Scarlet Fields

By John Alexander Miles

Seventy five years after the Battle of Gettysburg on Little Round Top, John Alexander tells his story to his great-grandson. As a young man in Bath Maine he falls in love with Southern Belle, Annabelle DeMaret. Civil war causes their separation, and this epic story follows her experiences in the South and his in the North. He joins the 2nd Maine Volunteer Regiment, is wounded, and mustered out. Later, he re-enlists with the 20th Maine. Before the Battle of Gettysburg, 120 mutineers of the 2nd Maine are impressed to serve with the 20th which has been reduced to about 280 men. Strengthened to 386 soldiers, the 20th Maine went on to glory at Little Round Top, considered the turning point in the Battle of Gettysburg and the Civil War. In this the maligned and little known 2nd Maine Regiments' contribution is recognized. The characters are fictional, but the underlying history is true. A moving epic romance story, it speaks of devotion one to another and to our Nation...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781105619373

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JOHN ALEXANDER MILES

Copyright 1992, 2011, 2020

by Steven R. Schoner.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-105-61937-3

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The characters in this story are fictional.  The story of John Alexander Miles is imaginary, his recollections are fiction; yet the details of the Civil War as presented by the author of this book, Steven R. Schoner are for the most part true.  In December of 1961 on Little Round Top, Steven R. Schoner, then a youth of ten years of age heard a ghostly voice, the inspiration for this story, and that of the 2nd Maine Regiment.

Copyright 1992, 2011, 2020 by Steven R. Schoner.  All rights reserved.

Cover: Bronze statue of General Gouverneur K. Warren on the summit of Little Round Top at Gettysburg Battlefield.  Used with permission from Mr. Bill Norton-Taylor, of the Battle of Gettysburg Resource Center.

Back cover: 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Battle Flag with California, and Maine State Seals.  Sewn by Maine ladies residing in California from their silk wedding dresses, and presented to the regiment on July 20th, 1861, it was carried to muster out on June 9th, 1863.  Courtesy of the Maine Government.

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~

To my Mother

Nancy Austad

&

In memory of

Susan Pitre

~

"When through a

woman

a little more love

and goodness,

a little more light

and truth

comes into the world

then that woman’s life

has had meaning."

~

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PREFACE

Of youthful romance, the onset of the Civil War, battles fought, and of the 2nd Maine and 20th Maine Regiments, Scarlet Fields is written in the vernacular of the Antebellum Era.  To some this presentation may seem wordy, but my rendition presents the way people wrote and spoke at that time.  With the exception of popular 19th century lyrics, most New Englanders used nearly perfect English, without contractions.  In the South, especially the Deep South such was usually not the case.  To make that distinction I have chosen to retain the Southern dialect in relevant dialogues.  Phonetically written, it may at first seem difficult to read, but such is essential to hear the words as they were spoken.  Such has been done in other works as in those by Thomas Nelson Page, Ellen Anderson Glasgow, Mark Twain as well as other Southern writers.  However, I have made some modifications to the rules that they followed to make my treatment more readable.  The details and conversations of battles fought were researched from official documents and the works of Civil War historians, John Pullen, Samuel Carter, Shelby Foote and others and as presented are accurate in this story.

Written and revised over sixteen years, this novel is fully researched so as to present the language of that time; how it was used in writing and the way it was spoken; yet keeping historic events as accurate as possible in the fiction of the story line. In reading this novel it is my sincere hope that one will gain a sense of what it was like to have lived before and during our American Civil War.

Steven R. Schoner (John Alexander Miles)

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Additional notes July 2020:

I am not a proponent of so called Cancel Culture nor Political Correctness or of the policies of those that wish to erase and then revise our American History with something that it never was.  Nor do I ascribe to removing statues or monuments of historic figures.

With today’s social values as they are, some may find so called racist statements; examples such as not capitalizing ‘Negro’, or ‘Negress’ or the spelled out use of today’s so called "N word" and references to their treatment.  We today must accept this as historic conventions of that turbulent time.  I will not inject today’s modern social values into those of the past if readers are to have a meaningful sense of what life was like during those days long gone.

Steven R. Schoner (John Alexander Miles)

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PART ONE

SHADOW OF THE  OLD OAK TREE

~

"Come forth into the light of things,

let Nature be your teacher."

~

William Wordsworth

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1  Annabelle

ON THIS sunny day in nineteen-ninety-two sitting in the veranda of the Prescott, Arizona veterans’ hospital I recall that day in nineteen thirty-eight, fifty-four years now past.  I remember it was dawn at Gettysburg Battlefield a week before the seventy-fifth commemoration and last encampment of its veterans.  I was seventeen years of age then, and my father took me there at my great-grandfather, John Benjamin Alexander’s request.  What the old man said to me then comes to me again as I consider that day.

Now, my great-grandfather John Benjamin Alexander was unlike any old man I have known.  Strong for his age, he walked long distances; five or more miles per day even till the end of his 95-year life.  His mind was sharp.  His hair was full, but white, and his face still bore traces of his former looks.  He stood erect, and square-shouldered.  All that came to know him were amazed at his age.  His accounts of Civil War battles that he experienced, and of others fought both in the North and South were an inspiration to me.  And from his memoirs, I learned that it was not just his story, but several in one.  This romance novel is my tribute to him.  The extensive historical details I have incorporated into this endeavor are from diaries, and memoirs of the Civil War.  What I recount in this story is far more than what he told me on that last day that we met.  And I have embellished this story with fiction, or conjecture, and I am certain that he would approve of the liberties that I have taken.

On that little hill at Gettysburg Battlefield he challenged me to write his story of romance, and I have done so expanding upon what he told me on that day.  And what I have written is an epic tale of dedication one to another and to our Country in a time of war.  This is also the story of a little known regiment... The remnant of which in joining the 20th Maine changed the course of the American Civil War, and our history as a Nation.

And on that day fifty-four years ago, I remember treading over that field, seeing droplets of dew clinging to grass sparkling as myriads of scattered diamonds.  Mist drifting over those fields appeared as smoke that I imagined swept over them seven and a half decades before.  I approached a hill, Little Round Top, a small not so prominent hill next to a larger one known as Big Round Top.  There I would meet my great grandfather, and he would tell of his youth, and Civil War experiences.  Antiquated, he was a white haired man with a slight limp, and I was in awe of him.  I marveled that he could be so old, yet so robust and that he could walk amazing distances for one ninety-five years old.  His voice was that of a one from Maine, yet with a slight Southern accent.

