A Good Inheritance

By Daughtry Miller

Growing up in a small South Carolina town in the early 1960s, sixteen-year-old Wade James is a regular teenager. An accident leaves him in the hospital for two months, however, and Wade needs something to pass the time. He turns to the Civil War diary of his great-grandfather, Lofton Jamesand finds himself stepping back in time.

In the summer of 1862, sixteen-year-old Lofton enlists in the Confederate Army; subsequently, he fights bloody battles at Corinth and later at Vicksburg, Mississippi. Here, he is captured and paroled and then serves in northern Georgia and northern Virginia. An excellent marksman, he is pressed into duty as a sharpshooter. In that capacity, he commits a life-altering act: he kills US Major-General John Sedgwick at the Battle of Spotsylvania in May of 1864. The revulsion Lofton feels over what he considers a dishonorable act causes him to desert.

Having recovered from his injury, Wade keeps reading the diary; the more he reads, the bigger impression the journal makes on him. In 1962, the civil rights movement is gaining momentum, and Wade realizes that he must make a difficult decision to do the right thing. With his great-grandfathers words to bolster him, Wade makes a moral choice that will profoundly affect him for the rest of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781480801752

Daughtry Miller

Daughtry Miller is a retired history professor with a specialty in the American South. He has published three books and thirty articles. He lives in Augusta, Georgia.

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Daughtry Miller

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Copyright © 2013 Daughtry Miller.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-0174-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0176-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0175-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013913225

Archway Publishing rev. date: 08/26/2013

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

But these also were godly men,

whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten;

their wealth will remain with their descendants,

and their inheritance with their children’s children.

ECCLESIASTICUS 44:  10-11

To the memory of my parents, Cornelius Burch and Lucille Daughtry Mixon, and to my grandchildren, Locke Arthur and Emma Jean Attwood

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The following people read this manuscript in various stages of preparation: my wife, Frances Frazier Mixon; my daughter, Eleanor Mixon Attwood; my son, Phillip Eldridge Mixon; my sister, Gwendolyn Mixon McMurray; and my friend, Eric J. Sundquist. They made numerous suggestions that improved the work significantly. I am deeply grateful for their help. Any shortcomings that remain are my responsibility alone.

It was a pleasure to work with the staff at Archway Publishing. I deeply appreciate the assistance of the following people: Aimee Reff, publishing consultant; Adriane Pontecorvo, check-in coordinator; and Emma Gliessman, publishing services associate.

I

Winnville, South Carolina, Autumn 1961

IT WAS THE last Friday in October. It was dry and cool, perfect weather for a football game. We were getting ready to play Newton in the game that would probably decide the conference championship. I had walked the mile and a half from my house to Winnville High, the county’s consolidated school for white kids, to suit up for the game. Coach had told us to get to the gym’s locker room by five so that we could dress out, review the game plan, warm up, and be ready for the kickoff at eight. As I approached the gym, I noticed a couple of other players who had already arrived–and Birdie Culpepper, a pest who wasn’t on the team but who liked to hang around at practices and games.

Birdie was waving a Civil War muzzle-loader that he had sneaked away from his dad, who collected guns. Run, Wade, Birdie yelled, run, or I’ll shoot you.

Birdie, I said, I’ve got to run back and forth on that football field for three hours a little later and I’m not running now. He was about twenty-five yards away; he leveled the musket and fired.

Damn you, Birdie; I’m going to whip your ass, I hollered, as I started chasing him. After a few paces, I felt a piercing pain in the lower part of my right leg. I sat down, pulled up my pants’s leg, and almost fainted. Flesh was dangling out of the gaping hole in my leg and blood was spurting. By then, Birdie and the other boys had run over; Birdie was so terrified he threw up. They put me in his car, and Birdie rushed me to the county hospital about a mile away with the smell of vomit on his breath. He must have apologized every ten seconds; Wade, I’m sorry; Wade, I’m sorry.

There was no doctor on duty so the emergency-room nurse called Dr. McCall, our family physician, who was finally reached on the golf course. She told me that he ran from the eighteenth tee to the clubhouse telephone. Are those lintheads fighting again? he asked her. It’s not dark yet but it is Friday so I guess they’re getting an early start. I’ll be there in a few minutes.

After he examined me and regained his composure, Dr. McCall took my parents, who had just arrived, into the hall. Later, Pop told me what the doctor said, his exact words: Mr. James, do you have any idea what a weapon like the one your boy was shot with can do to human flesh and bone? I pray that we can save his leg. We’re rushing him by helicopter to the USC Medical School in Charleston where the senior surgeon on the staff will work on him. The folks there will keep him stable till tomorrow morning, when the surgery will be done first thing.

At six the next morning, I got the anesthesia for the surgery. A few minutes later, as I was being wheeled into the operating room, I saw, as through a fog, my parents smiling at me. Later that morning as I regained consciousness after the operation, my parents were waiting beside my bed. Mama leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, her eyes welling with tears. Son, Pop said, you’ve been hurt bad, but the surgeon is optimistic. He thinks you’re going to be all right, but he won’t commit himself. Whatever the outcome, you’re going to be in this hospital for a while. You know that I’ve never been a praying man, but I’ll be one now. And the first thing I’m going to pray for is good aim so that when I shoot Birdie I’ll actually kill him. Mama told Pop to be quiet.

