Ballads of the Bellum

By Edward “Jack” Smith

Ballads of the Bellum is a story that follows a fictional character, Jeremy James, through four long years of Civil War combat. Forfeiting his life at home with his wife and four children in South Carolina, he chooses to join the Confederacy hoping to free the South from Northern oppression. Readers will experience his heartbreaks at the loss of comrades in combat, his triumphs over personal enemies, and his struggles to determine what is right and what is wrong. The factual information about the battles, the generals, and the setting itself is enlightening for the novice as well as for the Civil War addict. This story is filled with suspense and surprises, laughter and tears, heartfelt compassion and heartless cruelty. The reader may even find a little spiritual redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369416013

Edward “Jack” Smith

Jack was an English teacher until his retirement in 2012; however, his real passion was and is American history. Born in the East, raised in the West, and residing in the South, he has a deep love for this country. The reflection of this love is seen all throughout his writings. His pen brings poetry to life and has won him many awards, one of which is the Poet Laureate of Dorchester County, South Carolina. His collection of Civil Was poems with the same title, Ballads of the Bellum, is his inspiration for this novel. He turned these poems into prose and developed a character you will wish is your neighbor, Jeremey James “J.J.” Jack is a Christian family man knowing love and laughter. After the passing of his wife of 52 years, he knows heartache. His children and grandchildren keep her memory alive. These passions and emotions control the flow of ink from his pen to create a story that will not be forgotten. James A. Way, South Carolina historian, wrote “Jack has an extraordinary gift that allows his words to tug at your heart, question your biases, raise your spirits, and on occasion enjoy a good laugh.”

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Ballads of the Bellum

Edward Jack Smith

Copyright © 2024 by Edward Jack Smith.

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

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Freelance Editor Susan Christene Madden

Cover Design by Karen Duana (Day) Smith

Rev. date: 02/19/2024

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Prologue

1861

Flags of Glory

The Runaway

The Fall of Fort

Manassas

1862

Second Time Around

Dusk to Dusk

Fallback and Hold

Dead Wait

1863

Nightmare

Kid’s Play

For the Glory

Covert Action

1864

Between the Lines

Spoils of War

Escape

1865

Irony

Homeward Bound

Cold Supper

Author’s Note

A Novel

by

Edward Jack Smith

(Cackalacky Jack, Storyteller and Poet)

Dedicated to my loving wife, Karen,

who supported me throughout

our 52 years, 7 months, 20 days, and 15 hours together.

She was and is the second-best gift

God has ever given me,

His Son being the first.

I miss her so.

Prologue

Brick House

J eremey James, known as ‘J.J.’ to his friends, kicked the dirt from his boots as he prepared to step into his old truck. He bought the half-ton Ford at a public auction sponsored by the South Carolina state highway department. This is the state’s method to get rid of any surplus items no longer needed. The truck’s paint was a dull school-bus yellow, and it was covered with twelve years of dents and scratches as a result of government service. It had a perforated floorboard with several holes the size of silver dollars. The holes were caused by the cancerous rust that so patiently consumed the metal. J.J. placed his right boot in the cab; and for a moment, he stood with his left boot on the ground and his left arm resting on the open door as he took in the beauty of his surroundings. He spoke aloud as if there was another soul around to hear him, What a magnificent place is this old plantation.

J.J. recalled someone telling him the original family’s name was Jenkins. They acquired the land by a King’s Grant for the purpose of growing potatoes. This was their main crop throughout the centuries. When much of the South turned to cotton, tobacco, and indigo, the Jenkins family stayed with the little tubers that had brought them so much wealth.

Located on Edisto Island, one of the many barrier islands of South Carolina, the plantation was built in the early 18th century. It was constructed perhaps a half mile inland from the Atlantic Ocean on a little peninsula that protrudes out into Russel Creek, one of the island’s many salty waterways. The old plantation was named ‘Brick House’ presumably because of the old handmade red bricks that made up the walls of the manor house. It was once a grand structure; however, the old mansion house had been gutted by fire several decades ago on a quiet Sunday morning in 1929. The family was attending church a few miles away; and when they returned home, they found nothing left but those massive brick walls and smoldering ashes.

