Chapter 1

Tennessee Homecoming

T

hey blended with the damp, cold Northern Tennessee night—the two weary men. A log caught—the flames flickered. Light from the fire fell across lean, haggard faces. Sunken, tired eyes stared beyond the fire into the darkness. A tattered Confederate cavalry officer’s uniform hung on one of the men like rags on a scarecrow. The other wore the twin stripes of a corporal sewn to one frayed sleeve.

Tiny red rockets radiated out from the fire. The officer turned his slender frame, watched the corporal thrusting a small limb into the dying flames. He made no comment, turned back to his own thoughts. After one last poke into the ashes, the limb landed on top of the fire’s remnants.

“Cap’n, we must be near to Montgomery County now,” the corporal, a short man with red hair, said.

The officer turned, leaned on one elbow. He pondered the remark before answering. “A few hours ride, I believe.”

 “We’ll be there tomorrow then.”

“I would expect to.”

“Well, Cap’n, what do you think we’ll find?”

The captain considered that question. “I hope for the best, but experience tells me we’ll find what war tends to leave behind, destruction.”

The corporal nodded. “Yep. From what I heerd, them Yanks been there for most of four years. I ’spect they’ve taken about all that’s worth taking.”

“That could well be. Tomorrow we’ll know,” the captain said.

“Yes sir, tomorrow we’ll know.” The corporal got up and retrieved a dirty blanket from a saddlebag at the edge of the camp. “I believe I’ll be turning in now, Cap’n McKane.”

“All right, Corporal Hays, splendid idea. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Hays lay down on the damp ground and pulled the blanket around him. Soon, he was snoring.

James McKane stared into the dying flames. Tomorrow, he would be home. Home! For four long, bloody years he had thought of little else. Now, he was just a day’s ride away from his family. So, where was the enthusiasm he should be feeling? It was a time for elation; instead he felt only doubt and fear. It was the hard, cold reality of war staring him in the face. So many times during the past four years he had seen, had felt, the horrors of war. His experiences left little room for optimism, for hope. Unlike so many of his comrades, he had been spared death, but for what purpose? There was so much to lose, so much that could be taken from him: his wife and children, his mother and father, and the plantation. These thoughts had plagued him so since slipping out of Nashville.

The war—blast the bloody conflict that had brought him to this state. Throughout the campaigns, he had seen so much of the South laid to ruin, battered by artillery fire, trampled under, reduced to ashes. Would it be any better in Clarksville? From what he had been able to learn, the Yankees had occupied it during most of his absence. How had they treated the people?  

How different things had been four years earlier. People treated the upcoming conflict like a carnival. Pomp and ceremony ruled. The residents of Clarksville stood on the sidewalks cheering as the military parades passed the town square. “How innocent we were,” James mumbled.

Patriotism, the idealism of youth. With the enthusiasm of a young man going on a hunt, he journeyed from Clarksville up to Kentucky in April of 1861 to join a cavalry unit. The thrill of the campaign, a fight for his land and way of life had been his motto. Standing proud with other men from Clarksville, he watched Captain Blanchard take command of the new unit. “Bravo,” they all thought. They’d show those Yanks what proud Southerners were made of.

Idealism faded in the face of reality. There were no bands playing or pompous celebrations on the battlefield. The somber reality of war met them head on in April of 1862. After the Cumberland and Tennessee River Valley campaigns, the glory of war was forever shattered. Bitter retreats followed, first to Shiloh, then further south. Hell on Earth, the battlefields covered with the dead, and the screams of the wounded had replaced their idealism. 

The specter of death stared James in the face at Garrettsburg, Kentucky. His horse was shot from under him. For the duration of the battle, he was forced to lie under the dead animal, bleeding from a wound to his side. When the skirmish ended, he worked himself free and wandered for hours to reach the Confederate lines. Then came weeks in a field hospital: it offered no reprieve; just grim reminders of the carnage.

The remaining war years found him in Chicamauga, Columbia, South Carolina, and Bentonville, where his unit was almost decimated. Then there was the humiliating end. In Washington, Georgia, James and what remained of his cavalry unit were captured trying to escort Jefferson Davis, the Confederate president.

James and his comrades were paroled in early May of 1865. The Yanks allowed them to keep their horses for a time. Then, at Chattanooga, the Federals went back on their word and took their horses from them. They were marched to Nashville on foot. Once there, they were forced to take the Oath of Allegiance to the Union.

