High Grade: A Novel

By D Lincoln Jones

What if a soldier returns from war, but he has no memory of home?

Kentucky farmer Ben Jones has a good life. He’s married to a fine woman and he loves his four children. At the start of the Civil War he answers the call to serve his country, but never returns.

After the Battle of Shiloh, the Union assesses its losses. This has been a costly battle. As they prepare to bury the dead, one of the grave diggers hears a moan from a coffin. He’s nearly dead, this man in the uniform of a Captain in the Union Army.

Nursed back to health, the man assumes the name of “Ben” as he searches for his memory—for anything familiar or anyone who might remember him. Meanwhile, Matt Jones, the grown son left behind, joins the Union Army, also serving his country. After the War, he continues to search for his father, always hopeful.

Follow these two men on their separate journeys as one attempts to establish a new life and the other searches for what remains of his family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D Lincoln Jones
• Release date: May 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476120591

D Lincoln Jones

David Lincoln Jones came into the world carrying the genes of a storyteller in his blood. He was born into a family of raconteurs—his parents, aunts, and uncles were all consummate masters of the art of storytelling. Weaving a story himself came naturally, although he’d never considered writing a book until a few years ago. Born in Missouri, his professional career has embraced work with two Fortune 500 companies. Later branching out as an independent entrepreneur and owning two businesses, he continued his interest in local history as well as his own family history and genealogy. Retiring from the world of business, the author has maintained an active life that includes work for athletic events at the University of Arizona. Work continues, too, on writing a sequel to this book, following the historic adventures of the Jones family. He and his wife Barbara live in Tucson, Arizona, while the seven children from their blended marriage remain a continued presence in their lives although scattered across the country, from Boston to San Francisco.

Book preview

High Grade

the Smashwords Edition

of a D. L. Jones Publication

Copyright © 2012 D. Lincoln Jones

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the same bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Credits

Cover photo by J. DeBord Photography, courtesy Dreamstime.com

Cover design by Michaele Lockhart

Formatting by Harvey Stanbrough

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Table of Contents

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

About the Author

Acknowledgements

The Story Behind the Story

Contents

High Grade

D. Lincoln Jones

Chapter 1

April 21, 1862

Two weeks after the Battle at Pittsburg Landing

Ben was adrift in the dark. Wrapped in a shroud of darkness, totally at peace, he drifted softly into the waiting arms of Death. What little of his consciousness remained began to flicker away and vanish.

A sudden jolt forced a groan from his body. Activity that flurried around him did not penetrate his mind until the distant shrieking started—the shrieking of nails being pulled one by one from the lid of what he would later learn had been his own coffin. He felt someone or something lift him out of darkness into the light, as though being born again—into a life with no memory of his past. There was only pain.

Hands he couldn’t see raised him up and lifted him out of the coffin. Voices he didn’t recognize spoke, all at once.

My God, we were going to bury a live one.

They thought he was dead.

’Pears he just about is.

Dang it all, what’ll we do with him? The hospital ship’s already left.

Contents

Chapter 2

Western Colorado, Early October 1865

High upon a ridge a mountain lion stretched along a branch of a gnarled, weather-beaten tree. He had lazed there for an hour or more, the rising sun warming his tawny fur. At three years of age, the lion was in his prime and a loner, like all the males of his breed. He’d recently mated. With no attachment to the female, he hadn’t lingered. These mountains supported a well-established population of lions. The isolation of their heights offered an abundance of hunting—rabbits thrived in the lower hills while deer and elk inhabited the higher elevations.

From where he lay he could see all that moved in the vicinity. It had been three days since his last kill. A growling stomach, the first indication of hunger, reminded him that he should soon hunt once again, although it was not yet a critical necessity. He watched a nearby doe graze and nibble at a tree, while her fawn romped and played beside her. Neither realized they could become another animal’s meal. Concealed by the leaves of the tree, the lion’s presence was revealed only by the occasional flick of his tail.

The lion first saw the motion almost a mile away. A horse with rider had entered his hunting area. Ordinarily, the lion had little to do with humans. Several times they had shot at him, but he’d never been hit. He associated humans with loud noises of their firearms and avoided them when he could. No scent of the horse and rider had reached him yet, but instinct alerted him to something different and maybe wrong about the pair. Perhaps he noticed the way the man slouched in the saddle or the way the horse shuffled along. Turning away from the deer, he slipped lower on the branch.