Over the years the descendants of the original family have turned the little peninsula into a summer get-away with several small cottages around the water’s edge. This was what brought J.J. to this beautiful setting. He was a handyman hired to make whatever repairs were needed to prepare the area for those who would be coming for their vacations later in the spring and summer.

It was early April; and J.J. was the only one on the entire estate, yet the whole area was alive with the living. Every creature within the range of his hearing was singing to him, an opera suitable for the world’s finest palace. There were as many as fifty giant oaks draped with Spanish moss; their trunks twisted and gnarled from holding massive branches that reached out and sagged to the ground. Each tree was poised like a colossal prima-donna ballerina; each one holding a pose from her favorite ballet. The Spanish moss moved so gracefully in the evening sea breeze; it appeared to give motion to the giant dancers. What a performance!

The sky overhead was absolutely cloudless. The color was a dark blue in the east that brightened as it raced for the setting sun in the west where the last rays of its brilliant orange glow burned through the branches of the trees. Somewhere up the waterway, an unseen chimney was putting out white smoke that hung low over the marsh like an old comforter.

The scent of the Georgia pines crossed J.J.’s nostrils; so he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and inhaled as much of the aroma as possible. He thought how wonderful it must be to vacation in such a place, even more, to be born and raised here during its glory days. He just stood there and took it in until the night had covered everything in black.

The scene became silhouettes on a tightly stretched canvas of stars, a gorgeous monotone painting of darkness. The moon was yet to appear; therefore, the light was minimal. J.J. could see the wide creek through the trees as it reflected what little light there was around the boat dock. He took one last deep breath, and this time he could smell the wood smoke. He truly regretted leaving, but his wife and family were waiting at home for his return.

With little over an hour’s drive ahead of him, he sat down on the lumpy old bench seat and turned the key. The old truck groaned her complaint then fired-up. J.J. pulled out the light switch; and when the oil pressure reached an acceptable level, he shoved the transmission shifter into low gear. He then cranked the steering wheel around hard to the right and began to make a U-turn. As the headlights fanned across the burned-out ruins of what once was the oldest manor house built in the South, something came over J.J. compelling him to stop and admire that ancient brick structure.

The walls were about two-feet thick with inlayed ornate work at the corners. Above each door and window, he could see what appeared to be solid oak beams sandwiched between the bricks, which must have protected the oak from the inferno that so completely consumed every other piece of wood that had been subjected to its flaming fury. No trace of the veranda and balcony remained, except for the brick foundation pillars that stood a few inches taller than the many weeds that grew around them. An eerie feeling began to envelope him like an unseen shroud.

He began to imagine the image of the old plantation master sitting near the window in his favorite chair. Smoke from a long stem pipe was curling up through the air and spreading out over the old man’s head like the chimney smoke J.J. saw earlier laying over the marsh. From upstairs, he thought he heard children laughing as their mammy shooed them off to bed. It was as if he could hear her fussing at them.

I told ya’ll if’n ya don’t wash ya feets, I’m a gonn’a do it; and I’m a gonn’a tickles when I do!

In the parlor their mother was watching her hook and loops intently as she crocheted a doily for the dining room table. None of them bothered to look up and notice J.J.’s old yellow truck sitting some two-hundred years away. He slowly started moving again, and those images quickly faded back into the black shadows of the walls as his headlights brightened the lane that wandered off toward the main road.

His high beams glared down the long driveway illuminating the trunks and branches of several aged pecan trees. They stood on either side stretching their branches over the lane as if they were waiting for J.J. and his old truck to do-si-do and promenade under them. Most of last year’s nuts and leaves still lay on the ground waiting for a harvester or a squirrel. As the truck tires rolled over them, they popped and cracked sounding much like popcorn roasting over a fire.

J.J. thought he glimpsed the ghosts of two timeless lovers walking hand in hand. The hem of her large hoop skirt barely brushed the trouser cuff of her handsome uniformed officer. His brass buttons and saber handle were buffed to a bright luster that dimmed in comparison to the happiness shining in her eyes. J.J. could not help but wonder which would come first, white lace and wedding tears or funeral dirges and a black veil.

