The Ghost of Brighton Hall

By Jacqueline Johnson Goon

What images does the word ghost create in your mind? An invisible monster with the sole purpose to cause fear and destruction with visions of death and hatred; an ethereal vision with woeful moans and sad expressio

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Mar 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9781684867486

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The Ghost of Brighton Hall

Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline Johnson Goon. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Book design copyright © 2024 by URLink Print and Media. All rights reserved.

Magnolia illustration copyright © 2024 by Krystal Kramer, Coast to Coast Artist LLC. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-68486-744-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-747-9 (Hardback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-748-6 (Digital)

22.03.24

Contents

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Glossary: A Taste of Southern Terminology

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Afterword

Referenced Sources

About the Author

Acknowledgement

Welcome to rural Mississippi, the place of my birth and childhood, where long southern traditions in charm, etiquette, hospitality, grace, and style are also bound in history, values, religion, pride, loyalty and endurance. These are all characteristics of what the south is known for.

This book is dedicated to the strong women of the south who have faced unimaginable challenges faithfully with strength and grace. These southern belles, who walked tall in their big girl pantaloons, filled my life with much inspiration and hope. Because of you, I wear my steel magnolia boots with pride.

Dedication

For my daughters, Alisha and Karen, and my granddaughters, Kalena and Jordyn, who show me every day what a powerful woman can do.

Glossary

A Taste of Southern Terminology

Prologue

Mississippi Territory, April 1865

THE LANDS SITUATED ON bluffs high above the Mississippi River were rich and fertile, the countryside full of green splendor for those fortunate to happen upon its beauty. A main road winding through the town of Natchez provided travelers with spectacular views along the riverfront to as far south as the Gulf of Mexico.

The confederate state of Mississippi was besieged by union armies marching toward the sea, virtually unopposed and laying waste as they went. Although the mouth of the river was firmly within union control, the south’s Rebel soldiers had a stronghold to allow communication with the far West from a small town along the western bank of the Mississippi known as Vicksburg.

By gaining control of the river, the union army could successfully shift the impetus of victory toward the north. A group of battle-weary soldiers marched northward through the sparse countryside, their intent to join with union forces in the campaign to overtake the city.

With rifles raised, they edged onward in silence and with caution. As they inched their way through enemy territory, their senses were alerted to the smallest sound. Even so, they were unprepared for the shower of gunfire upon them preceded by angry shouts from the surrounding woods.

In the end, the land was covered with the mangled and twisted bodies of the ambushed soldiers. A small ragtag band of Rebel soldiers stood victoriously over them, kicking and spitting at those who once threatened their livelihood or survival of the Confederacy.

Like a pack of buzzards, they stripped the dead, including their own, robbing them of all valuables, food and ammunition. Waving the union jack flag proudly and with wild, raucous voices, they screamed Long Live the Confederacy to the high heavens." Their faded and weather-beaten flag flapping limply in the breeze was their sad reply.

1

"A ND JUST WHERE DO you think you’re headed, young lady?" The stern voice made Amanda Brighton stop instantly, her feet firmly rooted to the spot. She swung around to see a large Negro woman emerging from behind a damp, white sheet flapping against other laundry hung to dry.

Mama Pearl, as she’d been known all of Amanda’s nineteen years, crossed her arms and gave a reproachful look to her young charge. How many times I got to tell you, child, her voice raised with disapproval.

Respectful, young ladies ain’t got no biz’ness traipsing around all alone in this here day and time. Ain’t doing nothing but inviting trouble.

Amanda shot a quick look toward the main house for fear the old nanny could be heard. Shhhhh!, she raised two fingers to her pursed lips. Honestly, Pearl, you’re going to give yourself a case of the vapors getting all riled up like that. And all over nothing, she feigned innocently.

Under Mama Pearl’s knowing eye, Amanda began to squirm as her cheeks revealed bright spots the color of a ripened peach. I was just about to ask you to come with me to pick wild berries for supper tonight, she blatantly lied while eyeballing a flying wasp directly above Mama Pearl’s red kerchief.

Hmmph, the older woman harrumphed doubtfully. She draped the last of the laundry on the line to dry and wiped her hands on her soiled apron. Miss Emily’ll kill me dead if I was to let you go traipsing through the woods all by yo’self.

Mama Pearl swatted at the annoying wasp and adjusted the kerchief over her ears before retrieving a dented bucket from the nearby shed. Come on, child, you’d better hurry. Lifting her nose high in the air, she studied the blue sky above and sniffed loudly. I can smell rain coming sure as daylight.

Resigned to the fact that Mama Pearl was coming whether she liked it or not, Amanda knotted the ribbon of her straw bonnet and clutched the handle of her basket tightly. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky, Mama Pearl, she argued. Looks like your nose is a bit off today, she giggled.

