IVY Lillies of the Field: Part 3

By Dr. Larry G. Morgan

Ivy and Seth, now settled in Groveton, are building a happy life together when war comes to the nation again. The Spanish-American War of 1898 embroils the nation in conflict and Seth answers the calling to help his country once more as an advisor. Joseph is also compelled to help the military due to his vast knowledge and wisdom from his Civil

• Language: English
• Publisher: Go To Publish
• Release date: Aug 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647491833

Dr. Larry G. Morgan

The author was born in 1944 in a three-room shack in the Nantahala Mountains of North Carolina. In 1956, his family moved to Guilford County near Greensboro, where he attended Colfax Union School and graduated in 1962. Morgan attend High Point University from which he graduated in 1966. He earned his Master of Education, Education Specialist degree, and principal's certificate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. He was awarded a Doctorate from Hill University in Texas. His education career included assignments at Guilford County schools, Davidson County schools, Randolph County schools, and a principalship at Nantahala School.

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IVY: Lillies of the Field

Part III

Copyright © 2020 by Dr. Larry G. Morgan

Historical Fiction

ISBN: 978-1-64749-183-3

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

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Books by Dr. Larry G. Morgan

Mountain Born - Mountain Molded

Appalachian Mountain Memories

Golf Poems for Everyone

Old Time Religion in the Southern Appalachians

Strange Life – Struggling with the mysteries

of OCD

Joseph’s Son

The Journey

A Timeline for Creation and other Essays

A Peculiar People

Revelation for Laymen

Praise for the Ivy Series

Ivy is a romantic story in a pre-Civil-War to early-twentieth-century setting with all the violence, hardships and triumphs of that era and insight regarding how mountain folk of North Carolina were affected. The writer’s attention to detail in a very descriptive manner gives the reader a sense of being there. Exploration of the inner feelings of man, especially despair, hope, success and love, make this excellent reading.

– Roger L. Nelson, High School Principal

In Ivy, Larry Morgan combines his considerable writing talent displayed in previous anecdotal and autobiographical works with his insightful knowledge of American history in creating an epic novel. Ivy is a vast tapestry woven from the fabric of actual historical figures during the American Civil War and the Spanish-American War, intertwined with the threads of two men from different cultures who become enemy combatants on the battlefield and who vie for the love and affection of the beautiful and compelling Ivy. Morgan exhibits an uncanny ability for using vivid descriptive language to transport the reader on a journey of myriad locations and emotions from pristine, peaceful mountain scenery to the harsh life of the early settlers in the Southern Appalachians to chaotic, horrendous battles and their carnage to the inner, intimate feelings and emotions of the characters. Against the backdrop of the Civil War, and later the Spanish-American War, Ivy provides the reader with an inspiring narrative of historical events and how otherwise ordinary people’s lives intersect as they achieve heroic status because of their strength of character and uncommon courage. Whether the reader is a student of history or is one who appreciates an absorbing love story, Ivy will not disappoint.

– Stanley Wayne Morgan, Retired School Superintendent

With appreciation, the author and publisher acknowledge the assistance and guidance regarding accuracy of Civil War events, people and timelines, from Michael C. Hardy—author, Civil War historian and re-enactor.

www.michaelchardy.com

This book is dedicated to my daughter

Pamela Green

Preface

In the Ivy book series, I have employed fact to authenticate fiction and fiction to illuminate fact. To reveal which parts are fact and which are fiction before it is read, almost certainly would compromise the final, cumulative effect I hope will be created in the reader. Some of the fact and fiction overlap; even so, discerning readers should be able to distinguish between the two. Some of the characters are fictitious, and some of them are real historical entities. Some exist in both the fictional and historical realms.

The character, Ivy, is based on an actual historical person. She was the first wife of my great-grandfather, Joseph Morgan. Some mysterious circumstances connected with her that my wife discovered while researching the genealogy of my family was my motivation for writing this tome.

The Ivy book series is not intended to be a scholarly history of the Civil War in the South. However, the broad outline is historically correct. Other than Ivy, the other characters who are real, historical persons include Joseph Morgan and his parents, Isabelle Forrester and her parents, Riley Coleman and his wife, the former Nancy Snyder, and their daughter, Adeline, Reverend Phillip Passmore and his wife, Elender, Reverend Clint Grant, Reverend Glenn Dills, J.J. Martin and most of the generals including Grant, Sherman, Thomas, Hood, Johnston, Bragg, Wheeler, Custer, Rosecrans, Lee, Jackson and Longstreet. All the places mentioned are actual geographical sites.

Most of the battle tactics ascribed to certain characters are contrived by the author and may or may not be what a military commander would have ordered or undertaken in that situation. However, the overall strategy and progress of the war as I have presented them varies little from its true course.

