Honeysuckle: Tales of the Chattahoochee

By Joel F. Fletcher

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• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Apr 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781489722102

Joel F. Fletcher

Joel Fletcher writes out of a fifth generation Georgia background. He is the author of one fictionalized memoir of his growing up years in the Atlanta, Georgia area and numerous historical articles about Georgia. The name of that novel is The Great Atlanta Bike Race of 1948. The Chattahoochee river flows through Atlanta and the author uses it as a reference point for these eight stories, all of which feature the river where honeysuckle grows in profusion. The stories begin in 1862 and move forward to the present.

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Copyright © 2020 Joel F. Fletcher.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-2212-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2211-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2210-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019910508

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 8/2/2019

Contents

Song of the Chattahoochee by Sidney Lanier

Foreword

1.   An Unexpected Night Visit

2.   Corporal James Webb, C.S.A.

3.   A Random Selection

4.   Forgotten

5.   Voices from the Bookshelf

6.   Boiled Peanuts

7.   The Final Round

8.   Honey Darlin’

9.   Old Sam Spruell

Song of the Chattahoochee

Sidney Lanier

Out of the hills of Habersham,

Down the valleys of Hall,

I hurry amain to reach the plain,

Run the rapid and leap the fall,

Split at the rock and together again,

Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,

And flee from folly on every side

With a lover’s pain to attain the plain

Far from the hills of Habersham,

Far from the valleys of Hall

All down the hills of Habersham,

All through the valleys of Hall

The rushes cried Abide, abide,

The willful waterweeds held me thrall,

The laving laurel turned my tide,

The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay,

The dewberry dipped for to word delay,

And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide,

Here in the hills of Habersham,

Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o’er the hills of Habersham,

Veiling the valleys of Hall,

The hickory told me manifold

Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall

Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,

The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,

Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,

Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold

Deep shade of the hills of Habersham,

These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the hills of Habersham,

And oft in the valleys of Hall,

The while quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone

Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,

And many a luminous jewel lone

—Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,

Ruby, garnet and amethyst—

Made lures with the lights of streaming stone

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,

In the beds of the valley of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,

And oh, not the valleys of Hall

Avail : I am fain for to water the plain.

Downward the voices of Duty call—

Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,

The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,

And the lordly main from beyond the plain

Calls o’er the hills of Habersham,

Calls through the valleys of Hall.

Foreword

Do you like rivers? I do and always have. Rivers have played a vital role in the founding and settling of the United States of America. Our great rivers have been highways of commerce, culture and civilization. The Native Americans plied them in their finely crafted birchbark canoes. Fur traders opened up the virgin wilderness by their use of and exploration of our rivers.

Rivers have enabled us to explore this vast country. They have irrigated our farmlands, transported our ancestors throughout this great country, powered our burgeoning industries and inspired our poets, like Georgia’s own Sidney Lanier. I honor him by including a short portion of his poem, Song of the Chattahoochee, at the beginning of this collection of short stories. I recommend that you read the poem in its entirety.

The Chattahoochee is Georgia’s most famous river. It begins in a mountain spring in the North Georgia Mountains and flows four hundred and thirty miles as a mighty stream to the Gulf of Mexico.

All of the stories in this collection have a connection to the Chattahoochee. The first four stories are connected to the Civil War. The others bring us to present day Georgia. Some of these connections are brief as Abe Lincoln’s comment that General Sherman told him of a beautiful Georgia river he had enjoyed fishing for trout in. Other connections to the river are more poignant as in the tragic Civil War story, A Random Selection.

I am a 79-year-old Georgia native. My ancestral county (Carroll) is bordered on its east side by the Chattahoochee. I have listened to many tales about the river. Some are happy—picnics, family gatherings, baptisms, swimming holes, fishing and the Great Chattahoochee Raft Race of the Swinging 70’s.

But there are other stories—some not so happy. The river running blood red during the depression years from soil erosion before farmers learned how to protect the land. The years when Atlanta, Columbus and other towns used the river as a sewer killing the fish for a hundred miles downstream. Now we know better how to protect the river, the The Hooch is much cleaner but still a very fragile natural resource.

I hope you enjoy sharing our river with Captain Robert Word, Corporal Jamie Webb, Erik Diefenbacker, Will Kraeger, Sam Spruell, Connie and Brian Goodchild, the girls of the Chattahoochee Mist Golf Club and finally Billy Blake and his golf buddies.

They all loved the river as I do.

Thank you.