Don’t hafta be no clouds, Mama Pearl retorted in her nonsensical way. I can feel it in my bones, she argued and not to be distracted asked. Did you think to tell anyone where you were sneaking off to?

I wasn’t sneaking, she tried to deny and looked quickly at her worn gardening boots after Mama Pearl plastered a knowing look at her. Robert Lee and Sissy never stop…, she stammered. It’s not my fault if they didn’t see me gather my bonnet and basket, she quickly amended.

Robert Lee heard gunfire nearby this morning. With his old ears, it could have been thunder, Mama Pearl surmised and peered up at the cloudless sky again.

Not to worry, Amanda boasted. I’ve got Papa’s prized pistol in case we come across any trouble. She pulled a loaded six-shot, .44-caliber revolver from her basket and began waving it about recklessly.

Lordy, have mercy, Pearl screamed, and began to wildly fan her face as though in a near faint. Give me that gun before you go shooting yo’self in the foot or something.

Amanda giggled despite Mama Pearl’s near apoplexy. Placing the gun safely back into her basket, she patted Pearl’s shoulders warmly. You are the biggest worry-wort, Mama Pearl. Papa taught me to shoot and sling a blade long before my first cotillion.

Yeah, and about near gave your poor mama a heart attack hiding that pistol inside your petticoats like a no-count floozie, she chided. And Master Tim was proud as a peacock, she couldn’t help but to laugh.

I had to do something with those Bixley twins pawing all over me at my first dance, Amanda snapped. I swore to shoot their knubby fingers off if they ever dared to touch me again.

But did you have to aim it at them in the middle of the dance floor?

Mama Pearl reasoned while shaking her head sadly. Set off a case of the vapors from every petticoat near you and sent all the men, including the Bixley’s, running for cover.

Amanda smiled at the memory of the Sherman plantation’s formal ball just weeks before the renown general Stonewall Jackson led union forces at the First Battle of Bull Run in July of 1861.

The grandeur of the traditional presentment of young debutantes and dons eligible to court and wed seemed a world apart from the gory battlegrounds filled with immeasurable pain, smashed dreams, and inglorious deaths.

Amanda often wondered what happened to the cotillion belles and their admiring beaus outside the hopeful eyes of ambitious parents with strategic financial and match-making dreams, her parents included.

The beautiful debs with endless bobbing of curls and ribbons, white gowns of ruffles and lace and nervous smiles and silly giggles. The handsome gents equally on display in long black coats over fitted breeches, stiff white collars, and shiny, polished shoes. How many, she wondered are wed, widowed or dead from this never-ending war.

Nothing has felt right since Papa left, she said sadly. The last courier brought news that he’s missing and now mama seems to be getting worse worrying so. She swiped an errant tear from her cheek impatient for normalcy again.

Amanda looked around the farm, and seeing the devastation left following the last of four raids by marauding soldiers declaring their thievery glorious for their rebellious cause.

They’d mercifully left two mules, a milking cow, what chickens they could catch or shoot, five piglets and any vegetable not visible above ground.

Too bad they couldn’t eat cotton, Amanda thought. Maybe then the idea of harvesting their overflowing fields wouldn’t seem so bleak.

Amanda knew there’d been a shortage of recruits for the Rebel armies, but never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined her father’s reenlistment. She cursed his stupid pride at night when her exhaustion was overwhelming and each morning that required her to lay aside her fears to face the new day and its challenges.

Madame Bouchard’s School of Etiquette for Refined Young Ladies could never prepare her charges for this difficult life, not in a million years.

With the idea that the south would have an easy victory and he’d be home again in a few months, Timothy Brighton had written an agreement to sell all of their slaves, with the exception of Pearl, Robert Lee and Sissy, who he knew were too old to run and had a lesser taste for freedom as the others who, if given the chance to escape, would fight their way to the northern territory and freedom which awaited them there.

The papers she located in his desk drawer would have allowed him the right to repurchase his slaves following the war, at a reduced price. What he didn’t account for was his hasty departure before he could execute his plan or his daughter’s destruction of the papers when she’d located them and devised a plan of her own.

Timothy Brighton never imagined this war’s length was in years—not months or weeks as many had boasted including father, and the immeasurable toll caused by death and the destruction of life and livelihood for families and friends left behind.

Specifically, his own homestead consisting of a wife and daughter, three old servants, and hundreds of unattended acres of planted cotton, hay, and beans after he’d bartered their slaves to other plantations like unneeded chattel. Most of the funds he’d bartered for were donated to finance the war and thus ensure him a higher leadership over local volunteers than his posthumous military career had garnered.

