Down Every Dark Valley

By Ronnie L. Seals

The Blue Mountain series traces the fortunes of two rival families, the Lacerns and Tolands, as they struggle against each other, the harsh environment and their own reckless passions.Down Ever Dark Valley
When The Civil War comes to Blue Mountain Everyone is drawn into the conflict.
Rachel and Grant, whose love is threatened by an act of unforgivable violence.
Lucky Lacern, haunted by a nightmare of his own making.
Barley, an escape slave who sacrifices everything to fight for freedom.
Buck Toland, still only a boy, but filled with a rabid hatred for anyone named Lacern.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronnie L. Seals
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310625886

Ronnie L. Seals

I was born and Raised in Michigan, the son of a Kentucky coal miner. Like thousands of others, my parents were forced to move from their home in the mountains when the coal mines modernized. Every long weekend or vacation found us on the long journey from the flatlands of southern Michigan to the mountains of Kentucky, My summers were spent in Harlan and Bell County, running around with my cousins and picking green beans in my grandmother garden. This is the root of my fascination and love of the south.I would like to believe that my writing style was inspired by Steinbeck and Hemmingway. But the pulp detective novels of Mickey Spillane and Edward S. Aarons, which I devoured at much too young an age, probably had more to do with who I am as a writer.

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Prologue

Blue Mountain sprawls like a crumpled blanket along the Tennessee / Kentucky border, starting at the western corner of Virginia and running due west to some indistinct point, where it blends with the other mountains of the Cumberland Plateau. The southern face is straight and steep, topped by a wall of limestone rock, forbidding entry to all but the handful of hunters who know its secrets. The north side is gentler, with arms reaching out in all directions, forming valleys, hollows, and dark folds, their slopes a tangle of poplar, oak, and pine.

Its moods change with the seasons, cool, dark and mysterious in summer, ablaze with color in autumn, stark and bare in winter. In spring, the vibrant colors of its wild flowers and dogwood trees announce its return to life.

Streams of sparkling water twist through her hollows and fall in sheets from her rocks, swelling and picking up speed as they unite, forming larger streams, then creeks, until finding the meandering Cumberland River as it cuts through Kentucky and Tennessee. Most of the time these streams are gentle and quiet, the Cumberland slow and lazy. A man can lay down next to one of these tributaries and think of love, or fish, or the best way to turn corn into whiskey, and the soft murmur of the water will have him dozing in the shade before he knows a spell has been cast upon him. But these same watercourses, at times little more than damp stone, can swell and rage, uprooting trees and dashing the hopes and dreams of those foolish enough to take them lightly.

The men and women who settled on Blue Mountain were as moody and unpredictable as the streams that nurtured and maimed them. They seemed docile, slow in motion and speech, but there was a wildness lurking beneath the calm surface. Rage could erupt without warning, and just like the streams that flow relentlessly until they lose themselves in the river, the people of Blue Mountain would focus their wrath until it destroyed their enemies, or themselves, or both.

They were the outcast sons of outcast fathers. When the prisons of England became too crowded, they shipped their excess to the New World as indentured servants for the great plantations. Some worked hard and earned their independence, while others fled into the Blue Ridge and Piedmont Mountains to the west. There they lived isolated, lonely lives, fighting Indians and the harsh environment, until civilization chased them through The Gap and onto the great Cumberland Plateau. There they stayed, like a rock in the middle of a stream, while America flowed west around them, an island of frontier in an ocean of civilization.

CHAPTER I

Cabin Ridge, high up on the Tennessee side of the mountain, started as an opening barely large enough for a wagon. The walls of the passage rose high on both sides, and a rocky overhang on the southern wall gave the impression of a tunnel. Several yards in, the gap widened into a long, narrow hollow with gently sloping sides. The floor of this little mountain valley was rough and uneven, but flat enough to farm with a good mule and a strong back.

