Afton Mountain

By Walt Mayes

In June, 1862, three brothers from Afton Mountain, are drafted into the Confederate Army. They did not believe in the war and did not perceive it as their war, and the cause they thought was for rich plantation owners, not states rights. Thirty years after the war, one of the brothers tells a secret he has kept about the death of the famous General 'Stonewall' Jackson. Parker Layton believed in the mountain idea of 'the code fuedelo' and believed what he did was an act of retribution upon a bully and a murderer. For the next thirty years he told the story of why he fired the first shot on that day in May of 1863.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499074635

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The winds on Afton Mountain often blew wagons over on roads, which at one time had been Shawnee Indian trails but had been widen by the wagons coming west and those going east toward the Shenandoah Valley. The Shawnee had long since been run out of Virginia, into the Ohio Valley, causing a relative quiet and peaceful situation for the settlers of the area. The settlers having come mostly from towns and cities in the East, migrating from England, and other European countries to live free in the new world, willing to live and die along the trails of the new land. They were a hardy bunch of people who settled on Afton Mountain, where the winters were extremely cold and the summers often very hot. They worked hard to cut out forest to build homes, clearing land to grow crops, and for animals to graze.

Except for the harsh winters and the building of homes, it was a time of peace, and no Indian raids since the battle of Point Pleasant in October 1774. The people built homes, grew crops, started churches, and raised families, lived and died on the mountain, buried near the home site, or a church. Time passed, and new families were started from the children who were born on the mountain. They entertained themselves by having family picnics, barn dances, and making their own spirits. War was far from the minds As the Northern states wanted a country free of slavery and were willing to go to war to stop the practice of slavery. Those living on Afton Mountain were often too poor to have slaves, they were their own slaves to the work of the fields and the building of fences, and the daily grind of living in the years before the Civil War.

CHAPTER ONE

The small children played, and ran carelessly around the yard near the log cabin of their grandfather. They had little knowledge of the war fought thirty years before they were even born, and the part played by their grandfather in the carnage called the Civil War. There was nothing civil about it, brother fought brother, neighbor fought neighbor, and friendships of years were torn apart. The children played hide and seek as neighbors, friends, relatives and news reporters were gathering at the home of their grandfather on Afton Mountain. Tents had been set up, with refreshments and chairs for an announcement from the man simply known to them as Grandpa.

Grandpa sat in his favorite rocker, a wool sweater covering his frail body, and his old confederate hat setting on his head, somewhat cocked to the left. He was proud of his service with the 10th Virginia Infantry during the war. He had seen action in the series of battles known as ‘The Seven Days’, just after being drafted into the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia in June of 1862.

For Parker Layton, it was not his war, nor the war of his brothers and family, he did not own a slave, and was content to continue working in the fields on the family’s land, until the war of secession was over. He had been drafted into the Confederate Army, with his two brothers, John and Jackson, on June 17th, 1862 at Port Republic. They were assigned to Company G of the 10th Virginia Infantry, known as the Valley Guards. The three brothers were neither military men, nor were they disloyal to the Confederacy, they just did not see the war as having anything to do with them, or their family. Life was hard enough for the families of Afton Mountain without having to dodge Union bullets in a war they did not care for.

A small child, around ten years of age, approached Him, Grandpa, why are all these people gathering in front of the cabin?

Parker Layton looked at his little granddaughter, smiled and answered, I got a secret, I’ve been holding for thirty years, dear. Now before I pass, I got to tell somebody about what I did.

Did you do something bad, Grandpa? She responded.

Some accounts would say I did, but I look at it, as retribution. He told the little girl. What’s retribution?

Punishment for an evil deed. That’s the way I look at it. Now run along and play, I got to talk to these folks.

The little girl looked at her grandfather, and smiled, she had no idea of what he was talking about, nor did it concern her at this point in her young life. She reflecting on what he had said then turned and ran toward the other small children playing in the back yard.

He watched as she disappeared around the corner of the log cabin, and then looked at the crowd gathering in front of his home. It was surprising that so many people were coming to his announcement of a secret about the Civil War and the death of the famous General Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville in May of 1863. It was thirty years ago, the time had past so quickly, it seemed like only yesterday, and much of the war had been forgotten on Afton Mountain. The people had gone back to living the way they had for decades, and the grieving for those lost in the war had began to fade into the mist of time. Parker Layton wondered where the years had gone, from a young man in his twenties, now he was an aging ex-soldier of the Confederate Army in his fifties. Many of his friends, soldiers who fought with him, lay in unmarked graves, in some long lost cemetery, killed in a battle that made little consequence to the outcome of the war. A life wasted, what could have been, lost in a moment, which ended the shortness and quickness of one’s existence. Vivid memories, agonizing thoughts, lost opportunities, of talents wasted so needlessly in the split second of eternity’s raging momentum. Parker Layton had survived the carnage of battle, and lived with the secret he was now going to share with the world.

