Of Mist, Mountains, Men and Maggie Youngblood: A Civil War Story of Tragedy and Triumphs

By Ray Dague

Travel back to 1863 to a small mountain town, Seasonsville, in South-Central West Virginia that is embroiled in the American Civil War. The battles in this local conflict were not that of vast armies like those that clashed in Gettysburg or Antietam. Rather, the struggle is between small groups and individuals. The novel Of Mist, Mountains, Men and Maggie Youngblood: A Civil War Story of Tragedy and Triumph is an account of very personal relationships. Discover how the context of war influences the way people interact. Ordinary life becomes tangled and uncertain, and relationships intensify.

Join Maggie Youngblood on a trip that, although not lengthy in distance, travels deep into the human spirit. Experience intense dread and fear as a murderer prowls the countryside. Laugh at the antics of brothers. Feel tenderness when the human touch is gentle. Know sorrow and rage when war becomes personal. Be inspired by heroic acts. Be excited by romance and love. Be horrified by violence.

All these experiences with the human spirit are all the more captivating by virtue of intrigue. Who will live? Who will die? Will justice prevail? Can there be justice in war? How will relationships endure? Who will win and who will lose? How will all this be resolved? The tension made by the interaction of the characters as they meet with uncertainty will create a yearning to live with them episode after episode.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546201472

Ray Dague

Ray Dague is a retired school teacher. He taught for over 30 years in private and public schools near Wheeling, West Virginia. Ray grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania with his mother, a teacher, and his father, a farmer. He currently resides with his wife, Kathy in St. Clairsville, OH. Ray and Kathy have 3 children and 4 grandchildren.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

H azy, soft feathered, dew-laden sunlight drifted through the branches and the leaves of the giant oak. Scarcely had the sun risen, and scarcer still was such a fine morning. Even the roosters did not crow as usual, and the birds had not taken up their natural music—here and there a few broke the strange silence with a hushed note—but quickly silenced themselves. Only the nesting pairs murmured to their tiny offspring. Fish did not splash and break water during their feeding, and not a leaf was stirred by the breeze.

The old-timers later recalled how strange it was and spoke about how it raised the hair on their neck. Those who witnessed that dawning in the little town sensed disquiet with the clear, clean, still beauty. In awe, they also felt the beauty boring into their flesh. They felt a hint of pain as the pure air snugly fit around them. Even their breath had a fine taste and innocence they could notice. The pleasant odor was so uncommon that the people turned up their faces and sniffed it as if they were deer or hounds. Never had they smelled anything like it, and it made them nervous. The grasses and pastures had a crystallized look to them. Each petal, leaf and blade remained motionless as if it might shatter were it to bend or stretch. Upon the water, a sheen developed where not even an insect’s body would cause a ripple.

Some people were no more than curious about these never-seen effects. Some were charmed, and some praised God. But one man knew that evil had a hand in the peaceful scene when he witnessed the cowing of his dog and heard her whimper. He gripped the railing of his porch, and his neck muscles pulsed with the strain.

Another man on that same morn had shortly wakened, and felt such a sweetness about him that he surmised that God had been near him. Perhaps, he thought, some divine perfume had been sprinkled about. He sensed none of the usual morning urges or feelings. There were no tight muscles that needed relaxed, no eye that needed cleansed. He wondered if angels had washed them. His bladder held no discomfort, and an old ache from the kick of a horse that always nagged him every morn seemed mended, the usual sluggishness to which he had grown accustomed had vanished. Certainly, this was a daybreak that God ordained. He leaned up from his bed roll, turned, and rose to his knees to give thanks to God from a breast full of gratitude and inspiration that he had never known could be possible. Tears coursed through the lines of his face and fell to the floor of the cupola of the courthouse where he had spent the night. Undecipherable words of praise issued from his lips. His rifle lay at his feet in peace.

Crouched in the bushes nearby, a man surveyed the scene. All his instincts were alert, his ears cocked for sound, his nostrils slightly dilated in an effort to snatch any suspicious scent. His eyes swept the area for dangerous motion. His mouth was slightly parted to capture the taste of anything that might interfere with his plan. Moisture began to collect on his palms, but he made no movement. He held to his position as if whittled from a stump, waiting for a precise moment.

