The Civil War within Jonathan Pierson: A Novel of the Civil War in East Tennessee

By James R Taylor III

During the American Civil War no portion of the conflict was contested more savagely or more divisively than that which was fought in East Tennessee. More than any other time in our history truly this was a war of "brother against brother, father against son."

 

By and large the people of East Tennessee saw themselves

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781947938533

James R Taylor III

Although born in Virginia, James R. Taylor has spent most of his life living in the Greater Cincinnati Area which serves as the background for Bits and Pieces. After matriculating from Georgetown College and Xavier University, his career was spent in various professions including criminal justice, technical recruiting and retail management. He has always had a life-long interest in local and social history. By making Bits and Pieces a period piece set in the local area, he has tried to incorporate much of the flavor and life of Cincinnati in the 1890's. With his wife and three cats, the author is retired and lives in Cheviot. Bits and Pieces is his second published work.

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Prologue

During the American Civil War no portion of the conflict was contested more savagely or more divisively than that which was fought in East Tennessee. More than any other time in our history truly this was a war of brother against brother, father against son.

By and large the people of East Tennessee saw themselves as separate from the rest of the state. Few were slave holders or even allied themselves with the South. They had voted heavily against secession. The majority of East Tennesseans were suspicious and resentful of those who did favor the South. Though there were few pitched battles fought in East Tennessee, the savagery of bushwhacking, bridge burnings, lynchings and reprisals proved just as costly in terms of lives lost and property destroyed. In the end, the formerly prosperous country had been devastated by both Union and Confederate armies. The wounds laid open by the war took many generations to heal.

Though the characters and their descriptions have been fictionalized, the events depicted are not. These incidents are all part of the history of the region in this troubled time.

Chapter One

Jonathan Pierson had every right to be proud. After all, hadn’t Adeline, his wife, given him two fine sons and he hoped was about to present him with a third? He stood on the veranda, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back and squinted into the simmering heat of that August afternoon in 1846.

Stretched out in the valley below him fields of corn, wheat and tobacco enclosed by snaking split rail fences stood golden awaiting the scythe or corn knives of his slaves and hired men.

Apples hung from the trees in his orchards waiting to be pressed into cider. In the north pasture down by the Holston River cattle grew fat grazing.

Also arrayed out below him were the barns and other out buildings that made up the farm and beyond that clustered like in a small village were the white washed slave cabins.

It had not always been this way. Jonathan had been told stories of how his grandfather Absalom Pierson had first come to Carter’s Valley, the valley of the Holston, from North Carolina. That was in the 1750’s.

Like many of his Scot clansmen, Absalom had challenged the English king once too often. Though he had escaped the killing fields of Culloden, his ancestral lands were gone and he was forced with his brothers to flee to the New World. The five brothers had settled in what was now North Carolina. With true Scottish pragmatism they set about rebuilding their lives.

For a while things were fine. The brothers had married and settled down on their farms to grow tobacco. But Absalom was not one to stay settled. Hunters and traders who had visited his farm had told him about lands to the West beyond the mountains. He just had to go and see for himself. Being now a widower, he left his youngest in the care of his brothers and with his oldest son and two like-minded friends had headed west.

Jonathan’s father Adam had told him the story of how he, a young boy of twelve, had joined his father and a few friends on their trek. They found what they were looking for by the Holston River in what was now Hawkins County, Tennessee. They were some of the first to settle in Carter’s Valley.

Of course it was not Hawkins County then. It was Indian Country. The Cherokee were already living there and they took exception to the white man’s encroachment.

The Holston was a fine stream of clear water that found its source in Virginia but meandered across what would become East Tennessee until it joined the French Broad River near the future town of Knoxville to form the Tennessee River. The Tennessee would continue its wanderings generally West until it flowed into the Ohio and finally into the Mississippi.

But that was neither here nor there. The Piersons and their friends built rough cabins, girdled some trees, planted corn and survived.

