Texas Wept: A Tale of Love, Hate, and Courage

By William E Maxwell

The revolution ended with a shudder and a gasp, and the antebellum South was dispensed to the dustbins of history. An upended social system intensified this violent, lawless time. Texas government was supervised by the Union Army and its economy shaped by carpetbaggers. Outlaw gangs, freed slaves, Klansmen, and impoverished farmers and planters were all stirred into a volatile stew.

TEXAS WEPT is a tale of love, hate, and human courage. It is the story of Ben Loch, a Confederate veteran and the son of a redneck farmer, and Annie Kingsley, the daughter of an upstairs maid and the plantation owner. She was the personal slave of her half sister until June 19, 1865, when Texas slaves learned of their freedom.

This is the story of their lives during the chaotic period that continues to affect Texas thought and attitudes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William E Maxwell
• Release date: Jun 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463956540

William E Maxwell

William E Maxwell was born in East Texas to a farming and ranching family. He has ranched, served as an army officer, taught history and politics, and written textbooks on Texas politics.

Book preview

BATTLE OF THE WEARY

Army of Tennessee

John Bell Hood, Commander

Nashville, Tennessee

December 16, 1864

A light fog crept through the freezing dusk, hugging the ground, in search of crevasses. Union cannons across the battlefield, bedded for the night, slept, their silence ominous. The army would retreat tonight and again tomorrow.

Company Sergeant Boudreau lay on the frozen Tennessee soil in a pool of warm blood and chipped bone, his leg shredded by a minié ball. Corporal Benjamin Franklin Loch pressed a cloth to his wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. They had served together since ’62 and fought battles from Mississippi to Georgia and now Tennessee. The sergeant provided stability to the company and clarity to orders from officers. They would miss him.

I’m dying, Boudreau said, unable to focus on the corporal’s features.

No, you aren’t. We’ll get through this. Loch called to survivors running for the fallback position. The men either could not or did not want to hear. The company had begun the war as cavalry but now fought as mounted infantry. They rode to battle but fought on foot.

Boudreau groaned and whispered. Loch held his ear close. Say the prayer.

A last wish and I don’t know the damned words. Loch was not religious but began. Our father is in heaven, hallowed is your son… damn it, what are the other words? He looked again, and Boudreau’s sightless eyes stared at a darkening Tennessee sky.

Loch covered Boudreau’s face with the bloody cloth and viewed their abandoned position. Rows and piles of dead lay at the rock fence near its center.

This campaign was a forlorn hope from the start, he thought. We butted our heads against an iron wall. Damn Jeff Davis and Hood to hell.

He added Boudreau’s revolver and ammunition to his pack and stood to join the retreating army. Two blue uniforms suddenly emerged from the cloud of fog and battle smoke aiming their rifles at him. Loch dropped to the ground as their shots whined overhead. He fired a defensive round and ran as if hellhounds were on his trail. He knew not if he hit anything and did not look back to see.

Have you seen Sergeant Boudreau? The lieutenant is yelling for him. I think he’s drunk again, said a hatless sixteen-year old private, with a ripped ear and blood-soaked shirt.

He bled out back yonder. There wasn’t anything I could do. Loch waved in the direction of the abandoned position. Is the captain all right?

No, he is not. He went to the spirit world near midday.

God have mercy. Where is Lieutenant Green?

Green stood near the horses amid a cluster of weary soldiers uniformed in random mixtures of gray, butternut, and blue, most scavenged from the dead and wounded of both armies. Ben was troubled at the number. They were too few. He lifted a hand to tent-mate Rob Hunter, saluting another day of life.

I’m acting captain, Green said. Damn it, Loch, where in hell have you been? Were you lost or hiding your ass somewhere? We have to get away from here. Is anybody else out there?

Over half the company, but there’s none alive, Loch said.

The bedraggled survivors looked in the direction of Nashville. Where in hell is Sergeant Boudreau? Green asked, his eyes darting around the cluster of exhausted, impassive faces and then over to the rock fence.

Boudreau is dead, Loch said.

Are you sure?

I’m sure.

Damn, he’s the last sergeant. Who’s ranking corporal?

There’s only one alive, and it’s me. I expect that makes me senior, Loch said.