In the hills and miles from the unusual scene, a small boy opened his eyes and felt the newness of the day. All the sounds and scents and sights that gave him security and meaning were about. He especially liked the hat his brother had given him, and the instant it was on his head he was down the stairs and out the door to the barn as he remembered what had awakened him so keenly. The old sow was to have had little ones that night, and he was excited to see them.

He opened the barn door and stepped quietly in. He tiptoed over the straw and peered over the top board into the stall. As surely as if a light beam struck him, his face lit up and he smiled, for there, stumbling about all pink and glistening, were five new pigs. They fell against one another and rocked back and forth awkwardly, managing to struggle about in a humorous drunken manner. It didn’t appear as if they knew where they were going, they seemed so dizzy, but Paul knew they were looking for their first drink of milk. They tumbled over one another, and one somehow fell against his mother and found the nourishing teat. This didn’t last long for his brother tripped and knocked him over, and they squealed and oinked and squirmed to such an extent that a broad grin opened on Paul’s face. After much brawling and head knocking, all five were fastened to the sow’s udders.

Paul noticed the sow grunting and shuddering and quickly and easily another new pig was born. He marveled at this, and pure inspiration emanated from him in an almost distinguishable glow. The next born was barely able to catch his breath, and Paul quickly reached down and picked up the gasping, slippery body while keeping a watchful eye on the sow to see if she would rise up to defend her litter. He had seen it happen before, and he was worried that she might charge after him and crush her little ones with her sharp hooves in the process. The sow was too deep into her delivery to notice him, so he relaxed and busied himself with the air-starved baby.

Quickly, Paul wiped the mucous from its nose, but that was not sufficient. He peered intently into its parted mouth and located some membrane clogging its throat. He reached in with his fingers and plucked it out, but he was afraid it was too late. With extreme gentleness, he laid the little body in the straw next to him and stroked it gently. Willing life into his tiny patient, he spoke, I know you can live. He repeated, I know you can live. Still, Paul feared that the eyes might reflect the dullness of death. When he patted the little fellow, he noticed it shake a bit, and he heard some faint rasping come from it. Eagerly then, he patted it some more, and to his great relief and surprise, it shook and rattling breath tore in and out of it. With continued efforts on the part of both of them, the little pig finally gained all of its breath and began its tottering quest for its needs.

Carefully Paul laid it among his brothers and sisters, and it began the same head-knocking, stumbling and nosing around that his siblings had so recently started. He lost his way from the udder and teetered up to his mother’s nose. She grunted at him and practically knocked him down; he oinked harmlessly at her and then proceeded on the correct path to drink. Paul chuckled at all this, deeply amused with the antics. Little time did he have to revel in his life-saving act, for quickly two more pigs were born dead. He hated to see this for death was a destructive mystery to him, and he wished it just didn’t occur. For a while he wondered about it, but he could come up with no more conclusion than it made him feel empty and sad. After seeing no more pigs were to be born, he lifted the dead pigs and the afterbirth out of the pen with a pitchfork, carried them behind the barn and buried them with a small but profound ceremony. He prayed to God with the might and intensity of a sage, Please God, let my brother not be like these, let him live like the little runt. With that, he tamped the grave with his feet and then strolled slowly and thoughtfully to the house where he knew eggs and biscuits and his Mom would be cheerfully waiting.

CHAPTER 2

O n a hill, the fireworks of dusk were not far off. Still, there was plenty of time to place a group of shots into the target which was more than 100 paces away. The muzzle was leveled, and the front sight was carefully centered in the rear sight notch. She snuggled her cheek gently against the musket stock—she felt that nothing other than that flesh worn piece of walnut had ever touched her so. Her hand slid down the length of the fore-piece, and she cupped the barrel firmly and securely in her fingers. With a practiced and knowing hand, she placed one finger within the trigger guard, wrapped the remaining three around the slim grip, and with a taut thumb, pulled back the hammer. The click of the hammer as it reached the cocked position was a friendly sound to her. She felt the glad press of the stock’s end within the nook of her shoulder and chest, and she felt a surge of pride and sureness as the front sight was aimed at the heart of the target. Unconsciously, she checked her breathing, and it seemed that even her pumping heart must cease in order to prevent any wobble that might interfere with the truth of her shot. With precision, she squeezed the trigger ever so carefully. The hammer released, the flint struck, and a second’s pause elapsed as the powder burned. Maggie never wavered and shortly her calm nerves were rewarded as the powder exploded, the stock jolted her cheek and shoulder, and the lead projectile was airborne. She loved the acrid smell of burnt, black powder, and her nostrils quivered as the smoke enveloped her. Immediately she heard the echo of her thunder shot as it rebounded off the surrounding hills and raced up the valleys to be heard again, only muffled this time. She never tired of this and the pleasure it brought her. It was an experience she had grown to love as she stood immediately behind her uncle as he lit up the universe for her with his shooting.

