Scraps

By Dr. Ted M. Moore

Jake Conner has spent the last three years fighting a war he never really believed in. As he returns to his Arkansas home -- his best friend in a makeshift coffin -- he wants nothing more than a life removed from the senselessness of war. Fruitful days on his farm with his sons Steven and Glen. Peaceful nights with his wife Sue beneath the quilt she made for him in the hope he would indeed one day return.
But life is neither its happiest moments nor its darkest days. It is a tapestry of scraps, like the quilt itself. And in the years that follow, the owners of that quilt will see life in all its fullness, for better or worse. It will shelter Steven in his final hours. It will comfort an adopted daughter in the aftermath of unspeakable tragedy.
From parent to child, generation to generation, Scraps will witness joy and sorrow, good and evil, and the people who experience it all. It will journey with Lucy and Glen from the remote soil of Arkansas to the burgeoning city of Dallas. It will accompany Rachel and experience wealth and society in Boston. It will travel with Mary and Jeremiah to Chicago and encounter violence and bloodshed.
And when it's needed most, it will find its way home once more to Sue, to say goodbye, before returning north again with her great granddaughter.
"Scraps" is a journey of love, loss and family spanning the years from the end of the Civil War through World War II. The manuscript ends with Scraps being sealed in an attic chest and forgotten for a while before being rediscovered and finding a new home.

*The quilt is never the focus of the stories, or scraps if you will, of the people's lives who come into contact with it.
*The inspiration and I guess you could say the "real" Scraps is a hope quilt my mother made for my father while he was flying 32 missions over Nazi Germany in WW II in a B-17 bomber.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350906653

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Scraps

© 2023 Dr. Ted M. Moore

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other

noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 979-8-35090-664-6

eBook ISBN 979-8-35090-665-3

For mom

Lora Shelby Moore

1919 - 1981

I remember the joy and sparkle in them when

running toward them as a child.

I remember the quiet sorrow and calm reassurance

in them as an occasional despondent youth.

I remember the wisdom and comfort in them as an adult.

I remember my mother’s eyes.

I remember the love.

Also, to Twila. You have made my life a reward I never deserved.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank all friends and family who acted as beta readers for his manuscript and offered insights and the encouragement to pursue publishing.

A huge vote of thanks goes out to his editor, Harrison Demchick, whose guidance and thoroughness dramatically improved the manuscript.

Also of note is the liberal use the author made of historical information gleaned from the free website Wikipedia which was very useful.

Contents

Chapter 1: The Road Home

Chapter 2: The Week Before

Chapter 3: Hickory Grove

Chapter 4: Back at the Front

Chapter 5: Coming Home

Chapter 6: Life Anew

Chapter 7: Hap

Chapter 8: Cyrus

Chapter 9: Steven

Chapter 10: After

Chapter 11: Glen

Chapter 12: Mother

Chapter 13: Cowl

Chapter 14: Rachel

Chapter 15: Dallas

Chapter 16: Success

Chapter 17: Swan

Chapter 18: The Bargain

Chapter 19: Reckoning

Chapter 20: Moving On

Chapter 21: Cambridge

Chapter 22: The Journey

Chapter 23: Ben

Chapter 24: Ben and Rachel

Chapter 25: Mary

Chapter 26: Sue

Chapter 27: Jeremiah

Chapter 28: Otto

Chapter 29: Why

Chapter 30: Mary and Jeremiah

Chapter 31: Finished

Chapter 32: Starting Out

Chapter 33: Chicago

Chapter 34: Tumble

Chapter 35: Safe

Chapter 36: Inconceivable

Chapter 37: The Wages of Sin

Chapter 38: Coping

Chapter 39: Forgotten

Chapter 40: Carolyn

Chapter 1:

The Road Home

The pine box sitting on the back of the small wagon emitted the soft moans of old wood against old wood. The ropes securing it to the bed added their own raspy voices as they alternately caught and released tension. The strained creaking of the wheels as they navigated shifting ruts and sporadic tufts of green on the seldom used back road conferred their own melody to this discordant symphony.