During his confinement at Nashville, James made the acquaintance of Corporal Arlen Hays, a farm boy from near Clarksville. They stole some horses from the Yanks; as a bonus, James took a Henry repeating rifle and a pistol from a sleeping sentry. The rifle was a weapon he knew well. At Bentonville, the Confederate forces had encountered Yanks armed with these repeaters. The firepower of the 44-caliber rifles left a lasting impression.

They traveled the back roads, often at night, to avoid Yankee patrols. They carried their oaths, but four years of bloody combat left them suspicious of the Federal troops. James also kept the Henry rolled up in a blanket. A Confederate carrying a weapon even few Yanks had been issued invited questions best left unasked, he figured.

Aided by sympathetic farm families and luck, they were poised to enter Montgomery County, back on home soil again. When he thought of home now, how far in the past it seemed.   Memories obscured by war, of a summer evening on the balcony with his wife and children, riding his favorite horse across the plantation, Sunday dinners in the dining room of the main house, walking across a tobacco field with his father, days of innocence now lost, perhaps forever.

The guilt—it would not leave him in peace. Most of it was guilt for not communicating with his family. The war, he told himself, the bloody war was to blame. But that would not placate his conscience. He was returning with not a hint of what he would find, a victim of his short-sightedness.

When drowsiness came, he got his blanket, spread it out and lay down next to the fire. Dreams came, omens of things to come; they were not pleasant.

*          *          *

M

ist, thick and gray, greeted them. James pushed aside the damp blanket and stood up. Hays stirred and got to his feet. “I’ll fetch some wood, Cap’n.”

While the corporal searched for firewood, James poured some water from his canteen into their small coffee pot. Poking around in the ashes, he found a few red coals. He used some damp hickory leaves and bits of grass to start a flame. The wet fuel was slow to catch. He blew on it until a small flame erupted. Smoke spiraled upward. Not a good thing if Yankee patrols were about. The mist was their ally; the smoke couldn’t be seen from any great distance.

Corporal Hays stepped out of the woods carrying an arm full of tree limbs. “It ain’t much Cap’n, but it’s the best I can find.”

“They’ll do.”

Hays dropped the limbs beside the fire. James broke them into pieces before casting them into the flames. The moisture in the wood sizzled; clouds of smoke drifted up into the gray sky. When they caught, he set the coffee pot over the flames using some small rocks to support it. “All we got is a couple of biscuits and a little coffee,” James said.

“Well Cap’n, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to eat regular.”

The scant rations from sympathetic families had played out. Hunger had been their constant companion for much of the war, so they were accustomed to living on little. “You know, Cap’n, when I get home I’m gonna ask my ma to fry up a big skillet of side meat, make some gravy from the drippings, and bake a big pan of biscuits.”

“That does sound appetizing, Corporal. Be careful you don’t founder yourself.”

The corporal laughed. When the coffee was ready, they sat by the fire, wrapped in their blankets, eating the biscuits and sipping the hot liquid. It was weak, tasteless.

The mist thickened into drizzle. James pulled a rain slicker from his saddlebags; all Corporal Hayes could find was a wool coat. “I’ll fetch the horses, Cap’n.”

The corporal led the poor, wet horses into camp. In their emaciated condition, would they last the ride into Clarksville? They might have to finish the journey home on foot. But without some grain or hay, there wasn’t much the men could do. When the horses were saddled and their gear packed, they set out for the road. As always, James had the Henry wrapped in a blanket. “Cap’n, what you expect them Yanks might do if they found that rifle on you?”

“Don’t know, Corporal. Maybe hang me.” The comment wasn’t meant for amusement; neither of them took any from it.

They rode out of the woods onto a makeshift road. This morning, gray clouds hung over the tops of the tall oak and hickory trees. The horses plodded through the mud, carrying their wet and tired riders.

Hays wiped water from his forehead with his sleeve. “Cap’n, what do you plan to do now that the war is over?”

James thought. Often, during the past four years, he never expected to have a future. “Can’t say, Corporal. My family owned a tobacco and grain plantation. But now, I don’t know what’s happened to it. There may be nothing left.”

“You know, Cap’n, maybe that’s one of the advantages of being poor. When you ain’t got much to lose, you don’t miss it so much when it’s gone. All my folks had when the war started was a little dirt farm south of Clarksville, next to the Cumberland. Makes it easier to start over again. You ain’t got so far to go to get back to where you were. A man don’t miss what he never had.”