When she was a mere child, he had never shot with her present because the first time she was so frightened that she flew to his legs as a chick would huddle under the protective feathers of the hen. He patted her calmly and reassured her that everything was all right. Now, whenever she shot, she remembered him, and recalled how he loved her and how she loved him. After those first few times, she no longer shuddered or jumped when the flintlock sounded, but stood solidly and appreciatively as the air shook around her, and the ball struck the mark. Each time her uncle would turn and smile at her and say that someday he would show her how to shoot.

In her childhood days, he took her riding daily and allowed her to sit alone on the horse as he led it along forest paths. The rippling run waters tickled her childish imaginations and the leaf-filtered sunlight delighted her childish dreams as the three of them strolled along. The horse’s hooves would strike the ground, and the off-beat march of its clip-clopping sound reminded her of flint striking metal. She would pat the horse’s shoulder and drum her fingers on his side to the tempo.

Never was she happier than when shooting, unless it was when he took her fishing. Always she found it so unlikely, this fishing, for she never could see the quarry. Certain as she was that they would never catch any, they always did. Pumpkin seed sunfish would dart this way and that until fatigued, and then her uncle would gently lift and swing them to the creek bank where they would shine all deep blue, yellow, and some red. Their dorsal fins would stick straight up like some needle fan and more than once, they would prick her fingers and bring the blood. On one occasion, a tiny sunny grabbed the hook and began its frenzied dash for freedom. Her uncle chuckled, amused at himself for such a catch when suddenly, the water exploded with such a tremendous splash that the smiles disappeared from both their faces. The stout sapling that served as a fishing rod bent, and his muscles strained. Her eyes grew wide as the water exploded again, and a large fish tail danced just in front of her. Deep into the creek the fish dived, and her uncle pulled to turn it. Again, the fish leaped, and Maggie stood awestruck by it. Slowly, tiredness overtook the big fish, and Uncle Jake glided the fish along the surface of the water to the creek’s edge. Then he slipped his fingers inside its gills and lifted it into the air. Maggie’s eyes grew wider, and she clapped her hands with glee. Jake beamed a wide smile at her, and she was so pleased with him and the fish that she danced a little jig. Jake laughed aloud, grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze that showed her how happy he was with her. After the happy shock wore off, Maggie asked him what had happened to the little fish. Jake opened the big fish’s mouth and there was the little one. He summarized by saying that, The big ’un thot he catched hisself suppa, but he jes catched suppa for us. They both laughed again.

Jake was good to Maggie, and he figured that anyone ought to be self-sufficient if he lived in the woods. And he thought this was truer for women; he was different than most men in this respect. True, he thought that women ought to take care of the house, feed the kids, but he thought that they ought to be woods smart because a man could die mighty young, and then where would his family be? He wasn’t about to allow anyone to starve or freeze out of ignorance. He set out to teach Maggie all he could about the woods, and in Maggie, he found an avid student. She hung on his every word as if starved to death for them.

This is how hides is tanned, he’d state, and he’d show her how to make tanning juice from acorns and oak bark. Here’s how you stretch hides to dry, and he’d pull the coon hide over a stretching board. A deadfall ken ketch a mink, and he would show her how to place the rocks and set the figure four trigger. Jes you watch, cause that ther’ deadfall will mash yer hand like a mink’s skull if ya ain’t careful. And he showed her how one of his fingers was crooked and gnarled from not being careful with such a trap. Anything from catching turtles to raising pumpkins, Jake knew about, and before long, Maggie knew too. She even learned how to treat snake bite the hard way.