Anxious to hear his story, I traversed west of Little Round Top.  Thin fog drifted over its summit.  Bare gray rocks and a sparse spattering of trees covered the slopes.  Though peaceful, I was impressed with the history of this place and the fields I crossed.  I sensed the presence of ghosts of those who fought and died there.  Cold shudders gripped me as I walked through Devil’s Den, then on to cross Plum Run Creek.

Many times I had asked him about his part in the Civil War, and he would put me off Later, Son, later. he always said, and other interests soon preoccupied me.  Friends, games, my girlfriend, and being put off so often, my interest in his story waned.  But on that day, as I climbed that hill, excitement rose within my soul.  Why he insisted that I climb it alone, and why this place I did not know.  I carried a basket of refreshments, two cushions, and struggled to negotiate its slope strewn with boulders.  The Sun had yet to rise, and fog clinging to the summit had a soft rosy glow from a dawn sky.  Tall weather rounded boulders were scattered over its slope.  In my mind they were sentinels, mute witnesses of events beyond my years.  They glistened with dew, and droplets like tears ran from their stony faces.  I had a sense of not being alone, and though I knew that no one else was there, I tread softly so as not to disturb anyone.  I strained in my climb, laboring, my heart pounding from exertion.  Imagination carried my thoughts away.  Among trees and weathered boulders, I visualized soldiers in blue and gray, and in my mind I heard battle roaring.

As I neared the summit, above the boulders I saw a bronze statue positioned there: Union General Gouverneur Kimble Warren.  A dark ominous silhouette against the sky, a ghost materialized in metal whose frozen countenance forever stares at fields below, seeing things other than the peaceful one now.

At the crest, near the statue, I turned and looked down at dawn lit fields below.  I saw those stony sentinels and trees I had passed.  Then I noticed a footpath leading down to, and from battlefield monuments.  And beyond them, through fog’s mists, I glimpsed the battlefield.  Then I saw a person emerge, waking on that footpath, a Civil War soldier approaching.  He had a slight limp, and donning a blue frock coat and light sky blue trousers, he was a Civil War officer.  He walked steadily with sureness and strength, and I immediately recognized him as my great grandfather.  Yet he seemed someone else, a man I had never met.  As he came closer, I noticed his uniform’s color had faded, and the buttons and decorations had tarnished.  On his shoulders were black and gold rectangular rank straps, those of Staff Lieutenant.

He carried two thick notebooks, both showing wear.  Carefully, reverently, as if they were sacred texts he held them in his wrinkled right hand.  He approached, and I addressed him.  Silent, he lifted his left hand to hush me.  When a pace away, he took one cushion from me and sat down near the statue.  I set my cushion near him, sat down, placed the refreshment basket in front of us and waited for him to speak.  Silent, he stared off into the distance.  The Sun rose behind us illuminating distant western ridges bordering fields below.  I turned to look at him, and in the silence of that moment, I was astonished to see a transformation take place.  His eyes regained the sparkle of youth!  The blue haze of age clouding them seemed to evaporate, and looking from his antiquated face were eyes of a younger man!  I did not know how to absorb it, and that moment’s magic took me in.  His eyes flashed with rapid movements, those of a one absorbed in a vision.  He gazed distantly, and I felt as if I was in church next to a person lost in prayer.  Then he said, Son, do you know why I asked your father to bring you to this battlefield to hear my story?

No. I weakly responded, for I thought that we could have been more comfortable at home.

You are my namesake, John Miles Alexander. the old man said, And when you were born I asked of your father that he christen you under that name.  There is a secret in it.  Take to heart what I will say.  Treasure these books which I will give you.  Lifting them, he said, "These are my words and memoirs.  They tell of sacrifices made by me, and others, having a vision for a nation greater than what we had previously known.  They reveal a story of but a few of hundreds of thousands of others that gave their lives here, and on other Civil War battlefields.  We had notions of adventure.  We saw the world with youth’s imperfect sight.  We lived in a young, imperfect nation, a nation destined to change, and we would change with it.

A lifetime could be lived in those few years.  For many of us, our lives would end in those few years.  He looked down, and spoke forcefully. No, I will not relate a simple war story.  I hope to impart to you a sense of what it was like to have lived in those times, what we thought and felt as that cataclysm unfolded.  We who survived the Civil War owe this to its dead.  We have a debt to those that gave their all that we might have what we have now.  We, those that lived through it are their voices.  Only we can tell of their sacrifice, and time will snuff our feeble voices out."

He looked up and whispered reverently, It is here my life’s course changed, and on this field that I wish to have my ashes spread.

He looked out ever more distantly.  "For love, honor, and glory we gave our all.  We left our homes to endure war’s hardships.  We did it to protect and defend that which we loved.  Four years later, we received honor and glory from a grateful nation.

I once was a youth like you.  When you are young, you see all in a simple, glowing, rosy light.  You possess life’s substance, but not its depth.  Your thoughts are directed more by emotion than reason. In an all encompassing adventure, youth makes passion armor.  You are invincible, going about, ignoring dangers, those perilous paths in life.  We never really know where that path will end.  Ah... But there are mighty storms...  The way can become drastically altered. It may be rough, taking you to uncharted places, or it may end abruptly into oblivion.  One such mighty storm that crossed my youthful path nearly eighty years ago brought me here then."

He swept his hand out in front of him.  Here on this field; Gettysburg Battlefield, that storm took me.  On this day, Son, I will show you where that idyllic path of my youth ended, and the rocky path that brings me here again began.  This is my story, and of my beloved wife to be, Annabelle.  It is a story of romance... And it is the Second Maine Regiment’s story... A regiment maligned by history and nearly forgotten.  We fought with the famous Twentieth Maine, of which the remnant of my regiment, a hundred twenty members, reluctantly became a part.  Their story must be vindicated, for our nation owes more to them than has been granted.

