View Tree Mountain Serial Saga Book One: The Vow: View Tree Mountain, #1

By Sara Dixon

Retribution murder sent railroad attorney and Confederate veteran Brad Jamison to San Quentin prison in 1869, severing him from wife Polly and his beloved Virginia homeland.

Seven years later, Polly discovers a tattered diary so potentially life-changing that she travels by rail from Virginia to California, in order to hand the diary to Brad.

Upon observing his state of health and mind in the prison's fetid darkness, Polly implores him to write a memoir of his own —your truth, she terms it— to restore his soul.
To counteract the lies and foolishness in an old adversary's diary.
To inspire him to return home to Virginia when he is released.

As he feels a surge of hope and possibility, he recalls other words from the past: 'You have the heart of a poet.'
Brakeman McLean's words. Spoken in love, not in jest.
The railroad brakeman and the railroad lawyer. Mystical kinship. Adultery of the heart. No one else knew. Dare he write of it now?

He will boldly pen his and Polly's journey from unity to loss, and may his truth clear a path to reconciliation when he is free. But first, on page one, he must go to Hilton Head Island and confront a man whose atrocities foreshadowed a trail to San Quentin.

From antebellum Virginia through Civil War and westward expansion; from railroad boardrooms to camptown taverns, truths and secrets are laid bare.

"View Tree Mountain" serial saga combines Brad's and Polly's 1859 independent memoirs and their 1876 private journals with trickster Lorena Elliot's 1859-1865 diary, to determine if Brad and Polly can claim a joint future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Dixon
• Release date: Jan 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781005163785

Sara Dixon

While growing up in western Kentucky, I felt a strong tug toward the northern Virginia region that I would one day write about. Using a paper map, I zeroed in on Warrenton and Fauquier County. At age twelve I wrote my first story featuring Polly and Brad and the land they loved. I imagined the town's history, the coming of a railroad and the impact of Civil War, and wove those elements into my tale. During my first visit to Warrenton three years later, I felt I had come home. There I also purchased a local history book that confirmed my childhood imaginings. My detailed foreknowledge of landscapes, historic places, names and dates goes unexplained to this day. I am a former public school teacher, school librarian, and social studies textbook author for three major U.S. publishers. My textbook "Virginia" was taught in public schools across the commonwealth. But my heart is in my adult fiction: "View Tree Mountain" serial saga.

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View Tree Mountain

Serial Saga

Book One: The Vow

Sara Dixon

Copyright 2022 Sara Dixon

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Historical figures and places have been used fictitiously. All opinions expressed in this book are the author’s, or fictional.

Book One: The Vow

Journal – Polly Bond Jamison

Warrenton, Virginia

May 30, 1876 – Decoration Day

Today I had planned to honor the dead. Instead, I have once again begun to live.

Fresh-cut wreaths and rosebuds are in the cellar. My white parade dress is starched and ironed. Yesterday, before Rebecca’s unprecedented package arrived, I helped Papa weave black bunting through the spokes of our carriage wheels while my sisters baked loaves for the reception hall. I pressed my son’s school uniform, bade him polish his buttons, black his boots, and select a rosebud for his lapel.

Thus by noon yesterday, our family –what remains of it– was prepared for Decoration Day at Warrenton Cemetery where spring flowers would soon decorate the graves and headstones of the Confederate dead.

I expected to participate in this futile ritual as I have on every Decoration Day since I returned home from Nebraska in 1869. I would not visit my infants’ graves, of course. For sixteen years they’ve slept in Warrenton Cemetery, but I’ve not stood near them since the day they were laid to rest. I never will. After the ceremonial wreath laying, I would accompany Papa to Mama’s grave, since my presence there seems to strengthen him. This was my plan.

Then the post rider came with Rebecca’s package. John David’s classes at Bethel Academy were suspended in honor of Decoration Day preparations; thus it was he who met the rider at the gate. Handing the package up to me on the front porch, my curious boy asked to know what, and who–

Rebecca, I said with delight as I recognized her script. I sat down at the edge of the porch, feet on the walkway, and inspected the book-sized bundle in my hands. Rebecca Jamison. A cousin of yours. She lives in Rocky Mount, North Carolina.