All right, you’ll have to do until we get straightened out. Now listen everybody. Our marching order is south on the Franklin Road. We’re to winter in Corinth and regroup. General Lee’s cavalry is the rear guard. How many men do we have? I see eight, nine counting me. Lead an extra horse if you can. We always need horses. Now, let’s put distance between us and the Yankees.

The battered army marched past Corinth to winter near Tupelo, Mississippi.



February 1865

Sergeant Ben Loch balanced the rifle on his shoulder and paused on the Mississippi hillside that overlooked the remnants of the Army of Tennessee. Youth now gone, he stood over six feet, his muscular frame too large for the worn, pilfered clothes. His eyes softened, for he found tranquility at this place. It was an unfamiliar emotion. He thought of his poppa and Annie Kingsley. Would he see them again?

A sunset brushed by the Master Painter blended shades of orange, red, and blue and served as a backdrop for the shallow valley. Thousands of campfires sent slender smoke columns in support of the darkening sky. He saluted the peaceful scene and walked to the oft-mended tent with cavalryman’s gear piled in two disorganized heaps, one on either side.

Mess- and tent-mate Rob Hunter was cooking their supper. His impish brown eyes were set too close together and the pug nose seemed unnatural on his strong face. Rob was wearing an almost-new gray shirt with a ragged hole near its center, patched Union blue breeches, and boots with soles that flapped when he walked.

Hey Ben, are you ready for supper? We have cornmeal cake or cornmeal cake.

I’ll have cornmeal cake but will pass on the berry pie.

They watched each other’s backs through the war, fought, drank, and womanized together. Moreover, they brought each other good fortune, for both yet lived. Ben’s one serious injury was a saber slash at Chickamauga. Marking its passage was a thick, roughly healed scar that began below the hairline and crossed over his left eye and mouth. Its mementos were a split brow, misshapen eyelid, and lips that morphed into a menacing scowl when he smiled.

Rob was less fortunate. A rifle butt at Murfreesboro cost him two front teeth and a part of his upper lip. At Missionary Ridge, a minié ball bounced off his head and left him unconscious for two days. Ben thought him a goner, but Rob survived and walked from the filthy hospital tent with its piles of sawed-off legs and arms, blood-encrusted instruments, and exhausted nurses.

You think it’s over for us? Rob asked.

God, I hope so. Going into battle with Captain Green scares hell out of me. He’s half-drunk every time I see him. Besides, the army is all beat up, thanks to Hood.

Texas boys added a verse to the song they sing about high yellow women, Rob said. It’s about how Hood played hell with us in Tennessee.

All Hood knew was attack and then attack again, Ben said. It might have worked early in the war, but there weren’t enough of us left to carry out his grand plan.We may have stopped Sherman outside Atlanta if Davis hadn’t been a jackass and stuck with Uncle Joe. What really gnaws at my ass is the Yankees burned Georgia and South Carolina while we got our butts kicked up there.

Hell Ben, before long there won’t be enough of us to fight. Three of our men deserted on the march to Tennessee. Peveto and Richardson ran since we’ve been back. They don’t talk about it—they just go. I wager we don’t have ten thousand fit men in camp.

Their meal finished, they scraped the plates and cleaned them in the fire.

You still itch for the plantation owner’s daughter? Rob asked, thinking of Louisiana, home, and a dark-eyed Cajun girl.

I think of her, but the letters stopped. She may have found somebody.

Don’t go thinking that. Mail can’t get through from Texas since Yankees control everything that’s close to the Mississippi River. Rob stood and stretched. Let’s go over to the tavern and have a few to warm the old gut. We can get close and personal with some fancy women. I liked that Lorena last time.

The King of Hearts Tavern was a converted cow barn with its dirt floor raked to remove most of the dung. Its walls and roof had cracks between the boards, so drinkers got cold from the wind and wet from the rain, but after a time none seemed to notice. Tables were wooden boxes, while sawed tree trunks served as chairs. The bartender poured strong drink into tin cups on top of an old door supported by wooden boxes. Four shacks stood out back for use by providers of sexual pleasure with only enough space inside for a straw filled pallet.