He sighed, and then whispered, Another storm approaches. Then added forcefully, "With Fascism’s arm rising, casting dark shadows over Europe and our world, countless youths will be tested.  Mark my words.  Vulcan’s forge will thunder again.

He set his cherished notebooks at his side, his voice now softer.  "Now that I am here again, it does not seem so long ago.  I recall my past, that year before the war.  I can feel within myself, right now, my own youthful heart.  I remember a warm summer day when I was seventeen years old.  A time when I thought, and acted as if I knew everything, but was unaware of how very little I had grasp of.

Eighteen sixty.  A good place to start.  Why?  I fell in love then, and years before that don’t count, really.  Ah, fall in love and how the world changes!  Eighteen-sixty. A good place to start.  My year between being a seventeen-year-old boy, and an eighteen-year-year-old man.  On one day in that year, I recall a bully that vexed me as I fell in love with a lovely Southern Belle, Annabelle Aurora DeMaret..."

~  ~  ~

Yo Johnny Boy!  Stanley McCabe shouted from a distance as John and his younger brother William walked from school.  You going to the dance tonight? Stanley yelled, Hear that Southern Belle has taken a fancy to you!  Boys and girls within earshot laughed at Stanley’s remarks.

John held back.

Heard she has slaves!  Stanley persisted. Johnny Boy, hitch to her and you can have niggers, too!  He paused to stroke his greasy brown hair back from his boorish round face, then put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

William wanted no part of it.  He parted with his brother and made distance from him.

Stanley looked for a fight, and John held back.

Relentlessly, Stanley pressed on with his verbal attacks.

Yo Johnny Boy! Stanley shouted as two of his cohorts walked with him, Just marry that Southern Belle and you can have a nigger maid for a mistress!  Everyone with within earshot laughed.  A little extra fun on the side!  And he let out a catcall, adding, A black mama to warm you at night!

John clenched his fists, ready to turn, then, thought: No, not now.  He clenched his teeth, and left Stanley and his jeering friends behind.  He wondered how that everyone thought Annabelle DeMaret had a fancy for him.  She did not treat him any differently than anyone else when his or her paths crossed.  He had seen her a few times, and maybe looked at her longer than he should have.  She looked back with that irrepressible, faint smile.  So, she smiled, he thought, such a gem she is.

Aristocratic, a Southern Belle, sixteen years old, one year younger than him, Annabelle Aurora DeMaret came to Bath, Maine with her parents and sister.  She eschewed school, and instead had a private teacher.  With a last name that rhymes with ray, it was like a melody in John’s mind.  How could she escape my notice, John thought.  She wears elegant fine silk dresses.  Her fragrance like flowers, her melodious voice, a smooth Southern drawl with an uh or eliminating r sounds, and accentuating other words with an ah.  Ebony hair done in loose shoulderlength curls cascading down like a waterfall unto her smooth white shoulders.  Her smile.  Full lips soft and pink.  White skin.  High cheekbones.  Her wide-set eyes.  What eyes she has!  Almond shaped, sky blue, with long black eyelashes.  Eyes more beautiful than a star sapphire I had once seen, a stone brought back from India by a sea captain.  How can I not notice her? John thought.  Everyone does.  If she notices me.  No! he said aloud, I am a plain Yankee boy.  Just plain Johnny Boy.  And she, he thought. like a princess with servant slaves and a private teacher... Why would Annabelle DeMaret give even a second glance, let alone take a fancy to me.  Impossible. Like a princess taking a fancy to a commoner.

Yet, he wished that Stanley’s taunts were true.

To kiss her, John dreamed; would be as miraculous as stealing such from an angel.  Why would she go to a Yankee dance anyway? John thought. They have slaves, and are not welcome to our social gatherings anyway.  As for this monthly dance, I do not intend to go, as every time I do, debutantes, giggling and pawing, trapped me.

He shifted his schoolbooks higher on his shoulder, walking faster to catch up with his brother.  William intentionally outpaced him, apparently ashamed of John after Stanley’s taunting.

A quarter-mile from school was the two-story Alexander home.  Situated outside of town, it was of typical frame construction, with a covered porch, and painted white with a shake roof.  John and William’s father, Jason, was part owner of a clipper ship enterprise, and Mary a doting mother.  They were not rich, yet aspired to higher aims.  The brothers went up the walkway and one after the other bounded up the steps.  William went straight to his room, and John plunked down on the parlor’s sofa where he read his lessons.  In his last year at the town school, it was habitual for him to complete homework before dark, and dinner.  This would give him evenings free for walks.  After an hour, he finished his assignments.  He set his books against the sofa’s armrest, and went upstairs, passing William on the way.  William grabbed John’s arm, and said, I cannot see why you take that from that bully boy. You should have socked Stanley’s nose!

Fighting was not John’s way.  Silent he pulled away, and continued up the stairs.  He entered his room, took a match from a cup near the lamp on his desk, struck it and lit the lamp.  The wick glowed and came to life, it’s warm, steady light filled the room.  Reaching to the shelf above his desk, he took from it his Greek grammar book, a language he would have to master for entrance to Bowdoin College.  He sat down, opened it and began to read when his mother called from downstairs.  Dinner is ready, Husband, boys! she shouted.

John left his room, taking the stairs two-at-a time, and went to the dining room.  His father, Jason, and William had already taken places at the table.  Set before them were four covered oval platters, and a stew server.  John took his place, and Mary soon joined them.  Jason said grace, and they helped themselves to stewed potatoes, peas, coot stew and fresh-baked bread.

Jason turned to John, Tell me, Son, have you made up your mind on West Point?  I look forward to the day when you will join your brother.

John hesitated to answer and thought: Why do my father’s questions about my future always reflect his decision and not mine?  Annoyed, and after swallowing a chunk of coot, he said, Not really.  I mean, I have not given it too much consideration, Father.

And why not, Son?  Jason glared at him.

There have been other things on my mind lately.

Well, Jason retorted, I certainly hope that these other things are not so important as to take your thoughts away from that which is!  You must consider it soon.  Appointments to West Point come few and far between.  It has cost me much time and effort to arrange it with our Congressman, and... I do not want you to miss the opportunity.

Jason, Mary said softly, you push him too hard.  Perhaps he needs more time.  He may not want to emulate Arthur.

