Blooms of Old Cahaba: Stories from the Old South

By John B. Givhan and J Cooper

Blooms of Old Cahaba is a compilation of six years of research and was inspired by the Givhan family history and Cahaba, the first capitol of Alabama and one of the greatest lost jewels of the Old South. From the years of flourish, before the Civil War, affluent Cahaba was widely celebrated all over the world for its rich bounty and the finest cotton land known to civilized man.

Blooms of Old Cahaba consists of something for everyonestories from the Old South, passed down from many generations of family and friends and told as correctly as can be for hearsay through the years.

It contains excerpts from the diary of a Civil War soldier who was fighting in Wilsons Raid in Selma, Alabama while writing his storya first-hand account and much more.

You will understand how our history affects the current generation through the eyes of a young man leaving his childhood for college but not before he comprehends his past.

Blooms of Old Cahaba holds many documents and artifacts including diaries and wills, awards, and commendations of the Givhan family from early 1800s and includes many other historical documents and facts, all rolled together in an intriguing novel that takes you time traveling from before the Civil War into modern day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524564940

John B. Givhan

John B. Givhan is a soldier, rancher and lawyer. He was awarded the Purple Heart, the Bronze Star, the Air Medal with Nine Oak Leaf Clusters and the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal for his helicopter pilot combat service in the Vietnam War. As well, he was honored by State of Alabama Governor George C. Wallace for extraordinary heroism and service to his state and nation. He graduated Marion Military Institute, Auburn University and Cumberland School of Law at Samford University (cum laude), Birmingham, Alabama, and practiced law in Andalusia, Alabama, for twenty four years before retiring from law practice in 1996. He owns Jacob's Manor Ranch, Safford, Dallas County, Alabama, where he was reared.

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BLOOMS

of

OLD CAHABA

JOHN B. GIVHAN;

J. COOPER

Copyright © 2017 by John B. Givhan; J. Cooper.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

KJV

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Rev. date: 01/03/2017

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CONTENTS

FROM THE AUTHORS

CHAPTER 1: THE LETTER

CHAPTER 2: THE END OF SUMMER

CHAPTER 3: TIME TO MOVE ALONG

CHAPTER 4: MAMA BETTIE

CHAPTER 5: THE FAMILY

CHAPTER 6: THE TRUNK

CHAPTER 7: THERE WERE ANGELS

CHAPTER 8: THE OLD INDIAN

CHAPTER 9: STEAMBOAT LOVE STORY

CHAPTER 10: THE PITTMAN DEMISE

CHAPTER 11: THE RAID

CHAPTER 12: THE WALTZ

CHAPTER 13: THE SURPRISE

CHAPTER 14: THE HAINT

CHAPTER 15: COTTON PICKERS

CHAPTER 16: THE TRIAL

CHAPTER 17: CHURCH SERVICE

CHAPTER 18: CAN I BORROW YO MULE?

CHAPTER 19: HUNN-DOO

CHAPTER 20: RUBY of CAHABA

CHAPTER 21: THE FUNERAL

CHAPTER 22: TIME TO GO

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

FROM THE AUTHORS

Through divine intervention, we believe Blooms has magic—it is in a format certainly not common to most books—each story, photo, and article is a surprise waiting for the reader.

Blooms of Old Cahaba contains history, romance, religion, mystery, comedy, suspense, and even violence and horror, but it is also educational—something for everybody (over eighteen), and it takes the reader time-traveling throughout the years.

Romantics as well as history buffs researching the Old South and Civil War, or those who just read for entertainment, will enjoy.

Most of the facts are true, and inspired by the Givhan family, as the present day grandson at the tender young age of eighteen learns about his family and history, and it changes his life forever.

Blooms of Old Cahaba is born on wings of truth.

THE LETTER

Chapter One

1863

He was a handsome young lad six years of age with locks of blond hair that glowed around his head like a halo when he played in the sunshine. He had clear, green-grayish piercing eyes and a square jaw, easily recognizable traits that were constantly revealed in all males of the Givhan family bloodline. Johnny was a Givhan and there was no denying that fact.