Over the years they prospered. They made their peace with the Indians. This means they killed more of them than the Indians were able to kill in return. Finally the Cherokee and other red men were maneuvered off the map far to the West. What was once wilderness became settled. North Carolina (of which Tennessee then was a part) became part of the United States.

Absalom did his part for American Independence at a place called King’s Mountain. Still later Hawkins became part of the new state of Tennessee.

Adam grew to manhood and married Abigail Frazier. In an era of big families and lots of children Adam and Abby were different. She was his spring flower – pale and delicate. Jonathan would be their only child.

Jonathan was all that loving parents could want. As he grew to manhood he was a prime figure. He stood well over six feet three and weighed over three hundred-twenty pounds. He towered head and shoulders over his friends. True to his Scots’ heritage, he had red hair and beard both of which he kept closely cropped. Jonathan’s beard was now streaked with grey and his hair had a bit of grey in it, too. But he was as strong as the black bear he still liked to hunt and he would dare any man to prove him wrong.

Of Jonathan there was a bit of horse trader about him and not a little business skill. It was not long before he had expanded the family farm to over a thousand acres. He was by far the largest land owner in Hawkins County and one of the wealthiest.

On his land he grew wheat and corn some of which he ground into meal or turned into flour at his mills. Before the railroad came and made everything easier, he shipped his crops down river by flat boat to the growing town of Knoxville. Some of his corn he distilled into whiskey. The apples from his orchards he pressed into cider. His pigs became hams an bacon; d much of his beef to salt horse which he sold to the government or people going west.

To run his farm Jonathan hired men from the surrounding area. But when there were no more men to hire he bought slaves.

Slaves were something new to Hawkins. True, old Judge Wampler had two, an old couple who kept his house and drove him around in his carriage. But Pierson had fifteen or twenty. Granted, he treated them well. The slaves lived in little cottages on his farm and seemed happy enough. But owning someone didn’t set well with these mountain people. Besides, as most just got by, he lived in a big house and rode blooded horses, which didn’t set too well either.

It wasn’t that the people of East Tennessee were that partial to the nigrahs. It was just that the planters in the mid and western part of the state had slaves to run their plantations and they also ran the Statehouse in Nashville. The mountain people didn’t like being told what they could and could not do. Being dictated to stuck in a lot of men’s throats and Pierson was too like those planters for his own good. That’s what they said behind his back.

Jonathan didn’t pay any mind to what his neighbors thought. Back in Scotland his forefathers held tight to their ancestral lands. Those who dwelt nearby paid homage to the Piersons. He felt the same way here except he didn’t have to pay homage to any prince.

As Jonathan stood there on his porch this hot afternoon he was truly lord and master of his kingdom. Adeline had already given him two fine sons. Now she would grace him with a third.

Jonathan had given his first born fine Roman names. Horace was the oldest. Built like his father he was a tall, stripling youth with the same ruddy complexion.

Horace was twelve. Hannibal came along eleven months later. He, too, was built like a bear though his hair was dark like his mother’s.

For a long time it seemed that that would be it. Adeline was getting along in years. She was nearing forty. Jonathan was close to fifty. Then back in February she gave him the news that life was again growing within her.

It proved to be a long and hard pregnancy. The summer was one of the hottest folks could remember. Adeline spent as much time as she could resting in the cool dampness of the icehouse.

The ice harvested last winter was about gone. There was not much left for lemonade served in the deep shade of the front porch. But still its coolness offered refuge from the heat of the late summer sun.

Addie went into labor late on a Sunday night. Jonathan got Kate, who was their housekeeper, to sit with her. Kate made her as comfortable as possible in the back bedroom. She bathed her face with cool water and held her hand when the contractions came.

Massa Jon, she said. She need de doctor. Dis baby ain’t comin’ easy.

I’ll have Amos get Doc Martin, Jonathan responded with a worried look now starting to furrow his forehead.

Kate and Amos were together. One could say that they were married except that they were slaves.

Aunt Kate as every one called her, though her name belied heritage, kept house for Jonathan and his family. Kate was a new mother herself having just given birth two months ago to a son.