LILIES OF THE FIELD

Joseph’s life from eight or nine years of age had been one of unrelenting labor. This labor had been largely farming but also lumbering and cutting the copious amounts of firewood needed for the non-insulated homes of that time. His youth had largely consisted of plowing, harrowing, planting, hoeing—three times to get weeds out and bring up fresh dirt—and harvesting of corn. The latter required cutting the stalk just above and behind the ear and bundling them up for the horses. The large teeth and powerful jaws of the horses and mules made it easier for them to rend these coarse stems than for the other farm animals. Below the ear, the blades of the cornstalk were laboriously pulled and tied into manageable bundles. This fodder was mainly for the cows and other farm denizens, since it was softer and more pliable for the less strong teeth and jaws of these animals. Corn was by far the major crop, providing provender for all the farm animals and t he adults.

Joseph had been intimately familiar with the planting and harvesting of several other crops. These included Irish potatoes, sweet potatoes, beans and a few less important leguminous plants. As a result, Joseph knew what hard work was and the necessity of it. Moreover, he was not lazy or indolent. What little spare time he had, he spent in the woods hunting the occasional deer and small game. When the work was done, a good slice of his free time had been spent swimming in the nearby Tennessee River, fishing and rafting. He enjoyed making up games. In fact, the reason for the only good whipping his Pa had administered to him involved the river and one of these impromptu games. One Sunday afternoon after church at Tellico Baptist and following two days of continual rain, the river was high and raging along. Joseph and a couple of his buddies began daring each other to ride a large log for a stretch down this death stream.

Joseph had drawn the short straw; hence, it was his duty to demonstrate his bravery and manhood first, despite the fact he was only twelve years of age. Soon a proper log had been located and placed on the edge of the powerful stream. Joseph proceeded to walk slowly out to the midpoint of the primitive mode of conveyance and soon was astride it within reach of a small bit of limb to hold on to. Then, with a hefty push from his two erstwhile friends, Joseph and the log were off!

And off he was! Almost immediately, the powerful current pulled Joseph and the old poplar smack into the middle of the river at its swiftest point! Suddenly the log was tossed skyward by a huge rapid. Needless to say, Joseph also became airborne! Fortunately, gravity assured his return from this aerial experience. He landed near enough to the now very slick log to grasp hold of that stub of a limb. Talk about being panic stricken!

The two pals on the riverbank, observing the scene in the river, were as panic stricken as Joseph! Running and tearing along the riverbank to try to help Joseph, they shredded their pants and shirts on the underbrush. After barely keeping pace with Joseph for a half-mile or so, the two would-be rescuers decided adult help was required.

Rushing back to Joseph’s home, they quickly informed Joseph’s dad of the dire situation. Terrified, Mr. Morgan grabbed a rope from the front porch and raced toward the river. The two youths had to fly to keep up. About a mile down river, just as they had begun to fear the worst, there was Joseph hanging onto a laurel limb for dear life, almost frozen and nearly drowned. With the rope, his dad soon had fished him out. After checking to see that his boy was okay, he gave him his shirt to keep him from having hypothermia and hustled him back to the house.

All night Joseph prayed this matter was closed. Wrong! The next morning at breakfast, hopes were dashed. His Pa related to him how much he and his Ma revered and cared for him, and how much they didn’t want anything to happen to him. Then came the moment of truth. In order to teach him how to make wise, safe decisions and as punishment for the terrible fright he had inflicted on his mother, he was to have this concept indelibly affixed to his behind.

Joseph was instructed to go the barn and await further developments. They were not long coming. With a piece of leather horse harness, the penalty was applied. Its immediate effects were evident for several days, but the lesson lasted all Joseph’s life.

Joseph’s education was largely relegated to the three Rs: readin’, rightin’ and ’rithmatic. This was largely because his parents and neighbors paid an itinerant teacher from Franklin to come down for a month or so in the late fall when most of the crops were in. The visiting teacher would board with one of the families and teach school for a few hours a day in that residence.

Social life for teenagers centered on functions at Tellico Church and visits to the young ladies’ homes. Sweethearts spent little time alone unless adults were in proximity. Spending time alone was considered inappropriate.

This was the extent of Joseph’s love life. He had visited several young ladies and had stolen as many kisses as he could. But love was an unknown experience. That is, until Ivy had entered his life.

JOSEPH: GOING HOME

MID-APRIL, 1865

Five days after General Johnston officially surrendered to General Sherman, General Johnston informed his remaining troops that General Sherman and he had agreed that General Johnston should move his miserable soldiers a hundred miles or so to the west before mustering them out of service.

Although the official reason was not announced, among the rank and file, the men knew it was so there would not be any more violent incidents and clashes of arms between small groups of soldiers or by someone wanting to do in just one more damn Yankee or one more damn, treacherous rebel. Enough blood had already been shed on more than a hundred battlefields.