“I suppose you’re right, Corporal.”

James lapsed into silence. Worry—more like downright apprehension—was back again. What was he going to find today? Beyond that, what would he do now? The plantation might be gone. First, he had to get back with Kate and the children. With his family beside him, he would find a way to start over. After all, the McKanes had not always been people of means. His grandfather had come to Montgomery County when it was nothing but wilderness.

There were farm houses along the road. But James noticed something peculiar, many of them looked deserted. He pointed it out to the corporal. “Most these folks ain’t very trustin’, Cap’n. It’s the Yanks. These folks try to avoid them as much as possible, so they don’t get out much.”

“Thank God it’s over, Corporal. Maybe the Union troops will soon be gone.”

“I hope so Cap’n, but I ain’t countin’ on it too much. Them Yanks, they wanta punish us for leaving the Union. I ’spect they gonna be around for awhile.”

“I suppose. They want to make as much profit as they can.”

“Yes sir, I believe they do.”

The drizzle continued. The water dripping off the front of James’s hat ran in little streams down the front of his rain slicker. The corporal’s wool coat became soaked, so he removed it. “I hope I don’t come down with pneumonia,” he said.

They had endured such as this for most of the war. James recounted the times they had gone without protection against the elements. Confederate forces had shivered in the cold without coats, and many without even shoes. Human endurance had been pushed to the limit; how did any of them survive?

In the heavy drizzle, they were close on them before James spotted the men standing next to the road, mere shadows in the gray mist. “Corporal Hays, it seems we have some company ahead,” he said.

“I see ’em, Cap’n. What do you reckon they’re about?”

“I don’t know. I think you better take this.” He passed his pistol over to the corporal.

“What ’bout you, Cap’n?”

“I think it’s time to get the Henry out.” James pulled the blanket concealing the weapon around in front of him. He kept the rifle covered with his hand resting on the trigger.

There were five in the group. They all appeared to be in dire straits. One was stooped, a beard hanging down the front of his tattered gray jacket. A battered cap partially covered his head. He was holding an old muzzle loading shotgun at his side. The rest were in a similar state and dress. Only one other had a visible firearm, an old muzzle loading rifle.

They watched James and Corporal Hays approach. James figured he’d try and ride past while keeping a wary eye on them. When they were even, the one with the shotgun spoke. “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” James replied.

The man spit out a stream of tobacco juice. “You gents wouldn’t mind sharing a little something?” he asked.

“If it’s food you’re asking about, we’re out ourselves,” James said.

“Damn shame when a man ain’t got nothin’ to eat.”

“I can understand your plight,” James replied. “We’ve had to skimp and scrounge ourselves.”

More tobacco juice on the ground. “You men coming home from the war?” the man with the shotgun asked.

“We are,” James said.

The shotgun barrel came up a few inches. James tightened his finger on the Henry trigger. Damn—the last thing he wanted this close to home was a shootout with a group of desperate men. Wasn’t that the way of things? he thought. Survive four bloody years of war and get shot down coming home.

“The only thing worse than being hungry is being hungry and afoot,” the shotgun holder said.

Their horses were tempting these men. James glanced at Corporal Hays. He had the pistol in his right hand, resting on his saddle horn.

“Mister, I don’t like the way you keep raising up the barrel of that shotgun.”

“Well how about that? Now sir, there’s a great many things I’ve encountered these past few years I did’t like. Man don’t always get what he likes.”

The old shotgun barrel was up to where, with one quick move, it could blast him or the corporal off their horses. The man holding it laughed. “For soldiers coming home, you fellas ain’t very well armed. I ’spect this old gun could take both of you off your horses with one shot. That before you could get a shot off with that old pistol.”

“That might be so,” James replied. He eased the Henry from under the blanket. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

All five of them stared at the rifle in James’s hand. The one holding the shotgun wavered, looked at the rifle barrel pointing at him.

“Let me explain to you gentlemen what you’re looking at here,” James said. “This is a Henry repeating rifle that came to me courtesy of a Yank soldier in Nashville. Forty-four caliber. You’ve never seen a gun that can match this one. I believe I could bring down the lot of you before you could get a shot off with your old guns.”