Kate was in her late twenties, big boned and buxomly. She stood about five and a half feet. Her skin was the color of coffee taken black. She wore her wooly hair closely cropped. Ever much the dynamo, she cooked, managed the house and saw to it that the rest of the servants did their jobs with perfect efficiency.

She and Amos had named their son Joel. Joel was asleep in a wooden box just outside the birthing room door.

Jonathan had purchased Amos and Kate as a pair from his cousin Ed Walker over in White County about eight years earlier. He paid Ed $2,500 for both. He had bought Amos sight unseen on Ed’s word. He felt that he got a good deal.

Amos was about 35. He stood about six feet with broad shoulders and enormous forearms. He was built like a blacksmith which indeed he could do.

Amos was much lighter skinned than his wife. If he was also compared to coffee, he was heavily laced with cream. Amos knew how to write some and could do figures.

Jonathan really didn’t want to buy Kate but when he took possession of Amos and saw the pained expression on his face that they might be parted, he relented. After all, Jonathan was told that she could cook and he was looking for someone to help Addie out with the house.

When it came to his slaves everyone said Jonathan was a soft touch. Many other slave owners said that he had way too soft a heart. But then that was Jonathan.

The purchase of both proved to be wise choice. It didn’t take Jonathan long to discover that Amos was smart and faithful. He proved to be a hard worker and a leader. It wasn’t too long before Jonathan had Amos working as his overseer.

Amos soon found himself the boss over not only the Pierson slaves but some of the white hired hands.

Needless to say, this did not go over well with some of the whites who objected strenuously to taking orders from a damn nigrah.

Jonathan set them straight. They could either take their orders from Amos or get the hell off my property and stay off.

Most of the hired help took him at his word and quit though a few stayed on. Jonathan didn’t care. He just added to his stable of slaves and kept on about his business. But it was another black mark in his neighbors’ book against him.

Amos, Kate and Joel lived in a cabin close to the main house alongside the summer kitchen. It was larger than the other slave cabins having two floors with four rooms on the ground floor and two large rooms above. A large stone fireplace was built into each end. Next to it was a vegetable garden that Kate tended and in front some flowers grew. Like all the out buildings it bore a coat of whitewash. This had once been the cabin in which Jonathan was born.

Absalom had built this cabin with his bare hands, fashioning it from squared-off chestnut logs. He and Adam had lived here. It was to this cabin that Adam had first brought his bride. As a little boy Jonathan remembered playing on the doorstep. It would also be to this cabin that Jonathan would first bring his bride Addie.

The field gang was just returning from a long day in the fields harvesting the wheat. Several of the men were carrying seethes on their shoulders.

Amos was walking with them. The band on his battered hat was stained with sweat as was the back of his shirt. There was little to distinguish him from the crew he led. Jonathan had walked down toward the barn as he saw them returning and called to Amos.

Amos, can you grab a horse ‘n’ ride over to Church Hill and fetch Doc Martin? Addie’s havin’ her baby and is havin’ a hard time of it.

Yes, sir, Amos replied as he changed direction and started trotting toward the stables. Is there anything else you want me to tell Doc?

Just tell him to get a move on it! Jonathan yelled with a definite sense of urgency in his voice.

I’ll be as quick as I can, Amos called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the darkness of the stalls.

All of the horses had already been unsaddled, curried, fed and watered for the night. Amos quickly bridled and threw a saddle on Ben, a chestnut gelding he often rode about the farm. He led him back outside, then quickly mounted.

Do hurry! Jonathan called after him as Amos put the spurs to Ben and they galloped off.

Church Hill was a little hamlet that stood about a mile and a half up the road that ran through the Pierson farm.

It was little more than a couple of houses grouped about Woodson’s Mere tile, the general store at a crossroads. True to its name there was a Presbyterian Church and also a white clapboarded one roomed school. At the edge of the settlement was the whistle-stop train station, newly built for the East Tennessee and Virginia Railway.