I’ve not yet told him that Rebecca is his half-sister. Few people know it as certainty, and I am thankful that none have elected to tell him, although Papa gently advises that I soon must.

Becky is your father’s niece.

Davey stood before me, hands in his pockets and feet apart in that casual, half-grown way of his. Ten years old, yet he has already learned to deflect comments that disinterest or alarm him. Ignoring my reference to his father, he cocked his head in thought. The girl you exchange letters with? The girl who used to live at The Shadows?

I glanced across Salem Road at the vast Jamison acreage that appears to stretch from Wildcat Ridge to the high clouds of heaven.

She lived there when she was young. I haven’t seen her since she was five years old. I snapped twine and unfolded wrapping papers. She’s sixteen now. A grown-up young lady. Someday we must take the train down to Rocky Mount and visit her, hmm?

He frowned. Why do you write to her, Mother? What makes Rebecca so special?

A reasonable question. Why do I correspond with my husband’s child? Why do I parade to Warrenton Cemetery to honor other women’s dead husbands, when mine who still lives is responsible for my deepest griefs? Why do I wear white rosebuds honoring Blair and Rusty, while my heart screams in bitterness: ‘If not for your negligence, Brad, our babies would be alive this day!’

Acknowledging Davey’s question, I looked up into the bright blue eyes of my only living child, and replied in truth, Because I love her. I winked. Don’t be jealous. You know that I love you more than anyone on this old earth.

He grinned, because he does know. May breezes played at his fair hair, and rustled through the wrapping papers on my lap. A foul odor of mold and ruin tickled my nose. I sneezed as I realized that the stench emanated from the charred, leather-bound book that Rebecca had sent to me. I laid aside her letter, and opened the cover.

What sort of book is that? John David scotched his booted foot beside me and peered over the package, his hair grazing mine. Do you think she set it afire before she sent it?

I laughed in spite of myself. Wait. I tilted it aside for privacy. The thick little book had a title page, as novels do, although this one was handwritten. The script was decidedly feminine, finely tooled in brown ink on this yellowed vellum page:

The Private Diary of Lorena Elliot Jamison

Fauquier County, Virginia 1859

What is it, Mother? Who wrote it? Rebecca?

I breathed deeply. Exhaled slowly. Lorena. It’s Rebecca’s mother’s diary. I thumbed past the title page to her first entry:

Charlottesville, Virginia – June 29, 1859

Last evening, Brad Jamison proposed to me, as I knew he would. Since I will soon embark on the most exciting period of my life –that of the wife of a wealthy Fauquier landholder and gentleman lawyer– I deem it appropriate to begin a diary of all that happens to me from this day forward. Yet before I do, I shall record the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Why would Rebecca send her mother’s diary to you?

I closed the cover. I don’t know.

Read her letter.

John David still stood with his boot scotched near my hip, his face too near the diary and the letter and my wildly racing heart. I smiled at him. Girl talk. Why don’t you choose your rose for the parade while I read it? A white one to honor Grandma, don’t forget.

He sprinted like a colt toward the rose garden. I escaped to the porch swing where trellised Virginia Creeper shaded my back and awarded necessary privacy. I unfolded Becky’s letter and read:

My beloved Aunt Polly,

I received your most recent letter on April 17 and was happy to hear from you, as always. I have neglected to reply until now, since Spring is my busiest season at the store. However, when you see what I have enclosed, you will understand why I set my work aside. After you read Mother’s diary, which I pray you will summon courage to do, you will wonder why I did not board the train to Warrenton and place it in your hands, myself. If only I were able!

I have never told you about the sad state of Grandmother Elliot’s mind. She has lapses of memory during which she addresses me by my mother’s name. She did so this morning. She held forth the enclosed book and said, Lorena, I found your diary in my trunk today. Did you misplace it? Or has my darling decided to forego her diary after these many long years? As you can see, Grandmother is not well.