John took comfort in his mother’s keen ability to anticipate, and express what he felt.  He had mentioned Bowdoin College to her as one of his aims.

Well then!  Jason, set his fork and spoon down, lifting his hands in exasperation, What do you propose John do until he makes his decision?  This is a world of change!  It will not stop for him while he wastes time!

All the while William ate, listening intently, fearing the same.

Husband, Mary softly answered, John has always been a shy boy.  West Point may not be for him.

This hit the mark, and in an uncharacteristic burst of courage, John said, Perhaps, ah... He hesitated, and then added, I could be of use on our clipper ships.

Stone silence followed.  His parents glanced at each other, then back at him.

Well?  John asked, shrugging his shoulders.  Always intrigued with the prospect of going out to sea, seeing Ireland or England, he heard his father talk about his own excursions.  He wished that he could claim such an experience.

Mary turned to her husband. Jason, why not? she softly asked, For a season after he leaves the town school.  With a pensive look she added, The excursion may give him time to think.

Jason scratched his head, and hesitated. I will have to consider it. he said.  He turned to John, and said, Mother and I will discuss this privately.  Until then, we will speak of it no more.

John exhaled a sigh of relief.

The uncomfortable moment past, his mother started another, John, she said, Tonight you will come to the dance.  She shook her right finger at him, You are old enough for these functions, and you must socialize for a change.  You missed out on last month’s social, and I insist that you come with us tonight.

John felt his stomach churn.  He avoided these dances with sundry excuses before, as he disdained being the object of fickle debutantes.  Last time was sickness, but not able to invent a plausible excuse now.

I hear that the DeMaret family will be there tonight. Jason said. And they are a family of no slight influence in Mobile, Alabama.  I hear that Nathan DeMaret’s shipping concern is quite large.

Have you seen the DeMaret daughters, Varina and Annabelle?  William beamed.  They are so beautiful!  He rolled his eyes, and nearly fell off his chair in his exaggerated swoon.

John’s heart thumped faster at the thought of Annabelle’s alleged infatuation with him and the taunts of his classmates over that point.

Mary looked proudly at her sons.  Perhaps an opportunity for some young men at the dance? she crooned.

John blushed, and said, One cannot be married if they go to West Point.

So, that means that you are going? Jason asked.

John shook his head.  William saw his brother’s embarrassed look, and gibed him.  Why, look at his face! he said with glee, He looks like a radish!  To his parents, he added, Miss Annabelle has taken a fancy to him, I hear.

How do you know that? John retorted, glaring at his brother.  I cannot see that as true.  Besides, why should someone of class, such as Miss DeMaret, be even remotely interested in a plain Yankee boy anyhow?

A blind fool can see that she has taken a fancy to you, John, William replied with a sharp glance.  If you took your nose out of your books long enough to look around... William feigned another swoon as he added, You are lucky, John.  She is the most beautiful creature in the world.

Jason, cut them short.  Enough foolish talk. Despite their detestable practice of having slaves, the DeMarets’ are a fine family.  Their presence in our town employs longshoremen.  Since their arrival last June, they have brought to us commodities from the South, South America, and Europe. Reaching for a piece of bread, he added, They also arranged the employ of Bath shipyards providing for the Southern shipping industry.  The way I see it, I could care less about slavery or their slaves.

This upset Mary.  She held her tongue.

Jason buttered the piece of bread, and continued, Besides, the DeMaret’s have uncommon class, and they treat their slave servants as members of their family.  Surely, their lot would not be better on their own.  Why, they would be nothing more than before; savage niggers.  He noticed Mary’s look of disapproval, and added, Why, they would live in hovels no better than what they had in Africa.

Mary frowned.  Why her husband brought this up over the dinner table mystified her.  He knew how she felt, but with her abolitionist sentiments aroused, she would not hold back and said forcefully, I detect an inconsistency in your statement in regards to slavery.  On the one hand, you detest it, yet on the other, you condone it.  You say they live better as slaves than they would in Africa.  Slavery is a moral evil.  I have said it before.  It should not exist as an institution in this day and age.  These people of color are not chattel.  They are men, like us, with God given souls.  Should not they enjoy the same degree of freedom as any of us?  Mary glared sharply at her husband.

Well then, Jason retorted annoyed at being dragged into another abolitionist argument; one that he started anew.  Though they rarely ever argued, since Mary became an abolitionist such disputes were invariably over the issue of slavery.  How do you propose to change the situation? Jason asked, lifting his hands in exasperation.  Send a lot of John Browns down there to set them free?  And what then?  Who will care for them once they are free?  Where will they live?  How shall they obtain property?  Jason shook his head. No!  To set millions of slaves free would be too much for our nation to bear.  Riled, and with a hot look, he glared at her.  Leave well enough alone, Mary!  You must set your abolitionist notions aside, and forget that nonsense.  Slavery is the black man’s lot.  Slavery is all that most of them have ever known.  And you tell me, how can slaves possibly live free?  Why, it would be like freeing a tame animal into the wild.  They are not educated enough for freedom, and they are not capable of liberty such as we enjoy.

Now very annoyed, Mary cut in before he could say more.  Not all Southerners are as amicable to their slaves as the DeMaret family!  You have heard of cruel beatings, the indescribable afflictions that these people of color endure.  Their families torn asunder on the auction blocks with children snatched from the arms of their mothers.  Tell me, Husband, how would we feel if our family was so treated?  I have seen the DeMarets’ slaves on their errands in town.  People stare at them.  I have seen the mark of oppressed humanity in their eyes.  They are men as much we, with feelings, hopes, and dignity.  God wills them to have more than what they have now.  I am certain that slaves have dreams, too... Dreams that can never be actualized in their present condition of bondage.  Could God’s people, the Israelites of old, serve Pharaoh and God at the same time?  These people can never be what they are meant in the eyes of God or men as long as they are afflicted by servitude.  No matter if slavery were benevolent or malicious, slavery must be abolished, for it is evil.  Whether the bonds are silk ribbons, or iron chains make no difference; slavery must be abolished.  And with women’s suffrage we can..."