Joel Fletcher

Rome, Georgia

An Unexpected Night Visit

(From the novel Suffer the Valiant by Joel Fletcher)

August 30, 1862

First Connecticut Artillery

Battery C

On the Potomac River

Rob couldn’t sleep in the hot, humid air of his tent. The unit had been encamped on their position there on the Potomac for three days now awaiting the enemy attack. Nothing was happening and the sultry Washington weather was getting on his nerves, and only fitful naps were possible. He rolled over on the cot to glance at his watch on the little fold-out table where he placed his personal things. It was 1:00 a.m. He got up, pulled on his boots, snapped his suspenders in place and walked out into the humid night. He stood outside his tent and slowly surveyed the scene about him; a lonely figure wrapped in a cloak of sadness searching for meaning in a world gone mad. The carnage of Second Bull Run ever before his memory, he was the forlorn figure of a young officer in his country’s service. Lonely, homesick for family and friends, who now despised him for his loyalty to the Union, he slowly strolled out on the line of cannon his men had positioned along their stretch of the river.

The campfires had burned down to glowing embers, sentries were walking their posts and a three-quarter moon illuminated the scene through the blue haze of the campfires.

Rob leaned against a gun carriage and lit a cigar. The match lit his face for a moment. He heard a slight rustle of clothing to his right and whirled to see who was coming up the path.

Sorry to startle you, young man, a high-pitched, twangy voice called out. Rob peered into the gloaming to see who was slowly approaching him up the rough path to the gun emplacements.

A tall, gangling man with a cane, clothed in a black frock and wearing a stove pipe hat was making his way up to the ramparts where Rob stood transfixed, not believing what he saw.

Mr. President? Good…Er…Good evening, Sir. I’m sorry; I didn’t know it was you. Rob snapped to attention and proffered his best salute at the same time struck with the horrible thought that here he was improperly dressed in the presence of the President of the United States. He was speechless and humiliated. Lincoln immediately sensed the young officer’s embarrassment and attempted to put him at ease. The encounter brought vivid memories to his mind of his own days as a young captain of militia in the Black Hawk War. He asked the young man’s name.

Robert Word, Captain, U.S. Artillery, Sir.

Please, stand easy, Captain. My apologies for comin’ up on you unexpected like. I have trouble sleepin’ of late and I just saddled my horse and rode out here. My wife and our White House staff would have a conniption if they knew I was out here alone like this, but I declare, Captain, bein’ cooped up in that house gets on my nerves powerful bad. Sometimes I jes have to get out by myself to think.

Sir, would you like me to send for the general? I know he would want to properly receive you, Sir.

No, no, please Captain. Let the general sleep. Lord knows we all need to get any rest we can in these awful times. If you don’t mind, just stay and talk with me a spell. It helps me to know what the men are feelin’ and all, if you know what I mean?

Certainly, Sir. Whatever you wish. Rob could not believe what was happening. Here he was—no coat, no hat, no side arms in the middle of the night carrying on a friendly conversation with the President of the United States, like they were old buddies!

Tell me, Captain, were you in the recent action?

Yes, Sir. We were positioned on the left and saw limited action. We were lucky this time, Sir.

Yes, you were. In the worst sector the casualties were bad. The reports are still comin’ in. Some of the worst of the war. Where are you from, Captain?

I’m from Georgia, Sir.

Georgia? Well now, that is very interesting, Captain. I have never had the privilege of visiting your fair state, but General Sherman tells me northern Georgia is some of the prettiest country we have. He seems to fancy that part of the country, you know. I believe the good general may have had some romantic inclinations in that direction while he was stationed down there. Lincoln whispered, grinning and obviously enjoying his talk with this obscure artillery officer from a Rebel state.

Captain, I seem to recall General Sherman telling me of a particularly beautiful Georgia river he enjoyed fishing for trout in. Do you know it?

Yes, Sir. That would be the Chattahoochee, the eastern border of our county. It is a beautiful river.

This nocturnal conversation lasted for some time. Lincoln was pleased with his luck in finding a soldier in the ranks he could talk to—man to man. Such an opportunity was precisely what he was looking for when he discreetly saddled his horse and slipped away from the executive mansion. His short ride from the White House had only been challenged by a lone sentry, who was quickly intimidated and sworn to secrecy by the Commander in Chief. The President, remembering his own days in the frontier military, was mildly alarmed at the lax security posted by his commanders. Such laxness against Indians could get men killed in short order. He made a mental note to gently chide his officers about their relaxed ways.

Lincoln liked this young