John Toland’s cabin sat on a small mound about twenty yards from the mouth of the hollow, on a piece of land chosen because it was too rocky to farm. The cabin, originally a one room windowless log structure, had been added on to by each new generation of Tolands, until it sprawled across the entire mound and its back end had to be supported by ten foot timbers where the ground fell away. It had a wide front porch filled with hunting dogs and various handmade tools. John insisted the cabin walls be re-chinked every year, and a new coat of white wash applied, so the cabin stood out like a bright light against the darkness of the mountain forest. People outside the Toland clan, and a few inside, called it ‘the white house’ both because of its color, and because they believed that certain members of the Toland family thought a little too highly of themselves. Behind the cabin were the outbuildings, a corn crib, an outhouse, a smokehouse, and a spring house straddling Toland Creek, all kept as white and clean as the main house.

The creek ran down from the top of the mountain and lost itself at the head of the hollow. Beside it, about a quarter mile from the Toland cabin, stood the giant poplar. It was sixteen feet across, the biggest tree anyone on the mountain had ever seen. It stood alone, as though the lesser trees, even the great oaks, were intimidated by its majesty. Picnics were held under its leaves, young boys brought young girls there to court, and more than one suspected criminal had been hanged from its branches.

Rachel sat in the rocking chair on the front porch, drumming her fingers on the head of a hunting dog. The dog didn’t seem to mind, he just sat there, panting, his floppy ears dragging the rough wooden floor, his droopy eyes scanning the distant hillside for signs of movement. When Rachel’s father emerged from the barn leading his mule, she shouted, It’s about time, and walked down the long flight of split-rail steps to meet him.

The sun just came up a half hour ago, John replied. What’s the big hurry? John Toland was in his early forties, short, nearly bald, and a little over-weight. He wore his best clothes, wool trousers, white shirt, and a bowler hat he’d purchased years ago in St Louis, when he was an officer in the Mexican War. People see me riding around like this, they’ll think it’s Sunday, he said. And just what is it that this young man has to say to me that he couldn’t have said last night while he was here? Grant Lacern had been to his house every Saturday night for the past two months, spending most of that time on the front porch swing with Rachel. John knew very well what he had to say.

Whatever it is, you just be sure and say yes, Rachel said, as she straightened her father’s collar. Ain’t you never going to learn how to dress yourself?

It’s aren’t, not ain’t, John said. Or better still, aren’t you ever.

Rachel gave him a scolding look and said, Now don’t you go correcting his speech!

I won’t. But I can’t promise that I’ll say yes until I hear what he has to say.

You know good and well what he has to say. Now quit being an old grump and get on up that mountain.

John mounted his mule and looked down at his daughter. I swear, sometimes you act more like my Momma than my little girl.

Just you get, Rachel replied.

John tipped his hat and turned the mule toward the mouth of the hollow.

When Rachel returned to the porch she found her brother Jamie sitting on a chair, whittling on a wide, thin piece of wood. What you making? she asked, as she sat down in a rocking chair.

A fiddle, Jamie replied without taking his eyes off the wood. He shaved a curved, paper-thin slice from one side of the board, then turned it over and did the same thing on the other side. The wood curled over his knife and fell to the rough wooden floor.

You don’t know how to play the fiddle, Rachel said.

Jamie didn’t respond until he was done with his cut, then he looked at her and said, I can’t very well learn how to play the fiddle ‘til I’ve got one, can I?

Reckon not, Rachel replied.

She was fifteen, but carried herself with the maturity of a woman. Momma had died three years earlier and Rachel, the oldest girl, was forced to grow up fast. She stood five foot-six, with long dark hair that fell in graceful layers down her back, and eyes that sparkled green in the bright sun, but turned pale-blue when viewed in shadow. She had a small mouth with a soft, puffy lower lip that turned boys into jelly and reminded grown men of some sweet girl they’d loved and lost in their boyhood. She had high cheekbones that hinted at the Cherokee in her family’s past, and freckles across her nose that she pretended to hate.

She wore a faded blue dress that her Momma had made for her when she was twelve. It should have been tossed into the ragbag with the other old garments that had become un-wearable, there to be reborn as a quilt or a nightshirt for the next baby that came along. Though still long enough to be considered decent, it was too tight, giving too many clues to the woman’s body hiding beneath its strained fabric. Her daddy wouldn’t allow her to be seen wearing it outside this hollow. She was bare foot; she hated shoes, and only wore them to church or in the coldest part of winter, and once, when the whole family went to Lacrosse, Tennessee, way over on the western end of Blue Mountain. When she had them on her feet felt as though they were in small prisons, and their weight made walking a chore.