The tavern was crowded, many drunk, and there was bad news. Only two women showed, and lines had formed outside their huts.

Ben and Rob decided to find their pleasure in a bottle and began serious drinking. Rob went for a refill after a few too many and stumbled, spilling the drink of a muscular infantry corporal at the next table.

You clumsy bastard, are you blind or too dimwitted to walk? You owe me a drink, the foot soldier said, taking the spilled whiskey personally.

Go fuck yourself, you simple toad. Rob was two steps past sober and took the telling-off as a challenge.

Damn you. I want my drink now, the corporal snarled.

Ben counted the number of men at the adjoining table and said, Back off, Rob. There’s too damn many.

No way in hell I’m going to buy a motherfucker a drink, Rob said.

That was it. He had gone too far. The burly corporal stood and hit him in the face with a fist the size of a middling ham. Rob was stocky and strong as a little bull but outmatched by the infantryman.

A skinny foot soldier with a red beard swung an empty bottle at Ben, but he kneed him in the balls and Red Beard doubled up on the floor groaning. Sensible men at nearby tables took their drinks to the far side of the tavern. The bartender showed a thick oak stick but allowed the brawl to continue.

The table of foot soldiers descended on the two cavalrymen in earnest. One held Ben’s head in a chokehold and bit off the top of an ear. Then things got bad. The irate infantrymen administered a sound thumping and tossed them from the King of Hearts.

Morning dawned cold and gloomy. Ben stuck a swollen, bruised face and an aching ear from the tent. Hey fighter, how’re you feeling? Damn, it’s cold out here.

I’ve been better. Rob looked up from boiling the roasted rye and chicory they used for coffee. He had two black eyes and a swollen nose. Looks like you got kicked by a damn mule.

Feels like it. Ben gently touched his battered face. My ear hurts like hell. How’s the nose?

Feels like a sore pumpkin. It wiggles too much to be normal. I’m afraid my natural good looks are gone. That bastard had the biggest fist I ever saw.

You’re black under your eyes too, but any change is for the better. Ben walked over to the fire and revealed a half bottle of clear whiskey. "You want some pain killer?

Hell yeah. Where’d you get it? Rob asked.

Grabbed it before they threw us out. Ben grinned, then winced from the pain. Glad it’s Sunday. I need a day off. What’s the day of the month?

We’re somewhere in February. It won’t be long till March, Rob said, touching his nose.

Each poured a half cup of grain-darkened brew, topped it off with whiskey, and drank in silence. Ben broke the quiet. I don’t ache so much now. How’s the nose?

Bad enough to need another, Rob said. After an hour of medication, the aching abated to a tolerable level. They’d won some fights, but not this one.

That next morning, they received marching orders. It’s big, Captain Adam Green said. Uncle Joe is gathering an army to stop Sherman from burning North Carolina. We move out tomorrow. Our orders are to watch for Yankees on the right flank.



General Sherman’s Army

21st Illinois Cavalry

North Carolina

March 1865

The duty private looked inside the tent and gave the wake-up call. Sergeant Fergus Darcy groaned and cracked an eye. Goddamned army and fucking North Carolina. God don’t see my brother Daniel here, does he? No, he don’t. Daniel’s too fine a gentleman, he is. Fergus had been dreaming of Chicago and his life as bouncer in his brother’s brothel off Market Street. He missed the smell and sounds of the city, its crowds, carriages, muddy streets, and most of all, the strumpets.

A string of curses complete, Darcy hoisted his six-foot-four-inch, two-hundred-forty-pound frame from the sleep pad. He stretched, admired his muscles, and looked out at a beautiful green field on a pleasant North Carolina spring day. I hate this godforsaken country. It’s too goddamned green, just trees and grass.

Daniel hired a substitute to serve in Fergus’ place early in the war. He then decided to invest in sutler stores that provided goods, whiskey, women, and games of chance to off-duty soldiers. He pressured Fergus to enlist and manage the operation as overall director, treasurer, and enforcer.

Daniel chose sergeant as the best grade to supervise managers and collect debts from customers. He greased palms, and the army assigned Fergus to a unit with politically connected officers who would see little actual fighting. Daniel greased more palms, and Fergus enjoyed a rapid rise through the ranks.