A small thin young woman approached the chair where Parker was sitting, Papa, lot of people here. You musta done something big durin the war.

I reckon! Was all that Parker said as his daughter turned and walked away and down the three steps to the dirt yard.

A stand had been set up by his family to serve lemonade and tea, for it was a hot day. In July of 1894. Over thirty years had passed since the War Between the States, and now was the time to reveal secrets long hidden in the minds and archives of the past. Parker Layton had his secrets; politicians and military men of the last three decades would question things, which he knew, with reservation. It would possible make him classified like his brother Jack, non compos mentis; but it was a truth he had to tell, a story which would set the right to an injustice carried out in 1862 against his brother John.

CHAPTER TWO

Thirty years is a long time to keep a secret, especially about something that was sacred to the millions of people in the states who had seceded from the United States. The war ended at the small village of Appomattox Court House in April 1865, when General Robert E. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to General Ulysses S Grant’s Army of the Potomac. Thousands of soldiers, from privates to Generals, had died fighting for a cause they believed in but possibly did not understand. Now, Parker Layton was going to tell about the death of one Confederate General, whose death left the Confederacy with the loss of one of its greatest strategist. Parker Layton pulled his watch from his pocket and noted the time, it was one o’clock. Slowly he lifted his frail body from his rocker and looked out over the crowd, the ya was filled with reporters from as far away as Richmond, Norfolk and Washington to be the first to get to Harrisonburg, to telegraph this secret to his newspaper.

"Friends and reporters, I am Parker Layton, I served in the 10th Virginia Infantry during the War Between the States. I was in Company G, the Valley Guards. I was drafted into service on June 17th, 1862, with two of my brothers, John and Jack. Now I didn’t think that was right, cause John was married, and had a family; and as most of ya know, Jack was sorta, well not very swift in the thought process. We didn’t own any slaves, and didn’t believe the war was any of our business, but they drafted us anyway. The three of us fought in the battles called the Seven Days near Richmond. Up and down the valley, marching, marching, so much, I had to put tobaki juice in my eyes to keep awake.

John got a letter saying a Yankee deserter was hanging round his house. So he left, to check it out. They caught him, court martial him, and shot him for desertion. On that day, I swore to God that I’d kill the son of a bitch General who wouldn’t let my brother go. I shot at him at Chancellorsville, then the North Carolina 18th fired a volley of rounds toward his patrol, Killin and woundin about twelve of his officers and men."

A reporter jumped up, Robert Owen, Richmond Times, You talking about General Stonewall Jackson?

Yeah. Parker answered.

You telling me, you intentionally shot at this great General with the intent to kill him? The reporter asked Parker.

That I am.

Another reporter, amid the rumbling sounds of those present, spoke up, I don’t believe this crap. He was the best General, which General Lee had. He was winning all the battles. And you claim you shot at him. What the hell for?

Cause he had my brother John shot for desertion. Parker said quietly.

There was a roar of disbelief from the crowd, and many began to slowly walk away from the gathering, leaving only the reporters and relatives of Parker’s still there.

Mr. Layton! Robert Owen began, You expect us to believe you tried to kill General Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson cause he had your brother shot for desertion?

It’s the truth, Mr. Owen. I don’t lie.

Desertion in the face of the enemy is a serious charge, Mr. Layton. It was a practice carried out by most of the Officers in that war. The second reporter said.

That’s right, Sir. Parker told him, You’ll find if you do your research, most of the sentences were commuted by higher authorities.

Mr. Layton, Let me get this straight, you killed Stonewall Jackson in retaliation for having your brother shot for desertion? Reporter Owen asked for clarification.

Mr. Owen, I did not say I killed General Jackson! What I said is, I fired the first shot at this patrol coming down Plank road. Did I hit the General? I don’t know. The 18th North Carolina boys, fired into the patrol, one of them could have hit him.

Sir, it is known that Jackson was hit three times, one in the left arm below the shoulder, another in the forearm, and one in the right hand, which broke two fingers. Which do you think was your ball?

I have nothing to confirm it. One of the balls was a .577 caliber musket ball, used by our men. Perhaps it was the ball I fired, but I have no way of knowing. All I’m saying is, I fired the first shot at Jackson for having my brother shot.

Mr. Layton, if you did shoot at the General, why wait for thirty years to come forward?

Parker laughed, then looked at the reported and shook his head, I ain’t crazy, Mr. Owen. In 1863, they would have hung me with out a trial. Thirty years, most has been forgotten, and people have gone on with their lives, and the war has been over, and I am a nobody, just one who fought and survived the carnage.