Mary!  Mind your place! Jason shouted, cutting her off, but he realized he could not win this argument.  He shook his head, backed off, and added softly, You are too passionate, Wife. Lifting his hands in exasperation, he added, How can I argue with you on this?  You with those abolitionist ladies, and their rabble rousing husbands.  Slavery is a peculiar Southern institution, and their problem.  It does not concern us.  It has been with us since the colonies, and with humanity millennia before that.  It will be with humanity long after we are dust.  Abolition will be so only by the power of God if or when He sees fit, just as the Almighty freed the Israelites of old.  Till then we should not trouble ourselves over this Southern institution, let alone do away with it.

John reflected on John Brown and his abortive slave insurrection the previous year, and said, What if John Brown was a prophet of God, like Moses?  Brown predicted that terrible things would happen to our country because of slavery.  He said rivers of blood would flow over the land.

Nonsense, Jason retorted. Despite what Mother’s rabble rousing abolitionist friends say, John Brown was no prophet of God!  Moses was vindicated with God’s power, but John Brown was hanged as a common criminal.  He was a treasonous murderer caught in the act of overthrowing the State of Virginia’s authority, as well as the laws of the land.  I dispute the abolitionist rabble-rousers who justify John Brown’s cause.  Abolition will come with God-given legislation compatible with this enlightened age.  Not by anarchy and bloodshed.

Mary said, For our sakes, and the sake of our nation, let us hope that abolition peaceful.

Slavery had been discussed several times over the dinner table. Sometimes heated, but the emotions expressed this night were even more so.  Much reason for alarm, abolition became a national firestorm.  Few voices were neutral on the subject.  Since publication of Uncle Tom’s Cabin eight years before, it was as if firebrands were thrown into everyone’s barns.

Jason wished to avoid further discussion, and dismissed it.  Why must we ruin a potentially good evening with this? He waved his hands.  So, I insist that we talk no more on it.  Instead, we will all go to the dance and have a nice evening.  Now, he turned to his wife, let us have some of your absolutely delicious rhubarb pie.

Mary rose from her chair and went to the serving table.  She cut equal portions, set them on plates, and served each.

Rhubarb pie being one of John’s favorites, he savored its tangy filling and flaky crust.  When finished with their meal, and some trivial discussion on the day’s tasks, Jason said, Now, let us be ready for the dance.

They went upstairs to their bedrooms to change into clothes that would be better suited for the occasion.  John rummaged through his closet and looked for articles that constituted his little-used suit.  He gathered them over his arm, left the closet and spread over the bed his trousers, shirt, coat, hat, and tie.  Taking off his comfortable though threadbare school clothes, he put on a tailored shirt, one with a stiff collar stock.  Having grown since the last time he wore it, he found that it fit better.  He buttoned it up, and put on a cravat tie.  As he dressed, he considered the prospect of Annabelle at the dance.  It unnerved him being the object of her purported fancy.

Northern girls were reserved, modest, and shy... Unless they were debutantes, he thought.  He cringed at the thought of them.  On the other hand, he had heard that Southern Belles knew their charms and how to use them.  With this in mind, he realized that if he were the object of Annabelle DeMaret’s desires, then he would be hard-pressed to resist her.  He thought of debutantes pawing over him; same difference, with less age, and no grace.  In light of it, he intended to keep a level head at the dance and not get flustered by them.

He put on his wool trousers, and sat down to put on his shiny black dress shoes.  Done, he stood in front of the dresser mirror.  He combed his hair, parting it on the left side, and then daubed under his chin a bit of cologne his father had brought back from England.  As he turned to go, he snuffed the lamp out.  Down the hallway and down the stairs he went, straddling them two at a time, a habit that he had picked up from his father.  Passing through the parlor then out onto the porch, he joined his mother and brother.  In darkness, they patiently waited for Jason to bring the carriage to the front, and soon he drove it briskly to the portico.  He helped his wife in as John and William climbed into the back seat.  Jason then climbed to the front seat next to his wife; shook the reins, and off they went.

The dance hall, located on the outskirts of town, was about two miles away from their home, or fifteen minutes away by means of carriage.  Apprehensive about the prospects, John remained quiet.  William did not help matters as he drew his finger across his throat each time John glanced in his direction.

At the hall, Jason brought the carriage to a hitching rail.  After he and his sons stepped off, he helped Mary down.  He tied the horse’s reins to the rail, and John glanced up and down the street.  The number of carriages and horses hitched along the street meant a crowd at the dance, and this gave him some solace.  At least he could seek cover if need be.  Mary nudged him, saying, Come, John.  She had a mischievous gleam in her eyes, As we would not want to keep the debutantes... Or Miss Annabelle waiting.

John suspected that she knew more, being one town’s well-known matchmakers.  Frowning, he reluctantly followed her with all the enthusiasm of one dragged by the ear into the dance hall.  She had over the last two years tried to match him up with eligible misses.  They were all good choices; pretty, even if they were debutantes.  John showed no interest, and stuck to his studies as the excuse.

Inside, three magnificent crystal chandeliers lit the dance floor.  Everyone milled about, conversing, waiting for the festivities to begin.  Men wore formal long-tailed coats, black and gray the more common.  Women were lovely in their exquisite inverted tulip shaped hoop skirts.

John glanced about to see if Annabelle had come.  Failing to see her, he thought: Must have changed plans about tonight.  After all, she and her folks probably feel unwelcome at this Yankee dance. Though they had in the past come and were accepted out of curiosity than out of friendship.  He took a deep breath, and a sigh of relief not seeing them.  But his relief was short-lived when he noticed off in one corner a group of debutantes gawking at him.  He cringed as they pointed at him, giggling and whispering to each other.  Oh, the pains of being eligible, he thought.

At the beginning, women stood opposite men, and the men picked their partners.  Married couples started first, the men and their spouses.  Single women could, and often did, coyly refuse potential partners until the man of their fancy chose them.  Before the grand march at the start of the dance, boys followed their elders’ example and selected from the debutantes.  Town matchmakers, John’s mother being one, eyed potential matches.