His imagination was basking in all the history spread out around him when he finally came to the two old pillars that once so proudly held the gates. Like red-brick sentries, they stood trying to keep the plantation locked in a time capsule. They appeared as sturdy and as strong as the day they were first built, though centuries of wind and rain had worn off the square edges of the bricks. Two wooden gates sadly sagged from these two sentinels and were hopelessly entangled with briars and undergrowth which made it impossible for them to ever touch again in closing. Strangely enough, as J.J. passed through the portal and began to turn onto the main road, he could not help noticing in his rearview mirror how the gates gave the illusion of closing behind him. J.J. stopped the truck and yawned. He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes as he sat with his head leaning back against the driver’s headrest. He began wondering what if this were an old pushcart instead of his work truck. What might he be thinking in 1861?

1861

Flags of Glory

W hat a day, J.J. thought to himself. He was glad to be headed home. He hated working that long on a ladder. After a while, the rungs hurt the arches of his feet. Even with his heavy boots, he could not stand more than a couple hours on a ladder. This job had taken most of the morning, and it was now well into the afternoon.

He was pushing his old yellow cart faster than normal because he was anxious to see what Kathryn was stirring on the stove. The road was fairly smooth allowing the cart to roll remarkably well for its age, but his strength was spent repairing that roof. The grits and gravy his wife had served for breakfast had worn off long ago, and he was hungry. He was reaching that point of fatigue where one must force every step.

The road turned slowly to the right then started down the slow incline that led to the creek. He came up onto the open bridge and looked over the side as he was passing. To the left of the structure, a big old slider was sunning itself on a fallen cypress log. Looking across to the other side of the bridge, J.J. saw two young boys playing along the muddy bank of Russell Creek. He remembered those days and could almost feel that oozy, slimy mud squeezing up between his toes. What a wonderful feeling. The boys looked up and waved; J.J. returned it.

By the landmarks, he reasoned he was about forty-five minutes from his home. When he topped the small hill that overlooked the Russell Creek bridge, he stopped long enough to catch his breath and take in the view. The afternoon sky was full of haze, yet he could still see a great distance across the immense plantation. J.J. shaded his eyes with his hand and surveyed the vast panorama. Drainage ditches ran around each patch of cultivated ground. Scrub oaks and briars grew along the banks of these ditches giving the illusion that it all had been stitched together by the very hands of God. It reminded him of the old quilt his mother spread over her bed.

At that distance slaves appeared as small as gnats on an apple peel. J.J. could hardly detect any movement from them, yet he knew they were hard at work because of the long lazy dust cloud tailing off westward. The distance was too great to determine what they were cultivating. It could be young indigo or tobacco plants, but most likely it was potatoes. It was a little early for cotton.

J.J. thought about how he loved to look over a cotton field just before the harvest. All that white fluff climbing over the rise. It amazed him how something so beautiful could be so aggravating. It reminded him of his wife; he recalled the way she always looked for the beauty in things. She tells the children, Beauty is like free candy. You can have all you care to enjoy.

Just then he heard a wagon hit the bridge. He turned to see the heads of the two mules bobbing in synchronized movement as if choreographed for a vaudeville show; and the clop, clop, clop of their hooves on the old oak planks provided their music. The distance was about two-hundred yards, but he was sure he recognized the driver. Just then the driver waved at the boys playing on the bank; it was old Henry Parlor.

Henry had an unusual wave. His right arm was missing at the elbow. When he lifted his stump to wave, his long shirt sleeve would flop like a limp flag unless the wind was blowing; then it would whip like the Stars and Stripes. That thought made J.J. take pause to wonder how much longer he would be honoring that beautiful symbol of freedom.

Henry Parlor was over sixty years old. He had a tall stout frame and was as strong as any two men. His old hat covered his head of white flowing hair. He was well respected, and J.J. knew no one who did not like him. He was old enough to be J.J.’s grandfather; therefore, in keeping with Southern tradition J.J. referred to him as Mr. Henry.

The Parlor farm was about three miles past J.J.’s modest home, so J.J. turned his cart around and grabbed a piece of rope that hung on the side. He would use the rope to tie his cart on the back of Mr. Henry’s wagon; J.J. was finished walking. The farmer was about halfway up the hill when J.J. waved. The old man responded by hoisting his flag.