The remaining reporters, just looked at the skinny and frail former soldier, and wondered if what they had heard, was truth or lies, fact or fiction, honesty or myth, validity or fantasy. Slowly they returned to their horse or carriage, and began leaving. Was it a tale to be reported to the people of Virginia, or was it just a fanciful story told by an aging man who wanted some notoriety in his last years. Some would write a small article and place it on the back pages of their respective papers, others would pass it off and make no mention of it then or in the future. Letting it die as a story, which did not need to be told, or a local folktale to be passed down from generation to generation.

CHAPTER THREE

Parker Layton watched as the people who had come to hear the announcement of his involvement in the death of General Stonewall Jackson, quickly dispersed and left the field around his log cabin. Their faces had shown the shock and disbelief about the story he had told. As they left, he had wondered if they believed him, or thought he was just an old man sinking into dementia, wanting a small bit of fame in his declining years. To him, it did not matter what they believed, for he knew the truth, and would tell it until the day he died in his home on Afton Mountain.

The years after the war had not been easy for the people of Afton Mountain, the Confederate currency was useless, and Yankee dollars were hard to come by for even the most prosperous landowners. Cultivating their farms, raising animals for food was their main concern, and little thought was given to the war, which claimed the lives of so many Virginias from the Mountain. It was useless to dwell on a war, which devastated most of the south and left empty places at the dinner table. Life went on for those who were left, and they survived from year to year, raising their families, and believing in a better tomorrow.

He had watched the crowds as they left his front yard, reporters from several papers, friends from the community, and even relatives from other areas of the state, most seemingly non-believers of his story about the famous General Jackson. There was no doubt in his mind, he had fired the first shot on that night in May of 1863, followed by several volleys from the boys from North Carolina. He could hear Lieutenant Joe Morrison running towards the men who were firing, screaming, You’re firing at your own men. And another voice yelling to the men, He’s lying, boys, pour it into them.

The scene had burned a picture in his mind, which, he would never forget; it was his night of retribution against a general he thought was a bully and a murderer.

The small frail young woman approached him again, Papa, most folks are gone. Ain’t no body left but the younguns and me. Although, there’s one reporta who is still in the house, playin wid the younguns.

A reporter? Parker asked his daughter.

Yeah. Said his name was Robert Owen.

That’d be me, Mr. Layton. Robert Owen, Richmond Times. The reporter said as he walked out of the door on to the front porch.

Well, Mr. Owens, What you still here for? Seems like none of the other reportas took stock in what I was ah sayin.

Mr. Layton, I don’t know if you are telling the truth or not. I do know this, there ain’t been a North Carolina boy come forth and admit to firing that first shot. Someone did. That first shot set off a chain reaction that killed and wounded about twelve of those officers coming down that road at night.

Didn’t mean for all that to happen, Mr. Owen.

No, I don’t reckon you did. What I’m curious about is how did you know General Jackson would be coming down Plank Road at night?

The General was a creature of habit, Mr. Owen. The whole Brigade knew he would be doing a reconnaissance at night, preparing for the next day battle.

But how did you know, he would be coming down that particular road?

Parker looked at the reporter and smiled, I didn’t. I knew he would be somewhere in the area, between the yanks and our boys, and would have a passel of his officers wid him.

The reporter got up and walked to the edge of the porch, he then moved back to where Parker was sitting, and the expression on his face showed he was confused about the entire sequence of events on that night in May 1863.

Mr. Layton, the North Carolina 18th, was on picket duty that evening, just how did you get to be with them? It doesn’t make sense to me.

Well, Sur. We had just fought a big battle, men from different units were mixed in with otha divisions, which company commanders where not able to distinguish who was were. It was total confusion.

I understand the confusion. Jackson’s flank movement routed the forces under General Hooker, that’s common knowledge.

Right. We were scattered all ova the place.

Did you not try to find the 10th?

I knew where my division were. I also knew it might be a good night to carry out my pledge to kill that son of a bitch. Things were all mixed up, and I …

So you just wandered from unit to unit, looking for the unit which would be picketing the roads that evening. With hope that General Jackson would be coming down the road where you were hiding. Yeah. Parker Chuckled.

If the Confederacy had any hopes of winning, ‘Stonewall’ Jackson was it. He was the best, General Lee had. And you were willing to kill him?

Mr. Owen, I’m from the mountains where we subscribe to the ‘Code Fuedelo’. A Man’s gotta kill the man what kilt his brother. I made a pledge on that day, August 19, 1862, that one day I would kill that son of a bitch. When I shot the first shot, I knew there would be a hundred other shots at the patrol, and someone would hit that bastard, hopefully killin him.

Well, Mr. Layton, three shots hit the General. Twelve of his officers lay dead or wounded when the firing stopped.

That ain’t as bad as having to march by the grave where your brother had fallen in after he was shot. They made him dig his own grave. He just lay there, no shroud, just a hood ova his head, they just poured the dirt over the body as it lay where it felled. That hurt, Mr. Owen. That hurt.