Jake was making good time. He had a country boy’s sense of direction and, using his internal compass, traveled these smaller roads from western Tennessee towards home. To be avoided were the displaced scavengers roaming the South who, either warped by what they had endured or having a predisposition for violence, just couldn’t let go. He had managed to avoid any confrontation for three days and was now well into Arkansas and halfway home but the morning of the fourth brought an encounter testing Jake’s mettle and constitution every bit as much as any experienced in battle.

Jake rolled out from under his blanket, shook the pine needles from it and tossed it in the wagon. He ate one of his few remaining biscuits and an apple he’d picked from a tree in the yard of an abandoned farmhouse. He hitched up the wagon and continued on his way. Progress was unhindered and steady. The day had brightened into a clear blue defining the topmost branches of the tallest pines as if carved by a giant scalpel. There was just a hint of a breeze bringing its cool comfort. Jake smiled as he caught the scent of wild honeysuckle now and again.

Charley, said Jake. I think you’re going to like it in Arkansas. I’ve already told you about Steven and Glen. I think you’ll really like ‘em. They’re smart like their mama and will be old enough to ride you wherever you want to take ‘em. (Jake had decided the horse needed a name and Charley was as good as any)

About mid-morning, Jake thought he heard the sound of conversation coming from somewhere ahead but couldn’t see anyone on the narrow road. Then, in less than a minute, there appeared from around a bend a lone rider. The animal he rode looked to be suffering from both maltreatment and malnutrition. The rider wasn’t in much better shape. A scraggly unkempt beard and a wild shock of dark hair shot through with bone-white streaks framed a ruddy, gnarled visage. What was left of his gray uniform was torn and tattered. A piece of rope served as a belt.

Jake thought it peculiar there was a lone rider when he could have sworn he heard conversation only moments before. However, your ears can play tricks on you when sound bounces off the pines lining both sides of the road. The rider had a rifle cradled loosely across his arms. He drew abreast of Jake’s wagon and reined in his mount. Then, narrowing his eyes, he hailed Jake much louder than necessary with, Good mornin’ to ya.

As if in answer, two men, each holding a club fashioned from a stout oak branch, jumped into the roadway from the trees and positioned themselves one slightly to the front and one slightly to the rear on the opposite side of the wagon from the rider.

Jake had yet to utter a word in reply but very deliberately looked directly into the eyes of each man in turn, starting with the man to his rear and ending with the man on horseback. Holding the rider’s sinister gaze, he finally answered his greeting with a curt, Mornin.

After a moment of nervous hesitation, the man at the rear, obviously addressing the rider, said, Tell ‘em Havis.

I’ll get to it Jewell, ain’t no hurry, answered the rider.

Yeah, tell ‘em Havis, parroted the man in front while nervously hopping from one foot to the other.

The men were talking faster and louder than necessary and Jake knew instinctively they were both desperate and afraid, a very dangerous combination.

My cousins and I sure do admire your horse and wagon and were wondering what you’d take fer ‘em? You can keep the pine box as we got no use fer it, said the rider.

They ain’t for sale but jest out of curiosity, what were you thinkin’ of offerin’? replied Jake.

Yer life, said the rider, spitting a stream of tobacco juice on the nearest wagon wheel.

Jake let his hand drift slowly down and settle by the top of his boot. The twitch in the rider’s face and the way his finger slid toward the trigger assembly of his rifle told Jake these men weren’t planning on holding up their end of any bargain.

I don’t reckon there’s any chance you boys would consider jest passin’ on by and lettin’ me continue on my way?

No, and I’d thank ya to git down off our wagon and pull that damn box off, came the answer.

As the rider swung his rifle toward the wagon, Jake reached into his boot and retrieved his knife. In one fluid movement, he stood and threw. Havis never had a chance. The knife entered his neck just above the clavicle and buried itself almost to the hilt. He was dead before he slipped from the saddle.