I have read Mother’s diary from beginning to end. I confess it caused me to hate her, more than I already did, in memory. At times it made me laugh, even blush! I cried more than I laughed: for her, for me, for you, and for Uncle Brad whom I now know is my father –not my uncle. (This, Mother writes, you and he have always known.)

When Mother’s diary revealed this truth about my parentage, I wept with joy. I have wished since I was a little girl that Uncle Brad could be my father. He loved me more than anyone did, and I loved him. Mother’s penned confessions have angered me –as they will you– but they also made my wish about Uncle Brad come true.

Mother’s diary may fulfill your wishes, too. That is, if you still care for Uncle Brad, which I pray you do, although you elect not to mention him in your letters.

Mother’s sudden reappearance –on the written page– will surely hurt you, just as she continuously hurt you, and him, while she lived. Forgive me for inflicting the pain. Yet you will discover that if not for her, you and he would be together this very day. I hope this certain fact will be a comfort to you.

I also hope you can find it in your heart to forward the diary to Uncle Brad in California. He, too, deserves to know the truth. Even more so than you, if I may dare say.

I confess that my other childhood wish was to live with you and Uncle Brad forever. Although that did not come to be –and Mother’s diary told me why– I love you both, miss you both, and always will.

In closing I send you my love, now and forever– Becky

You look as white as my roses, Mother.

I jerked my head up. John David twirled three buds’ stems in his fingers, already tan from spring gallops through the Rappahannock Valley. I rocked the swing and clutched the diary. Three? I inquired, although I yearned to race to my room, lock myself in, and learn the truth as only Lorena could tell it.

For Grandma, he said. He forced a smile. And for my brother and sister. Isn’t it time I began honoring them on Decoration Day?

My heart lurched. You needn’t do that, Davey. As for the letter, yes I did turn white. I made a lame excuse about Mrs. Elliot’s mental condition, then added, Your flowers are lovely, and I appreciate your sentiment. But you mustn’t feel obligated. You never knew them. They died long before you were born.

I know. But I’m the man of the house. Me and Papa. If I want to help take care of you, you must let me.

My Papa is the only father John David will ever know. And I possess far more inner strength than Davey has yet observed in his oft-reclusive mother.

I smiled, lifted the memorial rosebuds from his fingers, inhaled their gentle fragrance, and returned them to him. Put them in the root cellar until tomorrow. You’ll see the other flowers there, in water crocks. I gathered up diary, letter and wrappings, and walked past him to the door.

Mother? I turned to look at him, three rosebuds cupped in his outstretched hand. Is it all right? The three? Do you mind? Or should I not?

He has a warm and tender heart. So did his father, when he was young, which is why I loved his father, all those many years ago. I pulled him close, and hugged him.

Of course it’s all right. I’ll tell you about them someday. Someday soon, I promise. Then you’ll know Blair and Rusty, as I do. I repeated, to give him ease and peace, Now do black those boots, my love, or no one will take notice of your beautiful roses.

He released me and grinned. Tears veiled his eyes. I’ll do your shoes too, if you want. And Papa’s.

Mine are done, thank you. I kissed his cheek. Surprise Papa by cleaning his when he returns from weeding the cemetery.

Lorena’s diary grew heavy in my hand. Curiosity consumed me. As soon as Davey dashed off toward the root cellar, I hurried upstairs, locked myself in my bedroom, sat down at my desk, and turned again to the title page.

Her first entry is dated June 29, 1859. Brad’s graduation day from the University of Virginia. The day after Becky was conceived on a river bluff near Charlottesville.

The final entry was penned April 23, 1865. The day Lorena died.

No page is ruined, no entry illegible. First I thumbed through the book, pausing at dates and phrases that catapulted me into her bedroom, the ballroom, our cottage on Springs Road, the Norford Inn at Alexandria, the church and the courtroom and the road to Three-Mile Switch, and –dear God– beneath the Lebanon cedars at Warrenton Cemetery on the day she observed my children’s funeral!

I scanned random entries:

–I will not return Brad’s coat to him. I will return it to his sweet wife, Polly.