She stood up and paced the length of the porch. It would be hours before Daddy returned, and she thought she might go crazy by then.

Why don’t you sit still? You’re agitating the dogs, Jamie said. There were three dogs sprawled out in the sun; none of them had moved in over an hour. Where’d Daddy go off to? he asked.

You ought to have asked him if you wanted to know, Rachel replied.

I did. He wouldn’t say.

Then maybe it ain’t none of your business.

Jamie shrugged and turned his attention back to the work at hand. He was sixteen, with unruly dark hair running down to his shoulders and a scruffy beard that only got shaved on Saturday night. He was tall and thin. His bib-overalls stopped at mid-calf when he stood.

Where’s the boys? Rachel asked.

I seen ‘em go off with Daddy’s old hunting rifle a couple hours ago. Buck might bring us home some venison.

What makes you think Clifford won’t bring it home?

Jamie gave a grunt without looking up and said, If we have game tonight, we’ll have Buck to thank for it.

Clifford and Buck were their younger brothers. Buck was eleven and Clifford ten. Clifford was Rachel’s favorite because he reminded her so much of Momma. The same blue eyes and blond hair; the same dimples appeared on his cheeks when he smiled. He was quiet, small of frame, and smart as a whip. Buck was Jamie’s favorite because he could hunt almost as good as a grown man and could lick any boy near his age.

Rachel went inside the cabin, tired of arguing with Jamie. There were two glass-less windows, one on each side of the big door, with heavy shutters that provided some small protection from the wind and rain. She closed the shutters, casting the room into semi-darkness.

Hey, why’d you do that? It was Mary, the youngest member of the Toland household. She was sitting at their father’s desk, one of his big books open in front of her.

Sorry, didn’t know you was in here, Rachel said. She opened the shutters, then tossed a log on the fire just to have something to do. She looked over her sister’s shoulder at the book in front of her. It was a history of England. Awful big book for such a little girl, she said.

I’m just pretending to read it, Mary said, and shook her head as though disappointed in her big sister.

Rachel went to the corner of the room and picked up the quilt she’d been working on for over a month, hoping that the time would go faster if she kept herself busy.

CHAPTER 2

Eagle Rock was a large, flat expanse of limestone jutting out from the highest point of Blue Mountain, overlooking Walker’s Valley two thousand feet below. Countless grooves had been etched into its soft surface by rainfall hitting and flowing across its face in its endless search for the sea. The water had found the stone’s weaknesses, and had broken through to the soft ground below, leaving deep, narrow grooves that could cripple any horse or man foolish enough to traverse the rock too casually. Trees occasionally grew up through these cracks, stunted things with leathery roots that sprawled along the surface in a lifelong search for nourishment. These trees bore little resemblance to their hearty brothers covering Blue Mountain and were given the name ramblewood by some imaginative and long forgotten settler.

Grant Lacern had no watch, but he could tell the time of day, almost to the minute, by the position of the sun. By his calculations John Toland was late. Probably doing this on purpose, he mumbled to his horse, Hickory. The horse, tied to a chestnut tree on the edge of the rock, paid his master no mind.

It had rained most of August, but this morning the sky was cloudless. From where he stood Grant could look in any direction and see nothing but row after row of mountains, their deep green melting into the soft blue horizon. He loved this view, but the openness of the rock made him uneasy, and he soon found himself longing for the closeness of the mountain forest. He took an apple from his saddlebag and held it under Hickory’s nose. The horse nibbled while Grant patted him on the shoulder.

John Toland came to the edge of the rock and dismounted. Good morning, he said, and led the mule carefully across the rocky surface. The men shook hands.

Good morning to you, Grant replied. Thank you for coming.

John took in the view and said, I’m glad to see that I’m not the only one captivated by this sight.

Just a bunch of mountains. Seen ‘em most every day of my life, Grant said.