While walking the woods, Jake spied a small flower by a log and instantly wanted to give it to Maggie. Forgetting his usual cautiousness, he did not look for anything sinister. And, in his haste to give Maggie the pretty thing, he reached down and began to pick it from the ground. He thought how nice its whiteness would look against her dark hair. Suddenly and with no warning, a serpent struck from beneath the log, and its fangs sank deeply into Jake’s forearm. With an oath befitting the occasion, Jake jerked his arm away, and with an aim as deadly as the snake’s, killed it with a mighty stomp on its head.

Muttering to himself, he drew his skinning knife from its sheath. Maggie’s face was white with fright for she well knew the possible results of a rattler bite (disfigurement, disability and death). Next, she grew nauseous as Jake sliced deep slashes in the puncture marks. She felt weak when she saw the pain and concentration in Jake’s face. The blood gushed, and Maggie, despite her efforts not to, vomited from the anxiety. Jake began sucking the venom and blood out of the bite and with each mouthful, spit it violently away. He kept this up for a while until Maggie thought he would bleed to death. Stopping, he asked Maggie for a cloth and he bound the wound with it, being careful not to cut off the circulation completely. With a calm voice but frightened look, Jake said, Fetch the hoss.

She immediately did, and Jake climbed on and laid himself across the horse’s back as if he were a corpse. He told Maggie, I’ll ride like this so’s I won’t fall off when I gits weak. And the pizin won’t git to my heart so quick like. You jes get on behint me and hol on to me. We’ll git back.

Get back they did, although Maggie was sure he would die or fall off. Her arms were numb from holding him, though she would have let herself die before letting him fall. Old Ned, the trusty steed, followed the path surely if not too slowly, to the cabin door.

Several weeks passed before Jake could teach any more lessons, but he had taught her more than how to treat a snake bite. She learned to survive, be tough, and endure pain. But she also remembered the tenderness she felt when she found the little white flower drenched in blood still clenched in his hand as she pulled him in the cabin door. She kept that flower and all its tenderness and toughness; every night as she turned the covers away from her corn-husk mattress, she would see the flower hanging above the headboard, and it reminded her of life and death and love. She would stare at it until the room spun, and the involuntary sighs would induce her to blow out the candle. And then she would continue to see the flower until it would merge with itself into a million of them carpeting the valleys. She would fall into them, their sweet perfume softening her senses to sleep. Yet the dried red stains on the petals caused her to tremble and jerk and dream in alarmed anticipation.

CHAPTER 3

F or some time now, the war had enveloped him and influenced every thought and dream, every waking and sleeping moment. Daily he went through routines absolutely alien to him, and nightly his usual restful sleep that possessed him, was fitful and stricken with nightmarish visions. The common barking of a fox became a dragon pursuing him, the somewhat eerie call of the screech owl became the torturing of a thousand hell-fast souls, and the voice of the robin’s morning greetings was a note so somber to him that he could only equate it with a funeral hymn that he had once heard. The robin would sing, repeating the words, Death will come with every dusk; begin to feel the day’s departure with these last rays; the eve will surely come dressed in flowing finery. It will wear soft frilly, fleecy clothes that warm and entice, that beautify, that make up the face and body like a happy bride, the night will surely come and the face of the day will disappear underneath the coffin lid, begin to feel the day’s departure….

The cannon’s echo thundering in the river valley he had not heard. He had not seen the shuddering of the trees or the trembling of the animals. He had not seen the valleys shake or seen the bird’s startled flight. He had not scented the tears of the hills or heard their sobs; the slaughter was too far from him. The bone and teeth shattering concussions had not touched him, yet he felt them in his heart and soul. He had experienced none of the common tortures of war, yet he sensed them as if he were actually a front-line veteran.

It was unlikely that he would ever be involved directly, for early in his volunteer enlistment it was determined that his stock, his character, was not destructive enough either to protect himself or anyone else. It was not that anyone considered him a coward. On the contrary, most felt that he would march to the front lines and willingly give his life. Yes, all too willingly. Most wondered if he would even fire his ancient farm musket at a person. There was no question that he could shoot and shoot well, but hate, anger, vengeance and even the desire to defend himself, that most basic of human tendencies, seemed to be absent from him. Concern for his own safety and well-being never surfaced as a reason to keep him away from the Shenandoah Valley and the fierce fighting.