Doc’s was the largest house. It set back off the dirt road surrounded by maples. The carriage house, where the doctor kept his buggy, was set off to the right.

Amos made the ride in less than ten minutes. Galloping up to the front of the doctor’s house, he leaped from the saddle. Not bothering to hitch Ben to the rail, he ran up on the porch and began to pound on the door.

Doc Martin and his wife had just sat down to an early supper when the couple heard the frantic sounds of horse hooves followed by a pounding on the front door.

Never fails, Martin exclaimed in a bothered manner, wiping his mouth with his napkin. Just as we were sitting down to eat… He didn’t finish the sentence.

Still clutching his napkin, he pushed back from the dinner table. I’ll go see what they want.

He walked out of the kitchen where they were eating, through the dining room and across the front room to the door. He opened it to see a familiar black face standing there, hat in hand.

Amos…

Before Dr. Martin could say more Amos blurted out, Massa said come quick. Miss Pierson is havin’ a baby and she havin’ trouble.

Doc Martin asked a couple of quick questions and soon realized that his caller had no other information.

You wait right here. I just need to tell my wife where I am going and get my bag.

In less than a minute Doc was back. He had grabbed his coat and satchel and put on his hat. They walked quickly to the carriage house where Amos helped him hitch his gray mare to his dog cart.

You go ride on ahead and tell your master that I’ll be there as quickly as I can, Martin told him as he put his bag in behind the seat and climbed into his conveyance.

Amos ran back to where Ben was still standing patiently and swiftly galloped back the way he had just come.

The doctor flicked his whip over the horse’s back and trotted off down the road toward the Pierson farm.

Chapter Two

Dr. Uriah Martin was not a native of Hawkins County. Indeed, he was not a native of Tennessee.

He was born in Philadelphia just before the century ended. Before the Revolution, his father had been a well known Quaker physician in Philadelphia. Always true to his Quaker beliefs, the elder Martin had refused to fight in The War of Independence.

This, and a sneaking suspicion among his patients that he was a secret Tory, had cost him a lot of his practice. But the elder Dr. Martin still had a loyal following and was able to continue to make a living, all be it under reduced circumstances.

In his youth Uriah was unsure if he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps.

First, he had gone to sea for two years as an ordinary seaman. The would-be seaman soon decided that a life before the mast was not for him. Back home, he studied medicine under his father for two years. Then Uriah had gone to Boston to finish his schooling.

Schooling done, Uriah returned to Philadelphia where he practiced briefly with his father. A paucity of patients made it hard to sustain even one physician, so he moved on.

Doc Martin bounced from pillar to post as he called it acquiring a taste for hard likker along the way before he settled in the hills of East Tennessee.

Strangely his practice among the hill folk did better than his father’s back in Philadelphia. He couldn’t compete with the granny ladies in birthing babies but he did a fair job of stitching up gunshot wounds and setting broken bones.

His physician’s satchel was full of the usual 19th Century doctor’s nostrums. Foremost of which was blue mass, the mercury containing compound which he dispensed for everything from constipation to the pain of childbirth to tuberculosis and rheumatism. This was followed close behind by laudanum. A few doses of this extract of the poppy were good for what ails you. After a few deep draws on the bottle of this elixir one really didn’t care how they felt. If nothing else, Doc Martin kept his patients happy.

By this description please do not assume that Doctor Martin was just another country doctor. He had settled in this Switzerland of the South as its promoters called East Tennessee, because he liked the area and its people and he was married to a local girl. Doc Martin subscribed to all the medical journals available both from the United States and Europe. In addition to English he was fluent in German and French. He carried on a constant and lively correspondence with some of the best medical minds of his day.

Doc Martin always insisted on washing his hands before he worked on a patient. He also sterilized his medical instruments in boiling water before he used them and made liberal use of alcohol as an antiseptic.

As a result he killed far fewer patients than most of his contemporaries. He was also one of the few doctors to use chloroform in his operations. There was no bite the bullet if the Doc could help it.

