We Three Kings

By Lyle Fugleberg

It's 4:00 in the afternoon on November 30th, a special hour in the
history of Franklin, Tennessee. Three strangers, who are at an age planning
for retirement, and coming from different directions, are thrown together by
an inexplicable happening. They don't know what it means, are puzzled
by the fact they are the only ones involved, and further confounded when
horsemen appear who are amazingly reflective of Confederate cavalrymen.
There has to be a reason for all of this, but unraveling the mystery
isn't easy. It becomes a challenge that must be met, with efforts to do so
leading to a riddle . . . a riddle but not a game. WE THREE KINGS
weaves its way through the vagaries of the riddle, which are as clear as the
fog that envelopes the area, until it arrives at not only a solution, but also the
revelation that the happening might be the most significant in 2000 years.
The solution is a call to action, an action that will commit the three
for the rest of their days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663205964

Lyle Fugleberg

Lyle Fugleberg, the founder of an award-winning Architectural firm, retired in 2008 after 45 years of practice. Still alive with sports and community service, he has also taken to write in fictional form about special issues and interests. The latest, his sixth, is prompted by not only his love for history, but also his learning about a time in the history of the Native Americans that needed to be told. What he learned about Native Americans while researching From Bird Mountain, his saga about exploring and colonizing Norsemen around the year 1000AD, led to Gitche' Manitou, about those natives and a culture very different from what has previously been pictured. He and his wife of sixty-five years divide their time between Central Florida and Western North Carolina.

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Copyright © 2021 Lyle Fugleberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-0595-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0597-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0596-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020923620

iUniverse rev. date: 12/18/2020

Contents

Chapter 1 November 30, 1864 4:00 p.m.

Chapter 2 November 30, 2020 4:00 p.m.

Chapter 3 Reenactors

Chapter 4 Bivouac

Chapter 5 A Third

Chapter 6 The Talk

Chapter 7 Taylor

Chapter 8 Bivouac

Chapter 9 Parsonage

Chapter 10 McMinnville

Chapter 11 Finding Forrest

Chapter 12 Going Home

Chapter 13 Bivouac

Chapter 14 Hideout

Chapter 15 Basement

Chapter 16 Study

Chapter 17 Saturday Evening

Chapter 18 Gordon

Chapter 19 Day Three—Sunday

Chapter 20 Sunday Afternoon

Chapter 21 Later Sunday Afternoon

Chapter 22 Basement

Chapter 23 Sunday Evening

Chapter 24 Vow

Chapter 25 Consensus

Chapter 26 Late Sunday

Chapter 27 Monday Morning

Chapter 28 Memphis

Chapter 29 The Road South

Chapter 30 Urlan

Chapter 31 Harrisonburg

Chapter 32 Day Five—Wednesday Night

Chapter 33 Day Six—Thursday Morning

Chapter 34 Thursday

Chapter 35 Day Seven—Friday

Chapter 36 Friday Night

Chapter 37 Saturday

Chapter 38 We Three Kings

Chapter 39 Sunday Afternoon

Chapter 40:00 P.M.

Chapter 41 Writings on the Wall

Chapter 42 Carver

Chapter 43 Monday Morning

Chapter 44 Monday Morning

1

November 30, 1864 4:00 p.m.

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Lieutenant Shelby stood in the saddle and cupped his eyes against the sun, now low in the west. There was a mess on Columbia Pike—units trying to catch up, stragglers all about, and horse-drawn wagons churning frozen dirt into dust—complicating what he could see.

What he couldn’t see and was looking for added to what was already frustrating for anyone who had an awareness as to what happened, what was supposed to have happened, and what was now happening because of it; and he was on the fringe of the anyones. In the days before, there’d been excitement. There’d been cold and rain as usual for this time of the year, but the great Confederate Army of Tennessee, over thirty thousand hardened and disciplined veterans, with some of the new nation’s most esteemed officers, had been on the move … with a plan.