The sun had just risen over the ridge of the mountains to the east, but the chill of an early fall morning remained on the valley road below. Patches of frost clung to the ground in shaded areas as Ben rode along the trail joining a crude road that surely led somewhere—but where he didn’t know.

He huddled against the iciness in the air and slouched into his saddle. The collar of a heavy jacket covered his neck and the back of his head against the penetrating cold. His broad-brimmed hat, well used and road dirty, he’d pulled low over his eyes, shutting out the morning light. The horse, just like Ben, was bone-tired. Their pace had slowed as he dozed in the saddle, unaware of her slowing until the horse stopped entirely.

Immediately awakened, it occurred to Ben to think, Danger! Glancing about at his surroundings, he found nothing amiss and prodded the horse to continue.

Git up, Sissy.

Snorting half-heartedly Sissy signaled her objection and stubbornly held her place. Ben dismounted, leaned his shoulder into the horse, and lifted her left forefoot, checking for lameness. He inspected the hoof and ran his hand up over the fetlock, feeling the tendons and ligaments. He moved to each leg, repeating his search. Finding no problems there, he took the reins to lead the animal into a leafy copse off the road.

Come on, girl.

The horse still refused to move.

Ben removed his hat and studied the horse, puzzled. Perhaps we should stop and rest a while. We’re both tired. We’ve covered a lot of miles lately. Haven’t we, girl?

He walked down to a small stream that ran through the trees and filled his hat with water. He returned to the horse and offered her a drink. The horse stood still, her eyes staring but not seeing. She didn’t shake her head or tug against the reins, but stubbornly refused a well-deserved drink.

The saddle, practically new when Ben had acquired it, was now well worn. He couldn’t calculate how many miles he’d sat in it, but it had been in daily use for at least several months—his seat by day and his pillow by night. He removed it from the horse, crossed the road, and laid it in the shade. He again picked up the reins and with a stronger effort, urged a few steps from the faithful animal. His horse’s legs buckled. She settled slowly to the ground and rolled onto her side. Then, with a long heavy sigh, she died.

Ben looked down at his horse sadly. Well, here I am—no family, no home, no friends, no hope, and no money. And now you’re gone, too, Sissy. I’m about down to nothing. He paused to look around. For now, the natural beauty of the mountains didn’t interest him. He had just lost his companion and only friend.

Kneeling beside his fallen horse, the man spoke, as though she were still there to hear him. It’s not right to leave you here like this, girl. You’ve done your part all along without complaint. You deserve so much better. Still talking softly to his horse, he removed her bridle because somehow that seemed unnecessarily cruel and invasive to leave it on. From his saddlebags he removed a gun belt and holster, fastening them around his waist. He discarded a few other items that he deemed weren’t essential anymore. He lifted the saddle onto his shoulder, placed the saddlebags across his forearm, and continued to walk down the road.

At a bend in the road, Ben looked back at his horse one last time. He hadn’t seen the lion in the bushes when it leapt, just as he turned to leave his horse. The only hint of its presence would have been that slow flick of a long tail.

Ben’s legs had begun to buckle, just like Sissy’s had. How far have I walked? he asked himself. The saddle seemed heavier, lifting his feet became a chore, and minutes slid into hours until he couldn’t distinguish one from the other. I don’t want to die out here too, he thought. There must be a town farther down the road. He’d noticed the occasional wagon rut underfoot and then these had become more frequent, deep tracks gouging through the fallen autumn leaves and into the soft earth.

Ben had never lived in the desert and had never heard of a mirage, so he wouldn’t have known what one was. However fatigue blurred his vision and ahead stood what appeared to be a house painted light green and surrounded by a wide porch; the porch railings, house shutters, and curly trim were all painted white. He blinked, then with the free hand not carrying his saddlebags, rubbed at his eyes. It was a house, not just a real house, but a freshly-built, brand new house. In the distance, he could see other smaller houses too, new just like this one, gleaming clean and bright in the early morning sunshine.

