Broken Valley: A Wartime Story of Isolation, Fear and Hope in a Remote East Tennessee Valley

By Gregory L. Wade

The Barker family lives in a remote valley of Tennessee during the Civil War, finding themselves in the chaos of the bloody conflict. Although to many the issues are black and white, the Barkers exist in a world of uncertainty. To protect their homes and lives, they must often reevaluate their beliefs in the midst of life altering upheaval.
Their valley neighbors are no different. They also must make quick decisions about loyalty, family, and duty. The Sequatchie Valley is not one of wealth, but it is one of beauty. War threatens at their very doorsteps, and actions have far-reaching and unexpected consequence. Even as the war comes to an end, things are no easier.
The country might be under the guise of peace, but conflicts do not cease. The Barkers isolation brings dangerous people to their realm. Externally, they must fight as they heal from the physical and emotional scars of the Civil War. They will persevere, as Americans always have, but at what price?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491725030

Gregory L. Wade

Gregory L. Wade is a graduate of Middle Tennessee State University. He is active in preserving Civil War battle ground and is the founder of the Franklin, Tennessee, Civil War Round Table. Having written for several history publications, Broken Valley is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2014 Gregory L. Wade.

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

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2501-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2502-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2503-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014903130

iUniverse rev. date: 03/18/2014

Contents

Preface

Will Barker

July 1872

Will Barker

Summer 1861

Will

Will

Will

Will

Will

Will

Will

Will

Will

Will

Cornelia Barker

Will

Will

Homer

Will

Sergeant Newton

Will

Sergeant Newton

Will

William

William

Will

Lille

William

Will

Will

Sheriff Dry

Will

True Chance

Will

Reverend Lowry

William

True Chance

William

Sergeant Newton

Sheriff Dry

William

Will

Reverend Lowery

Sergeant Newton

True Chance

Will

Will

Buck

Will

William

William

Will

Will

William

Will

William

Cornelia

William

Will

Cornelia

Will

True Chance

Will

Will

William

Buck

William

True Chance

William

Colonel DuMont

William

Smiley

William

Smiley

William

Judge Easterly

Will

Will

Will

Will

William

William

Will

William

Will

William

Cornelia

William

William

Howell Barker

Will

Scott Sims

William

Lille

William

William

Will

William

Scott Sims

William

Scott Sims

Will

Will

True Chance

Will

William

Marc Thierry(Tune)

William

Will

William

Epilogue

Appendix I

Acknowledgements

Preface

This work is a fiction. It is not intended to be historically accurate or portray any real characters. It is intended to portray the conflicted lives of the average man and woman surviving the Civil War in a remote area of East Tennessee best described as no man’s land. The tragic events described are not far-fetched. Although thousands of books continue to be written about our Civil War, the story of American anguish on the home front has yet to be fully told. Routine life was destroyed and families were often forced to make quick decisions as to their loyalties. Without a doubt, there were unconvertible slave owners and determined Federals; however, in the middle was a mixture of people lacking clear answers. A family in the mountains of north Alabama might find themselves loyal to the Union, at great risk to their own safety. Conversely, a Confederate-friendly hog farmer in upper East Tennessee would have to apply all of his wits to survive in the harsh environment of hostile Unionists.

Some of what transpires in this story is true (see end notes). The Anderson Crossroads fight (Wheeler’s Raid) was a significant fight over a critical supply route. The guerilla activity all throughout the Sequatchie Valley and, indeed, much of rural Tennessee made for a dark and difficult existence during the war. Isolation was the scourge of the time, with news of any kind desperately sought. The deprivation, loneliness, and violence barely touched upon in this story wielded an impact upon subsequent generations that cannot be overstated. Many descendants of the sir names used in this story enjoy the region’s beauty today. And these are names of many of my ancestors, of whom I am proud.