Three days later, at about one in the afternoon, a few miles southeast of Greensboro, North Carolina, Joseph and the remainder of his Southern compatriots were mustered out.

They were still poorly clad but a bit better shod and considerably better fed, thanks to the Yankee army which had made available all necessities for the needs of their surrendered foe. Even their horses were in much better shape once again, thanks to the fodder, hay and oats provided through the largesse of General William Tecumseh Sherman.

For the last time, in some local farmer’s large unplanted field, the cavalrymen formed ranks, as did the surrendered, defeated-but-unrepentant Confederate infantry. The cavalry commander shouted commands, and the horsemen turned their mounts to the left and started them toward a certain spot where their glorious standards were being tossed into a pile. Next, the infantry did the same as the cavalry had done before them, and, making a huge circle, they marched back into ranks.

As General Johnston addressed them, almost all these hardened men, who had just been through the worst war in US history, began to shed silent tears. General Johnston spoke of sacrifice, honor, duty, loyalty and other characteristics that may never have been exceeded before in any army and might not be exceeded in the future. The general cautioned the men to be aware on their journeys home of highwaymen, deserters, renegades and no-goods.

Then, General Johnston thanked the Almighty for the men and prayed that God would care for and bless them. With that pronouncement, the men broke ranks. Most started immediately in the direction of their old homes, but a few, two or three in groups, gathered in small clumps for last goodbyes. They were finding it difficult to make that final break with their dreams of an independent Southern nation, coming to terms with the realization that the Cause was the Lost Cause, and joining their compatriots on their final, sad march. They moved away, mostly in twos and threes, for the first miles of their journeys, as many of them were generally heading in the same direction.

General Sherman, like General Grant, who had given Lee’s men the right to keep their horses for spring planting, had also extended this courtesy to General Johnston’s men. Although many of these former rebels were still suffering from grievous wounds, they had been—thanks to the Yankee doctors—treated, given medicine to last them until they healed up and a bit of food for the road.

But there was one wound that would never heal—the memory of the war. All of them—from Mars’ Robert and President Jefferson Davis to the lowliest stable hand—had envisioned glorious victory parades in every large city and every small hamlet, especially a victory parade down the main street of the capital, Richmond, and perhaps, Washington City.

Most of this mass of dejected, walking, psychological wrecks were wounded internally by the loss of this great crusade for a new country. But as it sank in, and they realized they were still alive and going home to their families, wives, children and sweethearts, slow smiles crossed their faces, something most of them had not felt like wearing for a very long time.

The closer they got to home, the more their paces quickened, and the easier it was for them to smile. Perhaps just a very little bit of their mental, emotional and psychological pain would slip away.

Joseph’s heart was breaking, not only for the lost cause, but also for the lives spent in the futile crusade. The deaths, perhaps, would have been worth it if the outcome had been victory and independence for the South. But now, hundreds of thousands were dead, and for naught.

Sometimes Joseph thought that simply because so many lives had been sacrificed in pursuit of the lost cause, the enemy should accept this fact alone as justification for the Yankees conceding the issue and going home. But it had long been apparent that President Lincoln would never give up, even if the Confederate Army occupied every city in the North.

Many southerners at that time avowed that, if the Confederates had won at Gettysburg and occupied Wash-ington City, contrary to many learned opinions, the war would still not have been won. The North had four or five times more men, almost all the railroads, a navy, organized army, almost all the industrial output of the nation and many more advantages.

Now it was over, a most horrendous, life-taking conflagration, a war that featured killing and maiming by chunks of hot iron and large bone-shattering, flesh-splaying, fifty-caliber bullets and minie balls, and some even larger, that almost always resulted in amputations or death of the soldiers who were unfortunate enough to be hit by them.

A slow, late spring rain had begun to drift down as the last men of General Johnston’s valiant army were mustered out. Many of the men had already left the area, eager to get a start on their homeward journeys and locate some shelter for the night against the drizzle that was almost certain to become a steady downpour, as some of the older heads were predicting.

However, several groups of three or four former soldiers stood in the last campsite of the boys in gray, apparently finding difficulty in joining their sad, surviving compatriots in their final march home, which would be the final action that would end their dreams of a new country, the Confederate States of America.

The horse Joseph was mounted on had benefited greatly from the oats and hay the Union Army had provided, and most of the remaining Confederate cavalry horses had regained the lightness and sureness in their gaits that a week or so earlier had been a slow, tired, labored effort. The new, green leaves of the trees, shrubs, jonquils and dogwoods, the ubiquitous spring freshets bursting out of the road banks and the sparkle and music of the mother streams into which they streamed seemed to stimulate the horses and eliminate some of the moroseness of the riders.