–The brakeman who controls Brad’s mind will surely destroy us all, unless I destroy him first. Woody McLean, you have not seen the last of me!

–What have you done, Forrest? Brad is aboard that train! Would you dare kill him?

–The stranger in the foyer was a swarthy, disfigured man whose lustful glances made me shiver. I told him Brad doesn’t reside here at The Shadows, but on the Springs Road. Of course if I had known, then, what that evil man intended, I would not have told him where Brad and Polly live.

Ah but you did tell him, I realized. You would have, and you did.

Now I understood: Becky has given me the key to her mother’s devious mind. The key to my past. The key to my future!

I began to read in earnest. The afternoon passed. Evening passed, plus the dinner hour from which I begged off, claiming a headache. I lit my desk lamp and read through the night. When I read the last entry and closed the cover, dawn had crested View Tree Mountain and flooded my room with morning light.

Immediately I tiptoed to the garret for my valise, brought it down to my room and began to pack. I placed Lorena’s diary at the bottom, my scanty wardrobe on top. I wrote a hasty letter, then tiptoed down the hall to awaken my son.

Davey sleeps in the same room, indeed the same bed, that his father slept in after Papa gathered him into our family circle when he was nine. This parallel astonishes me. The wickedness of Lorena’s diary is reviving precious childhood memories that I had buried alongside my love for the boy who grew up to become my husband.

As I awakened Davey with a touch, I felt strengthened by this small room, this humble little bed, and the sight of View Tree Mountain beyond the window. I whispered, Wake up, Davey.

His fair hair gleamed in the first light of day. My mother’s hair. Not mine of chestnut, nor Brad’s of onyx.

Mother? He sat up against his pillows. What is it?

Get dressed, Sweetheart. Come down to the kitchen. I’ve something important to tell you.

Now? He frowned. What’s wrong?

I shook my head. I’ll tell you downstairs. Put on your play clothes. Tiptoe. Don’t awaken the household.

Fear stalked his eyes. Is someone sick?

No, my love. I smiled. I need to speak with you, my man of the house.

He smiled. I withdrew.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I hastily sliced bread, spread on butter and jam, and set places for us at our old hickory table scarred by generations of diners. Time did not allow a fire in the cook stove. I poured cider into our teacups. I did not light the table lamp.

Davey entered the room silently, and took his seat. I sat down across from him. When I looked into his eyes, my heart raced with dread. My beloved child! I quickly and silently prayed: for words, fortitude, resolve. I must speak with you about your father.

His young face hardened, and why wouldn’t it? His father’s name is not spoken in this house. His whereabouts are kept secret. Davey knows his father only as a Confederate veteran who shamed our family years later, and went away; a man I could no longer live with; a man who broke my heart. As I met Davey’s cautious eyes, I knew I must not talk about the man I married. I must talk about the boy he once was.

Your father and I were dearest friends when we were even younger than you are now. I’ve never had a closer friend, one whom I shared my every thought with, just as he did with me. I’ve loved him as my friend since we were seven years old.

Davey asked, Is he dead?

His expression conveyed neither hope nor fear. No. But I fear I’ve let your memory of him die, because I’ve not spoken of him with you, as I should have.

His food went untouched. His hands rested on his lap. I don’t want to know about him.

I understand.

He’s never written to me.

That was my doing. When last I saw him, seven years ago, I asked him not to write to us. I was angry with him. I was wrong, Davey. Until last night, I didn’t know how wrong I was.

His eyes warmed with curiosity. His mother, wrong? I almost chuckled, and would have, were the situation not so grave. I said,

Do you remember the package that arrived yesterday? The diary that Becky sent? I’ve sat up all night, reading it. Within its pages I’ve learned about lies that drove your father and me apart –not only as your parents, but as lifelong friends. Believing those lies caused us to say hurtful things to each other; made us quit trusting each other. Lies distorted our understanding of each other’s character. I’m sad to say that I passed those distortions on to you. I’ve not portrayed, to you, the friend I admired and loved; the man who became your father.