The man standing to Jake’s front stepped forward and swung his club but too late. Jake had already leaped to his left and, in mid-jump, withdrew his revolver from his belt. The man to the rear came around and Jake shot him in the middle of his chest, knocking him backward. The soft, crackling sound as the bullet entered Jewell’s body was a sound Jake had heard often before and he knew the man would not get back up. Jake immediately turned his attention to the remaining attacker who, to Jake’s relief, was frozen in place.

Jake wondered what outfit he had been a part of before he had turned and ran and settled for a life living in the shadows and preying on the weak. Didn’t matter now. Jake just needed to decide what to do with him.

In return for your life, I want you to do two things, Jake said to the man. First, bury your cousins here. Then see if that nag will get you home and see if you can be of some use to someone. Agreed?

The look of complete relief coupled with resignation on the man’s face gave Jake his answer. He picked up Havis’s rifle and climbed back up on the wagon. The man backed away, giving Jake a wide berth. Flicking the reins, Jake continued on his journey. Another unpleasant memory had joined a myriad of others he would probably never share with another soul.

Jake made good time after this encounter. Seeming to Jake like an eternity, not quite a week had passed since he had bade farewell to his comrades. He was entering terrain starting to look and smell like home. The dark sandy loam soil of the Arkansas River basin was giving way to the red clay of south central Arkansas. Lacy dogwood trees, thick plum thickets and muscadine vines were sprinkled among the tall pines. Huge red oaks and cottonwood trees also claimed their rightful places. He had to force himself not to push the horse too hard in his haste to reach Sue and the boys, but it wasn’t easy. The discipline and patience the war had instilled in him came in handy. Who would have thought anything good would have come out of that experience.

Now, with home so near, Jake thought about what returning would be like. The hope festering so long of seeing Sue and the boys again took on a more anxious tone. What would or should he say? How would Sue and the boys react when he suddenly appeared? It would happen much too quickly for the mind to comprehend or overrule. The reunion would unfold of its own accord and their reactions would echo whatever was imprinted on their hearts. It was, at once, a most beautiful and dangerous part of being human, revealing both strength and frailty.

It was turning dusk to dark and Jake figured he had about a half day’s ride left. Charley, it’ll be tough to sleep tonight cause we’re getting’ close but I don’t want to take any chances traveling at night so close to home. I sure do hope you like the place.

Jake pulled the wagon over into a small clearing next to a pine thicket and unhitched Charley. He poured out the last of the oats he’d brought along into a pile for Charley. He scraped together some pine needles into a soft mound and spread his blanket in the edge of the thicket. As usual, he placed his knife and revolver within easy reach.

Walking over and reaching into the bed of the wagon and patting Horace’s coffin, he said, Sleep easy my friend. We’re almost home. I’ll be by your side till the final rest.

The soft whisper of the pines was comforting but sleep was still fitful due to apprehension about tomorrow’s reunion. Jake tossed and turned at every hoot of an owl, every barking squirrel and every bullfrog’s croak, sounds he would normally ignore. A couple of blue jays chasing and chirping at each other heralded the first light of day and Jake was glad to see it.

Charley accepted the bridle and harness in his usual obedient way as Jake hitched him to the wagon. Reins in hand and the road clearly ahead, Jake began the last leg of his journey home. Thanks for getting us home, he said to Charley.

The familiar sense of what home meant was seeping back into Jake’s bones. The tall pines out back, the cool, clear water from the spring, Sue’s fried chicken, the boys splayed out on the floor in front of a crackling fire, the smell of fresh cut hay, Sunday morning services, the dogwoods in bloom, ripe strawberries from the garden, the softness of a hand held in the night, the hard work in the fields followed by the reward of harvest – so many things were pictured in his mind and felt in his heart.

