Rachel, After the Darkness: A Novel of the Old South

By Jane Bennett Gaddy, PhD

Rachel, After the Darkness is a continuation of the struggle in which Jane Gaddy intricately describes the South following the war and during the reunification of a broken Nation. Rachels husband and son are gone, having fallen at Gettysburg. Three sons have married, and Rachel and her youngest, Samuel, are left alone to run the small farm in northeast Mississippi. The darkness represents a time that never should have been, and in her thoughts, Rachel relives the gloom of death and destruction; the disparities of Federal intervention during Reconstruction and the re-establishing of the Old South; and the harsh restrictions of the Radical Regime.

As the story progresses, Rachel receives a short-term offer to become an editorial writer for a major newspaper in New York City where she momentarily lives the Gilded Age, observes the abject poverty of Irish immigrants, and endures the sporadic and sometimes violent opposition to her southern-view editorials. She experiences love in great measure and the eventual return home where awaits unexpected news and heartache, and finally happiness and contentment once again.

With characters out of the playbook of times gone by and personal storytelling writing style, Dr. Gaddy has created a memorable journey from the darkness of war and its aftermath to the light of a better time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491736999

Jane Bennett Gaddy, PhD

Jane Bennett Gaddy, author of House Not Made With Hands, The Mississippi Boys, Isaac’s House, JOAB, and co-writer of GIBBO-In My Life is retired and lives with her husband in Trinity, Florida. She holds a Ph.D. in Religion and administers a course in American Literature for external studies students of Bethany Divinity College and Seminary in Alabama.

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Copyright © 2014 Jane Bennett Gaddy, Ph.D.

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Certain characters in this work are historical figures and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3698-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3700-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3699-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 06/12/2014

CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue Night Sounds

PART ONE

Chapter 1 Looking Back

Chapter 2 Old Friends

Chapter 3 For Some Reason

Chapter 4 The Leather Strap

Chapter 5 Savor the Moments

Chapter 6 By Far the Greatest

Chapter 7 Freefall

Chapter 8 The Decision

Chapter 9 Mystery Unfolding

PART TWO

Chapter 10 To Another World

Chapter 11 Compassion

Chapter 12 Sunday and Forward

Chapter 13 Cherished Sins

Chapter 14 On Secession

Chapter 15 In the Palm of Her Hand

Chapter 16 An Affection of the Heart

Chapter 17 The Berry Bucket

Chapter 18 City Hall

Chapter 19 Beyond all Insult

Chapter 20 A Thousand Deaths

Chapter 21 We Will See Him Again

Chapter 22 Glorious Thought

Chapter 23 Ruthless Invaders

PART THREE

Chapter 24 Out of Brokenness

Chapter 25 The Long Gray Line

Chapter 26 Mr. Marble

Chapter 27 Remember

Epilog For the Last Time

Afterword

`

To the memory of my great-great grandmother,

Margery Brown Rogers Clark

of Sarepta, Mississippi

for her supreme sacrifice to the Cause,

the death of her husband

—Captain Thomas Goode (T.G.) Clark—

Company F, 42nd Mississippi Infantry Regiment,

Joseph Davis Brigade, A.P. Hill Corps, Henry Heth Division,

Army of Northern Virginia, General Robert E. Lee, Commander;

and two sons,

—Privates Jonathan and Albert Henry Clark—

Battle of Gettysburg, July 1 and 3, 1863.

Never Forgetting!

And in grateful appreciation

to the Order of the Confederate Rose,

a support group for the Sons of Confederate Veterans

who sponsor the

Margery B. Rogers Clark Memorial Scholarship

open to Calhoun County, Mississippi, High School Seniors.

Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy:

when I fall, I shall arise;

when I sit in darkness,

the Lord shall be a light unto me.

Micah 7:8

On they trudged, impelled by

some blind glory of the human soul,

lashing out at the inevitable growing darkness.

Marshall W. Fishwick

Lee After the War

Foreword

I have had the distinct pleasure of knowing Jane Gaddy for four years during which we have shared many enjoyable discussions of a variety of topics. She has become a dear friend. As a graduate student of the Naval War College, Class of 1996, I studied political strategies and wars, one of my favorites being the American Civil War. Because I am Yankee born and raised, and Jane a Lady of the South, we have bantered about the purpose, passion and strategies of both sides, and we have learned much from our opposing views. In Jane’s eyes I am an honorary southerner which, history tells us, was also the case with many West Point graduates who fought with the opposing side because of close family ties.