While holding a smaller Federal army in place by a feint twenty miles south at Columbia, the main contingent of Confederates had skirted back roads to the east to complete an entrapment—or at least they should have completed an entrapment. He didn’t know what went wrong, other than sadly remembering that at Spring Hill, north of Columbia, the cavalry unit of which he was a part ran into an unexpected storm of fire and were driven back. But something worse happened, and because of it, the enemy slipped out of the trap, marching by in the middle of the night when no one was watching. Because of that, everyone was frustrated, pissed, or full of guilt—or wrestling with all three emotions.

Once command realized what happened, all units, particularly the cavalry, were ordered forward in a frantic effort to catch the Federals who’d gotten away. The chase, which started at dawn and took most of the day, seemed to have been successful, for when the sun started its dive, the Federals appeared to be trapped against the Harpeth River, which circled the small town of Franklin two miles away. They could now be seen fortifying the high ground on which the town was formed.

Shelby looked into the sun to the small hill beside the pike where high-ranking officers had been coming and going. Now that group was few in number, which was an ominous sign. His commander, Major General Forrest, was one of those there earlier, and when he left, he rode by and recognized Shelby as one of his officers. Forrest stopped and gave him an assignment, then proceeded northeast to where more of his men, his staff officers, waited. Forrest remained among them, easily recognizable because of the unique way he dominated the saddle.

Shelby swallowed because Forrest’s eyes kept turning in his direction for the result of his order, an assignment that he felt honored to receive. Honored because Forrest—Nathan Bedford Forrest—was already a legend, the Wizard of the Saddle, and this was one of the few times he’d had direct contact with him. And since getting the order and directing the action, all he could do was sit and wait for the information requested—sit and shift in the saddle; pat the great neck of Summer, his horse; and stroke his beard, which fanned from ear to ear.

He saw traffic on the pike come to a stop, the road now jammed. Everywhere else around it seemed like that as well, at a standstill, which either meant that things were screwed up completely or being held up as if in a calm before a storm.

His attention returned to the hill. He’d edged over earlier to see what the officers were looking at, but they had folding scopes offering a view that had meaning, and he didn’t. And that meaning at the time was leading to groans, shaking heads, and curses. Forrest was one of them.

Now the hill held only a few, one with an unmistakable silhouette. The man sat uneasily in the saddle, one arm limp at his side, a souvenir from Gettysburg, and a leg, a wooden one, a stiff and protruding souvenir from Chickamauga, forming a picture both tragic and comical. Except that neither of those impressions were felt at the moment. The man was Lieutenant General John Bell Hood, commander of this great army, and the fate of the thirty thousand was in his hands.

Shelby snapped back to the south when he heard the sound of galloping horses. Then riders came into view, Sergeant Taylor and Private Willoubee, his men, who slowed horses to a canter as they threaded through all else blocking the way and came to a stop before him with a smart salute and Sir. This was overly formal, especially to a lowly junior grade officer, but Shelby wanted it that way with his detail, and the detail had learned to comply, even though they thought it horseshit, because it made life easier.

"Well?"

Taylor shook his head. The cannon and caissons are miles back. The drovers are doing their best, but it will be hours before they can get here and deploy their works.

Shelby grumbled. There isn’t that much time left in the day.

He turned to the east, where he could see Forrest stiff in the saddle, watching him. When he waved his arms in the manner agreed to indicate whether the cannon would be here or not, Forrest spurred, turned, and rode east, his staff closing behind and following.

Sergeant Taylor, get the men ready and saddled. Things are about to get going, with or without the cannon. We’re to join Major Bell and the rest by the river east of here.

Shelby watched as, on command, the other men, only three on hand at the time—brothers Jeff and James Adams and their cousin Tim Brashear—rose from simple entertainments and went to their horses. As they did, he noticed that the younger Adams, Jeffry, did so slowly and obviously painfully. Jeffry and his horse had been hit at Spring Hill by shrapnel from a shell burst in the skirmish that failed the day before. As it turned out, his wounds were more than superficial, but since that time, he’d refused to be taken to an aid station. Now, after a poor night’s sleep and a hard day’s ride, Jeff looked as if he might be reconsidering.

A band somewhere to the west across the pike began to play, then others on this side did the same, and soon the sound of commands and men shuffling into place and weapons being readied were joined by drumbeats and the strains of Dixie and Bonnie Blue Flag. The music brought him back to what was happening.