Like so many who came before him, from birth, he was distinguished. It was born in him, in his genes, God created him and made him that way. His parents and grandparents acknowledged as much as soon as they saw him, and nobody who met the lad thought any different.

Those who knew him intimately were drawn by Johnny’s clarity of purpose, focus, concentration, and motivation, and of course, his innocence. All young children have that innocence about them, all of them. That’s what Jesus said, and He knows.

The tender young boy’s pain was real. In fact, his anguish was so great that the stars were beginning to dim their lights and the earth lose all its color, and his grandfather could see straight through those beautiful clear eyes. He could feel the agony like it was his own.

As they stood on the porch, looking down the lane, Johnny was the first to speak. What is a cavalry charge, Papa? Johnny had given him that name as soon as he learned to talk, and just to hear the boy say Papa delighted the old man to no end. He loved his son, but his grandson was a double blessing in his life in addition to being a more profound responsibility than he had ever imagined. He wondered where on earth Johnny had heard the words, cavalry charge.

The little fellow just stood there with his eyes gazing up at his grandfather, filled with wonder, waiting for an answer. Papa looked down at his grandson and thought to himself, what does this young lad know about war? Anything? Or, does he know much more than his age might suggest? Could he feel war in his bones, like his old Papa?

If he answered the boy’s questions with any real truth, would little Johnny lose his innocence and be affected by that for the rest of his life? How do I explain war at all, he asked himself. The purity in his young grandson had been genuine up to that point in his short sweet life. He didn’t want to be the one to take that away.

The old man felt helpless as if he had been floating down the Alabama River on a rickety raft about to be run over by the steamboat St. Charles, and left for alligator bait.

He knew this day would come, just didn’t expect it to come so soon. He was dazed, wanting to postpone Johnny’s exposure to that particular reality of life.

He silently prayed, Please, God, give me just a little bit more time with my sweet, sweet boy before he has to learn the dirty business of war and what can and has been done to our family, our town, our traditions, our very being.

Papa, what is a cavalry charge? Johnny was insistent. There was to be no waiting or hesitation. Papa felt a repeated tug on his pants leg. There was that Givhan determination, he thought. Admirable, although at this point perhaps a little aggravating.

With a raised voice, Johnny shouted, Papa, tell me, what is a cavalry charge! The word please was not inserted before tell me as Johnny had been taught. This aggravated his Papa all the more.

But the apparent lack of response was not the child’s fault, the old man thought. Not at all. It was the culpability of the entire country to make such a young boy even ask a question like that.—or as lawyers would say—the totality of the circumstances. The inquisitive youngster would be forgiven, this time, and not corrected so as to not cloud the issue.

Johnny’s Papa knew war, he knew blood’s greasy feel, and he’d heard wounded gut shot soldiers cry out for their mamas in fits of excruciating pain, just before life slipped away from their failing bodies. And he knew from intense personal experience, the toll war could take on one’s nerves could be almost unbearable and indescribable, nothing to equal it.

Papa had enlisted in the service to his country as a young man in 1813, some fifty-one years ago, albeit for a short period of time. Therefore, he knew war, the war of his time, the war of anytime, and he knew combat was all the same. He fought in the War of 1812. The War of 1812 was a military conflict, lasting for two and a half years, fought by the United States of America, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, its North American colonies and its North American Indian allies.

Papa was deep in thought remembering his time, his war. The campaign was fought in three theatres. First, at sea. Second, land and naval battles were fought on the US-Canadian frontier. Third, large-scale battles were fought in the Southern United States and Gulf Coast.

He remembered his exact thoughts before he joined the fighting. He must go, he must do his duty, just as his son, Beau, feels now, going off to fight in the Civil War, doing his duty to protect his family, the Cahaba area, southern traditions and a way of life that had been passed on for so many generations.

The war was almost on their door step now and although his grandson was waiting impatiently for an answer, his Papa was still lost in his own world and gazed off into the distance.