Hey, neighbor! How ‘bout a ride?

Sure thing, responded the old man. But ya ain’t gonn’a like it. I don’t know what Molly ‘et, but she’s got gas, and it’s about to chase me off this seat.

He let the wagon roll past J.J. far enough to allow him room to pull the cart up to the rear of the wagon and tie it to the tailgate. While J.J. was working with the rope, Mr. Henry continued talking. I been thinkin’ ‘bout turnin’ the team around and hookin’ ‘em into the harness backward so’s they could push the wagon that way I would be in front of her. The problem is I’d be goin’ in the wrong direction.

As J.J. finished cinching the knot, he laughed at the old man’s silliness. Then J.J. offered his own advice as he walked toward the front of the wagon. Ya know that ain’t a bad idea ya got about turnin’ ‘em around in the harness, Mr. Henry. J.J. began climbing up onto the seat. Molly’s tail will be about twelve feet from our noses. I’d just suggest makin’ them walk backward so we’d be headed toward home.

Mr. Henry chuckled, That’s what I like about ya boy. Ya’re a real problem solver. When Mr. Henry finished that fine compliment, J.J. sat down on the old blanket that covered the well-worn wooden wagon seat. The old man spoke to his team like he might his grandchildren, and the wagon began to move. J.J. looked back over the wagonload of supplies toward the bridge. The road was empty as far as he could see. Ya by ya’self?

Nope, my two boys is both comin’ along behind. I told ‘em ta stop by Ravenel’s plantation and make arrangements ta barrow that big bull Raymond owns. I could’a stopped myself, but Thaddeus has got family there so I thought they might like ta visit. Where ya’ll comin’ from, J.J.?

Brick House Plantation, I had ta make a repair ta the roof ‘round the west chimney.

I thought ol’ Jakey did all their repair work?

He does, answered J.J. "Miss Anna said she could never forgive herself if he climbed up there and fell, so she hired me ta do the job.

Does that mean if ya fell, she could get over it? grinned the old farmer.

No, laughed J.J., I think the truth is she knew with the new baby comin’ me and Kathryn can use a little extra money.

How long has Jakey been with the Jenkins?

Long as I can remember. He taught me a lot about fixin’ things over the years.

The two rode in silence for a few minutes, then J.J. asked, Ya pick up any news down at the landin’?

Some, replied Mr. Henry. Talk is the Feds are goin’ ta send reinforcements ta Ft. Sumter.

They must want us ta go ta war.

My oldest is already talkin’ about joinin’ that new regiment they’re formin’, said the old man. Have ya decided what you’re gonn’a do yet, J.J.?

I can’t rightly decide, Mr. Henry. Part of me says not ta get involved. The other part thinks it might feel pretty good ta blow the butt off a Yank, might be excitin’.

Believe me, boy, most all the excitement turns ta boredom after a few weeks of drillin’, and what’s left turns ta fear when musket balls start flyin’, spoke Mr. Henry with a sobering voice.

J.J. could tell by his solemn tone the old man’s thoughts were drifting back to another time in his life. Mr. Henry continued talking, and J.J. was not sure if he was speaking to him or talking to himself, but it really did not matter. Either way J.J. was eager to hear his story.

Young people are foolish thinkin’ war is some kind of glorious event. Ain’t nothin’ glorious about it. No sweet smell of victory, just the stinkin’ stench of rotten flesh. Friends ya drink ‘n laugh with end up dyin’ in your arms. Hell, even folks ya don’t like end up dyin’. I remember a boy named Tom Mullens. The two of us never did get along; we even threw our fists at each other a few times, said the old soldier. Then he paused for a couple minutes, I cradled him in my arms an’ wiped his brow like he was my own child. I never noticed when he died. I just noticed he was dead.

They were passing through the woods. There was nothing for them to look at except the narrow road ahead or the near solid wall of trees and foliage that rose up some thirty feet on either side. Mr. Henry had turned his head away from J.J. as if he was looking at the trees with great interest. It was a feeble attempt to hide his emotions from the younger man, but his voice had a quiver that betrayed him and gave away his secret.