He had believed the propaganda leading up to the south’s momentous succession and declaration of war. Like so many others, his hatred against anything or anyone daring to issue regulations of trade and commerce, threatening acceptable moral conducts, or southern traditions and values deeply ingrained within the south, had led him to believe his enemy could be vanquished as smoothly as a mint julep on a hot summer day.

Their gross miscalculations brought about hidden emotions for men, in general, and their inane ability, unlike a woman’s, to think rationally in handling delicate situations in a timely and most expedient fashion. If left to the counsel of women of this nation, perhaps much could have been expended in a shorter duration with less feathers to ruffle and exalted egos to soothe.

Only a trusted few knew Amanda’s secrets, and she planned to keep it just so for as long as possible. The costs to her family would be tremendous.

She was astute enough to know that despite the long-standing respect afforded the Brighton ancestry throughout the State, she would be accused of treason for her actions and hanged without question.

Amanda lovingly ran her fingertips along the long barrel of papa’s favorite weapon, now her own.

Before this war, Timothy Brighton had enlisted at Vicksburg and was led by Colonel Jefferson Davis in the fight for Texas independence from Mexico in 1846. The famed rifle his regiment was issued had been displayed proudly above the mantle in her father’s study but was now hidden safely in a secret room beneath his desk along with their dwindling confederate currency, her mother’s jewelry and other valuables that are irreplaceable.

Looking out at the sparse fields and empty pastures where livestock once grazed in the hundreds, Amanda was filled with anger and confusion. This couldn’t have been papa’s intent when he left us here, she said aloud while thinking he must have gone mad to leave them near destitute after so long, without workers for their fields or foods for their coffers.

Where is the honor in allowing your family to come to such a state?

Now don’t you go talking ‘bout Master Tim in such a way, Miss Manda, Pearl chastised. It ain’t for you to try reckoning why things be way they is.

I have to say or do something, or I will explode, Amanda shouted and then looked anxiously toward the main house. Mama’s getting worse every day, and the only ones I can blame are Papa and many others who were led by their prideful hearts and not their rational minds, even after years into this dismal war.

Mama Pearl was silent, unable to voice how she herself felt about the matter. Master Tim treated his slaves better than most owners in the district. Even so, a victory for the north would mean a great deal to negro slaves. One thing for sure, for her people the war was far, far more than just a stupid notion.

She looked at her young mistress standing there all proud and angry and immediately felt a tug on her heart to see little sign of the innocent southern belle of a few years ago. Before her stood a hard-working, loyal, determined young woman who carried great burdens on her small shoulders and deadlier secrets in her heart.

Your poor mama’s not herself grieving for Master Tim so, was all she said.

No, Pearl. You saw how bad it was after that last raid, she whispered sadly, as the two began the long trek through sparse fields not stripped or trampled during the last thieving for food.

Both walked in silence, their minds conjuring up the memory of Emily Brighton kicking and clawing her way through a group of renegade soldiers, shouting, and screaming obscenities in a most unladylike manner until one had raised his pistol and silenced her mother into blessed unconsciousness.

Amanda cringed with the memory of the purplish bruise still covering Emily Brighton’s right temple. I swear on my great-Aunt Abigail’s grave that I’ll kill the next foraging bastard, Yankee or Rebel, who sets foot on Brighton land again, she swore to no one in particular.

Mama Pearl glanced at the brave woman beside her ad had no doubt she meant every word.

2

THE SOUNDS OF GUNFIRE and clinking metal were long past, leaving behind in its wake the carnage of battle. The silence which remained was deafening, frightening the Aidan McTiernay who lay among the dead far more than the sounds of battle itself. The smells of blood and death were nauseating, causing him to gag as his chest rose and fell with deep, painful breaths.

Blood trickled down his face from a head injury caused after he was shot and fell, hitting his head on a large rock and knocking himself unconscious. That’s probably what saved his life, he thought, as he tried to move his bullet-mangled left leg and was gripped with agonizing pain all over.

His racing heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears, almost in sync with a rap-tap-tapping noise reminding him of an Indian dance he’d seen performed years before at a carnival.

The sound stopped, but then began again with each irregular beat coming closer to his hidden location. Aidan struggled to focus his eyes through the thick haze of gun smoke that hung eerily over his fallen comrades.

The body of his troop’s lieutenant commander lay half sprawled over him, the man’s lifeless eyes staring hopelessly and void. Pushing from beneath the heavy weight, the Aidan’s head banged hard against the boot of another body. A white-hot pain shot throughout his entire body, causing him to be temporarily blinded and paralyzed.

A hunting knife was buried in the still body of a drummer boy who held two drumsticks in his lifeless hands. Aidan yanked the knife like a lifeline, thankful the renegades who’d attacked them were not thorough in their search for contraband.

Raising himself to a sitting position, he pushed both elbows into the ground, and propelled himself backwards through the sea of bodies for what seemed an eternity.

Undaunted