The characters are reflections of people I have known. William Barker is a resolute, sometimes stoic man who tries his best to survive, for the sake of his family. His delineation between good and evil, courage and moral character represent a mixture of some fine men in my life. His lack of emotional awareness at times can be a weakness in great men as well. The soft touch of the female characters should not be misinterpreted as weakness. Like so many of the important women in my life, they are not to be discounted when a fight is in motion.

Gregory L. Wade

Franklin, Tennessee

Broken Valley is dedicated to my wife, Beth, a source of encouragement in my journey to describe life during such a traumatic time. It is also dedicated to those hardy settlers who populated a desolate yet beautiful wilderness so long ago, known as the Sequatchie Valley of East Tennessee.

Will Barker

July 1872

My name is William Barker, Jr. Folks just call me Will. The last eleven years of my life have been shaped by the Civil War and the journey to put it behind me. In our remote part of Tennessee, lives were once defined by scratching out a living in a beautiful yet unforgiving place. We were accustomed to hard times, but with the war came evil, an evil not easily described. Some of it was black and white; some of it was gray, an evil of circumstances. Although I tell this story from what I saw and the help of what others shared, one thing is for sure: the war taught different things to different folks. Some still struggle to get along. One thing we all agree on is that just across the horizon, life can change quickly.

Will Barker

Summer 1861

The muscular red horse pawed at the water along the bank, stomping his hoof in the mud. Sam is my favorite horse. I’ve known him all my life. We use him to plow and we’re together a lot during the times we’re not working. He is a dark brown red with an almost black mane and tail. Most folks say he is an impressive horse, strong and low with great power.

Today, my father sent me and Sam to Howell Barker’s to return the ax he left at our place for Pa to retool. I like riding over the rolling fields to the ford and across the river, the Sequatchie River. It’s a brown, muddy, and sometimes sluggish stream, not at all like the big river, the Tennessee. Unless it’s flowing really fast, Sam plunges right in. No pulling on the reigns can stop him. The water didn’t bother him and it kept flies at bay, but it always meant more curry time. My pa insists I take care of Sam.

Sometimes we find piles of shells from clams near the river, covered with bank brush and partially buried. Pa said the Injuns would open them up and pile them along the rivers as they ate their insides. I never saw an Indian, but we heard stories about their ways. Finding pots and arrow heads, I daydream about those days and how curious men would go along the riverbank just as I did, looking for what the stream might have deposited after the latest rain. But most of the time we just figured they didn’t have much to eat and we were glad we didn’t have to eat from the foul smelling shells. We couldn’t help but wonder about those that did.

Pa warned me to get to the Barkers’ and back home. Not to tarry, as he liked to say. Since the war began, people were on edge. Most quit talking about politics to avoid the certain disagreements that would come. All I thought about was the excitement it would bring. The war hadn’t come here in mid-1861, to my disappointment. Like everything else in the valley, the excitement would be elsewhere and my folks hoped it stayed that way. But I wanted to see the soldiers, meet some real horsemen, and hear a cannon’s roar. The only time I saw anything exciting was going over the mountain to the city, big river, and the general stores. Taking the ferry that creaked across the water. Now that, to me, was a good time.

Sam finished inhaling gallons of water, the muddy color never bothering him. When the horse began to drink, no one could stop him until he finished. How he could drink the foggy water, I always wondered, but he did and did it with great skill. His ears folded back and he would paw at the river’s mud, as if hoping to uncover some treasure. We slogged across the river at the ford, near the footpath. Some folks said the river was more like a creek, most days. But when it rained hard, it separated folks on either side into two slivers in the narrow valley. Today, Sam and I went across, my feet getting a little damp. That was fine since it was a warm early summer day so Mama wouldn’t switch me for getting wet. I’m thirteen and Mama’s whippings are getting a little embarrassing.