I would like to come back tomorrow, Mr. Layton, and hear the story from the beginning.

That’d be nice, Mr. Owen. You could stay in the barn tonight, there’s a cot ya can sleep on, I’ll have my daughter get you a blanket.

The reporter looked at the storyteller, and then shook his head, indicating he would stay. A cot in the barn of the confessed killer of ‘Stonewall’ Jackson was better than riding to the nearest hotel.

Well, Mr. Owen, let’s go inside and get a cuppa java. I got a blackberry pie, which will go good wid the java. Got some good tobacki, we can have a smoke.

Don’t mind if I do, Mr. Layton.

The two men, got up from the chairs they were sitting in, the reporter following the old soldier into the cabin, taking his hat off as he entered. Parker Layton went to the table in the kitchen, and motioned to the reporter to sit down. His daughter placed two cups on the table, and then went to the wood stove, got an old coffee pot and returned to the table, poured the coffee into the cups, while Parker Layton went to the cupboard and opened the door, pulled out a pie pan and placed it on the table, took a knife cut a piece of the pie and placed it on a small saucer in front of the Reporter.

Ya got ah pipe, Mr. Owen? Parker asked the reporter.

Yes, I do. He said as he reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a hand carved polished pipe.

Fill it wid this Virginie tobacki. It’s the best thur is. Parker said placing a bag on the table as he packed his pipe.

Nothing better than a good cuppa java, and a good smoke, Mr. Layton.

Don’t reckon, thur is, Mr. Owen.

Call me, Robert, Mr. Layton. The reporter said as he began packing his pipe.

CHAPTER FOUR

Life was simple for the hard working residents of Afton Mountain, working from sun up to sun down, daily endeavoring for just enough food to last another day, perhaps another week. Storing some for the coming winter’s ice and snow, and hunting for the meat to salt and pack away in the storing shed. Life came and went on a daily bases for the people of the mountain, being born, living, and dying in obscure places the world would never know. They came from the land of the mountain, and there they were buried in it’s dirt, unknown and anonymous, they passed, buried in family plots or church cemeteries, seemingly to have never existed, except in the hearts and minds of the people of Afton Mountain.

Parker Layton was an early riser, always up as the rays of the sun’s first light came over the ridges and began settling in the hallows of the Mountain. The first thing he always did was go outside and empty his bladder in the outhouse, then coming back in, he would make coffee; a routine he followed every morning, since his return to the Mountain in 1865 from the Yankee prison in New York. Thirty years is a long time to do the same thing every morning, and as he said about General Jackson, he too was a creature of habit.

He slipped on his pants, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, and then he went to a pale of water on a table near the stove, and splashed water on his face. He then took a towel and dried his face.

Papa, do ya think that Reporter might want some breakfast? His daughter said as she came into the kitchen, where Parker was standing.

I reckon. Make enough for him when ya fix it.

He sure is a talker. Talks so prim and proper, makes ya feel dumb. She said as she also went to the pale of water and splashed her face with the water. Oh She said, Kinda cool for this time ah year.

Best ya get some clothes on, and get outta ya nighties, that Reporter may just pop in befer ya know it. Parker told her.

Yes, Papa. She responded, and then added, Soon as I get from the outhouse, I’ll put on a dress. Don’t wake Abigail up, let her sleep. I’ll wake her up when breakfast is ready.

Best ya do, don’t want that Reporter ta think we’s heathen.

No, Papa. We are God fearin folk. She said as she went out the door of the kitchen, and on to the porch. The sun was rising, and the rays of light were slowly creeping toward the top of the trees, and would soon be shining on the log cabin.

She moved quickly to the shanty they called the Outhouse; it was a long walk in the early morning, when one had to relieve the nights build up in the bladder. The door was closed, she lifted the latch and opened the door, startled, she jumped back, and the reporter was sitting on the set with the hole, his pants pulled down around his ankles.

They looked at each other, the Reporter and the Daughter of Parker Layton. It seemed as if neither had anything to say. The expressions on their faces were of surprise and disbelief. She had never seen a man with his pants pulled down on the potty, nor had a woman ever seen him with his pants pulled down. It was seemingly a stand off, neither moved; they just looked at each other, trying to keep eye contact, only momentarily exploring the others body. Slowly the Reporter stood up.

Don’t ya think, ya should pull up yor pants? Yor ugly is showing. She said with a shaky voice.

Yes, Mam. He told her, and then he reached down and pulled up his trousers.

Ya…Ya shoulda latched it on the inside, Mr. Owen.

Yes…. I.. I should have. I apologize for my brutishness.

Papa says if ya sees a man’s nakedness, it’s same as poking…

No. No. I haven’t seen yours, so it’s not poking.

It ain’t right Mr. Owen. A woman should neva see a man’s uglies.

"What?