There was not a hint of conflict in the Garden of Eden, he pondered, until sin entered. Shaking his head, he wondered, how did we get from the Garden of Eden to Cahaba, Alabama, the land of rich gentlemen landowners and the home of beautiful ladies, just to watch it be destroyed by some selfish money-hungry Yankees?

He questioned the very history of this country, and the reasoning of the men who shaped it. He knew the answer, his war was for the noble cause, but what a price we have already paid through the years, he thought. As badly as he hated to see his son go, he was proud, he had raised a fine man.

The Civil War was approaching and each side had their motives. The political agenda of the North claimed the war was to preserve the Union and to free the slaves, but only 20 percent of Southern slave owners owned 80 percent of the slaves which left a whole lot of people who didn’t own any, but were still willing to fight for their freedom against tyranny and invasion.

Even many of the northerners owned slaves, not to mention the child labor that was very much a part of their culture. Economics drove the war. The south was rich in resources, and the Yankees wanted them, plain and simple, and were willing to invade the south, do anything, in order to capture King Cotton.

The Yankees were heading deeper into the South, looting, burning, destroying everything in their path. They were not only killing men, but women and children, livestock, and pets. They were stealing anything and everything of value they could carry with them, and burning or ruining the rest. It was bloody, it was horrific, it was gruesome, and it was war.

Papa couldn’t help letting his thoughts drift away. My son, Beau, rode off earlier today to an almost certain gory and inglorious demise. And I have his son, my grandson, wanting words out of my semi toothless mouth to glorify this abhorrence. Whether it be this abominable war or any other war, for whatever noble cause is claimed, there was no justifiable reason for what was happening today, right that minute, not far from where he stood. If I was only younger, and in better health, he told himself, I would show those Yankees a thing or two."

The old man had been there when his son said goodbye to his wife, standing privately and solemnly on the expansive front porch of Mollet Hall, their eleven-columned, eight-bedroom abode in the middle of the best cotton land in the county. Beau was trying to console and explain to his lovely wife, Beatrice, why he had to go away and fight. It did not go well.

All she knew was that the love of her life was leaving her for war, and he might never return. That it could be the last time she ever sees him, kisses him, the last time he holds her in his arms as she breaths in his masculine scent which was so familiar to her. It may be the last time she hears his deep but gentle and loving voice telling her he loves her, and it was almost more than she could grasp or bear.

Beatrice’s constant attentive maid, Georgia, was not far from her side while Mr. Beau was trying to talk to her. Ms. Beatrice was obviously in agony. She knew little Johnny would be just as upset over his father’s departure when he realized his dad was leaving for battle. How could she help her son if she couldn’t even help herself?

Georgia was as concerned for the boy as she was for Ms. Beatrice and Mr. Beau. She knew Mr. Papa could handle himself since he had already been in a war or two, but she shore hoped that Mr. Papa could take care of that boy, and explain to him what’s going on without tarnishing that child for life. She was thinking about the days that were surely to come.

As Beau consoled Beatrice, her mind was thinking of the doom surrounding them and started crying first; then Georgia chimed in with her loud squalling. Her squalls evolved into squeals, the awfulness of which cannot be described by man or beast. Papa musingly speculated if the squealing and wailing of slave women could be the origin of the infamous Rebel Yell. If there was a Yankee within hearing distance of that porch, he would have lit out for the tall timbers of Ohio, Maine, or from where ever else he came. A black woman knew how to be upset and scared, and how to express it, and Georgia did it persuasively and not the lease bit bashful about it

Georgia had been with them since before Beau was born, as had her entire family, and they were part of the Givhan family. She felt her heart was literally being torn from her body, triggering her screams.

She loved Beau like a son, and now he was going to war, leaving his family, all of their land, and her, and she may never see him again, ever. It was almost more than she could conceive, like losing her own boy, but she knew she had to stay strong for Ms. Beatrice.

Ms. Beatrice was falling apart and she had to support her now, help her regain her dignity. In Georgia’s mind, she felt it was up to her now, to bind and hold this family together in these hard times.

