Weatherill Farm

By Gary Logan and Maria del Carmen Irizarry-Rodríguez

Weatherill Farm is the long awaited prequel to The Last Magical Year. Discover the passion of this wonderful piece of historic fiction, then hold on tight as romance, espionage, deceit and treachery converge on the greatest military flanking movement in history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387768318

Book preview

Weatherill Farm

Weatherill Farm

By

Gary Logan

María del Carmen Irizarry-Rodríguez

Copyright 2018, Gary Logan, all rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-387-76831-8

Published by L.R. World Productions, LLC

DISTRIBUTED BY LULU.COM

Weatherill Farm is a work of fiction.  Names,

characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,

or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Preface

Weatherill Farm is a prequel to our first novel, The Last Magical Year, and originates the Hispanic and Anglo family saga of war and romance.  Once again I have enjoyed the enormous experience of working alongside my great friend, María, whose husband, José (equally my great friend) has graciously allowed me to spend hours and hours with her during our stated projects.

The book unfurls in a Civil War setting and centers on the Battle of Chancellorsville in 1863.  It traces a wealthy cavalry officer’s forbidden love affair with a beautiful young Puerto Rican lady, which brings the unbearable wrath of the officer’s powerful and bigoted mother.  The story once again conveys the inseparable bond forged by the main characters leading up to the epic battle and the struggles both face with the issues of loyalty, prejudice and diverse cultures. 

Again, María and I believe we have weaved a memorable romance into a novel that includes a breath-taking amount of treachery, deceit and espionage.  Our efforts have produced a work of fiction that culminates with, arguably, the greatest military flanking movement in history.  In some cases we have altered or enhanced facts and events for literary effect.  These items have been shaped to fit a fictional narrative that is painstakingly accurate in scope and detail. 

As usual, it has always been our stated goal to draw readers’ interest to a particular historical event with the hope it will send them to the history books.

But for now, please enjoy Weatherill Farm.

- Gary Logan

For my first wife of nine years, Cheryl, who sadly passed away in December 2017, following an extended illness.  She was my high school sweetheart, my college girlfriend … and, a Navy wife. 

…

Please rest dearly, Honey, and know that I take the bullet for this one.

Gary

Preface

Weatherill Farm, our second published novel, was actually written before The Last Magical Year, which, as fate would have it, was published first.  However, I believe this turn of events was most fortunate.  The circumstances of World War II are fresher in the readers’ minds, having taken place roughly 70 years ago, as opposed to events that occurred during the American Civil War, which occurred approximately 150 years prior.  Nevertheless, the lessons learned by previous generations must be re-learned by the upcoming ones, lest we run the risk of committing the same mistakes again.

Just as we did for The Last Magical Year, Gary and I worked diligently at meshing the most accurate historical accounts into our fictional narrative.  The beauty of the land and the grandeur of the plantation homes are described in attentive detail.  Likewise, the brutal and cruel conditions in the battle fields – mankind’s inhumanity toward mankind – are also addressed, with sensitivity, as well as with painful accuracy.

While conducting our research, I was pleasantly surprised to discover historical documents verifying the participation of Puerto Ricans during the American Civil War.  Of particular interest are the records pertaining to a Lieutenant Augusto Rodríguez (no known relation) who served in the 15th Connecticut Volunteer Infantry.  Records show Lieutenant Rodríguez defended Washington D.C., and as Division Commander, led his men during the Battle of Fredericksburg and the Battle of Wyse Fork.  He was awarded the Army Civil War Campaign Medal after three years of service. Lieutenant Rodríguez has been recognized as the first known Puerto Rican veteran of the U.S military. His grave is located in New Haven, CT.  

This information is very exciting to me, as it adds credibility to our story line – and to our lead female character, Isabela – whose life spans from the Civil War in Weatherill Farm, to WWII in The Last Magical Year.  Incidentally, Isabela is modeled after my grandmother, María Rodríguez Rivera, who, it has been said, was one of the most beautiful women of the central mountainous area of Puerto Rico, and who was fiercely courageous.  It is rumored that, as a very young widow living by herself with five young children, she shot a man who was threatening her two daughters’ virtue.  I have never been able to corroborate the story, but relish the thought that it be true.

As with The Last Magical Year, it is my sincere hope that readers will be transported in time and experience the joy, and the despair, of Weatherill Farm.

- María C. Irizarry-Rodríguez

For my husband José, my best friend.