I waited for him to speak if he wished. He did not. I said,

Your father deserves to know this new truth, too. He has a right to know how our lives were manipulated by someone who was determined to drive us apart and destroy our family. I feel I owe it to him –as his oldest friend– to take this news to him in person.

He straightened. Take it– where?

I must go to California, see him, and make things right.

His lips parted. You’re leaving?

Only for a time. Please understand, Davey. Brad and I have been terribly wronged. We allowed lies to destroy our friendship, our family, and your perceptions of us. I said with conviction, Your father is a good man.

His eyes blazed. No. He’s wicked. He’s in prison. Aunt Charlotte told me.

My heart pumped with fury at my sister’s betrayal of facts we vowed to keep secret.

Davey snapped, You wouldn’t tell me, so she did.

I stood. My heart felt heavy. I should have told you, myself.

I withdrew a letter from my skirt pocket, and placed it on the table. This letter is for Papa. I want you to give it to him when he awakens. In it, I’ve explained my reasons for this sudden journey. I’ve told him what I’ve told you: I must see Brad, and share the truth with him, so that he will be free of lies and distortions. In truth, there is life. In lies, death. Never forget.

He stood. His eyes moistened. You’re going to California? Today? Now?

I can not postpone this journey. Please know that I love you, Davey, more than anyone in this old world. How often I tell him that. Does he believe me? I love your father, too. Perhaps, in learning the truth, he will feel welcome to come home someday.

I don’t care what he thinks, or where he lives. I don’t want you to go.

I contemplated his feelings for a father I’ve not given him a chance to know. I sat. I need you to help Papa take care of the farm. I need you to help Aunt Charlotte manage the household. During this summer while I’m away, I want you to take my place in this house.

He fought tears, jaws clenched.

I slid my letter across the table. In my letter to Papa, I’ve conveyed my trust in you to do exactly that. Trust in me, Davey. Trust that I love you, and that I will return home as soon as I can. I stood and fastened my cloak. I’m taking the buggy to the train station. I’ll leave it at the Warren Green Hotel livery. Please ride to town and retrieve it later today.

His eyes conveyed resignation without scorn. I’ll drive you. He stood tall, like a stalwart soldier. We’ll need the buggy for the parade this afternoon.

I walked around the table, and collected him in my arms. I inhaled the scent of his hair, and memorized the size of his limbs and the developing muscles in his shoulders. Thank you for being brave about my departure. I am proud of you.

Be careful, Mother. Fear resonated in his voice.

I released him, and rested my hands on his shoulders. My love, you were too young to remember, but when the three of us lived in Nebraska, I survived blizzards, drought, snakebite, locusts and gunshot wounds. His eyes widened. After I return from this journey, I’ll tell you all about our pioneer life when you were a baby. Don’t worry for me. I am strong, and I can survive anything that comes my way.

He forced a smile. I winked at him. His smile broadened. I am indeed strong, and I am certain he will rest his faith in that, until I return.

Journal – John Brad Jamison

California State Prison at San Quentin – 17 Sept ‘76

I’ve lived in the past for 7 years. I relive the good parts, rarely the bad. Sometimes I can’t focus at all.

Woody is with me, as always, but sometimes I can’t hear him in here.

I wait for Erie Rose to return, but she doesn’t come. Was she real?

Today I dreamed Polly spoke my name. I knew she was a dream, but good dreams are hard to come by. I kept my place on the bunk, face to the wall, tried to regain sleep. To dream again. To hear her voice again. Heard, Rouse out, Reb, you got a visitor.

Him. Not her. Keep, my keeper. My sole visitor. Except for last month when Erie Rose– The kid won’t be back. Who could fault her?

I opened my eyes, smelled the seeping stone wall, the waste bucket. I was in no hurry to answer the call. Heard, Hurry up. You got 10 minutes, no more. Only 10 for him? Since when?

No choice. Rolled over, stood. Stepped to the door, eyes on the floor. When I did look up, as required, I saw her. Brown eyes, coiled brown braids, trim skirt and travel cape. Polly. Standing beside him in the gloom, her eyes on mine through the bars.