Before joining his detail, Shelby turned and rode to a rise a bit north to get a last look at what was unfolding. He saw that troops nearest to him, less than a quarter mile away and closer to the enemy, were up and formed, marking time. As they did, with attention given to alignments despite conditions of the terrain, they joined with a mass of other units, all fronted by mounted officers and accompanied by battle flags held high. There were dozens of flags on this side of the pike, with those before him recognized as being from Cleburne’s Division, men his unit had rested with the night before. Together with other divisions and their flags on the west side of the pike, the panorama took on the look of a simmering sea in butternut grey pulsing over slopes and around every obstacle. When the sea began to flow, the fact was emphasized by grouse taking to the air and rabbits scampering every which way.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"

It was Taylor, mounted with the other four and waiting.

Shelby reluctantly broke from the spectacle and returned, pointing northeast and spurring, the others falling in behind. They crossed railroad tracks, following them north and reaching the rear of the army as it continued to move, and then headed northeast again. They wove in and out through trailing units struggling for order while trying to catch up with the flow. They passed beside a house that stood out because it was the most prominent one in the area. Around the house, an assortment of ambulances and wagons were gathering, a sight of little comfort as it was obviously being assembled as one of the medical units, one that in all likelihood would soon be busy. Before passing the house, Shelby stopped, the others bunching, and looked at Jeffry, pointing to the house and the gathering. Once more Jeffry shook his head, so he spurred on.

Tension mounted. It could be felt even though sounds other than the bands were subtle, with men more stone-faced than expressive, moving to orders like birds following leaders.

A reaction spread like rings in the water, however, when an object crashed through the trees a ways away. Everyone—every veteran, that is—knew what it was before the soft boom was heard far from the north.

It was a cannonball. The battle had begun.

Shelby didn’t turn his head, staying fixed on where he was going, just as a good leader should, the others doing the same. They threaded past a flow and entered a small clearing.

A flash! A brilliant flash!

It was so instantaneous that those nearby blinked, if anything at all, and paid no mind, even when someone asked, Where did they go?

And the bands played on.

2

November 30, 2020 4:00 p.m.

Driving the interstate was boring. Sure, it was the faster way to go, but it required an unnerving amount of concentration to weave in and out among high-speed travelers and lumbering semis, even if one wasn’t in a hurry, which Carver Harris wasn’t. However, he needed to get home because this was the last day of the month after a long Thanksgiving stay in Benton Harbor with one of his daughters and her family, and he still had kids, the ones in the back seat, in school.

It had been a long day, now approaching 4:00 in the afternoon after leaving just after sunrise. He wondered how many miles they had traveled—maybe six hundred or so. He’d forgotten to set the trip meter. However, it didn’t matter because he had plenty of company … oh, yes. On the radio, someone who seemed to know everything babbled on, making comments he’d quit listening to long before. He’d tried to find good listening music earlier, maybe country and western or old pop, but all that played were sounds that jarred his senses. So he drummed fingers while driving, occasionally looking at Jennie, his wife, who was asleep again, or to the back seat at Angela, his youngest daughter, a college freshman who was wearing headphones and was somewhere else. He couldn’t see Tunnie, his son, the twelve-year-old wonder, also called the caboose, who sat behind him and could be doing anything.

This reminded him of that commercial on TV where a man is driving along on a lonely highway with a family much like his, and the man is talking away, making all kinds of statements that the others might like to respond to, but no one is listening.

Looking again at the clock, he thought this was enough travel for one day. There was still a long way to Jackson, Mississippi, which he could make if he wanted to drive in the dark for a half dozen hours more, but he was tired, with his eyes starting to do those funny things that meant his mind was trying to nap. The only other person who wanted to drive was Tunnie, which wasn’t going to work.

Let’s see now, he mumbled to himself. "We passed Nashville and probably should have stopped when we had the chance because all sorts of options were available at the intersections there. We also missed the turnoff to Interstate 40, which was the intended route to the southwest. Damn. Okay, the next good stop is near Franklin, only a few miles farther, so we’d better—

Jee zuz! What was that!