Fergus realized it was a shrewd decision as he caressed the ever-present money belt. Daniel would come down this weekend to collect the $4,427—three months’ profit—and a third of it was his. He now had enough in a personal account to open his own bordello.

He dressed in his Union blue uniform with buff stripes down the trouser legs and three chevrons displayed on each arm of his blue jacket. Fergus marched to the reveille formation, stood at attention before the men, and played his role.

2

MORTALITY

The Army of Tennessee joined General Johnston’s army at the Four Oaks area near Bentonville, North Carolina. Ben’s company, now seven men, received orders to scout for Union forces along Mill Creek—only reconnaissance, no fighting.

It was a great day for a ride, with sunny skies and spring flowers. Yet Ben worried, for Captain Green was sipping whiskey from a silver flask concealed in his jacket. One drunken decision would place all their lives at risk.

From atop a small hill, they saw a Union cavalryman in a flower-covered clearing between two wooded groves. As Ben feared, whiskey affected Green’s judgment, and he ordered a charge.

The rider saw danger and spurred his horse to escape. The Confederates followed. Racing over an incline, they rode headlong into a meadow filled with Union cavalry resting their horses.

Union men mounted and fired, their bullets humming as angry hornets. Ben reined about, leaned low, and spurred his horse to top speed. Twisting in the saddle, he fired two shots from Boudreau’s revolver—one directed at Captain Green’s center, the other at a cluster of pursuing Union cavalry.



It was a shadowy morass, a dense wilderness of roots and stems, veiled in a soft haze of brown and green. A red ant walked up a blade of grass and raised her front legs to the heavens as if beseeching her ant goddess. She reached for an overhanging blade but failed. Reversing her path, she vanished into the tangled wilds.

Ben liked that ant and wished her a happy ant life, watching as she disappeared into the unknown. Suddenly a sharp pain split his head and he shouted, but the sound was muted as in a dream.

I’m dying. The damn Yankees got me. He expected each breath to be his last, but life refused to depart his being. After a time, he decided death was not so near and attempted to lift his head, but it had attached to the earth. Another push freed it, along with a clump of soil and grass.

He peered over the tops of flowers and saw a deserted meadow with no Union cavalry, no hat, no horse, and no weapons. He touched his forehead and found a dirt-covered wound at the hairline. Further probes found neither a soft spot nor exposed brain.

Thank you, God. If you get me out of this mess, I’ll quit cussing, drinking, and going to fancy women. But, how did I get to this place? Recollection crept into his awareness. Damn you to hell, Adam Green. Damn your drunken ass to hell.

In constant pain, he was blind in one eye, and his throat was as dry as September cotton. A nearby grove looked of heaven and he attempted to stand, but his knees buckled and he pitched forward to the ground.

He crawled to the grove, sat against a tree, and picked at the dried blood and dirt. A soft gurgle filtered through the undergrowth, and he crawled toward the sound. It was a muddy puddle bubbling from beneath a blanket of rotten leaves. His hand served as a cup as he sipped the precious liquid.

The water stirred latent strength, and a wet handkerchief rid his eye and wound of some dirt. He closed the good eye and saw sunlight and hazy images. He was not blind.

Hunger struck, and his stomach began to growl. Breakfast had been oats gruel and seemed like last week. He drank the last of the water and stood upright with the help of a persimmon sapling. Using a stout stick for balance, he began to search for food.

He ate flowers from a groundnut plant, all the berries within reach from a mulberry tree, and puffballs around a rotting oak log. Hunger moderated, he hobbled to the meadow.

It was late afternoon, and shadows extended over their field of battle. Ben could see no danger, only flowers, grass, and trees on a waning spring day.

His decision to skirt the meadow proved to be wise. Two Union cavalrymen leading a saddled dun gelding emerged from behind an outgrowth of trees. He dropped to the ground and lay motionless, watching them disappear behind a strip of oaks. They would have seen him had they not been talking. Searchers were unexpected, and only an officer would merit that level of recovery. His risk had increased.

He must find a concealed place for the night. After only a short time, the wound demanded its levy. His eyes lost focus, and his legs became unsteady.