The war started someplace in South Carolina. I didn’t really know what it meant, and the places where the fighting took place seemed to be another world. Strange sounding names like Bull Run and Philippi. But all I saw or heard were the men of the valley talking in town about changing governments, lumber prices and rumors of troop movements. And when William Swafford gathered his bunch for the Confederates, and the Hixson’s started their Union outfit, it was quite a show. In Dunlap one summer night, there was a real fuss with the Swaffords on one side of the street with ax handles and the Hixsons on the other side talking about settling it right then and there. But a hard rain sent everyone scurrying, cooling them down in more ways than one. Pa said he hoped the war didn’t separate folks like the rivers did.

In normal times, Saturday gatherings were important. Women talked about women things like cooking and planting, who was getting married and having babies. Men stood in clusters looking serious and shaking their heads. To me, everyone was an expert so I just decided my pa was right about most things, just to be safe. The women managed to keep food on the table, no small thing, and would pray none of the happenings would happen here.

So, Sam and I rode across the pastures to the Barkers’ to take the ax to Mr. Howell Barker and all I thought about was going off to adventure and glory. Mr. Barker, a very distant relation to my father, is a tall man, skinny and lean. And his walk is a little sideways. Pa said he hurt his leg in a logging accident before I was even born so he walks sideways and swings his left leg out more. Always a stubble on his face, his look is kind enough but with a worried brow. Much to his seeming dismay, he had five daughters, and the two oldest worked as hard as he plowing and pitching hay. Folks needed boys in the valley. His three youngest girls helped their mama. They lived in a house with a big fireplace made of creek rock. The house was built with rough siding Howell Barker brought over from the mill.

Sarah Barker is the prettiest and the oldest of the five Barker girls. She is fourteen and I always look forward to Pa sending me to their home to take corn or sell milk or return a reworked tool. Lots of men in the valley are good with iron and fire since lots of ore came out of the mountains. And Pa, like the others, does what he can with the ore to make a few more pennies. Most of the valley men could do most anything to get by.

The Barker house never looked square and the first steps out of the front door led into a muddy mess mixed with patches of grass. Some folks gossip about Mr. Barker’s temper. Mrs. Barker is a hard, lean woman always carrying food or freshly scrubbed clothes, or firewood. But she has a soft way with deep blue eyes and a square white smile. I think she likes me coming over. My ma said she always wanted a son. Mr. Barker is always good to me, talking about horses and fishing. I’ve never seen his famous temper.

So I rode to Mr. Barker’s, me and my horse Sam. It got us off the farm for half a day. We talked for a while, and then rode back across the river to our house at the foot of the mountain, like we had done a hundred times before. And while it seemed the clock stopped, I didn’t know that growing up would bring inevitable challenges and change to my life, some of it I’d rather not face.

Will

The pastures changed color, from brilliant lush green to brown and red. I enjoyed my favorite season as the days went by and the sun set like it has forever. And the trees changed color like always, with their strange connection to the sun. Most of the high timber was hard wood with spectacular color mixing with the constant green of the small cedars. While pleasing to the eye, it warned of a coming winter, something none of us looked forward to. Although the seasons changed, our valley stayed mostly the same. Bound by mountain ranges with narrow pastures hidden in the coves, the sunlight revealed constant change, depending on the rays as they crossed the ridges. The gray color of the winter would soon be upon us. The clear air was a warning of the coming cold, the trudging to feed the animals, milk the cows, and bring in firewood.

We usually had good days at church. Me and my younger sister, Lille, ride Sam to the Henniger’s Church over on the big hill. My parents would follow on the wagon pulled by old Luke, an ancient mule just waiting on a chance to kick someone. He was easier to deal with than his younger brother Whiskey, but you never turned your back on either of them. Three things I was taught from as long as I could remember to respect: the river, livestock and my mother. All three could kill you in an instant if you didn’t respect them.

At church all the women brought great food, especially pies and potatoes made in a dozen different ways. Pa said potatoes were a poor man’s gold and even better, cause you can’t eat gold. A few dogs lurked around waiting on scraps and sometimes the ladies would fry extra dough for the kids to give to their favorite puppies, hoping it would make them hush. The men talked about the cost of supplies and who had the best horse. Usually there would be singing of church music. It seemed like some of the songs had at least thirty verses.