We talked on for a little while, mostly with Mama naming the folks in Winnville who sent their regards. She brightened up as she recited their greetings. You know how fast news travels in Winnville, Wade. Our phone was ringing off the hook till 11 o’clock last night. Miss Taylor sends her love to the smartest fifth-grader she’s ever taught. Mrs. Bowman, who your father thinks is the prettiest woman in Winnville, came by the house and asked us to bring this coloring book and crayons to see if you’ve learned to stay within the lines yet–because you couldn’t in the second grade. I smiled because Pop was right–and so was Mrs. Bowman. All your teachers this year said for you not to worry about schoolwork right now and concentrate on getting well. Lots of folks at Ebenezer Baptist said to give you their best, especially Mr. Haskell, who’s organizing a visit by the boys in your Sunday-School class, and Brother Clifton, who said to hurry back so you can resume handing out bulletins at Sunday-morning services. Right before we left home in the wee hours in a private plane, Birdie’s parents called. They’re deeply sorry for what happened. As everybody knows, they’re right well-off. They arranged our flight down here and they said they’ll pay all your medical bills. Our hospital insurance should cover those, but we thanked them. I’m going to stay here with you until you’re ready to go home–well, not right here in the room with you but in the hospital’s hospitality suite. Your father has to go back to work.

After Mama finished, Pop said, Wade, some of your friends are talking about busting Birdie up for what he did.

Please, Pop, tell them I don’t want that. I don’t think he knew the gun was loaded. This business scared him worse than it did me.

Pop said he thought what happened was more than just boys being boys but he’d pass along my wishes. As he and Mama turned to leave, I asked them how the game came out. We lost, 13-12.

Pop was walking out the door when he stopped suddenly, came back in the room, and said: Oh, I almost forgot; I brought you something to read while you’re laid up. It’s the journal your great-grandfather Lofton kept while he was a Confederate soldier, when he was about your age. He gave it to my father, who gave it to me; now I’m giving it to you. Be careful with it. I guess it’s fitting that you should get it now because you’re probably the only real casualty of the Civil War Centennial.

Pop placed the satchel containing the journal on the bedside table. I opened it. The journal was actually a stack of notebooks that appeared to be leather-bound, and all looked to be about four-by-six inches in size. I opened the one on top and gave it a quick inspection. The paper was lined and much sturdier than the sheets in my school notebooks. There appeared to be around forty leaves, and great-granddaddy had written on both sides of each with pencil in a beautiful hand. The writing had faded some, but you could still see it clearly.

I didn’t start reading the journal until the next day because my head was spinning from the pain medicine. Great-granddaddy gave his journal a title. He called it Corinth and Beyond.

II

Confederate Camp, near Corinth, Mississippi,

Tuesday, September 30, 1862

I WENT TO SCHOOL for as long as I could, which wasn’t much, but I’m not stupid. And my teacher said I have a gift for putting words together; I hope he was right. I’m pretty sure that what I’m getting into is serious business. If I am killed, I want my folks to know what happened to me before the end came, so I am writing things down.

Son, how old are you? asked the man I reported to, a lean, balding man of middle height who looked to be around forty. He looked rough, probably because he hadn’t bathed or shaved in a while, but he had kind eyes and a calm, steady voice.

Sixteen, sir.

Well, I guess that’s old enough. My own boy is just seventeen, and he’s serving. My name is Thomas Jefferson Lincoln, and I’m the first sergeant of Company A, Thirty-fifth Mississippi Volunteer Regiment, Moore’s Brigade, Maury’s Division. Most of our boys are from around here in northeast Mississippi, but you’re a replacement. What’s your name, and where are you from?

My name is Lofton James, sergeant, and I’m from Natchez, which is nothing but a nest of cotton snobs and enemy sympathizers. When the Yankee boats steamed up the Mississippi a few months ago, the town fired one shot to welcome them and then surrendered. That’s when I left and joined the army.

Well, you’re a good ways from home now. Did you leave kinfolks behind?

Yes, sir. Ma and Pa and my younger brother Frank. Pa just turned sixty and his health ain’t so good. But Ma’s only forty-five and healthy as a horse, and Frank, who’s fifteen, is strong as an ox. I felt bad about leaving, but they told me they could handle things on the farm.

How do you like the army?

Not much so far. All I’ve done for the past two months is march and drill, drill and march. I’m ready to take on some Yanks.

Some of that drill may come in handy, like how to load and fire your rifle-musket which as you know ain’t easy and remembering to aim low. You’ll likely get your chance to fight the Yanks any day now. The word coming down is that we are to move on the enemy occupying Corinth. Follow me, private. I want you to meet your messmates.

Sgt. Lincoln led me over to a small group of men sitting under an oak tree. This here’s Deacon Arkwright; these are the Thompson twins, Aught and Naught; and this is Harney Granger. We said howdies all around and got to talking. They were real taken with my uniform. Harney said it was the handsomest he had ever seen. Aught, or Naught, said it wasn’t going to stay pretty for long. I told them my mother had made it and I was bound to take care of it the best I could for as long as I could.

Harney said good for me. A man only had one mama. His was the sweetest soul who ever lived. Harney was the only one of my messmates who seemed normal. That’s because he made it clear he would rather be almost anywhere else on God’s green earth than here in the middle of the Mississippi woods swatting mosquitos and getting ready to get shot at.

Deacon wasn’t anything close to normal. In fact, he had been read out of the Hardshell Baptist church he belonged to when he was seen drinking one Saturday