His superiors recognized a difference in him that was readily apparent, knowing that he would die quickly at the front because of his desire to give of himself so completely. They knew that the only battle he would ever fight with the intensity of a survivalist was that of his conscious. The only enemy he would ever resist was evil in his heart and mind, and with this, he would struggle with the intensity and might of a gladiator to his death.

Knowing this, the Union officers placed him with a small force in central West Virginia in hopes that he would not only serve some useful purpose but also survive. They recommended that he care for the company’s horses since he came from a farm, and they recommended that he assist the cooks and care for supplies. They valued his desire to serve and his sense of duty, and they respected his tacit and unconscious religious objection. And they sought to protect him. Surely in Seasonsville where the war was one of words with Southern sympathizers and the shooting was no more than isolated incidences of sniping by renegade mountain men bound to the Southern cause, he would be safe. Here Stephen would be sound and whole and would feel that he helped his country and those people oppressed in slavery.

Stephen had heard reports of slavery in his state, and he had questioned it immediately. Hadn’t he been taught to love thy neighbor as thyself? Not that he had ever seen the evils, but he had observed one black man riding in the back of a wagon. He surmised that the man was a slave although there were no chains and no one held a gun on him. Somehow their eyes met and riveted to one another for only a few moments. But these few seconds were sufficient to convince Stephen that here was a man in bondage. Here was a man in intense emotional and mental suffering. His eyes were deep and cold like a spring’s water. A howling came out of these eyes and a brutal sadness flowed from his pupils. So much energy was enclosed within those eyes, and despair was eroding it. So much agony cried out from those eyes, and they accused Stephen with no mercy. Hate radiated from those eyes, and destructiveness glared from the man. Those dark eyes focused on his and fixed a feeling on Stephen that would never, never leave him.

The black man, crouched, reminded him of a bobcat he had once caught in a trap. Stephen had come upon the animal at dawn as he walked his trap-line. He had hoped to catch a coon or a fox or muskrat, so his mother could begin to sew him a winter coat, but he never expected to see a cat. It was crouched down, and he had tried to remove himself from the spot where the trap was sprung, but the chain held to the stake which was anchored in the earth. The animal’s leg was stretched miserably by the cat’s desire to get away from the pain. Stephen could see that its leg was severely mauled, and he decided to shoot it, but as he concentrated his eyes along the length of the gun barrel, the piercing, almost accusing stare of the cat produced a sense, a strange sense of mercy in him, and he lowered the gun.

With quick bounds and tearing breath, Stephen raced for the cabin and, finding young Paul and several burlap feed sacks and rope, he told the story of the trapped animal. Just as quickly, the two tore through the woods knocking branches this way and that until they came to the cruel scene. With the respect for the animal’s strength, fear and fury, they pinned it down with some forked branches, and then carefully slipped several sacks around it, leaving the trap-clenched leg sticking out. They bound the animal with rope to ensure it could not get away, and then they loosened the leg. Placing the bagged animal over his shoulder, Stephen set a rapid pace for home and Paul raced along behind.

Between rapid breaths, Stephen said, Paul, I have an idea! When we git home, git me some of Ma’s salve, some cloth and a needle and thread; I’m gonna save this animal’s leg. While I fix him up, you git that ole chicken coop ready and we ken put him in thar til he mends. We’ll fix him up real good, now.

Paul liked the idea and when they reached the barn yard, he excitedly went into action. Ma, where’s the salve and sewin’ kit? Where’s some cloth?

His intensity alarmed her at first, but she helped him find the material before asking him what was going on. Whatever is all the fuss?

Jes come out to the barnyard and see.

Stephen was hovering over the bagged cat when his mother and brother ran out of the house.

What ya got now? What kind of critter? You’re goin’ to mend him? Ken it be done? Wouldn’t he be better off dead? Where ya gonna keep him? What ya gone to do with him?

Her questions shot out as if from a Gatling gun, and Stephen could not answer before she had set to work salving the injured limb and wrapping it. One leg muscle was torn completely loose from the bone, and she thought this would be tough to mend if infection started. But she placed the muscle near to where it had been and wrapped the leg with the cloth and sewed it up.