John hated these dances, and with everyone watching, he considered himself poor at it.  He scanned the dance hall, looking for a partner.  Then he caught sight of her.  Annabelle, separate from the debutantes, stood with her parents and sister.  She saw him.  Her sky blue eyes and engaging smile locked into John’s nervous gaze.  He swallowed hard; his Adam’s apple felt like a stone and would not go down.  Flustered, he feared to approach her, and instead attempted to select another.  His eyes broke from hers as he searched the crowd.  He spied upon Miss Veronica Masters, a local girl with auburn hair, and a clear face graced with lovely green eyes.  Past the debutante age, he at one time had fancied her.  Even the matchmakers tried to put them together, but she had shown no interest in him.  Ah, my choice, he thought, God, I hope she does not refuse me.  He paced across the floor, and approached her.  Miss Veronica? he asked, his heart seemed to rise into his throat.  She turned a cool gaze to him.  May I have the pleasure of this dance?

You may not, John Alexander. she curtly replied, and looked past him to another, who, noticed her, and walked to her side.  At least two years John’s elder, a foreman of a stevedore crew, he was quite handsome, tall, and strong, with finely chiseled features.  Without even a word between them, he took Veronica’s hand.  John stood alone, and watched them take their place on the dance floor.  Rejected, ready to go to the wall to wait the dance out; Annabelle had seen the rejection.  Inwardly, she took no offense at John’s rebuff.  Instead, she approached him to give him another chance.

He saw her coming.  His heart beat faster.  Her graceful ball dress gave her the appearance of floating on air.  She wore a dress of satiny cream-white silk; the edges of its many overlying folds lined with blue lace and silver trim.  Her blue and white satin bodice accentuated her thin hour-glass waist, full breasts, and bare snow-white shoulders upon which cascaded her ebony locks.  Fixed to a blue velvet band around her graceful neck she wore a cameo with a carved rendition of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

When she came closer, as if hypnotized he uttered the words she wanted to hear.  Would you care to dance, Miss Annabelle? he asked, the words having flown out of his mouth against his will.

Why, yeas, Annabelle answered with her enchanting soft Southern drawl, I would be dee’lighted.

Taking her hand, he thought her accent, her voice was expressive, sensuous, a warm smoothness so wonderful to his ears.

Her wide-set eyes were as blue as a summer sky.  Sparkling, clear, and sky blue they were.  Her long black eyelashes, graceful arches of her thin eyebrows, her nose, thin with elegant nostrils that gently arched up then gracefully down to her cheeks entranced him.  Her lips.  Oh my, he thought, what lovely lips she has!  Full.  Pink. Sensuous, soft, and sweet, they were as attractive and inviting as a beautifully shaped pink rose.  He had not been so close to her before and he knew then that no artist could capture her.  No poet could write words clear enough to express the fullness of her radiance, for at that moment, in his eyes she embodied the pure essence of beauty.

After the grand march, the first dance was a fast one.  Then during the Spanish dance, and the Reel, they switched partners, so he did get to dance with Veronica Masters after all.  All the while, his eyes were on Annabelle, and she kept her sight on him.

Several fast dances later, they retired from the dance floor for refreshments.  They sipped punch, and conversing, John studied her features more closely, compelled to look into her eyes, sensing within her a spirit even more lovely than her body.

What is it like in Alabama? he asked.

Smiling, Annabelle spoke softy and said, Cov’uhed with lush green trees, Alabama has large plantations, with cott’n fields as fa’uh as the eyes can see.  An’ all around Mobile, my home, the’uh magnolia trees, some ov’uh seventy feet high.  Oaks, cypress, pines, tropical vines, Spanish moss; so many flowerin’ plants that the ai’uh’s perpetually perfumed.  Wo’uhm, the’uh.  Why, I pray tell, wo’muh the’uh in the wint’uh than he’ah in the summ’uh.  She paused, and took a breath, and smiled radiantly, An’ all the Belles an’ their beaus of class dress in their finest ye’uh round.  Alabama’s a place of uns’uhpassed beauty.  Someday you should go the’uh, John.  She looked directly and admiringly into his eyes.

Tell me, Miss DeMaret... shy, John hesitated, Are all Alabama Belles as lovely, and as beautiful as you?

She blushed.  Yeas... Depends on what you see as beauty.

You are beautiful to me.

Well then, she beamed, now you know at least one Alabama Belle that’s so in yo’ eyes.  She lifted her fan to her lips, yet her eyes betrayed a smile.

John amazed himself, for he had never said such words to a woman before, and as the musicians played a melodic waltz, he slowly, reluctantly turned to see the dancers waltzing beneath the dance hall’s magnificent cut glass chandeliers.

So, Miss DeMaret, what do you think of Maine?

Quick to answer, she said, It’s cold he’ah.  Cold’uh in mo’ ways than one.  You see, we Southa’nahs ain’t accepted he’ah.  An’ I pray tell, took us a mite of cou’age to come he’ah tonight.  You John, howev’uh, ah’ wo’uhm an’ f’en’ly.  Good lookin’; fine as a f’og’s ha’ah split fo’ ways in my eyes.

John blushed and said Frog hair split four ways?

And she said, Means yo’ fine.

Not nearly as good to look at or as fine as you are.  I do not think anyone in Maine that would disagree with me on that point.  He paused to take in her smile.  Despite the political climate, I do not think Mainers dislike Southerners.  Why do you think so?

Because we ah’ slave hold’uhs an’ ou’ critics fail to und’uhstand us.  If we ah’ so bad to ou’ slaves, then why will they not run away, seekin’ sanctua’y he’ah in this abolitionist No’th?  Ou’ folks down South said we leave them the’uh, jus’ to avoid the temptation fo’ them to run.  Well, have they? she asked, then added, We’ve nev’ah shackled, o’ whipped them.  They haven’t reason to flee.  An’ they told us Maine abolitionist folks have approached them offerin’ them the occasion.  Yet even then, they stay with us.  She noticed that she was being overheard, and said loud enough for those listening in on their conversation, Yo’ abolition folk he’ah ov’uhlook that!.

How do you personally feel about slavery, Miss DeMaret?

You needn’t be so fo’mal, John. she answered, her lips graced with that irrepressible smile that he found so captivating.  So, you may call me Annabelle.  Now, my fath’uh an’ I have had no slight dispute ov’uh the South’s peculi’uh institution.  Why, I did say to Fath’uh jus’ the oth’uh day that slaves ah’ people jus’ as ou’selves.  Kindly to keep them happy, treatin’ them well, yet the kindest to do is to free them if that’s what they wish.