Jennie bolted up. What? What is it?

Didn’t you see it?

No, of course I didn’t see anything. What did you see?

Carver looked in the back seat at the kids, but Angela, the one in view, only looked back with wide eyes and question mark eyebrows.

Well, what did you see? Jennie repeated.

I don’t know what it was, but there was a flash up ahead—bright, almost blinding—that filled the sky for a blink and then disappeared.

Lightning?

No, there’s hardly a cloud in the sky.

Maybe something just reflected off the windshield. I’ve had that happen.

Carver shook his head but couldn’t think of anything rational.

You okay? Jennie asked.

Yes, I’m okay, he said. I’ve never seen anything like what just flashed a moment ago. It was vivid and quick.

It was a reflection, Jennie said, settling back. Are you thinking of stopping anytime soon?

It was useless to argue. As a matter of fact, I am … and look here, he added as they passed a sign with a number of advertisements. We’re approaching an exchange outside Franklin, and there’s a Best Western just off.

Sounds good to me.

They checked in, and after unloading, they went for a long walk down a divided roadway called Royal Oaks Boulevard, all the way to the intersection with Hatcher Parkway. After turning around, they stopped at Shoney’s Restaurant next door to the motel for dinner.

The selection of meals was good—not fancy but good—and everyone was satisfied and ready to call it a day. There wasn’t much conversation at the table. They’d been together all day, so whatever was on their minds had been thoroughly hashed. It also happened that nothing of interest was seen during the walk, which ended in the dark with streetlights on. However, the main reason for the quiet was Carver himself. From the time they’d checked in at the motel, he’d been tuned to anything anyone else might say about what he’d seen late that afternoon. The flash was still on his mind. It was so real, even though momentary, that he couldn’t accept that nothing had happened. But as time passed and he didn’t hear anyone else make a comment, it seemed more and more as if he were the only one to see it. Had he imagined it? Was he going crazy?

During dinner, he did overhear a bit of conversation that wasn’t related to the flash but which nonetheless was interesting. From a booth nearby, he heard a man ask the server if there was something going on in the area commemorating the Civil War battle fought here.

The server shrugged, saying, Not that I know of. Why do you ask?

Well, the man said, I’ve never been here before, so after checking in, I drove around to see what I could before dark. During the ride, when I turned onto a road, the Hatcher Parkway, I believe, and crossed a small river, I saw a half dozen men camping out, horses and all, and they were made up as if they were Civil War reenactors.

Really?

This didn’t go any further and would have been forgotten, except that Carver remembered that they’d walked all the way to Hatcher Parkway and seen the river as they turned around but didn’t see what the man was describing.

That issue didn’t seem important, but what did get Carver’s attention was that when the meal was over and he was at the front to pay, he had to wait because the server was having trouble with the card reader. He didn’t think much about that either until she said something about the machine acting up ever since the blink.

The blink?

Yes … I don’t know what else to call it. Around four this afternoon, there was an outage or something, and everything electrical blinked. This damned machine hasn’t been the same since.

Oh sweet Jesus, Carver muttered to himself.

He didn’t sleep well that night. Tunnie was his roommate so the girls could sleep together, but that wasn’t the problem because Tunnie went to sleep almost immediately, leaving him to wander about in mind with his thoughts. He had seen something. Nobody else in his car had, nor had anyone in the restaurant or the motel mentioned anything that may have been … He groped for a word that expressed something stupendous. None surfaced, but there were electrical problems around the time he thought he had seen the flash.

With too much on his mind to sleep well, he rose early, around 6:30, a time coinciding with when the breakfast bar opened. As it turned out, he was the first one there, the doors just being opened, so he had his pick of all being offered. The all was somewhat meager, however, which wasn’t a surprise because he’d stayed at other locations in this chain before. But that didn’t matter because the fixings, including basic cereals, bagels, and scrambled eggs, were free, and what he really wanted was to make his own waffles, which was a treat because there wasn’t an iron at home.