My ma is a fun woman to be around, and very much an outdoors person. She has hooked catfish with Lille and I and liked it better than churning butter. She plays jokes on Pa, once dressing like a cowboy and riding Sam off as if he had been stolen. Other times she would seem upset. I figured she was just being a woman. Me being thirteen, I never saw her as a woman but simply my mother.

I was told we were Methodist. I had no real idea what that meant. The preacher was never happy, sweated a lot, talked about hell and the devil and got red in the face, especially if the collection plate wasn’t full. Sometimes we would get a different preacher but Reverend Lowry eventually became our full-time man. I reckon preachers took turns going up and down the valley. And they were all the same, red-faced, cranky and scary, some Baptists, some Presbyterians, others Methodists. Even as a child, I knew the little church was special. It was on a little rise out in the middle of the valley, with mountains on either side, built with planks from Highpockets’ mill that fit better than those on the scattered farmhouses. I figured the good Lord would want his house to be the best around, and sure enough it was.

I was a boy becoming a man, although it seemed the path before me was too slow to really notice. I wondered if this cycle of life would be my fate. Plow, feed the animals, freeze in the winter and swelter in the summer. The stove had to be lit and the fireplace stoked, and water brought up from the spring. I learned not to slosh it as I walked; I was just sent back to get more if I did. It was church on Sunday, hear the same sermons when I listened, go to school, and work more. Sometimes the creek would flood over the pasture washing the fence posts away. Or a cow would get loose or a wild cat would bring out the guns and lots of excitement. Sometimes a barn would burn. Usually I was fine with the farm, but I got bored too. Then the war came.

Son, don’t be getting too interested in what the Yanks or the Confederates are saying. Let the boys who want to take sides take sides. We just need to protect the farm, your mama, and your sister. Getting involved will only hurt us. Pa stopped to line up some fence posts. I need you here to help keep food on the table, he told me after word came from the other side of the mountain that Tennessee had left the Union. Adults are always afraid of new things coming along. I wanted to see soldiers and their fast horses and mysterious guns.

I will never forget the look on his hard, lined face when the sheriff came by after a mountain ride on the Anderson Pike. My father is a handsome man with a full head of wavy dark hair and blue eyes. He is strong and lean, and I am proud to be his son. He isn’t a mean man but I don’t mess with him, nor does anyone else. Seeing him angry just every so often was enough for me and he could ride any horse in the valley. But his conversation with the sheriff made him appear older. Looks like we’re part of the Confederacy now William, the lawman told Pa. "We’ve done seceded and the governor is saying we got to contribute to a Rebel regiment. Least that is what the Daily Rebel says. What do you think William, you and Will signing up?"

Pa stood in the pasture digging the fencepost holes showing little emotion, except for the jaw muscles that twitched when he wanted to control himself. I was listening to every word. Well Sheriff, it ain’t got nothing to do with me. Tennessee didn’t come around helping me feed my young ’uns and the Yanks got no say over my life. So we’ll just take care of us. And Sheriff, Will is not yet fourteen.

I knew the news bothered Pa but it frustrated me. The sheriff remounted his short horse, which made his own short legs and round belly bounce in every direction, and said, You know William, this war is looking more serious all the time and lots of folks got a lot of money invested in their slaves. He paused, and some don’t think there should be any slaves at all. Everyone has an opinion and it’s all a big mess. He spit out a piece of corn stalk he was working between his front teeth. Worst of all, a bunch of hot heads are always quick to send their boys to fight. The Yanks seem determined to ride down here and tell us what to do. You know Chattanooga, being on the river, is a major supply area. Well, I don’t see how we can avoid being involved. I’ve been told that James Hixson has got enough boys ready to sign up for a Yankee outfit. And Swafford has been talking a lot about riding off to join the Rebels.

Tell me Sheriff, how do you plan on keeping the two sides peaceful here in these ridges and hollers? Pa asked.