Son, he said, when the cannonballs start flashin’ in your face and your ears are deafened by the approaching thunder of a charging cavalry, ya’ll wish ya had no eyes ta see with or ears ta hear. There were lots of fellas that had that happen ta ‘em; plenty more of us lost legs or arms. Ten times too many lost their lives. No, sir, there is only gore, no glory, when war marches out of Hell.

At that moment, Mr. Henry’s old floppy sleeve became dear to J.J. Most folks had no idea how he had lost his arm. No one ever asked, and he never offered to tell until now. J.J. was not surprised the old fellow had opened up to him and shared his pain. God must have given J.J. the gift to listen because all his life people opened their secret thoughts for him to glimpse. J.J. was also good at keeping their secrets safely locked away. The two jostled along on the wagon seat silent for several minutes. Finally, Mr. Henry cleared his throat a few times then wiped his nose on his left sleeve just above the wrist.

J.J. was watching the hypnotic motion of the hindquarters of the mule in front of him. Without looking up, he asked, Where were ya, Mr. Henry?

Texas. Fightin’ the Mexicans with General Sam Houston.

Ya regret it, don’t ya.

REGRET IT! he barked. Hell no, I don’t regret it for one second. Never did.

I’m sorry, Mr. Henry, J.J. apologized rather sheepishly, I didn’t mean ta offend ya.

No, ya didn’t rile me boy, but ya got ta understand. The only thing in the world that’s worse than war is ta live and be oppressed, said the old man earnestly. That’s exactly what them damn Yankee politicians is doin’ ta us with their tariffs.

Their conversation drifted to other things, but J.J.’s mind was thinking about oppression. At last, they were in front of J.J.’s home, and he jumped down from the wagon to untie his cart.

Thanks for the ride, my friend, he said as he untied his pushcart from the wagon.

The old farmer called to his mules causing the wagon to lurch forward and begin to pull away from J.J. The younger man just stood there in the roadway watching the wisdom of a lifetime as it rocked with each bump the wagon wheels found to hit. Suddenly the wagon stopped, and Mr. Henry turned around to look at J.J. What ya gonn’a do about the war, boy?

I’m not sure yet, answered J.J., I need ta talk ta my Kathryn before I decide.

Well, whatever ya decide, remember this: There ain’t no wrong decision.

Thank ya, sir.

Mr. Henry just smiled and nodded his head then turned around and started the team for his farm. J.J. continued to watch him shrink into the distance. Then the old soldier raised his stump and waved his flag as if he knew J.J. was watching. J.J. knew right then he had to tell Kathryn he was going to join the new regiment. He could barely hear Mr. Henry cursing his mule in the distance, Damn ya, Molly! Why didn’t ya do that while he was here!

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Three days later, J.J. was sitting at the kitchen table watching his children through the open door as they played in the backyard. Kathryn was cooking. She had chicken frying in the skillet, potatoes in a pot, greens simmering in a sauce pan, and she was cooking. In fact, she had been slowly building up steam ever since breakfast when J.J. first told her he planned to join the Army of the Confederacy. Her potatoes were about to boil. Suddenly, all of the events of the morning lifted her lid and came spilling out. She turned around and glared at him. Her blue eyes were burning with fire as red as her stove plates.

There is no earthly way you could have sat down and logically thought this out with any clear thinking, she snapped. This was her standard comment if she did not like what J.J. was about to do.

In truth, the decision had been heavy on J.J.’s mind since his ride home with Mr. Henry. Anticipating Kathryn’s reaction, he was not sure how he was going to tell her. Finally, that morning he just blurted it out over his grits and eggs, and she had been stewing ever since.

I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a long time, honey, he told her with confidence in his voice.

Ðid you think about how we’re going to pay the mortgage or where the money is going to come from to pay our bill down at Murray’s?

I heard the army is willin’ ta pay seven dollars a month.

J.J.! How are they going to do that? she barked. They don’t even have a real government!

Well, they’re formin’ one in Montgomery, Alabama. I read about it in an old Charleston Courier newspaper from last month, J.J. fired back. They’re goin’ ta have a navy and everything.

Jeremey James! It is never going to happen!