So he made and ate his waffles with a glass of milk on the side, and for the moment, all was well in the world. Upon finishing, he poured coffee and moved into the small lobby/lounge and was surprised and pleased that although light was only creeping into the day, papers from Nashville had already arrived and were stacked on the counter.

Though the flash was still on his mind, its significance dwindled, possibly because of the waffles, so much so that his attention turned to reading, which he intended to do until his family was up and fed. The plan was to hit the road right after that and get home because the kids needed to get back to school, already having missed a few days.

As for him and his business, he chuckled. He’d inherited discipline from his mother, a teacher, and a work ethic from his dad, a mason. From those roots, he’d earned some renown in sports, but more importantly, he had graduated from Ole Miss in building sciences. After graduation and a service obligation, he’d gone to work in the construction field and a few years after had started his own company, with outstanding results. His oldest sons, Carver Junior and Donald, did the same, working their way up the ladder in his company and now, in reality, ran it. When he’d talked to them last night and asked how things were going, also asking about those things he thought only he could manage, they’d laughed. So now he sat in the small sitting area of a mid-range motel, successful and still healthy but sixty years old and not really needed anymore … and loving it.

Jennie and the kids finally made an appearance, and after greetings, they made their way into the breakfast room. While he waited, finishing the paper, a man entered the sitting area with coffee in hand and sat nearby to do the same.

Carver wouldn’t have taken note of him, other than to see that he was stocky and probably as old as he was, until the man said something to the person behind the checkout counter. He didn’t hear what the man said, and didn’t care, but he recognized the man’s voice.

Not one to be bold, he almost ignored the fact; but then, even to his surprise, he turned to the man and said, Excuse me, but did you happened to be at Shoney’s last night?

The man looked up and nodded. Then he smiled. Oh, yes. I remember you—you and your lovely family were a few booths away.

They introduced each other and shook hands, the man being Gordon Sweeny, a professor at James Madison University, on his way home to Virginia after meetings in Florida. He said he normally flew but that he drove this time because there were certain stops, historical interests, that he wanted to take in along the way.

Carver nodded and was about to ask a question when Gordon spoke first. Are you the Carver Harris that played for Ole Miss a few years ago?

Well, yes, but more than a few years back.

And aren’t you the one who ran over two hundred yards against Auburn and smashed their title hopes that year?

Carver said, That must have been my twin brother. He was always doing crazy things like that.

You don’t have a twin brother.

They both laughed, and when settled, Gordon said, "I get the impression you have a question.

Yes. You mentioned something about Civil War reenactors. All of us—my family, I mean—took a walk late yesterday afternoon and turned around near where you said they were. We didn’t see them. I’m just curious, that’s all.

Are you familiar with the Battle of Franklin?

Uh, not really. I’ve heard of it, though.

Well, there’s too much to tell in a few minutes, so I won’t try. But seeing those reenactors had my mind whirling. For one thing, it’s a hell of a time to be making a show and camping out, like the original armies did, because it’s cold outside. For another, there doesn’t seem to be an event the reenactors are tying into. But it’s the last thing that has me in that whirl.

Which is?

Gordon sat back, clasped his hands, and twirled his thumbs. This gets scary.

Okay.

Okay, Gordon repeated. Yesterday afternoon I was driving north on the interstate, Interstate 65 just over, and was approaching the interchange here at Franklin. I was only about four miles out when there was this flash of light, the damndest thing I’ve ever seen. But it was only a blink because it was gone so fast that I wasn’t sure I’d seen anything. When I turned in here, I asked around about it, but no one seems to have seen a thing, yet by my reckoning, it was centered here.

He leaned over to continue in a whisper, as if anyone else heard, they’d think he was crazy. It gets worse. The flash came almost on the dot at four in the afternoon yesterday, the last day in November. That’s the exact time the Battle of Franklin began years ago, in 1864. Then it seems that out of nowhere, soon after I saw the flash, these reenactors appeared.

Honey. It was Jennie, with Angela and Tunnie in tow. I hate to butt in, but we’re ready to go.

Carver sat back. He looked at Gordon and then at Jennie.

We’re not going.

3

Reenactors

We’re not going? Jennie asked, eyes wide open.