He chuckled, William, I reckon we will have to put together a plan to keep the two sides from scrapping. Huh, I don’t rightly believe I have it figured out yet. But most folks here are peaceable. I don’t figure it will be too hard to keep us all from shooting each other. He stopped to take his hat off and scratch his head. I do worry about some of the Swaffords. I got a wire from Nashville telling me to begin thinking about a guard of local boys to keep the peace. Lord only knows how to pay ’em. He scratched his head again. Kinda funny ain’t it William? I have a hard enough time keeping the Swaffords out of trouble in normal times.

The sheriff, a short round man, always wore a big hat to cover his bald head and usually carried an old pistol, but today he had a rifle on his saddle.

Sheriff, why the rifle? Ain’t that just inviting trouble?

William, listen to me friend, you better get ready for it. I’m telling you. Over the mountain, folks are already agitated and really taking sides. I don’t plan to run into some hot heads and not be armed. I reckon you better do the same. He sighed and added, Believe it might have been easier had we all been pro-Confederacy or pro-Union, but we ain’t.

How are you going to keep everyone from getting at each others’ throats? Pa asked again, hoping to hear a good answer this time.

William, He rubbed his chin, I don’t know. The man’s concern was obvious on his face.

We seldom heard his name, Mark Dry. He was always the sheriff to me and Pa. Ma once said we call him the sheriff, with a capital ‘S’ and you better always respect the law or get a whipping when you get home if you don’t. Go to town and there he would be. He was usually outside the jail dozing and saying hello to folks. When his wife Georgia was around, she passed out homemade cookies. Guess that is what one has to do to get elected every time. The jail is a source of curiosity to me and my friends. Tug Stewart, Trigg Swafford, Tommy Mayberry, and me would go around back and climb up to look in the barred window of the one cell that was always empty. And we knew sooner or later some exotic criminal would be there. Probably with fancy guns, spurs, and a hat.

Pa kept working at the fence post, like it was the most important post in the world at that moment. Just be careful. Calm heads will get us through this, the lawman said. Turning his little horse, he winked at me and began his trot over to Dunlap and the jail. Surely all our leaders ain’t totally crazy, he mumbled. Pa stood still, drinking water and wiping his forehead with an old piece of tablecloth torn into small pieces.

Pa, do you think there could be trouble here? I asked. Which side are we on anyway? Ain’t we part of the South? We ain’t part of them Alabama folks are we? And ain’t a Confederate same thing as a Rebel?

Pa stopped working on the fence, grinning at all the questions. He took his hat off his bushy head, his eyes following the sheriff as he rode over the horizon across the gently rising pasture. His eyes suddenly seemed grayer with weary. Son, we take care of each other and our family. Don’t worry too much cause there is little reason for either side to come through here. Ain’t a lot of money around here. It ain’t like we got a whole lot of cattle and fancy houses. But we got something most folks don’t have, plenty of water, and a beauty you can’t find in many places boy, believe me. I pray, and you should too, for this thing to blow over. I really can’t believe this fight will last long. You may think it is all about excitement and fun. He paused and took a drink from his water jug, wiping his face again with his sleeve. But men shooting each other is serious business.

I know Pa, I’m about grown. You always said when I went with you and Grandpa to the fields that I was now a man. Some of the boys are talking about joining and…

Pa grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. Never think about getting into this business! It can only cause us pain. Son, look me in the eye and listen to me.

Sure Pa, sure.

Will

Days went by and we readied the house for winter. Seemed like Ma was always working on clothes and blankets and such. When we weren’t working on the farm or schoolwork, Lille and I ran through the woods with the dogs or went to the river to fish or skip stones. Some of the Deakin’s kids over the ridge would come by and we took turns riding their ponies, collecting crawfish at the river or one of the small creeks. But going over the mountain to the city was really exciting.