Then what are ya worried about? J.J. smiled. He perceived the use of his full name was a sign of weakness. He was sure he had her boxed in as he spoke with more confidence.

What I’m worried about is you taking off for three or four months stomping around the country side playing soldier, and we end up in the poorhouse! She turned back to tend to her dinner.

J.J. just sat there looking at her backside. She was a beautiful woman with auburn hair that she kept tied up in the heat of the day but dropped down over her shoulders to flow down her back in the cool of the evening. J.J. loved to brush it for her. He would take it up into his palms then bury his face and nose into the scent of it. To him, the aroma of her hair was intoxicating.

She had birthed three children for J.J., but her strong Scandinavian heritage enabled her frame to carry them well, and her hard-working nature helped her form return quickly. She enjoyed being pregnant and feeling the hands of God at work in her womb. She always knew if it was a boy or girl. When the fetus would move, she would let her children feel it through her belly. She delighted in watching the excitement on their little faces.

Is that the baby moving mama? they would ask.

Nooooo, she would answer, that is God’s hands shaping your new baby brother’s bottom.

She was a proud woman and a good wife and mother. She had done nothing to deserve being abandoned like this at a time like this. She got her second wind. She turned back around to J.J. What about this new baby? She glared at him, You plan on leaving me here to tend to the kids and birth this baby by myself? Thanks a lot! She turned back to her skillet and stabbed her fork into a sizzling chicken breast as if the poor foul was not dead yet.

J.J. tried to reason with her, First of all, he began, there is a good chance this war will happen ‘cause Governor Pickens has already demanded that the Feds turn over Fort Sumter to our militia. He continued. Second, abolitionists are tryin’ to make this out about slavery, and you know those rich folks ain’t about ta let their slaves go without any kind of compensation! J.J. softened his voice, Honey, if there is no war, I’ll be back home before the baby comes. As far as money, I’ve already got several tables and chairs ready ta be sold. After a short pause, he added, Sugar, we’ll be alright.

She slowly turned around to face him with her eyes full of tears and a trembling in her voice, J.J., I love our children beyond expression; but that love is nothing compared to my love for you. If I lose you, I couldn’t bear it. I know I would soon die of a broken heart, then our children would be orphans! What will happen to them?

He rose from the table and walked to Kathryn. She began sobbing as he took her into his arms. He pulled her gently to his breast and tucked her head under his chin so she could not see he was losing his conviction. J.J. struggled hard to conceal his own emotions as he continued to talk to her.

J.J. was not a particularly religious man, but he remembered a lot of Bible lessons when it was convenient for him. Sweetheart, my momma used ta say, ‘Nothin’ is goin’ ta happen ta me that God don’t will.’ He tried to sound encouraging, Mother said ‘Remember, death is God’s servant. The book of Job teaches us that.’ If He wills me ta die, I could do that standin’ here right now.

She slowly pulled back from him regaining her composure. Don’t wake me when you leave, she said, I would rather wake to find you gone than to be awake to watch you go.

She reached up and let down her pretty hair. She tilted her head forward and leaned over allowing it to all fall in front of her then she gathered it up again into a bun on top of her head. Better call the kids to wash up for supper. J.J. walked to the door to call his children, then he heard her walk up behind him, How are you going to tell them?

I wasn’t goin’ ta tell ‘em anything; other than, I had ta go take care of some business.

Kathryn turned and began setting the table without responding to his statement. She truly was J.J.’s source of happiness, and he hers. He hated hurting her like this, but he believed this was something he had to do as a man and a Southerner.

Watching his children, he called out the back door, Jayme, bring your brother and sister and come wash-up for supper, son.

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The day of departure came quickly, but that morning came slowly. It was time; time to step up or stay back. J.J. got up at four. He dressed quietly and gathered his things. He had been up late preparing for the trip. He was as ready as physically possible, but emotionally he was struggling hard with second thoughts. He took the candle and went to his children, looking at each child, spending a little time near each one. He was desperately trying to create one last memory he could recall when needed. He kissed each one without arousing them from their sleep, and then he went to see Kathryn one last time.