The man spit out more tobacco juice, swallowed, and lowered the old shotgun until the muzzle was pointed at the ground. “Hellfire, mister. I was just jawing a little. I never had no intention of harming you fellas. We’re Southern men, just like you.”

“Well sir, these are desperate times,” James replied. “A desperate man is a dangerous man, in my view. Now, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take that old scatter gun and that rifle, just to keep you men honest.”

“Ain’t no damn call for that,” the man said. He stared at James’s hand on the trigger of the Henry. James urged his horse closer, the rifle pointed at the man’s chest.

“It’s not a debatable question,” James said. “It’s not a request either. Me and the corporal here are cold and hungry. We’ve been through four long years of bloody war. We’re close to home. We’re not going to be stopped by a band of highwaymen. I don’t know what brought you men to the state you’re in, and right now I don’t have time to care.”

“Hell, mister, these two guns are all that stand between us and starving. We have to live off what we hunt.”

“I can sympathize with that. We’ll leave both of them a little ways down the road. You can walk down and pick them up. Time you get there, we’ll be almost to Clarksville.”

All five stared at James, their faces expressionless. “Just lay the old shotgun and that rifle down on the ground and step back away,” James commanded.

For an agonizing moment, the men stood motionless, not complying with James’s request. “One more time, gents,” he said. “Lay ’em down.”

The one with the old rifle laid his down first. The one with the shotgun wavered a bit longer, gave the Henry another look, then put the old gun down next to the rifle. “Corporal Hays, would you please pick up those two weapons.”

The corporal dismounted and picked up the rifle and shotgun while James held the Henry on the other five. “Your arms will be about two miles down the road,” he said. They rode off leaving the five men to watch them go.

“Cap’n, I don’t mind telling you I thought it was going to come to shooting it out with that bunch.” He handed the pistol back to James.

“So did I, Corporal. Let’s put some distance between them and us.”

“Who you reckon they are?” James asked after they had ridden away from the men.

“Hard to say, Cap’n. Some of the irregulars that operated around here during the war, I ’spect. I figure they might have slipped down from Kentucky. Lot of guerrilla bunches up there. Old Nathan Forrest raised a lot of havoc there during the war. Now it’s over, the Union folks are going to be out looking for revenge. So some of the Southern bands have to scatter.” 

James sought to put the incident out of his mind. It was just another reminder of the war and its aftermath. Home—perhaps there he would put it all behind him. The rain eased. They stopped, leaned the old shotgun and rifle against a tree, and then rode on. The muddy road took them to the Port Royal Road—the route to Clarksville.

Traveling was easier on the macadamized road than the muddy back roads, but it came with a price. Now they were sure to encounter Union patrols. Would the papers he and the corporal were carrying get them past the Federals? James hoped they didn’t have to find out.

They had the road to themselves much of the time. There would be an occasional rider or farm wagon; otherwise, the busy thoroughfare that James remembered had no travelers. For thirty minutes they eased along, and then they could see the outline of Clarksville in the distance. Emotions swept over James. His bitter memories of war eased. Kate and the children, his mother and father, and the plantation all danced around in his mind. His happy thoughts couldn’t take hold. They were replaced by apprehension and doubts. He had been gone so long, would they remember him? Kate had been pregnant when he left for war. His homecoming would be the first time to see his latest child.

“Corporal, I’ll be leaving you just ahead. I want to ride out to the plantation first.”

“Sure, Cap’n. I hope you find everything in order.”

At the edge of Clarksville, where the tollbooth once stood, the road came to an end. There, James stopped his horse. He looked toward Clarksville then turned his gaze northward, toward home. Hays stopped his horse nearby. “Cap’n, been my pleasure to ride home with you. We sure gave them Yanks back in Nashville the slip.”

“That we did, Corporal. It’s been my pleasure as well.” James urged his horse over and extended his hand. “We’re home Corporal Hays; not under the best of circumstances, but we’re here.”

“Yes sir, that’s so. I hope your family’s in good health.”

“And I wish the same for yours.”

They shook hands. Hays rode on toward Clarksville; James turned his horse north toward the family plantation. His heart was beating fast. Surrounded by death and destruction the past four years, he often felt this day would never come. So many of his comrades had fallen; they would never come home. Widows and fatherless children with no means of support were their legacy.

In the distance, through the very light rain, James could see the gate to the plantation. Hope, worry, guilt all tugged at him. The moment of truth was almost at hand. He urged the horse forward.