After about fifteen minutes, Dr. Uriah Martin pulled up before the Pierson house. A hurried Jonathan ran down from the porch to greet him.

Before Doc could climb down off his carriage Pierson had his hand extended.

So glad you could come, Doc. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important.

Just my supper, the doctor replied, beginning to feel that empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that he had hoped by now would have been satisfied with his wife’s fried chicken.

She’s in the back room. My servant Kate is with her. She went into labor early this morning and so far nothing has happened, Jonathan explained as he showed the doctor into the parlor and pointed to a closed door that was through the room and across the hall.

He opened the door to reveal his wife lying on an iron bed. Addie looked up and stared feebly as she heard the door open.

Without her glasses which were lying on the table, all Addie could make out was a blur. All she was wearing was a white, flannel nightgown and it was soaked in sweat. Kate was standing over her with the wet cloth in her hand with which she had been bathing Addie’s forehead.

In spite of the heat, the windows were closed and the drapes pulled. A lamp on the table provided the only light.

Miz. Pierson, the doctor said walking toward her. I’m Dr. Martin. How do you feel?

All worn out, Addie answered weakly.

We will see what we can do about helping you with this baby, the doctor said in a reassuring voice.

Then he turned to Jonathan. Wait outside. When I know something, I’ll come tell you.

Then turning to Kate he commanded, Get me a basin of water, please.

The two did as they were told. As the door closed the doctor knelt beside Addie. Touching her gown he said in gentle tones, Let’s see how far along you are.

6

For Jonathan, waiting in the parlor, the tension was becoming unbearable. Horace and Hannibal had joined him in his vigil.

The boys had been outside all day enjoying the late summer sun, swimming in the river.

Becoming hungry and not having had anything since midday, they had come back to the house looking for supper. Not finding Aunt Kate in the kitchen they went looking and found their father sitting anxiously in the parlor.

Jonathan had sent them back to the summer kitchen and told them to eat some cold cornbread lathered with peach butter, and buttermilk.

The boys had grabbed a few bites and now were back with their father. They whispered between themselves but were careful not to speak in too loud of voice lest their father yell at them.

The only constant sound that came from the parlor was the steady tick tock of the case clock. Since they had been waiting there it had struck five, then six o’clock.

Often, oh, so often Jonathan had arisen from the horsehair sofa in the parlor and walked the fifteen or so steps until he stood by the closed door. He would stand there silently listening. At most, all he ever heard were muffled voices. Occasionally a moan would emanate from the room.

Once Jonathan had reached for the door knob and was ready to turn it and go in, but Doc. Martin’s prohibition was a powerful one and stifled even the strongest of husbandly and fatherly emotions.

Overcoming that inner demon, Jonathan clasped his hands firmly behind his back and walked slowly back to where he had come.

The clock has just finished striking the quarter hour past seven when the door opened and the doctor stepped into the parlor.

Instantly, father and sons rose to their feet. Doc was carrying a bundle wrapped in a wool blanket. Instead of a smile, his face bore a somber look almost as if he were in mourning.

You have another fine son, he said.

Jonathan took the proffered bundle and stared at the red misshaped face. Instantly he was torn between the joy of first seeing his newborn son and the look on the doctor’s face.

Hesitatingly, he asked Martin, Is there something that I need to know?

Doc Martin cast his eyes at the two boys. Is this something you want them to hear?

They’re old enough.

It was a hard birth. The baby was turned wrong. I did all I could.

Jonathan was steeling himself for the worse. And? How is she? How is my wife?

Martin put a hand on the man’s shoulder. I think that she will live. She’s pretty torn up inside. She has lost a lot of blood.

Can I see her? Can I see my Addie?

In a few minutes, the doctor assured him. Your colored woman’s cleaning her up." Jonathan had almost forgotten that he was holding his newborn son.

Oh, what a price, was all he could say.

A few minutes later the door opened again and Kate stepped into the room. She can see you now. I have her cleaned up.

The four walked past Kate and filed