Carver said no softly, with hardly a sound.

Angela said, "Da-a-ad!"

Tunnie merely blinked.

Jennie glared at Carver for a moment, trying to understand, then shifted her eyes to the man he’d been in conversation with, who now looked as if he wanted to hide.

Honey, this is Gordon Sweeny, Carver said. Then he introduced his family. You may not have noticed, but Gordon was at Shoney’s last night while we were there.

I’m sorry; I didn’t notice, Jennie said. Does Mr. Sweeny have anything to do with our not leaving?

Yes. He saw the flash yesterday at the same time I did, but from the south.

Okay, he saw the flash. That’s it?

No, there’s more. There are the reenactors.

Ah yes, the reenactors. I vaguely remember someone asking about them. Was that you, Mr. Sweeny?

Yes.

I still don’t get it. Carver, we have kids in school. This is no time to go sightseeing.

I agree, Carver said. But these reenactors might be different … in a way I really can’t believe. But I won’t know until I see them.

"So you want to see them?’

Yes. According to Gordon, they’re only a short distance away, near where we turned around during our walk last night.

Jennie shook her head, still puzzled.

There might not be anything to get excited about, but I can’t tell without seeing them.

Okay, but let’s load up the car anyway. If once we’re there and see there’s no mystery to it all, can we then be on our way?

When Carver nodded and got up, Gordon stood as well, saying, I’m going too, so you can follow me. This coincidence is strange—I mean, really weird—and it has me just as puzzled as Carver is.

They left minutes later, joining early morning traffic in the rush to work, but not in a normal way. A fog had rolled in, a dense fog, as if nature was adding to the mystery. Carver followed Gordon west on the boulevard for about a mile, at times seeing little more than taillights. After turning left onto the parkway, they crossed a river, seeing parts of a golf course on the left. A half mile later, they turned onto Lewisburg Pike, going less than a quarter mile before Gordon pulled off onto the shoulder, Carver doing the same.

Do you see them? Gordon asked as both men got out.

No. In this fog, are you kidding? Where did you say they were? When Gordon pointed, Carver squinted, finally seeing movements among trees a hundred yards or more away, a place tucked in along the bank of the river. As he focused, he could vaguely make out horses in a crude corral, men moving about, the vestiges of a shelter, and the spark of a fire.

They’re easy to miss, Gordon said. I’m not surprised no one else has stopped. Traffic just buzzes by.

Did you talk to them last night?

No. I happened to spot something and slowed down to take a look. It was getting dark, but what I saw looked to me like a group of Civil War reenactors, which got me curious enough that I wanted to see more today.

They walked toward the encampment, which wasn’t a pleasant walk because once past the right-of-way, the ground, rough and crisp from the night’s freeze, was covered with uncut grass and weeds that tugged and crunched as they threaded through. They hadn’t gotten far when they heard car doors slam, and Carver saw that his family was scrambling to follow. He smiled, not sure whether they were curious or just didn’t trust what he might return to tell them.

As they approached, the campers stopped what they were doing, which didn’t appear to be much, and turned to face them. Or rather, five of them did. Another, wrapped in a blanket, remained sitting against one of the trees by the fire.

For some reason, it was awkward. There normally would be something to say—a greeting, a comment on the weather, or anything—and Gordon in particular wasn’t shy. However, both parties only stood and gawked as if surprised at what they saw.

Carver’s mind raced. Reenactors, my ass. These guys look like a bunch of bums who are trespassing and are soon to be attracting local authorities or landowners. They were shabby. His mind’s eye of Confederate soldiers was of men in unpressed but neat butternut uniforms, capped with either slouch hats or kepis. These men were in tatters, a trouser or shirt or two with vestiges of butternut but mostly in a variety of garments, as from a yard sale, worn and ripped and in some cases patched. The clothes were also filthy, as if they hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Fitting with the clothes were the men themselves, who were long-haired and bearded in unruly styles going every which way, with the only common thread being that they were lean and almost gaunt. His recollection of reenactors was that they were neatly uniformed as actual Confederates must have been, even unpressed to simulate authenticity. He never thought about the