Stephen looked on admiringly as she finished her work, and in the meantime, Paul had readied the coop for the new occupant. Carefully, they placed that cat in the pen and cautiously, they pulled the bags from around him. Using pitch forks, they pinned him to the floor while the last bag was removed. Upon seeing them, the cat squalled and writhed and hissed venomously, and its tail twitched in unceasing anger. Its eyes burned at them, and its claws dug into the wood.

Take your stick loose, Paul, Stephen ordered, and git ready to close the door fast when I let him go.

Paul did as he was told, and then slammed the door as Stephen removed his stick. The cat lunged at the door, but Paul held it fast even though his face was just inches from the fuming creature. He latched it, and all three of them just stood there staring at the animal and one another.

In two days, Ma decided that the cat’s leg would need new bandages, and she feared that by this time the leg would be fouled with infection to the point where it would have to be shot. Despite her worry, she told her boy and her young man to get their forks with which to pinion the animal once again.

Stephen, Paul, git those forks! We got to tend to that cat! He’s pro’bly et up with the gangrene by now, but we got to take a look. We got to let the air git to the wound, be keerful, she warned. He’s still got plenty of strength, and the pain’ll have him plenty crazed.

In complete obedience, the two procured their tools and went around the barn to the coop. Ma was already there with her bandages and medicine. Paul went to the coop and opened the door only wide enough to let Paul put in the fork. The cat, crouched in a corner, hissed and swatted the fork with its good paw, and Paul tried to pin it to the floor or the wall. This was no easy task as the animal jumped around like cartridges in a fire. It squalled something terrible and more than once Paul almost let the door fly open when the cat pounced at the narrow opening to gain his freedom. The cat’s eyes were like yellow coals as they gauged the stabs of the stick. For nearly fifteen minutes the cat avoided Stephen’s efforts. His shirt was soaked, and once, Stephen noticed that sweat was dripping down Paul’s face. Ma grimaced now and then, but kept her silence. She knew the boys were doing the best they could. The animal began to tire, and sensing this, Stephen redoubled his efforts. He poked and poked with his stick almost with desperation and finally succeeded in pinning the cat by the neck. Seeing this, Paul hurriedly began wrapping it in the sacks once again leaving the damaged leg uncovered. The cat growled in fury, but quieted with fatigue.

With a tenderness that belied her adrenaline-filled body, Ma bandaged the leg, expecting the worst. Surprisingly the leg was well healed and the muscle seemed to be in the proper place. But a yellowish white color appeared in the seam of the skin, and Ma knew this was bad.

Give me your knife, Stephen, Ma said with determination.

Stephen complied, and he watched with wide eyes while Paul averted his as the woman, with certainty of purpose, lanced the infected place. The poor creature screamed in his torture, and the goose flesh rose on all of them. Instantly the pus burst out, and Paul smelled its rottenness. Ma then squeezed the leg methodically as if milking a cow, urging the mess to leave the wound from its deepest areas. The cat squalled, and the neck hair rose on the doctoring team. Ma did this a few times, and then applied her salve. She wrapped the leg very loosely to let in the air. Leave it wrapped up so’s he doesn’t tear off the cloth, said Ma. But take the sack off his head so’s he can drink and eat if’n he wants. If’n he eats, we’ll know he’s gittin better. If’n he don’, then he’ll jes die slow. But we won’ let that happen; Stephen you’ll shoot im if’n he don’ eat.

Pearl White, Stephen said to his mother, That was some doctorin. You got the bad outa that wound, and he’ll git better. You done a fine job.

I’ll fetch some water from the well for im, Paul said. And I’ll git some ham outa the smoke house for im. I know he’ll eat.

With enthusiastic speed, Paul did his errand and placed the food and drink before the sack-shackled cat. The cat’s eyes showed fear, but when Paul backed off, it lapped the water until it was gone. Paul brought another pan, and the cat drank more than half of it. This was a good sign, Paul thought, and he left the animal, carefully backing away as if not to disturb it. He rejoined his mother and Stephen in the house where they prepared to eat breakfast. They all were pleased with their efforts to help the little beast, and secretly they all said a little prayer for it as they said their accustomed grace.

Throughout the day, the three people