At last, Jake turned down a narrow road he could navigate with his eyes closed. The familiar sound of the wagon wheels rattling over the oak planks of the short bridge spanning Miller’s Creek, the huge more than a century old hickory tree they called granddaddy beside the church and the smell of the honeysuckle that always grew next to the path leading up to Horace and Lora’s farm. Jake could feel home down to his toes. A sense of belonging flooded through him so strongly he stopped for a minute to let his heart and mind adjust. All the memories of life on the farm with Sue and the boys that had sustained him and the hope of returning melded together into an emotion defying interpretation. It came in waves, unexpected and dazzling in its brilliance. Jake was taken aback by the strength of the feelings gripping him but, regaining his focus, called out to Charley and continued on.

A shadow suddenly swept across the road in front of the wagon. Jake looked up between the few puffy clouds and blocked the noonday sun with his hand. Glad to see you’re still around old boy, said Jake as Big Red soared by over the treetops.

Chapter 2:

The Week Before

The sky is as blue as my Lora’s eyes.

Those were the last words ever spoken by Horace Tate of Hickory Grove, Arkansas. A Union musket ball had entered the left side of his neck and all but obliterated the carotid artery on its journey through. Only moments before, he had been standing beside his best friend, Jake Conner, partially hidden from Yankee guns behind a plum thicket at the edge of a rocky hillside. I guess you could say it was a clean death. Both men had watched comrades die agonizing, tortuous deaths in the past three years and expressed the desire this was the preferred way to go if returning home wasn’t in their future. Didn’t make Jake feel any better though. They had actually convinced themselves they might just make it out of this continual nightmare in one piece or, at least, with all their important parts intact.

The sky was nowhere near blue. In fact, you could hardly see the sky through the haze of cannon and musket smoke covering the battlefield like a gray blanket. The few small pine trees standing in the meadow between combatants stood like nebulous sentinels. Bodies of overly zealous or war wearied participants clothed in both blue and gray lay haphazardly among rocks and bushes. A recoiling silence punctuated only by the cries and moans of the wounded and dying enveloped the field as both sides again shrank away from the horror.

Jake knelt down and, lifting him up, cradled Horace against his shoulder. There was no way to staunch the flow of blood so he didn’t try. The few tears remaining to him mingled with the scarlet stream pouring Horace’s life onto his chest. Who could say what Horace’s wide-open lifeless eyes had perceived in his last moments? His wife’s face? Perhaps a glimpse of the Promised Land. Jake let him down gently and prepared for another onslaught from the Yankees. The Rebels were outmanned and outgunned but held the higher ground, so the fight was pretty much a draw so far.

Jake remained by the body of his friend for the better part of an hour with no threat of further action from either side. The hope from both camps was that each would see the uselessness of further carnage. A few careless frustrated shots would randomly pierce the relative quiet from both sides doing no damage. Within minutes the white flag of truce was displayed and both sides began to gather their dead and wounded. Stretcher bearers carried the wounded back behind the lines and two-wheeled, horse-drawn carts were loaded with the dead. What a gentlemanly way to wage a most barbaric enterprise! The dead and maimed had played only a supporting role to accompany the real stars of this production which were glory, honor, Northern power, Southern pride and the right to keep others enslaved. Of course, those actually waging the war had grown to suspect the glory and honor as so much bullshit.

Reaching one arm under Horace’s knees and the other behind his shoulders, Jake lifted and carried Horace back to camp. He didn’t want him piled on the cart. Captain Wells, their commanding officer, rode by on his big chestnut and leaned down.

Sorry about Horace, said the captain. I know how close you two were.

Thanks Cap’n, said Jake. I reckon we all knew our luck might run out sometime but it’s a hard lick fer sure.

Captain Wells straightened back up in his saddle and pulled his tunic down tight. He was a good man. One of our best. I wish I could say his death was worth something but I just don’t know anymore. Then bowing his head and leaning slightly forward, I’ve known so many good soldiers, right up until the dying part. No one is good at the dying.

I know Cap’n, I can’t honestly say my heart’s been in it for a while, maybe not ever. It’s a hard lesson to learn.

Captain Wells bent down even lower. Careful who you admit that to. That honesty won’t set easy on some.

Can’t help it Cap’n, guess it’s become a habit.