Have it your way, John replied. He ran his hands along Hickory’s shoulder and said, Where’d you come across such a fine animal as this?

Lexington, Grant replied. Every year the Lacern family floated a raft of logs down to the big city. It was one of the few ways for a mountain man to get cash money. Fella gave him to me for helping him put up a barn.

Must have been some barn.

The man said the horse didn’t have no pedigree.

I see.

Grant had only a vague idea what a pedigree was. He knew it had something to do with the horse’s parents. To Grant’s way of thinking, a horse was like a man; you judged him on how good he was, not by his parents. Of course a good sturdy plow horse would have been more practical for a mountain farmer, but Grant figured there was plenty of time to be practical when he was John’s age.

Reckon we should be on our way, Grant said. He mounted Hickory, waited for John to mount his mule, and then started down the trail. The Kentucky side of the mountain had a gentler slope, and Grant relaxed the reins, having full confidence in Hickory’s ability to manage the trail.

Will there be refreshments at this mystery destination? John shouted from behind, the trail being too narrow for the two men to ride side by side.

Grant laughed and replied, I think I might be able to come up with something.

Grant was tall and handsome, with the wide grin of a boy who saw nothing but blue skies in his future. Like John, he wore his best clothes, brown pants, a starched white shirt, and black shoes polished to a bright shine. The only things missing were his black suit coat and tie. He would have preferred his usual overalls, flannel shirt, and bare feet, but he wanted to bring home the fact that he was a man of substance. He whistled as they rode down the narrow trail, hoping it would calm the butterflies in his stomach. Without realizing it he had gotten ahead of John, and had to stop and wait for him to catch up. He turned in his saddle and smiled at the older man, then turned off the trail and into the thick undergrowth. John moaned and followed.

Past the first layer of trees the land opened into a wide cove, twenty or so acres of flat land right here in the middle of Blue Mountain. It had been partially cleared; oak and poplar stumps dotted the landscape, and near the back sat a log cabin.

Why don’t we go see who lives here! Grant shouted, and broke into a gallop. John managed to get a slow canter out of his mule.

Grant jumped off his horse and climbed the steps to the porch, then turned and waited impatiently for John. You coming? he shouted.

John smiled as he surveyed the cabin. It’s a fine place. Biggest house I’ve ever seen in these mountains.

Come on in, Grant urged.

What about the owner? John asked playfully.

Grant looked confused, then said, Well, I own it, Mr. Toland.

John laughed out loud and said, You do? Well, imagine that.

Inside there was a large living area with a fireplace almost as high as John’s head and as wide as his mule, a big kitchen already furnished with a long oaken table, and four big bedrooms. You could raise a right smart bunch of kids in a house like this, John said. Who you got in mind to mother all those babies?

Grant turned red, then ran to the cupboard. He took out a jar of clear liquid and two glasses. How about a drink first? he asked.

John smiled and said, A good idea no matter what the enterprise.

Grant didn’t completely understand this reply but he damn well wasn’t about to ask for an explanation. He’d asked a simple question. Why couldn’t Mr. Toland reply with a simple answer? He led the way through the kitchen and onto the back porch, where two rocking chairs waited. The men sat down and Grant poured the liquor. John took a drink, sighed, then smiled at Grant and said, This is your Uncle Bart’s, isn’t it?

Yes sir.

Me and him have never gotten along very well but, my oh my the man makes wonderful whiskey. Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?

Grant took a long drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. I’ll be able to have all this cleared by next spring and I’ll be able to plant some crops. The soil’s real good.

Your family owns most of the good bottom land in the valley. Why would you want to farm up here on the mountain?

Grant thought he heard resentment in Mr. Toland’s voice. Everyone on the mountain was jealous of the Lacern prosperity, but with the Tolands it was more than that. They always struck Grant as thinking they were better than the rest of the mountain people, even the Lacerns. Must be the education. John, especially, seemed to enjoy making folks feel stupid. He didn’t even talk like the rest of them, saying ‘it’ instead of ‘hit’ and ‘can’t’ instead of ‘cain’t’, and pronouncing the ‘g’ at the end of words like ‘hunting’. When Grant had asked him if he could come courting his daughter John hadn’t corrected him directly but had replied by saying that yes, Grant could come ‘courting’ his daughter and came down hard on the ‘g’, as if to tell Grant that he was nothing but an ignorant hick.