He struggled closer, studying what he first thought he had imagined, and looked up to see a man standing on the white-painted porch slowly lowering a rifle—it had been aimed directly at him.

The man was coming down the porch steps and walking toward him now, a large mug cupped in his hands from which steam rose invitingly. He had left his rifle behind.

Hello, he called out to Ben. Sorry about that. We’ve had a straggly female, a lioness, stalking our livestock on the edge of town. When wildlife gets too used to humans, no one comes out a winner. The end is always bad or sad, he commented, summing up his opinions.

Ben stared at the man in disbelief, his fatigue evaporating in the face of hope and help.

You’re new to these parts, the other man stated. Well, sir, you’ve just entered High Grade, Colorado, and you’ve already met the mayor and the owner of Larsen’s General Store, the man continued in a friendly manner. He extended his hand to Ben. Caleb Larsen’s the name. Welcome to High Grade. I guess you could say I’m the welcoming committee too. I built my house on the edge of town so I could enjoy the beauty out here.

Ben tried to brush the dirt from his palms but then grasped the offered hand. Benjamin Jones. Glad to make your acquaintance. Folks just call me Ben.

It appears your day hasn’t started well. Nodding at the saddle resting across the man’s back, Larsen continued, Something happen to your horse?

You’re right about my day not starting at all well. My horse died on me about five miles down the road. She was a good mount who served me well. I hated to lose her. You say this town is called High Grade?

Larsen nodded again, still studying him.

Ben felt himself flush under the layers of road dirt, wondering what this man would make of him—a grim, gun-toting, saddle-wearing, tall, and heavy-set man who’d once been told they’d need a feed store scale to judge his weight—materializing out of nowhere. Sorry about my appearance, all grimy and worn, he apologized. He’d felt Larsen’s gaze assessing him.

Larsen seemed to have reached some kind of decision. Come on up to the porch.

Ben, still toting his saddle, clomped heavily up the stairs behind him.

Please have a seat, Larsen offered, pointing to two long benches that ran the length of the front porch. He stepped to the front door and called inside. Sue Ellen? Could you bring us another cup of coffee, please? We’ve ourselves a visitor to High Grade!

Larsen’s wife, a pleasant woman whose smile radiated the same friendliness as her husband’s, stepped out onto the porch carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. Pleased to meet you, Mr.—? she began and then stopped.

Jones, Ben supplied. Thank you very much, ma’am. How long has it been since I’ve had a cup of coffee as good as this one? he wondered, since even recent events had become jumbled in his memory. He sipped at the fragrant drink, feeling the aches and fatigue of the past few days fall away from him.

Larsen had eased down onto the bench beside him. Both men inhaled deeply, the morning’s crisp fresh air providing a pleasant contrast to the warmth of their coffee. Vibrant reds and golds covered the surrounding hills as quaking aspen and oaks presented their new fall foliage against the deep green background of mountain spruce.

Just look at that, Larsen sighed. These hills—and this wonderful weather. He fell silent for a moment, slowly sipping at his coffee, until he noticed something. There! he muttered and pointed, squinting at some faint movement of light and shadows in the distance. I know that’s the same lion whose been stalking our corrals. The movement vanished into the shadows of the road.

Larsen’s open friendliness must have been catching, Ben would think, for he found himself chatting and talking with this stranger almost as though they’d been neighbors. So, what brought you here—to High Grade?

Well…. Larsen eased back, his arms folded across his chest. I suppose my story’s about the same and maybe as different as everyone else’s….

Ben grinned, amazed to feel the stern, tired lines of his face relaxing into a smile.

I guess I was still trying to ease my sorrow, Larsen confessed. He explained that as the only child of a wealthy New England industrialist, he’d lived a good life, raised in a family where money was never a concern. While he was in his mid-twenties and still trying to find his own place in life, both his parents had died while touring Europe. Besides, I finally had a chance to escape those harsh New England winters. I sold my father’s business and the family’s home and headed out for San Francisco.

Ben nodded at this story, the familiar one of a man starting a new life. Like me, he thought, but without the money. Did you like it there? he asked, more from the need to respond than from any interest in the area. The man talking to him didn’t appear to have a care in the world and could easily have spent the entire day chatting on his front porch.