The brutality of close combat, the losses, the regrets, the misery, the scars of the last three years were etched on both men’s faces more permanently than any chisel could make in stone.

I’ll have the burial detail formed shortly and we’ll get Horace taken care of, said the captain.

If it’s okay with you Cap’n, I would like to take care of Horace myself. It’s no trouble.

Jake wanted to get Horace taken care of as soon as he could. Difficult tasks are never easier with the passage of time. Choosing a temporary burial spot was easy since the shade of a large red oak extended just beyond the outer fringes of camp and overlooked the meadow, the last earthly view for Horace. Red oaks were Horace’s favorite. Jake spent the time digging beneath the tree thinking back. They had been best friends long before becoming comrades in arms.

The two boys had grown up on adjoining farms in the small rural community of Hickory Grove, Arkansas. There had been a short span of years when hay lofts were an exciting place to be and tadpoles seemed important but that time was short and so very long ago. Horace grew tall, rawboned and gangly but in motion as graceful as a whitetail deer you saw moving through a pine thicket in early morning mist or a near sunset haze. And fast. Though Jake never gave up trying, races invariably ended with Horace turned around, hands on hips, flashing that wide grin and running his hand through coal black hair.

Horace was country, like Jake, and very practical in the demands of daily life. Scratching a living from the earth required it. They shared in life’s joys and sorrows. As older teenagers, both lost their parents to the black cholera epidemic sweeping across America mid-century but escaped its deadly grasp. Unusual in a farming community, they were both an only child. You grew up fast on a farm. They were well-versed in the requirements and, with the help and advice of older neighbors early on and essentially free labor, became the successful owners of medium sized farming operations. They managed to survive the lean years when too little or too much rain damaged crops, when accident or disease took animals or when crippling storms blew through. They stood beside each other at their weddings and rejoiced at the birth of each other’s children.

To say Jake will miss Horace would be an understatement of the highest order. By dumb luck, they had become the kind of friends who were dedicated to seeing each other through with no effort expended trying to see through each other. They had learned most of life’s lessons the hard way, trial and error. I guess if smoking muscadine vines and drinking muscadine wine don’t kill you, nothing will. The good memories of what they had shared would someday overshadow the ones of the past three years and, in time, would bring a smile to Jake’s lips and a peace to his heart.

Jake wrapped Horace’s body tightly in layers of burlap and let him down gently into his temporary resting place. Jake made sure it was deep enough to be safe from critters. He whispered a few words of farewell and vowed to return after the war and move Horace’s remains back to Hickory Grove. There, thick stands of majestic swaying pines, rolling hills, quiet still meadows, deep shadowy recesses of virgin forest and clear running creeks had seeped into their veins and imprinted the meaning of home on their hearts.

The Hickory Grove community was only seven miles outside of Star City at the crossroads of present day state road 11 and county road Jacob’s Lane. The only public structure in Hickory Grove was a small white clapboard immaculately-kept Baptist church. The population of Hickory Grove was how many people showed up for services on Sunday morning.

Bone weary and emotionally exhausted, Jake still had trouble falling asleep in his tent. The loss of his best friend and thoughts of how and why they had gotten themselves into this nightmare pricked at the edges of his mind.

They had gone into Star City for feed and fertilizer on a Saturday. The mid-day sun beat down. Main Street had a few muddied puddles left over from a midnight rain. Otherwise it was full of wagons, buggies, men in wide-brimmed hats, a few women beneath parasols, horses and, of course, its share of manure.

A tall, bearded man, standing on a makeshift stage in front of the dry goods store and resplendent in a fancy gray uniform, was addressing a group of local men. His voice boomed out over the mostly farm boys. Jake and Horace in their mid-twenties were not the youngest or oldest in the audience. The passion in his speech and his military bearing were really quite impressive. His words and manner demanded your attention.