For our daughters, Angeli and Harumi, and our

grandchildren, Adan, Ava and Ariana…

May you always love to study history

and learn from it.

Makiki

Our heartfelt gratitude is extended to our wonderful friend,

Henry Livingston, Author/Artist/Actor, for his technical assistance in the production of this novel.

Thanks, ‘Doc.’

Gary Logan and María C. Irizarry-Rodríguez

have spent their careers in the U.S. Intelligence arena.  Mr. Logan is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Wilmington.  Mrs. Irizarry-Rodríguez is a graduate of the University of Puerto Rico and a post-graduate of the U.S. Naval War College. Both authors reside with their families in Florida.

Contact the authors at:  [e-mail]

"No matter how long you live,

life runs out the clock on you."

- Logan

In the end,

"… these three remain: faith, hope and love.

But the greatest of these is love."

1 Corinthians 13:13

Weatherill Farm

by

Gary Logan

María del Carmen Irizarry-Rodríguez

Part One

The Finest Horsemen

Chapter 1

1938

Near Lares, Puerto Rico

It was the wet season in the Central Mountains and the clay path – road – leading high up to the old plantation home was all but impassable.  Light years, it seemed, from the sunny days and cool nights of autumn’s harvest season when tree-shaded coffee shrubs stretched as far as the eye could see.

The horses struggled to their limits to pull the old wagon upward through the bottomless, swallowing, red mud.  The driver – a poor farmer – shook the reins furiously, praying all would make it to the top.  With churning nerves and a fearful glance at his companion seated next to him, he stammered, A quarter-mile, Francisco.  A quarter-mile to Hacienda Castillo – the plantation’s old home place.  A quarter-mile and we start back.

The wagon struck a small boulder, lurching perilously from side to side.

"Ave María, Francisco, we may not make it!"

If we have to push it to the top, we will make it! Francisco affirmed, with fists clinched.  We carry the Lady of Spain!

Yes, Francisco, the driver whispered, the Lady of Spain, or so it is said.  Is she steady? The poor woman is near one-hundred years old.

Francisco glanced cautiously back to the floor of the wagon.

"Sí, señor.  She is old, yet she sits erect – fearless.  The jíbaros hold her steady.  They are loyal and strong.  If those bean pickers have to carry her to the top, they will," he assured.

We must not fail, Francisco.  We have been carefully chosen for this role.  The great mother must take her position at the old home place.  It is the Castillo way.  It is a great honor to help place her there.

Sí.  I have heard she was here many years ago as a small child.  That she comforted her own great grandmother.  That they would visit for hours together.

Yes, Francisco.  Tradition holds that the family’s grand matriarch is always brought to live out her final years at the old home place, high above the new plantation home.  And she is to be visited by all the young Castillo children.  In many ways it is a pilgrimage – a rite of passage – to do so.

Who will care for our great Lady of Spain?

I am told there are people, relatives perhaps, the driver shrugged.

You must tell me all you know about her!  For it is said that once she is placed at the old hacienda, nobody outside the family sees her.

The driver’s eyes shifted cautiously.  I know enough to know that she brings gringo blood to this place.

"Gringo?"

Shh, Francisco, she will hear you!

"But this cannot be, señor.  An old jíbaro told me himself that her family arrived from Spain two centuries ago.  Gringo blood would bring decadence – dishonor – to the family."

I will tell you this, Francisco, so you may judge for yourself: As a young lady she was sent to the United States for schooling and would often spend summers at an estate in the territory of Virginia.  When the great Civil War erupted, she served in a valuable position … her exact role is not known.

A nurse, señor? he guessed.  It would have been an honored position.

Perhaps, Francisco … perhaps, the driver noted with some disdain.  Only the grand old lady knows.  And she has never spoken of it.

She had to have been a nurse, Francisco persisted.  For there is nothing else that would suit a lady of her stature.

Sí, the driver grumbled, while tussling with the team, we will allow she was a nurse.  Exasperated by Francisco’s petulance, he continued, She fell in love with an officer in the cavalry –

"In love?"

The driver raised a fist in anger.  I told you to be quiet, Francisco! he warned in a low, guarded voice.

Sorry, señor.

She must not hear us talking.  Do you understand?

Sí.

As I said, he continued carefully through the corner of his mouth, she fell in love with a cavalry officer …  the driver’s lips trembled.  He sighed, as if he could go no further.

Please, Francisco begged quietly, you must tell me, you must!

The driver lashed the team on, praying for the sight of the old hacienda.  It was late in the day, he feared.  Maybe too late!