He left the candle on the dining table and gradually pushed open the bedroom door. She was laying on her back with her head slightly turned to the right. Standing next to the bed, he softly stroked her left cheek with the back of his index finger; then he bent down and softly kissed her lips. His right hand moved down to her belly where he felt his unborn child sleeping in the warmth of her womb. You awake? He whispered, but there was no response. He turned quietly and closed the door behind him.

All night, answered Kathryn after the door latched closed.

He took the road west to the river. He had gone but a few hundred yards when he heard Kathryn calling out his name from behind him. J.J. turned back to look down the road, but it was too dark to see her. He knew she was coming because he could hear her footfalls through the darkness. Soon he could make out her silhouette as she hurried toward him. She came to an abrupt stop, grabbed him with both hands, and planted a strong kiss upon his lips.

You come back to me, Jeremey James, you hear me! You come back! She turned him loose, and then ran off back the way she had come leaving J.J. thankful she was his wife.

I will Kathryn! he shouted after her, I promise!

You better or else! came faintly out of the darkness. I love you so much.

I love you too, sweetheart! I love you too! he shouted as he listened to her footfalls fade away.

J.J. turned again and went on to the river. He stood on the bridge waiting for enough daylight to see the path along the bank. It was about five miles by road to Robert Parlor’s farm, but if he followed the river, it was three miles. Several men were to meet there and walk together to the train station. This was to be a show of force from those who lived in and around the little community called Potlick.

J.J. stood looking east less than a mile from his own home and family. Everything in the world of any worth to him was there. He knew as the sun rose, so would Kathryn if she even bothered to return to her bed. Everything in him said to go back to her—everything, except his sense of duty to the new hope formed as the Confederate States of America.

The path along the river was fairly well used so the travel was easy; yet every step he took, he had to make himself take. As he walked, he reasoned every other man was going through the same internal conflict. They were all making the same sacrifice. If they could do it, he could do it.

Robert Parlor was Mr. Henry’s oldest son. He was about twelve years older than J.J.; and he, himself, had a son nearly seventeen. He also had three younger daughters and another son just out of diapers. When each of Mr. Henry’s three sons came of age, the old man gave them sixty acres of land to do with as they pleased. Robert decided to marry Martha Wiggins and build a farm. Robert was a peaceful man, but he was sure riled over the way the Yankees were using tariffs to control the prices of cotton and tobacco. Farming was his life, but Martha was his passion.

To look at them, they were an unlikely couple. He was tall and dashing with a dark, thick mustache sprouting from under a perfectly shaped nose. His tan complexion complimented his hazel eyes. Thirty-three years of hard work had shaped his 38-year-old body into a trim muscular mass of manhood. Martha, on the other hand, was a squatty woman with bright red hair and a round face full of freckles. Her beauty was all inside. She was full of love and kindness, yet willing to tell anyone the truth if they needed to hear it. She was a great cook and homemaker; but to Robert, her most attractive feature was her wit. She was a funny woman, and everyone adored her.

Mr. Henry’s two younger boys, Earnest and Axel, were not interested in farming. They were interested in making money. Those two mortgaged their combined 120 acres to buy a small schooner to haul cargo up and down the inter-coastal waterway. Then they agreed to lease the land to Robert for farming. They quickly paid off the mortgage and repeated the process to buy a second schooner then a third. Before long they owned a fleet of eight. They moved to Charleston and offered to sell their land to Robert for a fair price, but he was content with the lease agreement. After a few years, the two gave the land back to their father as a gift.

J.J. left the river path and started down the fencerow that led to Robert’s barnyard. The barn sat forty yards directly behind the big, two-story, red brick house with its white trim and wrap-around porch. The house faced the west to allow the evening sunset to flood the windows with light at day’s end and the sunrise to flood the kitchen windows in the morning. Southeast of the house were several smaller gray buildings for smoking meat, storing supplies, and various other uses. There was the privy to the north and three small cabins used as slave houses.

Located squarely between the big house and the barn was a deep water well where both master and field hands drank from the same bucket. The sun was up, and J.J. was beginning to feel its heat as he approached the well. Someone had already drawn a bucket of cool water and left it sitting on the side. J.J. took the ladle off its hook, dipped a few swallows of water from the bucket, then replaced the