Gentlemen, you are being asked to embark on a great and noble adventure! Our way of life is being threatened by those Yankee tyrants who would dictate to us how we should conduct our affairs and govern ourselves. Incredibly, they would have you believe that the nigra is just as capable as you to conduct their affairs without the care and guidance of an intelligent white owner. You’ll be back home for next planting season boys. A city-bred Yankee is no match for a Southerner. This intrusion on our God given right to self-rule must be resisted at all costs and to the last measure!

His back stiffened and stretched to his full height, he thrust his arms to the heavens. The saber at his waist rattled. The brass epaulets, buttons and silk braid on his tunic shone in the sun.

He thundered, Are you boys true sons of the South or not?

The question and challenge hung in the air.

The desire to be a part of something much larger than their sequestered life in the Arkansas hills did touch all of them. Their Southern pride was aroused. Jake was somewhat impressed but Horace was mesmerized. He swallowed it whole.

Jake could tell something was heavy on Horace’s mind as they bought supplies and loaded them on the wagon. Horace didn’t say much and Jake could tell he was trying to work something out in his mind. Jake jumped up on the driver’s side of the wagon. Horace stood on the opposite side with head bowed and absently kicked pebbles with his boot. Finally looking up, Horace said, I’m gonna join up, Jake. There’s too much at stake and I’m gonna do my part. I’m hoping you’ll go along.

Jake knew all too well that when Horace decided on a path, he could be stubborn as a mule, even when he was dead wrong. He had given up trying to argue him out of small concerns but this was different.

Let’s think on it some first, said Jake. We’ve got wives and children to consider. Get in the wagon and we’ll talk about it on the way home.

Jake guided the wagon out of town dodging ruts as best he could and hoping Horace’s heated reaction and hasty decision would cool the further away from town and closer to home they came. The tall pines lining the road swayed and whispered in the late summer breeze. The last of the black-eyed susans laid a carpet of yellow along each side punctuated by the taller deep blue larkspur and scarlet Indian paintbrush. Both men were quiet for a piece as they arranged thoughts and arguments in their heads.

Suddenly Horace blurted out, They ain’t taking my niggers away Jake! They was give to me by my daddy along with the farm. They are rightfully mine and the way God intended for it to be. I know you got dif’rent feelins’ bout it but how’d they ‘spect me to run a farm without ‘em? I feed ‘em good. I don’t whip ‘em less I hafta.

Head bowed and almost whispering, You shouldn’t have to whip ‘em at all Horace, said Jake.

They gotta know who’s boss, replied Horace, straightening his back and thrusting his chin forward.

They know that. It’s been beat into ‘em for years, said Jake, turning to face Horace.

I’ve told you Jake, talk like that is gonna ruffle feathers and’ll git you in trouble. It don’t square with how most people feel ‘round here. It don’t bother me none comin’ from you but blood’s a boilin’ now and there are some who’d not take kindly to it.

I ain’t worried ‘bout me and mine, said Jake, fixing Horace with a look. How another man treats his workers is no concern of mine and folks here ‘bouts know that. It jest ain’t bein’ honest to say one thing and feel another. Hap and me git along jest fine the way we are.

That’s jest it, replied Horace. You only got old Hap and he ain’t ever gonna cause trouble the way you treat ‘im. All the freedom talk has started some of the younger niggers to act a little uppity. We gotta keep ‘em in their place. You know how your daddy’d feel ‘bout this and how much store he set by Hap and his kind. Hell, he traded an old mule for Hap.

I know that, Horace, and I never could get square with it. Didn’t seem fit trading an animal for a man. I never could see how makin’ the Negro smaller made me any bigger.

Ok then, Jake, you gotta decide. My mind’s made up. I believe we won’t be gone long. Leave the niggers out of it. I know you don’t cotton to the idea of them Yankees telling us how to live. If we let this pass, what’ll they demand next?

What about our families? asked Jake.

My Lora and the kids can make out for a short while with the darkies help, said Horace. Sue and your boys will be fine with Hap around. We’ll be back for plantin’.