Good grief, no! Larsen had laughed. Summers out there were cold, damp, and unpredictable. I didn’t stay long.

Ben listened to this story of a man who had wandered, just like him, but he had known not only where he was from but where he was going. I can’t remember where I’m from, he said very softly. Wish I could.

Larsen studied the man beside him, appearing to enjoy their conversation but now more than curious. Next I moved to Salt Lake City for a short time—, Larsen again hesitated. But, well, I never felt quite welcome out there. It’s a bit different, you know.

Ben thought he had heard stories about a religious movement in that new territory, but wasn’t certain: like so many of his memories, there were small snatches of things that didn’t ever match up with anything else.

Larsen leaned back against the wall, propping his feet on the porch railing—his boots were of finest leather, Ben noted—and continued. Then, by chance, I ended up in Denver, Colorado. The trip to Denver from Salt Lake was hellacious. The road crossed miles of empty space, most of it high, barren desert. The dust kicked up by the stage wheels made it difficult to breathe. Then we climbed up and down treacherous mountain passes. Even in the early fall, it was frigid and uncomfortable. The stage coach careened crazily on the twisting narrow roads. I think there was already ice in places!

In Caleb Larsen Ben recognized a man who not only enjoyed talking but who loved to tell stories. Tired as he was, he’d let him ramble on. He had nothing planned, no schedule to follow, no place to go, and no horse to ride to get to wherever he was going. Was Denver any better than San Francisco? It was strange, Ben thought, the names of these places mean nothing to me but I remember them…. Why can’t I remember the rest?

Larsen chuckled, recalling something amusing. I arrived in Denver on a beautiful Indian summer day. I was tricked—I’d learn the reality of the city’s cold and usually snowy winters later. Just what I was trying to get away from! He set his half-empty mug down on the bench beside him. Within a few days I’d purchased a business selling dry goods, mining supplies, and general merchandise. Business was good, but then I met two miners who eventually found the gold in the hills up around High Grade. Before they made their big strike, I grubstaked them. At the end of each year they’d pay up in full. They convinced me to move my business to High Grade. That’s how fate moves. He leaned back onto the porch. Guess it’s time to go to work. You want to come with me?

Ben stood and stretched, still tired but now fascinated by this man, his story, and his town. Yes, I’d like that—if it’s not too much trouble. He finished the last bit of coffee in his own cup.

You know, Larsen said. When I looked up the road coming into High Grade and saw you walking along with a saddle across your back—

And nearly shot me, Ben added.

Yep. Larsen smiled. I thought, now there’s a story waiting to be told.

You were right—except I don’t know what it is.

This will be a busy day, Larsen said. I’d better get going. He called to his wife who came to the door. ’Bye now, dear. See you tonight.

Ben watched Larsen kiss his wife tenderly on the cheek and turn to leave. Something tugged at a memory—but again, he wasn’t sure just what it was.

Where were you headed, Ben? Caleb asked as they strolled up toward the smaller houses and what Ben could clearly see were well-constructed business establishments.

Puzzled by the question and knowing his answer would puzzle the other man, Ben replied, Don’t rightly know. I’ve just been a wanderer for a while. I’ve just been lookin’ around.

Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for right here in High Grade. We’re a new but growing town, and there’s a lot of opportunity. Walk with me to my store where I can set down these ledgers. You can lay that saddle down, too. Then I’ll buy you breakfast and we’ll get acquainted. After your walk from way out of town, you could probably use a good meal.

As they walked to the store, Caleb explained about their town. Just a few years back, the prospectors I told you about came across a mother lode vein of gold. They made the proper filings and while working the claim it became clear what they had. They wanted to develop a town—a lasting town, not just a boom or bust place.

Appears you’ve got a real good start, said Ben.

Well, these guys had been around a while, out here in the West. They asked folks they knew, who were hard workers and square shooters, to come in and open up the businesses the town needed. I’d dealt with them down in Denver. I trusted their judgment. Sold my business there and moved on. The town’s got eleven stores open now and more coming. I’ve been here two years and haven’t once regretted the move. I don’t make the money I did in Denver, but just look at the surroundings here. It’s a bit of heaven.

Turning onto the main street Ben said, "I don’t often see a boardwalk in such a new town.