An elegant ten-yard long red brick sidewalk lined with cedars led from the front porch to the lane which would provide egress for Beau and his fine mount Cloud, on their exit route away from Cahaba to meet up with Company F, Third Alabama Cavalry, and then join up with a larger cavalry unit until they received further orders.

Each brick in the walk had been carefully laid. Not a blade of grass or weed dare stick its neck out between any one of those bricks, for fear it would be plucked away by Georgia or one of the other servants. The sidewalk was spotless, and waiting for Beau and Cloud to make their departure.

Johnny had heard the women’s screams and walked out to the veranda and observed the long, straight, double-edged sword, swinging from his father’s side. Johnny knew it was his father’s own personal battle weapon. He watched with tears in his eyes as the man he worshipped tore himself away from his loving mother. He wished she wouldn’t cry.

His dad stood tall and proud in his gray uniform with all the shiny buttons. Johnny was also full of pride. His father looked like a giant standing there all brave and solemn. Beau shook his father’s hand and asked him to look after his family until his return, then grabbed him and gave him a long hard hug that almost squeezed the breath from the old man. He then bent over and pecked Johnny on top of his golden head, picked him up and swung him around like he did when they played in the yard, and it made Johnny giggle. Beau stood his dear son back on the floor and knelt down looking directly into his eyes, replicas of his own and his father’s.

He kissed Johnny on the cheek and told him to be a good boy, be strong, and look after his mother, and the boy promised he would. Beau then walked toward the steps, the sidewalk, his horse, the lane, the war, and he was gone.

The old man stood there with tears tracing their way down his cheeks because he knew there was only one direction to hell and that was to go north to stop the Yankees before they got any farther. And, that is exactly where his devoted son was headed, straight to hell. He knew it, he had been there, on that same road, and when he went, he was. He was one of the few who survived, and returned home, a changed man. He had seen things that would make grown men buckle to their knees and cry out for the Lord. He remembered it all too well.

Papa felt another tug on his pants leg and it brought him back to reality, this was the moment he had to explain war to his dearly beloved grandson. Beau was gone now, and his wife was beyond distraught. She was in no condition to answer any questions until she had some control over her own emotions, and that may not happen for a while, if ever. No, he had to be the one to explain all this to his grandson, it was his responsibility. He grimaced again at the thought.

Papa, tell me! Johnny ordered the old man to say something, but he was still deep in his own valley of the shadow, and didn’t speak, just kept thinking. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes, blew his nose and tried to gain some semblance of composure. He cleared his throat a few times, just buying time before he had to speak.

Cavalry charges are about sabers, he started. then became lost again in his own battles. Oh yes, he knew all sabers. He also knew the ones they were using now in the Civil War. The Yankees standard ssue was the new Model 1860 Cavalry Saber which boasts a 33-inch blade that weighed more than three pounds. Killed very efficiently. Although most cavalry combat involved small arms, this saber could easily inflict death-dealing wounds. It was often deployed in mounted charges and occasional hand-to-hand clashes. He almost lost his breath as he thought about his dear son being pierced by one of these blades. The thought sickened him almost beyond his ability to tolerate it.

That saber could carve up a man’s guts almost as nicely as a turkey set on a silver platter in the center of a gracious dining room table on Thanksgiving Day. A thirty-three inches blade could even go through a big man like butter when wielded with proper skill. He knew that for a fact.

Just how was he to communicate these raw brutal facts to Johnny in a way he could understand without frightening him? Papa pondered as he looked down at his inquisitive grandchild. Johnny may know more about pain and suffering than I do, he thought. As he watched him, he could see an understanding well beyond his youth. He knows his dad has gone away to war and the boy is hurting badly. I pray that the stars have granted him the strength and understanding he will need for what lies ahead.

Papa’s head was swirling. But for war, this war, any war, his sanity might have been somewhat balanced, but now, with his grandson by his side, and his son riding to a certain gory death, he felt the ground sinking from under his feet, and the merciless sun was butting him on the top of his head with vengeance.