Disappointed, Francisco was certain he had heard all he was going to hear and settled precariously onto the wagon’s harsh wooden seat.  A few moments later he was jolted by the driver’s words.

… a cavalry officer from the Southern forces.

The Southern forces?  Francisco inquired, incredulously.

Sí, a gringo of Irish descent.

Francisco’s eyes widened with scorn.  "An Irishman?" he sputtered.

And their union produced a child.

At that moment the grand matriarch’s eyes fixed on the driver.  Somehow he felt her scorching stare, as a cold chill scaled his spine.

I will say nothing else!

II

From the flatbed of the wagon, a jíbaro spotted the old cedar planked home that rested comfortably on five-foot-high wooden stilts.

Señor, he proclaimed, we are here!

The driver gulped in relief.  Good.  Make ready for the transfer.

The men were met by a pious, sedate young woman.  Lift Abuela Isabela carefully, she instructed.  We will put her in the grand bedroom.

"No-no!" the stately Isabela protested feebly, then motioned with her only arm – a claw-like appendage – to a rocker on the large veranda.

There, she was carefully placed, and, for the first time, the driver realized that she was also missing a leg.  Perhaps the ravages of age, he thought.  He noted that her black ankle boot was now speckled clay red.  She was covered from her head to toe in black muslin. 

Isabela eyed the wagon, the jíbaros … the driver.  What could be seen through the lines in her withered, sunken face suggested a sense of gratitude.  Yet the sight dredged sordid memories from deep within her.  She realized that the light of day was fading and, with it, whatever courage remained in the driver’s soul.  The men needed to get down the mountain before dark.  For there was danger to be stranded in the night.  And, they had families.

She motioned the driver to leave, leave now!

Let’s go, Francisco!  the driver anxiously ordered.

Isabela must have been a daunting sight to the jíbaros as their wagon moved away.  Alone on the veranda like a leafless, dying tree on a bare hillside, with holes where delicate limbs once flourished.

She observed the men carefully.  The jíbaros were a ragged lot, she thought.  Yet their stock in pride and loyalty shone forth a proud people.

As if it were inevitable, her gaze crept reluctantly downward toward the wagon’s fragile wheels, encased in the smothering mud.  A sight that made her flesh crawl.  She gasped, covering her quivering jaw with her only hand.  Under a low roll of thunder, in the shadow of La Torre Hill, her eyes swelled with mist as her mind journeyed to an earlier time.

Chapter 2

December 1862

Fredericksburg, VA

At Weatherill Farm a cold wind dispersed the morning fog, laying bare its gentle Virginia slopes.  On the grand veranda at the main house butler Tom Washington held his collar tight against the frigid air.  Before him, frost coated acreage shimmered in the bright sun as far as the eye could see.  The lush pastures, where thoroughbreds once stomped and snorted with smoke-like breath, were empty.  Where hay, grain and corn were once abundant on the south property the cowbells had gone quiet.  The buildings needed tending and the fences needed painting.  Tom Washington’s thoughts, though covetous of a time when the aroma of wood-burning stoves flooded the atmosphere, were drawn unavoidably to events east of the farm.  Winter gon’ bees hard dis yeer, he observed in a low, worried tone, … not as hard as fo’ dey boys ats dey town over ways.

Twelve miles away, at Fredericksburg, the morning fog still hung protectively over the open ground a day after the battle.  A gray-white covering that provided some measure of respect for the dead.  By 10:30, viewed from higher ground, swollen bodies appeared to float skyward in spots as the sun burned into the smothering mist.

By the middle of December 1862, the Civil War had raged for close to twenty months.  Under pressure from President Lincoln, the Union Army of the Potomac had advanced to Fredericksburg.  General Ambrose Burnside was expected to sweep through the opposition and press toward the ultimate prize, the Southern capital at Richmond.  But the opposition’s leader, Robert E. Lee, along with Generals Longstreet and one they called Stonewall, cleverly drew the bulk of Burnside’s army west of town into the lowlands of the Rappahannock and butchered it from the heights.

Proud Yankee infantry had poured out from in and around the town and onto the plain.  Tens of thousands in solid blue columns, their bayonets sparkling in the sun.  Burnside’s Grand Division, brigade after brigade, hurled piecemeal against Marye’s Heights and that imposing stone wall 800 yards away.  Rebel artillery covered all the approaches, blowing whole units apart, but it was the solid flame of musketry laid down by Lee’s infantry that ended matters.