That’s part of the mine’s commitment to the town. They supplied the material and the labor to build it. The streets are still a quagmire in the wet season—and we never really know when that is, he added, but we’ll be working on that soon. We’re also looking at buying a pumping wagon and have our own volunteer fire department.

What are the opportunities for work here? Ben inquired politely.

There’s always work to be had. I know the freight company is looking for a driver, if you can handle a team. There’s a constant demand for jobs at the mine, but that’s difficult and dangerous work. There’s a regular turnover, if you understand what I mean. The cemetery on the other side of town is continually getting new residents. Larsen shrugged, the gesture emphasizing his words. He unlocked the door of his store and stepped inside. Ben, set your saddle down in here. I’ll lay my papers on the counter—business can wait. Now, we’ll go over to Molly’s for a real breakfast. It’s the best food in town.

A sign in the window of the café proclaimed, Dishwasher Wanted. Caleb Larsen grinned and pointed. See, opportunities for employment are everywhere.

What Ben noticed immediately upon entering the neat restaurant was its cleanliness. There were ten tables, each covered with a fresh red and white checkered tablecloth. A riot of enticing scents, from baking bread and fresh cinnamon to beef roasting, wafted on the air. Thoughts of the apple pie he was certain he detected caused his mouth water.

Though the scents in the air and the general décor were important, it was the woman across the room that caught his attention. That is one beautiful woman. Though not as tall as Ben, she was still a tall woman. The top of her head came to his chin. Her elegant posture accentuated an attractive figure; she wore a simple calico dress with a plain apron.

As they waited for a table, Caleb remarked, That’s Molly. I’ll introduce you two when she has a minute. Her place stays busy. She once had a restaurant in Denver, just like this, only bigger. She’s another example of the way the mine owners have sought to bring the best up here. He paused for a moment.

Both men watched as the café’s owner spoke to three men who had just finished breakfast and stood to leave. She wished them a good day and smiled. Ben watched her, feeling the warmth of her farewell even across the room.

Caleb must have been watching her too. Molly’s husband was killed in a railroad accident a few years ago and she jumped at the chance to move here.

Molly approached the two men. Sorry you had to wait, Caleb.

There was that smile again, Ben noticed. No, he thought, it’s more of a glow, all over her face, not just a smile.

There’s only the one table now. She moved across the room gracefully but with purpose as she turned and then asked Larsen, Who’s your friend, Caleb?

Please excuse my manners, Caleb apologized. Molly, meet Ben Jones. He’s new to High Grade. Ben, Molly Chambers, the crown jewel of our new little town.

Molly extended her hand and for a moment Ben looked down at his own hands, calloused from holding his horse’s reins and from chopping wood before—they were none to clean at that—but he reached for hers, a slender, soft, fair hand. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Ben felt a stirring that he hadn’t remembered feeling before or for a long time. He could never be sure about those almost memories as he’d come to think of them.

Molly was in her late thirties, Ben would guess, and probably a few years younger than him. Her face was soft and her voice even softer as she welcomed him to High Grade. Her auburn hair and green eyes were striking; he felt himself blush as he admired her. He was embarrassed at his own appearance and self-consciously brushed at the dust on his clothes.

What brings you to High Grade, Mr. Jones? From that dust I’d say you’ve been traveling, but don’t worry about that. I’ve seen much worse—this is a mining town! She was trying to put him at ease, it seemed to Ben. I’d assume you’re a bit…, she hesitated, a bit different than most of the folks coming in here. It’s mostly miners, you know, and they’re a tough breed, often looking for trouble. Molly glanced over her shoulder as she continued about her work.

Her greeting had made him feel wholeheartedly welcome. Ben suddenly felt as if he had known her for a long time and that they were already friends. I don’t know, Molly. I am looking for something, but haven’t found it yet. Perhaps I’ll find it here, he answered.

With breakfast ordered and more hot steaming coffee before them, both men settled in their chairs, each appraising the other. Caleb Larsen broke the silence. I see you’re wearing some military gear from the Union Army. You served in the War?

Ben paused, the cup at his lips. I don’t talk about the War.

Larsen nodded. I reckon I can understand that.

Molly arrived with their breakfast. Ben ate as though it had been an eternity since his last meal. They