Abolition? John muttered.

Annabelle, glancing down, her voice fell to almost a whisper, Abolition’s inevitable.  Yet, it will take time.  Fo’ now the South depen’s on slave labo’ fo’ the sustenance of ou’ way of life.

She surprised John, that she would talk about a subject that he knew most Southerners would find contentiously offensive, and many a duel had been fought over it.  He remembered a few years back that a Southerner had threatened one when met with jeers as he and his slave disembarked from a ship.  Abolitionist sentiments were strong in Bath.

When the musicians played a slow melody, couples on the dance floor embraced each other closely in a waltz.  Annabelle spoke softly, changing the subject.  John, let us dance.

As they stepped back onto the dance floor, he took her hand placing his other hand on the small of her back, and they held each other close as they waltzed more or less in step to the music.  She more.  He less.

John, honey de’ah, she whispered, I do say, I’ll have to show you the prop’uh way.

Yes, ah, ah, you must. Yes.

As they danced to the strains of a slow waltz, they held each other closely, her fragrance filling his heart with the essence of spring.  He noticed William acquainting himself with Annabelle’s younger sister, Varina.  A debutante, with raven hair, sky blue eyes and ivory skin, Varina was almost identical to her sister.  Appearing to enjoy conversing with William at the refreshment table, she nudged him when William turned his attention to the pastries on the table and not to her.  Inwardly John laughed, for if she latched on to William, he would be less apt to goad him later.

Then John saw Stanley McCabe.  Despite being dressed in an appropriately formal suit, he was still the town bully.  His ovations were refused each time he dared to ask a debutante for a dance, and he stood at the wall.  Their eyes locking, John returned Stanley’s hot stare.

Annabelle followed John’s gaze, seeing Stanley, whose brazen contempt glowered in the group of men and boys standing against the wall.  Turning she looked into John’s eyes.  Nev’ah mine’ him.  He’s jus’ a bragg’uhd!  He da’uhed to app’oach me the last dance an’ I brushed him off.  Him bein’ a cow’uhd would nev’ah stan’ to you in a duel.

What! A duel?  What makes you think so? John asked, adding, Stanley McCabe has beaten everyone he has ever challenged.

He’s a bully, a snide uncouth bully, an’ bullies like him ah’ always cow’uhds.  I have seen him lookin’ at me with evil eyes, an’ one of these days, he’ll be put in his place.

John found her words reassuring, though he would not be one to take up Stanley in a challenge.

So John and Annabelle danced, absorbed with each other as if they were the only two on earth.  As they held each other close, John’s dancing improved.  Admired by the town’s matchmakers, they could see a match in the making.  Their charm and grace took all that saw the couple: Annabelle in her lovely ball gown and John in his fashionable English suit.  Her beauty and his handsome looks, they were the epitome of style.  As he danced with her, looking into her eyes, she made him feel vibrant, and alive.  He felt something within him for which he had no words to express, like the emergence of an early spring bloom, a flower that cannot be appreciated until its petals have fully opened.  Her eyes were warm, clear, and calling, and without embarrassment, he gazed into them..."

2  The Fight

LATE INTO the evening John and Annabelle waltzed, and when the dance ended, she reminded him of her promise to give him lessons.  Turning away, Annabelle walked towards her waiting family.  Coyly glancing over her shoulder, she whispered, I would be deeply hon’uh’d, John Alexand’ah, if you see fit to call on me sometime.

Oh, I will, ah, hesitating, he took a breath, and said, consider it as my, ah... Honor.

Lifting the fan she carried, she hid her smile, but not in her eyes.

Annabelle’s father, Nathan DeMaret, studied John with concern.  An imposing man, he stood six feet one inch tall.  He had steel blue eyes, silvery gray hair, and a thick gray mustache with a tuft of beard under his lower lip.  His demeanor was strong, aristocratic, and overbearing.  Dressed in a finely tailored gray frocked suit, and holding a solid gold tipped ebony cane in hand, he looked every bit a stern Southern aristocrat.  Unnerved, John approached Annabelle standing beside him. Until we met again. he whispered, and then he took and kissed her hand.

Annabelle nodded, and then turned to her father.  He gave John an icily look.  We shall see! he said, Adieu’ young man.  Turning to Annabelle, he added, Now, let us go.  Yo’ sist’uh’s seated at ou’ cah’iage, waitin’.  Turning to his wife, Diana, Nathan took her arm.  Seeing Diana, John knew then where Annabelle’s looks came from.  As they left the hall, she and Annabelle glanced over their shoulders,  both giving him that faint irrepressible smile.  John stood alone at the door, watching them as they went to their carriage, glad that he had not missed this dance.

Soon after, the Alexander’s went home.  All the while, John took in rhythmical sounds of horse’s hooves tapping the way home, thinking of the time that he had that night with Annabelle.  Lost in his thoughts, he turned to see William looking out over the dark countryside.  Perhaps the same thing happened to him as happened to me, thought John, and that would serve him right.

Upon arriving home, John went upstairs, going straight to his room.  Striking a match, he lit the kerosene lamp set on his desk.  Blowing the match out, he placed it into a glass tray set near the lamp.  Undressing, he set the articles of his suit over a chair near the window.  Braced by the cool air, he then reached for the night-clothes he had left on the bed that morning.  After slipping into a soft flannel nightgown, he arranged his nightcap so that his hair would be manageable the next morning.  He brushed his teeth at the wash basin set on the dresser.

In a ritual every night, he had a short reading from the Holy Bible.  He sat at his desk, and turning to the lamp advanced the wick and the flame grew illuminating the room.  From the bookshelf above his desk, he took from it his well-worn Bible.  Opening it on the ribbon marker, he picked up where he had previously left off at the Book of Romans.  After a brief reading, he replaced the marker and returned the Bible to the shelf, then snuffed out the lamp’s flame.  Its hot wick smoldered, spreading a pungent odor of kerosene throughout the room.  He groped through the dark to his bed, then fumbled for the covers, and threw them back.  In bed, with his chilled feet under the covers, he pulled the heavy blankets to his chin.  It would take time for the bed to warm up, and all the while, his eyes took in the full Moon’s ice white rays filtering through the window curtains.  The wall clock ticked softly.