As much as I fantasize about seeing her here, I avoid envisioning the emotion her eyes emitted. I’ve received that hard stare before, during the too many times I’ve let her down. Her eyes, her face, looked as guarded as the 6’ x 8’ room I live in.

I’ve also dreamed I would look better, smell better, if she came. I haven’t seen myself in a mirror in 7 years, but I don’t need proof. Prison stripes define me. Who I was is a part of the dream.

Her face: jaw set, eyes hard. I knew. I braced for it. After Keep sauntered off, I said, Are you here to serve me with divorce papers?

She looked at the floor. Gripped one of the bars that separated us. I heard her controlled breathing. Then she raised her eyes to mine and said, I’m here because I love you.

I haven’t shed a tear in 7 years. Something I’ve learned to control, in here. I’ve felt lately that I could burn in hell and not cry, and I’ve been in hell a lot of times since I’ve been here. But when I heard her words, saw the sentiment in her eyes, I felt my own eyes burn with quick tears that blurred my vision.

I turned away. Stepped away. Struggled for composure. Heard, Will you never learn to stop doing that?

Self-control regained, I again met her face-to-face. Said, As you know, sentimentality is my tragic flaw.

No, she said. It’s your greatest asset. Her fingers caressed the bar. I was referring to your tendency to walk away from me.

I felt my mouth twist into a snarl. Walking away: another flaw of mine. Evidenced many times by you, yes?

She said it again: I love you.

I felt my defenses falling away, like armor off a beleaguered knight. I looked into her eyes, shaded by prison gloom but alive with something I’ve seen there since I was a boy. What I saw was the light behind her words: I love you.

My clothes were filthy, my body unwashed. I’d looked and smelled better after Gettysburg, bad as that was. But she was looking only at my eyes. I lifted my hand; dirty, but I didn’t let that stop me. Ever-alert for Keep, I dared touch her fingers that gripped the bar. I wrapped my fingers over hers. Said, I love you too, Polly. There’s not been a day in seven years that I haven’t.

San Pablo Inn

San Quentin Village, California

September 17, 1876

Dearest Papa,

I write to inform you that, at last, I have arrived safely in California. My journey, with its periodic intermissions for monetary gain, seemed endless. I am thankful that my services as piano performer and instructor were well received in Omaha, Cheyenne and Green River. Otherwise, I might still be hawking my musical talents in Ohio!

Again I apologize for my hasty departure, for leaving you and Charlotte with the burden of Davey’s care, in my absence. Your most recent letter assured me that you understand the urgency of my situation, and I am most thankful for that.

I saw Brad today. He is sick, in body and spirit. Only his eyes are familiar, and his heart, deep within. That was apparent when I told him that I love him. While speaking my own heart’s simple convictions, I ached at the sight of him. Where is the man I once knew? Only with resolve did I manage not to turn my face away from the gaunt and hopeless man he now is. Today’s visit was limited to 10 minutes, for which I am thankful.

Tomorrow we will be allowed 20 minutes, and I am equally grateful for ample time to broach the topic I came here to discuss: Lorena’s diary and its truth that can set us free.

Prison authorities say Brad will be released January 1. Until then, I shall remain in the village of San Quentin, and visit with him as often as is allowed. I am boarding at a local inn that provides coach transportation to San Quentin Point, a short distance away. I hope to hear from you at the address above, and I solicit your continued prayers for Brad and for me.

Enclosed is a note for John David, commending him for his help with household duties in my absence. I was most pleased to receive your July letter, while in Cheyenne, declaring that my boy is your right arm, indoors and out.

Your loving daughter, Polly

Journal, JBJ

San Quentin – 18 September ‘76

Day 2 Polly here. First thing I said: You traveled 3,000 miles to see me. Why didn’t you write me a letter instead?

There was a time I trusted her with my life, my soul. No more. The only one who knows my soul is Woody: the only one who ever did. But Polly has shared my heart since childhood, a bond oft frayed but apparently unsevered. Now here she stands: in foul air and filth, amongst humanity’s worst offenders. I was humbled by her bravery. Said,

Yesterday I was rude. And again now. Forgive me.

Mandatory