He wanted to farm up here because he liked it here. He loved the fog-shrouded mornings and the way the mountain eased into twilight, and the way it came alive at night with the sounds of frogs, crickets, and whippoorwills. The land in the valley was just about played out. Every year the family had to work harder and got less in return. The soil up here was rich. He didn’t tell John any of this. All he said was, I like it up here.

I can understand why you would. Now, why did you bring me up here?

It’s about Rachel. I’d like to ask for her hand in marriage.

John took another sip of liquor. You sure about that? he asked.

Grant hadn’t expected this question. He was a smart boy, with a good head for business and a keen eye for horseflesh, but he preferred head-on questions where the meaning was obvious. Well, why wouldn’t I be sure? he asked. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. And as you can see, I can provide as fine a home for her as any man outside the big city.

I know she’s pretty. And I know you can provide for her.

Then what is it? Grant asked, struggling to hide his impatience. John should be jumping for joy at this opportunity. Not only was Grant the eldest son of the most prosperous family in the region, he was educated. Most of the young men around here could hardly spell their own names, including some in the Toland clan.

Don’t go getting that damn Lacern temper up, John said.

Don’t reckon our temper’s any worse than most folks, Grant replied.

Oh, you don’t? Well, you’re right on one account, it’s no worse than Rachel’s. She’s the most hardheaded woman you’re ever going to come up against. It’ll take a special man to hold his own with her.

Well, I ain’t never seen myself as nothing special, but I love her. Don’t think I can ever love anybody else. So I reckon I’m stuck with her, hard head and all.

John paused to take a drink of whiskey. This is some mighty fine liquor, he said, taking another drink.

Grant could tell that John was stalling, and felt his impatience growing. Uncle Bart will be tickled you like it. Now how about it, Mr. Toland, can I ask Rachel to marry me? I won’t never cheat on her, nor hit her, nor nothing like that. I can’t abide a man who hits a woman.

John waiting a long time before, then simply said, No.

The reply stunned Grant. He had viewed his request as a mere formality. He sat with his glass of liquor halfway to his lips, staring at John.

War’s coming, John said after a long silence.

War’s already here, Grant replied. The news that the country was at war had taken two months to reach Blue Mountain. Why can’t I ask her?

Kentucky’s neutral. You can stay out of it if you want.

I know that. You going to tell me why I can’t marry Rachel, or not?

I was an officer in the Mexican War. Did you know that?

Yeah, I knew.

Maybe they’ll have some use for me again, who knows. But you, you can stay out of it if you want.

You already said that, Grant said, no longer trying to hide his impatience.

You’re going to join the Confederate Army, aren’t you?

I am. And it ain’t because of the five slaves my family owns neither. I’d give them up today if that’s all it would take to keep this country together. I just don’t think the federal government has a right to come around telling people what they can and can’t do.

I will never for the life of me understand how someone who actually owns other human beings can get morally indignant about anything, John said. He realized he’d raised his voice. He smiled and said, One should not mix politics with corn liquor.

I didn’t bring you up here to talk about politics. You telling me if I come down on the wrong side of this fight, I can’t marry Rachel?

John shook his head. Reb or Yankee, my answer would be the same. If you’re going to go to war, I don’t want you marrying my Rachel until it’s over. And I don’t want you asking.

So if I act like a coward and sit out the war, you’ll let me marry her, but if I choose to fight for what I believe is right, I can’t. Don’t think Rachel would want a man like that!

You’re too much in love to know what she wants. You go off to war and get yourself killed, she’ll feel honor bound to spend the rest of her life as your widow. She’s that pig-headed. She’s fifteen; I won’t allow her life to be over before she’s twenty.

Grant stood and heaved his glass with all of his might, then watched as it dashed against a rock. You’re giving me a hard choice, he said, without looking at the other man.

"I’m not