John, drifting away, sleep fast approaching, in his mind he saw her again, remembering her fragrance.  Whispering, he pronounced her name.  Annabelle Aurora DeMaret.  With a dreamy sigh, he thought aloud, Oh such a lovely name.  In a mantra, he pronounced her name repeatedly till sleep took him away.

A rooster crowing loudly in a nearby field announced the start of day, and sunlight in warm shafts came in through the window.  He always rose alert and ready to go well before school.  Not so on this day, as he had gone to bed late.  He groped towards the dresser.  There he grabbed the pitcher and poured water into the wash basin and with increasing awareness washed the sleep from his eyes.

He slipped out of his night-clothes and into those for school, all the while considering what might happen later in the day.  Certain that word had spread about his dance with Annabelle, he knew that he would get taunted at school.  Combing his hair, he studied his face in the mirror.  Stanley itched for a fight.  One in the offing, if not this very day, John thought: I am not good at fighting.  The few times I did, I got the short end of it.  With a shudder, he recalled a fight he had when he was thirteen, with a boy named Jesse Jacobs, then the town bully.  Not much of a contest, one solid hit to my stomach... And I am on the ground, choking for breath.  One had to beat Jesse good to get him down.  Many had fought, and all had lost... Till Stanley McCabe beat him to a pulp.  A year after that, on the basis of mutual meanness, Stanley and Jesse became friends.

John considered Annabelle’s suggestion of a duel.  At least that would be dignified, and certainly better than having one’s face re-arranged.  He imagined what a duel would be like.  Daydreaming, he visualized wearing fine dress pants, and a balloon sleeved white silk shirt.  Altogether dignified.  The seconds, also dressed in a fine black frocked suits and top hats, came and asked for his choice of fencing foils or pistols.  He considered the weapons.  All the while, he imagined Annabelle watching, dressed in a lovely yellow satin dress, standing in the distance under his favorite large old oak tree.  He visualized how it would be, motioning with his hands as if examining the fencing foils.  He thought aloud, Much too messy.  Turning to his imaginary antagonist, Stanley McCabe, his own reflection in the full-length mirror in the corner, he muttered aloud. I would not want you to cut my shirt, nor these expensive pants just to do you in, would I now?  Turning to his imaginary second, he stated his choice.  Pistols!  And then he went through the motions of taking the gun from his second’s hand, and then turned to his imagined opponent, Stanley McCabe, in the mirror.

John went to the mirror, turned his back to it, and imagined back to back with Stanley, holding their guns above their shoulders, muzzles in the air.  He said aloud, One, two, three... Mechanically taking a step at each count, his heart beat faster with each pace.  In the mental scene he had created, he glanced at Annabelle, who he imagined standing under the tree.  A worried look in her eyes, her hands clasped together over her bosom, and he called out the paces, seven, eight, nine. At the last pace of ten, he abruptly turned, pointing at the mirror... Two almost simultaneous shots, one from Stanley’s pistol and one from his, which he simulated with puffs.  Through the flame and smoke of his imaginary pistol, he saw Stanley falling, mortally wounded, shot through the heart, never again goading him with his toothy, sneering grin.

As he stood in the corner of his room, facing the mirror in the adjacent corner, he visualized Annabelle running to give him an embrace and a long warm kiss.  A tender expression of her gratitude for defending her honor against the despicable insults of a lowly town bully.  Then, even as this fanciful honorable scene faded from his mind, he thought aloud, And perchance even if I should fall, my fine white shirt stained with my blood, I will go to my end with honor, held in Annabelle’s arms, kissed, my face sprinkled with her tears.

John come down for breakfast!  Mary shouted from downstairs, thus ending his daydream, Otherwise you will not have breakfast before school!

He looked into the mirror again, cringing at the thought of how a beating might change his face.  Turning, he left his room and went down stairs to join his father and brother already seated at the dining room table.  Mary served out generous helpings of buckwheat flapjacks, and strips of crisp bacon.  As she set the table, John served himself a cup of fresh brewed coffee.  He added a spoonful of sugar, stirred it in, and then savored the aroma before taking a sip.

Disgusted, William said, I fail to see how you can stand that mud water.  Mary glared at him.  Shaking his head disapprovingly, William added, Tastes, like water from the horse pond after the horses tramped through it.

Now, now! Mary said.

When you become a man you acquire a man’s tastes. quipped John condescendingly, Seems you still have a way to go.  Since when have you drunk from the horse pond, Brother? and he gave William a jab to the ribs.

Mother John turned to her. Your coffee is fine.

Jason glanced at his sons, and laughed. Seems to me that both of you still have a lot of growing up to do.  If I have any say in this matter, babies you are till you have been to sea.  Furthermore, till you have whiskers to shave off you are not a man.

John stroked his chin and Jason and William broke out into laughter.

In a testy mood, William remarked, Father, do you think John will avoid a fight today?  I wager he and Annabelle are the talk of town.  Boy, he will be in for it!

You ought not to take a caution about me!  John retorted, As you will have your own hands full enough.  After all, you were with Varina last night.  So your lot will be none less worse than mine.  William’s face flushed, and for once John felt a measure of satisfaction at having turned his taunt.

Jason chortled, I hear that Southern Belles have a knack for making boys grow up fast, or not at all.  He gave a solemn look and advice.  Take a caution; do not let them push you into duels.  Walk or crawl away from a fist fight; not from a duel.

John’s mind flashed on his earlier daydream, dying on the ground, his head resting on Annabelle’s lap, held in her arms, his face sprinkled with her tears.  With color flushing from his face, turning, he glanced at William, noting that he had a somber look, and Jason gave a hearty laugh at their expense.

What is all this silly talk of fighting and duels? Mary said, And why all the conflict when young men go courting?

COURTING! the brothers, shouted in unison.  It had not yet dawned on them that they were doing that, and the word seemed grossly inappropriate.

Mary continued, Miss Annabelle and Varina DeMaret are the finest young ladies in the township!  And both of you should consider yourselves very fortunate that they have seen fit to fancy the likes of you two.  They simply do not know what I know.

With nervous looks, the brothers glanced at each other as their parents laughed.  With the notion of