Jake was walking a fine line. He had wrestled with the question in his heart and mind and really didn’t feel like defending the institution of slavery was justified. He knew he was in the small minority of Southerners in this regard so held the opinion close. Horace was correct that Jake did have Southern pride and, to a degree, resented the arrogance of the Northern states. But was it enough? In the end, Jake came down on the side of friendship. He just couldn’t let Horace go on alone.

Horace’s vision of returning in time for next season’s planting bathed in glory with wonderful stories to tell and victories to celebrate could not have been more wrong. The chance encounter in town had taken them from simple Arkansas farmers to combatants in the struggle for survival of a young nation destined to become a beacon of freedom to the world and a global superpower. It had also sealed Horace’s fate.

Jake woke up the next morning for the first time in twenty –some odd years without the prospect of saying hello to Horace. It was a foreign and lonely feeling for Jake and lessened only slightly by Jake’s belief Horace was in a better place and shed of the burdens we are required to carry and never set down. Still, regret and loss burned deep. Horace’s grievous fatal wound and the mangled bodies of other comrades was still the picture he carried in his mind’s eye.

Jake was pouring day-old coffee into an anything-but-clean tin cup. The sounds of men yawning, coughing and urinating heralded another day in the Rebel camp. Muted hellos tinged with the thankfulness of survival in stark contrast to the loss of humanity accompanied simple silent nods and waves. Scavenger crows were spiraling in over the treetops and landing in yesterday’s field of battle.

Russell Hanks walked up by Jake’s tent. Sorry about Horace, he said.

Thanks Russell, replied Jake. I shur hoped we were both gonna make it but the good Lord had other plans I guess. Can’t reckon what He has in store fer me.

Hold onto that if you want Jake but I’ve not seen His hand at work much while we’ve been together. All I’ve seen is dreams dyin’, sufferin’ beyond reason, incompetence and the squanderin’ of good men’s lives. If God truly cursed woman with the pain of childbirth because she ate the fruit from the tree of life, I think because he ate also, God cursed man with war.

I agree it does test one’s faith, Russell, but I gotta have somethin’ to hold onto. Gettin’ back to Sue and the boys keeps me goin’ now. I jest hope the Lord sees fit to allow it.

"I pray He does for both of us Jake, if He’s really watchin’. We’ve fer sure done our part, however this nightmare ends. I ‘spect we’ll jest rest here this day after yesterday’s action. The Yankees have withdrawn and there’s no intrest from our side to pursue ‘em. I’m gonna crawl back in my tent and try to git some rest while I can. Sorry again about Horace."

Jake took his cup and walked the short distance to the red oak where he had laid Horace. Mornin’ Horace, he said. Just made him feel better to say hello. Jake settled himself and leaned back against the rough bullet-scarred trunk and again let his mind wander back.

Jake and Horace’s friendship had been the result of circumstance and environment but also, fortunately, genuine affection. They liked each other but, more importantly, respected each other. They grew up developing skills necessary to survive and make use of whatever gifts the natural world provided. They had no fear of the darkness of the woods or the critters it contained. If anything, the exact opposite was true. Jake had always found comfort in the solitude of the forest. The wind whispering through the highest reaches of the pines, the way sunlight filtered through the leaves of the big hardwoods and the silence that was yours alone brought a calm to his mind. They drove each other to become crack shots with both pistol and rifle. They could pull out the largest catfish from its hole in any size body of water. Which one could outrun, outshoot, out-lift, outhunt or outlast the other was always contested in friendly but serious competition. Nothing more exemplified these skills than Jake’s prowess with a knife. Knife throwing was an honored Southern tradition and even Horace admitted Jake had a talent for it that far exceeded the norm. Jake could split a twig at ten steps and impale a cottontail at fifteen.

Straightening his back and sitting a little taller against the tree, Jake reflected on his present situation. A mockingbird and a blue jay, still disoriented from the previous day’s battle, weaved and twittered through the branches above his head. The meadow in front of him was deathly still. Long shadows from surrounding trees lay across the field and bore sad witness to another patch of soil consecrated by blood. What he dreaded now almost as much as a musket ball or bayonet was surviving and bringing Horace’s body home to Horace’s