Darkness rendered images beneath the canopy difficult to identify. He saw a faint outline that appeared to be an earthen mound surrounded by undergrowth. He commenced to climb onto the mound but recoiled, tripped over a small bush, and almost bashed his head against a tree. The mound was soft and hairy.

Searching fingers solved the mystery. His chosen bed was a dead horse. It did not stink and was a likely casualty of their skirmish, but the discovery held danger. A Union soldier could be waiting in the darkness to send him to the spirit world.

Ben kneeled behind the horse and used his fingers as scouts. He found a holstered carbine. The firing mechanism was unfamiliar, but he was armed.

Further probes disclosed a near-full canteen and saddlebags with hardtack and jerky. It was like the manna from heaven his momma read about that saved the Israelites when they were lost in the wilderness.

He sat beside the horse and feasted on the rations and water. Weary muscles began to waken, and fog lifted from his battered brain. However, the pain chose to extend its visit.

Pale beams from a half moon provided spotted light and formed random patterns on the carpet of leaves and sticks. A distant owl hooted its lonesome call, a raccoon found a meal and made a kill, and a doe with two fawns tiptoed onto the meadow. It was time to make his move.

He cocked the carbine, took a deep breath, and crept past the horse. The sound of cracking twigs sounded as gunfire in the still night. Union shot could tear into his body at any moment, and he would never again see Texas.

Then he saw it. Hidden in the gloom, a dark bundle lay against an ancient hackberry, surrounded by the fallen limbs typical of that tree. Ben kneeled behind a bush and watched the bundle. It did not move. He stepped closer and found the stiffening corpse of a massive Union sergeant.

The dead man was another gift, and he began to plunder the body. A revolver, attached to his wrist by a leather cord, lay on the ground. The belt proved difficult, but by rocking the body, Ben pulled it free. It held a sheathed knife, a holster for the revolver, and a packet of ammunition.

Then the unexpected—buckled beneath the jacket was a money belt. Realization struck. Searchers were not looking for an officer, but for money. He fastened the belt under his jacket and buckled on the pistol. The hat and socks were wearable, but the boots were too big.

Trouser pockets contributed a clean handkerchief, gold and silver coins, a silver toothpick, and a Barlow knife. He had often plundered the dead and injured, but the search for this man would be relentless. He must get far from the dead sergeant—and fast.

Ben shouldered the saddlebags and bedroll and began to walk. A light fog hung suspended over the meadow like smoke over a battlefield. The air held spring crispness, dew had fallen, and night insects sang songs to nature.

He continued under the canopy to deny searchers his dew trail but soon became lightheaded and conceded the night. He stepped into the trees, found a spot cushioned by leaves, and slept.

Morning broke fair and sunny. Ben tried to ignore his pain and listened for the sounds of woodland creatures. Squirrels were in a fuss fight and birds warbled competing songs. The animals’ behavior indicated no humans were moving about. He broke fast with hardtack and jerky and again thanked the dead sergeant for riding into a tree.

Hunger sated, Ben examined the plunder. There was more money than he knew existed. The belt held over $4,000 in Union paper money and a pile of gold and silver coins.

The revolver was a Remington, a handgun carried by some Confederate officers. There were two unfired cylinders and twenty rounds of ammunition. He replaced the spent cartridges.

The carbine was a Spencer repeating. Some Union units had used this weapon for the last year or so. It was a devastating rifle when compared to his single shot. He had never seen one up close, but the weapon had enrolled a number of his comrades on the angels list. There were seven shells in its magazine and more in the saddlebag. The ammunition was also unfamiliar. Printed on the box were the words rim fire.

The bags held five decks of cardboard playing cards, three pairs of dice, and a logbook with names and numbers. It would explain the money if the sergeant ran gambling games. He tossed these items under a bush.

Now hot with fever and with a pounding head, he began the search for locals who might help an injured soldier. The meadow looked safe. A rabbit was having breakfast, and two crows searched for food among the flowers. There was no livestock about, for farmers had hidden their animals from the armies.

Ben crossed the meadow and followed a game trail through the next belt of woods. There he found another, smaller meadow. On its far side was a cabin with at least two people moving about. He had no better choice than to continue walking toward the cabin.

3

ANGELS

The dogtrot log cabin had a clay chimney