He grabbed one of the columns near him that was covered in the sweet fragrance of red running roses. He needed something to lean against to regain his balance. Normally, he loved the scent of the roses, but at that moment, he felt his stomach was turning inside out and all he could smell was gun powder, blood and death.

He whispered a little prayer that he had always prayed as a small boy when he was in trouble, Lord, may I slip over the Alabama River bank and would you allow a hungry alligator to swallow me whole? He knew if God would grant him his wish, take him to his heavenly home right then, he wouldn’t have to deal with Johnny’s persistent questions, the answers to which he hoped Providence had already provided.

As he watched the boy, he could see that Johnny was slowly but surely beginning to focus: man, sword, horse, saddle, and then his questions began again. Papa, where is the other man, the one wearing blue? Is he stronger than my daddy faster, meaner, have a sharper, longer sword? What is a cavalry charge? Johnny continued his questioning as his little mind searched for answers. Why do grown-ups fight and kill each other? Surely, those bad men wearing blue uniforms that come from somewhere up north have children like me. Then, why do they want to kill my daddy? If they run swords through each other, that makes those children sad, just like me, doesn’t it, Papa?

If all the daddies are dead after the war, how can there be a winner? That would leave nothing except women, children, and horses. That’s no good. I want my daddy around forever! Papa could see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes and that Johnny had just realized his father may not be coming home.

Papa, I hear men and women talk about something they call ‘The Cause’. What does that mean? Do they mean to say because and forget to add the ‘be’?

Such innocence, thought his Papa. The pain in the boy’s realization was sending throbbing jolts of hurt and anger through Papa’s heart as Johnny continued. If Daddy gets killed, I’ll have to take care of Mama, Georgia, and you, Papa when you get older. Heck! Who is going to take care of me? I’m just a little boy.

The boy was thinking well beyond his years. I want to be the head of the house someday, but not now. I can’t protect anybody. I can shoot a sling shot, but I am not allowed to touch a gun. I can’t tell people what to do when I don’t know. What if the field hands refuse to pick cotton? His tiny mind was racing with questions and all the possible problems.

Johnny’s eyes began to run with tears, and all his Papa wanted to do was grab him, hold him, and protect him from war, and save the innocence he could already see fading from his grandson’s angelic face as the horrible implications began to overwhelm him. He was racing through his innocence, right before the old man’s eyes.

Then Johnny continued with his queries, Who will get the cotton from the gin to the Cahaba landing where it is loaded aboard the steamboat and taken down river?

Johnny tried to reason with himself. Why don’t I have brothers like the other boys? I don’t like being an only child. Papa, you don’t get around very well, and missing half of your teeth. You are too old to help me with everything I’ll have to do! Who will do that, Papa? Johnny wasn’t even directing his questions toward his Papa any longer, and more questions seemed to be seeping into his mind, each a new one.

"Who is going to feed all those people here on the plantation? Who is going to take care of them, make sure they have food and shelter like you and daddy do?

An immediate response came to Papa’s mind, but he didn’t speak it aloud. If the Yankees had their way, the answer would be nobody. If they continued their ruthless strategy of ‘Total War’, every plantation in the south would be burned down to the ground and it didn’t matter what happened to the blacks or whites that lived there. Papa’s mood was getting darker and Johnny seemed to pick up on it.

The boy’s questions seemed to be turning to anger, and that kind of anger was just too much for a six-year-old to shoulder. A child that young shouldn’t even be exposed to the thoughts of war, much less the constant exhausting task of running a plantation. He should be outside playing, or fishing in the nearby river, running up and down the river banks and sidewalks of Cahaba, chasing his buddies, exploring the woods, catching lightening bugs in jar. This was just not right, he thought. Surely this is not what God wanted.

Papa, struggling with his arthritis, knelt down beside Johnny, slowly, as he braced himself against the column and looked the boy directly in the eyes, deciding to answer his questions.

"A cavalry charge is when the men in Gray