Climbing the mountain ridge behind our farm, Pa and Grandpa drove our cows up during the summer. There was shade and young grass in patches. Water pooled from the spring rains, so a few cattle could get along well. They always came back with tales usually involving a stubborn old bull that Grandpa would fuss and sweat about getting him to go where he wanted him. Every so often Ma packed them a lunch and off they would go up the mountain for a couple of days. Later they would come back with the cattle for fall grazing in a reverse cycle. As the ritual approached one year, Pa told my momma to pack an extra lunch and proclaimed, the boy is going this year. I have wondered ever since what made it time.

So off we went that first year, me and Pa and my grandpa. We stayed in a barn on the mountain with some Browns we were somehow related to. Somebody was a cousin to somebody else and they all knew each other and hugged and I never had any idea who was who. I had to be polite to folks I didn’t ever see and next time I did see ’em it was the same thing again. We rounded up the cows, visited awhile, told stories, and then drove the cattle back down to the farm. I was nine that first year and I went with them twice a year after that. But sadly, it’s only me and Pa now. Grandpa Hogue was killed a couple years ago by a falling tree limb. I remember Pa coming to the house with his hat down low, walking slowly, not like like his normal self. He just went right past me and straight to Ma. He talked softly to her as she hugged him. I knew something was wrong. He never sheds tears, but it took him a long time to go back near that tree. A winter ice storm had simply snapped the tree limb and just like that, nature had her way. I never thought of a tree having that kind of power but a limb no bigger than my arm killed my big strong grandpa. Grandma had already passed so I don’t remember much about her. My ma’s folks are all somewhere east, somewhere in Virginia.

As days passed, me and Lille began to feel the tension from the war talk. Things weren’t the same. Lille was more annoying than ever, telling me that Pa and Ma were tired of me and wished they just had girls and that kind of nonsense. Because of the war and strangers in the valley, Ma wasn’t ready to let us go far from home. And she didn’t seem to want to play tricks on Pa as much. Everybody was afraid of Yankees or renegades or criminals. Folks knew our one sheriff wouldn’t be able to protect everyone, and everyone decided to oil up their rifles and protect their own houses. I, of course, was fascinated by the prospect of seeing some noble raiders or foreign soldiers. I was also scared too, but just a little.

One night at supper Pa told me to go to the Barkers’. He knew Mr. Barker went over the mountain a few days ago and might have some mail for us. Sometimes the Browns would send us packages that way. Son, I got some nails and Howell Barker usually needs a bunch. Take Sam and go tomorrow if it ain’t raining. The river shouldn’t be up. Make sure you tie the bags tight to the saddle. It took a long time to make those nails. If the river is up, just come back. No need to catch a death cold.

Will, please don’t get wet, she added. We don’t need sickness. And take those cans of beans to give them. I expect she’ll have some jelly for us.

Sam and I looked forward to the diversion from farm work, especially while school wasn’t going on. So I was happy to see friendly Mrs. Barker and her pretty daughter Sarah.

Will

The war unleashed a new and savage threat, outlaws. The sheriff told Pa a brutal story he heard from a stage driver coming through from the other side of the Plateau.

The locals call them the Cumberland Caves. On a rocky and sloping part of Middle Tennessee’s Cumberland Plateau, Higgenbotham Cave is known as a place of mischief. But to the stranger with a dark beard called Buck and his toothless sidekick named Stokes, it was a hideout. Deserting soldiers gone bad mixed with outright outlaws, the Buck gang was drifting toward the Sequatchie Valley. No farm was safe once the war set this evil free. The stage driver heard it went something like this:

Stokes, bring the woman out and let’s get out of here. Hell, probably a bunch of hillbilly Rebs are heading this way now. What is this place? Higgen what? What kind of name is that?

We need to ride boys. Get this done, weigh her down good. Don’t need her making a racket, Stokes ordered.

A woman kidnapped from a nearby farm was taken to the cave and raped. Now tied up, she was hysterical. Ignoring his sidekick Stokes, Buck ordered her taken to a nearby creek and dumped. Another member of the gang, reluctant to carry out the order, said to his leader, Aw let’s just let her go. It