Hundreds and hundreds lined the trenches, three to four deep in the pits.  A man would fire and step to the rear.  By the time the others had stepped up in order and fired, he had poured powder, rammed a cartridge down the hot barrel and was firing again.  It was the rate of point blank machine gun fire directed at men who stood shoulder to shoulder in clusters with no cover except for the bone and flesh of those who fell in droves before them.

The .58 caliber rifled musket, with its deadly Minié ball, could kill at over half a mile and 7,000 Federals fell.  The renowned Irish Brigade staggered across the frozen mud to within twenty-five paces of the wall.  Many who shot them down in sheets of flames creating hurricane force winds were also of Irish descent, ’cept we wuz Twenny-Fawth Georgia!   It should have been the last clear indictment of linear tactics.

Lee, calm and resplendent in the most arduous of circumstances, was heard to say: It is well that war is so terrible.  We should grow too fond of it!  Once again the smaller, under equipped Army of Northern Virginia had shocked the world.  Once again Lee had saved Richmond and hurled back the invaders.  Hurled back northward.  Hurled back across the Rappahannock.

The extent of the carnage would not completely surface until the fog lifted and burial details began their gruesome tasks.  No one there would ever forget the sight, the smell or the indignity of endless heaps of twisted, bloated, blackened – unrecognizable – humans.  These were fathers, sons, brothers, uncles, cousins and nephews who meant something dear to someone – somewhere.  But for now, in the early hours of morning, their dignity was preserved by nature’s gentle white shield.

Beneath the fog was an obscure, murky void.  A dead sea shifting the sands of insanity, cradling lost generations.  In this surreal region, somewhere between heaven and hell, voices could be faintly heard.  Voices from the dead.

It was pure shit damn Rebs poured down on us… dropped whole sections at once.

Yep, old Bobby Lee done fooled us good, came a sound of disappointment and loss.  It was a mangled corpse protruding from a hoard of deceased.  The exposed bone on the severed left arm of this father of three stuck like a spear into the freezing mud.  The open palm of his other hand asked for salvation.  Please, General, call it off…ain’t no army born that’ll crack that wall.

So it went, all down the line.  Seems all had something to say.

A young Lieutenant, the promising nephew of a New York banker, lay neatly across the rigid soil.  Handsome as a morning’s dawn, save for the holes shot through his skull.  Oh, Emily, wait for me!

Virgil, the twenty-three year old standard bearer of the Irish Brigade, and cousin of a boy in the Fifth Michigan Infantry, was entangled with another corpse.  His distended right leg presented three bone crushing punctures.  Having bled to death, he was the worst kind: A bloodless corpse.

Next to Virgil a lone Confederate sat slightly hunched with his hands clasped between his legs as if warming himself beside a fire.  Wounded atop the stone wall, he staggered into the Yankee dominated mist to die.  His eyes fixed vengefully on Virgil.

Whatcha lookin’ at, Johnny Reb?  Virgil barked.

I’m lookin’ at more o’ yous than us!

Shutcha ass mouth! hollered Virgil, angrily.  We want Richmond and were gonna get it.

Nah ya ain’t!

Virgil – the bloodless corpse – was filling with uncontrollable rage and became louder and louder.  Why not?

Cuz we want ya outta our land.  That’s why we flat creamed ya at this here Fredrick’burg.  ‘Sides, you Billies ain’t goodnuff.  It’ll take a sight more than ole Burnside done showed us.

"Then we’ll goddam for sure get us a new general, Johnny.  He’ll find our boys another way to come… Go to hell, Johnny!"

Ain’t over yet! the Reb said bluntly.

Whatcha mean, ‘ain’t over yet?’   Virgil growled.  Cantcha see?  We done got licked proper.  Ain’t nobody left but us and them damn gawkin’ burial details and they’ll leave us be to rest in peace for a bit.  But I expect our boys ‘ill reform and pitch into Bobby Lee again – come spring.

Old Jack gonna get left on ya, fer sher, said the Reb, arrogant and proud.

"Old Jack?" Virgil inquired cautiously.

Hell yeah, replied the Reb, and you ought be scared.

"Taint scared, we’re dead!  Virgil’s next words were delivered with quivering doubt.  Dead don’t know no scared!"

"You’ll be scared!  So scared you’d run fast as ya could fo’ the other side o’ that river – if’en ya was alive an’ had good legs – an’ tell old Burnside and the boys to stay across that damn cold-ass river an’