It soon began to seem that, for longer and longer periods of time, the anguished burden of Joseph’s heart would lift and he would find himself thinking of his home and Camp Branch in Nantahala back in Macon County. He was anxious to see the physical condition it might be in and all that would require immediate attention. He hoped the roof had not blown off, let the rain pour into the interior and ruin the floor and furniture. As for almost any other damage, he could take care of that plenty fast, but the roof . . .

Joseph loosened the reins and the horse broke into a swift trot. At this steady and rather smooth gait, the grass in the medians of the wheel ruts along the outside of the wheel tracks seemed a multitude of green stripes running rearward.

But at least once an hour, a vision of ebony hair— caressing two beautiful shoulders and framing a beautifully complexioned face—and equally dark eyes would suddenly replace all the moribund, hellish scenes of war that had been Joseph’s daily fare for the last three years. Joseph had already vowed within himself that as soon as this occurred, he would immediately dispel it in some way. But occasionally he failed to make a serious effort, and Ivy’s image would hold in his mind’s eye much too long for a healthy, long-term result.

As the miles of sandy Piedmont soil rolled rearward beneath the steady, drumming hoofs of his horse, the small bag of provisions—including fatback, dried apples, cheese, biscuit, jerky, a small tin of jam, two tins of salt and pepper and a water canteen that tapped and patted the chestnut’s rump—reminded Joseph that soon it would be time to stop and have a bite to eat.

Soon the muddy, spring runoff into the broad expanse of the Yadkin River began to become noticeable through the mangle of roadside leaves and limbs. But it seemed that once the river came into view, it was immediately canceled out by the closing in of early, spring darkness.

Joseph immediately decided to spend the night on the east side of the Yadkin River and make the crossing in the daylight. Perhaps there would not be so many limbs, tree stumps and snags coming swiftly in that current. He had seen tree snags so enormous they could do real damage to any river barge. The river was running high, swift and muddy, and Joseph hoped that by morning twelve hours later, the water level would have receded and the flow slowed down. He certainly didn’t want to drown on his way home after he had lived through that bloody war.

Amid all manner of noises caused by the occasional tree snag and other junk from the farms upriver as they abutted the river banks, just before setting up camp, Joseph was almost sure he heard a rather mature hog grunting and thrashing and squealing as it washed by in the gloaming.

Joseph quickly tethered his very tired horse with as long a rope as he could splice together from several shorter ropes of varying lengths he carried in his gear. In the largest area of lowland weeds and grasses he could find nearby, he drove a sharp length of driftwood about three feet in length into the ground and tied the end of the long rope to it. Then he secured the other end to the horse’s bridle.

In preparation for cooking his supper, Joseph gathered an armload of gray, river-smoothed driftwood for a campfire. Presently, he had a sufficiently large fire going. On a rock he balanced his army-style skillet with the folding handle and soon had it sizzling with fatback. To make the skillet cook faster, Joseph pushed it forward farther into the blaze. On another one of the stones, he had an open container with hot coffee coming to a roiling boil. Butter, salt, pepper and a couple of Irish potatoes were boiling in a third container.

In forty-five minutes Joseph had spread a ground sheet and a blanket several feet back from the rapidly dying camp fire, stowed the cooking utensils, tethered his horse a bit farther down the river bank and stretched out beneath the tall, green, leaf-tipped branches of the fast-growing saplings.

As he peered up through the drizzling rain, the unbidden beautiful apparition of Ivy slowly diffused into his mind’s eye, and without even attempting to push it away, he drifted into a damp, uncomfortable slumber.

Around two in the morning, Joseph was awakened by what could only be portents of trouble—the sounds of several horses and riders. Joseph lay as still as a graveyard, hoping against hope that his horse would do likewise, even though he was several yards downstream. In time, Joseph could discern the riders were drunk and were near where the road ended at the riverbank.

By their curses and muttered oaths, Joseph soon surmised they were hardened, wicked men who had likely deserted one of the armies and now roamed the countryside taking what they wanted from the already destitute Southern populace.

Slowly Joseph’s right hand closed around the forty-four-caliber Colt revolver that was lying beneath the edge of his covering blanket. All the cylinders were fully loaded, including the spare cylinder in Joseph’s vest pocket. He hadn’t fought through the bloodiest conflict in history to be killed by thugs like these.

After a long interval, this band of outlaws apparently decided to move on west, and shortly the sounds of their departure faded into the damp night.

When Joseph awoke just at daylight, the rain had stopped completely and the last few clouds were being brushed from the early morning sky by a gentle, spring wind. Some birds were flitting from branch to branch, scolding Joseph with shrill, unfriendly whistles and loud chirps.

Joseph made a small fire to prepare his coffee, and he brought up his horse from where it had been tethered farther down the riverbank. While Joseph waited for the coffee to cooperate, he rubbed down the chestnut gelding with the worn saddle blanket. Then he proceeded to saddle his four-footed friend, tightening the cinch—but not before jamming his right knee into the underside of the critter to make him let