blood was coursing. Muscles tightening. Why not pursue?

Johnson muttered, his face red. He wanted to advance.

Jefferson’s gut spoke to him of foreboding. Why were they stopping? Why not go after 'em? But he had no choice but to follow orders, even though he wanted nothing more than to go after the Rebs. He ignored his gut impulse and followed orders.

Swaths of colors and details formed in his vision: the men in grays and browns advanced and shot. The gray against the green and brown grasses and trees blurred into many shades of the same hues. He squinted. His company’s famous Iron Brigade hats aligned in a neat row, with tattered feathers that would have blown in the wind had there been any. Hues of faded blue uniforms lined up along the fence and beyond the post into an open woods.

A new field commander walked across the field. Jefferson figured a new person taking the place of the commander meant they were in for a long time of it. But they had beaten back the Rebs, hadn't they?

Why were they still here?

He held his position, even as he watched more of the enemy appear as if out of nowhere.  Battle was always full of surprises—and this was bad. His orders were to hold the line as long as possible. Though he was not privy to strategy, he figured his company was luring the Rebs to higher ground where more Union soldiers waited. But he figured wrong—the enemy was heading for them in greater numbers this time. Jefferson reloaded his Belgian as he saw the group in front of them shot down as firing escalated. 

This was turning into an onslaught. 

Grunts and groans of men loading their weapons gave way to cries of pain as they were shot. Jefferson’s ears filled with the sickening noise of flesh pierced by the zooming Minie balls. Men wailing.

The commander yelled something and pointed to the woods. Jefferson strained to hear him. Fall back to the edge of the woods, he said. Jefferson understood and repeated the orders.

Fall back, Jefferson barked again. Even as he said the words, he hated them.

The soldiers from Wisconsin were unused to withdrawing. They were the mighty Iron Brigade. But, first and foremost, they had to follow orders. Jefferson had almost gotten used to the confusion of on-the-ground combat. Most of the time, he had no idea what was happening in the grand scheme of the battle, hell, the war, but he fought and did his duty. Sometimes, he read about them later.

Jefferson's unit reformed its line and fell back orderly.  Some men were gone.  But the remaining held the line, even as they withdrew.

His eyes now took in retreating soldiers, dirt and grass flying in the near distance, weapons, sacks, against a hazy, gray-blue sky, and Johnson’s red hair poking out from beneath his cap. Johnson’s eyes met his with an unspoken message. Fear? Hell no. Anger. Rebels were heading toward them and now coming from the right, as well. They were encroaching, surrounding them firing—and yet they were falling back. His unit was ordered behind the next crest.

Jefferson’s heart slammed in his chest as deadly quiet fell over the field. What was happening now?

Nothing made Jefferson more nervous on the battlefield than silence. A sudden calm. Had the enemy retreated? Or were they advancing?

Some of the men readied their weapons during the wait. Others drank precious water. Some whispered prayers while standing on the other side of the ridge, preparing for what came next, not knowing what that could be. Time stretched. But Jefferson had lost track. Had it been minutes? Hours?

The land under Jefferson shook, focusing his attention. Then firing shattered the silence again.

Now, Lieutenant Colonel John Callis rode along the line, holding steady again. He looked back toward the seminary buildings. By the right of companies to the rear, march, he said and then he repeated. Jefferson repeated the orders.

But, by this time, they were nearly surrounded. Rebels were coming straight for them and from the side of the field. Jefferson shot two men, who dropped to the ground. But the enemy kept approaching, even as they were attempting to withdraw. And they kept coming and coming.

Jefferson strained to focus, to keep fear and confusion from controlling him. What was going on?

The Rebs took cover in the folds of the hills. Jefferson hated those hills. He stood his ground. The whinny of a horse pierced his ears. He loaded his weapon and started edging backwards.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jefferson caught the colors of the Seventh Wisconsin waving, held by Danny McDermott as they had been during every battle. He then saw grapeshot explode in Danny’s direction. Then saw him hit, falling, as the enemy made his way for the flag.

The original flag, which had led them through countless battles.

Not the flag! Jefferson’s heart pounded against his ribs. No! The flagpole had been destroyed, but not the tattered flag.

While firing came down in droves, Jefferson ran along with his comrades, grabbed the flag, and handed it back to Danny, shot and bleeding. A few others gathered around the flag bearer and lifted him to a nearby caisson.

Ya! Danny yelled, hanging on to the tattered flag. The man was a bloody, quivering mess. Jefferson helped secure him on the caisson, dodging two or three balls—the firing kept on. He just had to secure the wounded flag bearer, then Jefferson could take cover and continue to fight. Suddenly, his head twisted from force, and a burning pain ignited in his head. And everything—the greens, the browns, the trees, the sky, the hats, the flag—sparked into a massive star, then melted into black.

As a boy, Jefferson’s familiar views had been of the fields of Wisconsin, sweeping and vast along the never-ending sky. He loved to watch the night sky—the way the moon took on a different shape and how the stars made patterns against the deep-purple sky. One night, magically, several stars had fallen. He had wondered where they’d landed, or if they’d touched the earth. He’d imagined the explosion of star fire against tree and earth—blazing. The stars and their lights often came to him when he tried to sleep. He found them a comfort and a wonder all at once.

Which made his last memory of sight—a flare of the brightest stream of colors and light he’d ever seen—even more ponderous. He lay on the ground in anguish while the sharp sounds of battle all around him taunted him as he inhaled tainted air. He coughed and spat thick air and fluid. His head burned with raging pain, off and on, and he drifted between his home in Boscobel and Gettysburg. He remembered all the people and places he had seen since he’d left to join the fight. Manassas. Spotsylvania. Falmouth. He’d wanted adventure and to fight for a good cause. Now, he wanted to go home—and it burned like a fire in his gut. Home.

Had he known his sight would be lost, even momentarily, maybe he would have studied his mother’s face longer to burn it into his memory. Yes, along with the pretty girl he’d seen in Indiana when she’d given him a knapsack of food and smiled. At the time, he’d thought he’d go back to Indiana after the war and find her, take her home to Boscobel, and marry her. Her rosy, full cheeks and bright blue eyes that reminded him of the Wisconsin sky. But he didn’t even know her name. And sometimes, he wondered if he’d been dreaming.

Another shot pierced somewhere near him, thrumming through his head, and a scream erupted from a deep place within him.

It wasn’t over. Would it ever be over?

Someone stumbled over him and a voice hollered to pull back. He coughed and gasped for breath. Someone grabbed him under his blood- and sweat-stained arms, lifted him, and dragged him for a few yards. Then a loud explosion came hard, and he was dropped back to the ground.

Hey! he found the strength to yell.

Sorry, we’ll be back for you, a voice yelled through the shots.

Retreat! Jefferson heard a voice say.

Never retreat, Jefferson thought, never. But he was helpless. What was happening to him? Where were his men? His commanders?

As Jefferson lay on the ground, fear shot through him, with a wave of dark sadness. His company. They were leaving him behind. That could only mean two things: they had to get out