Rachel, After the Darkness is a continuation of the struggle in which Gaddy intricately describes the South following the war and during the reunification of a broken Nation. Rachel’s husband and son are gone, having fallen at Gettysburg. Three of her sons have married, and Rachel and her youngest son, Samuel, are left alone to run the small farm in northeast Mississippi. The darkness represents a life-shattering war that never should have been, and in her thoughts, Rachel relives the gloom that settled over the bloody pond of Shiloh and the hot and sultry smoke of the guns on the wheat fields of death and destruction of Gettysburg. She lives the disparities of Federal intervention during Reconstruction and the re-establishing of the Old South, while, at the same time, enduring the harsh restrictions of the Radical Regime.

As the story progresses, Rachel receives a short-term offer to become an editorial writer for a major newspaper in New York City where she momentarily lives the Gilded Age, a different lifestyle, observes the abject poverty of Irish immigrants, and endures the sporadic and sometimes violent opposition to her southern-view editorials. She experiences love in great measure and the eventual return home to her roots where awaits unexpected news and heartache, and finally happiness and contentment once again.

With characters out of the playbook of times gone by and personal storytelling writing style, Dr. Gaddy has created another memorable journey from the darkness of war and its aftermath to the light of a new and golden era.

Andrew M. Domarasky, III

Colonel

United States Marine Corps (Ret.)

Prologue

Night Sounds

At sundown the long and high-pitched howl of a coyote muffled by the trees broke the silence of the evening with the lonesome cry for a mate that may never come. Coyote soon wearied and retreated into the woods.

Rachel drew in a deep breath. She was not afraid, just cautious, allowing he would be back, announcing his return.

I heard him, too, Mama. Thirteen-year-old Samuel stepped to the door of his mother’s room. He’s gone now.

But he’s not far away, Sam. Don’t go out for wood until I can go with you.

No ma’am, I won’t.

The wind whimpered outside the windows of Rachel’s room; the limbs of the tupelos tapped at the panes, a better sound than the piercing yelp of a wild animal come to snoop and invade.

Most of the leaves were on the ground, the wind rustling the stubborn remainder that stuck to the oaks and maples. Shades of gray exaggerated the spirit of sadness until a mockingbird, whistling the last sweet song of the evening, awakened a memory and a temporary delight then flew away, swallowed by the darkness.

Rachel sat on the little vanity bench Thomas had made years before when they were first married, wishing she could see more of her true image, the mirror on the vanity long since distorted. She pulled the pins from her dark hair, once curly, now straight from years of brushing. It fell to her waist, much too long, but there was no one to cut it. She considered pulling it up and blunt-cutting it herself. I would look younger if it were a bit shorter, she thought, and maybe the curls would return.

But what did it matter? Thomas was gone, no longer there to notice, nor to run loving hands through the dark waves as he had often done when they were young.

She took the long faded flannel gown from the drawer in her bureau, pulled it over her head, twined her hair loosely and inserted a few pins to secure it for the night.

With cold fingers, she tapped the warm tears from her face.

The low-wick lamp flickered in the old and worn but wonderful sanctuary that surrounded memories. Thomas built this house and carried her in his arms across the threshold. In this very room she gave birth to six sons—Jonathan, Albert Henry, Isaac, Joab, Benjamin, and Samuel. Dear Ben died in this room the year the cruel war began.

Rachel remembered as if it were yesterday. Her precious boy of six, while with Isaac and Joab on a trek to cut a Christmas tree, slipped into the creek and near drowned. Isaac pulled him from the icy water, put him on the sled and piled coats on him, ran all the way home pulling the sled, crying like a babe himself, Joab running ahead to tell Rachel. Dear Dr. Malone was with them through the whole ordeal, never leaving the house, sleeping by the fire in the great room until that dreadful day when Ben died. In a foot of snow, they laid his little body to rest in early January of 1861, beneath the largest oak tree on the hill.

So much sorrow. So much darkness.

Oh, there were splendid memories, too. Albert Henry and Cassie married in the spring that year. But then the war started, and her men left in December—Thomas, Jonathan, and Albert Henry. Isaac rebelled, wanting to fight, but he was too young. Cassie had her baby, Robert E. Lee Payne, in Rachel’s room. Henry never saw his son. Thomas and Henry fell on the first day of battle at Gettysburg. Jonathan buried them together in a shallow grave on the field and lived to fight at Pickett’s Charge where he was badly wounded. Isaac mustered in as soon as he reached fighting age and made it home to face the woes of Reconstruction. Joab, too young to fight, picked up the mantle and helped rebuild Oxford, the town General Whiskey Joe Smith burned to the ground.

Their friend and constant, Dr. Malone, succumbed to death on Christmas Day in the great room of the Payne home, sitting at the fireside he treasured till the day he died.

Sometimes Rachel wondered what else could happen. She had coped through the years with God’s help, but sometimes the darkness overwhelmed her, bringing her to the depths and she retreated to her place of remembrance and cried the long night through.

Coyote howled. This time to the highest pitch.

Rachel jumped to her bare feet and ran to the front windows. Samuel, close behind her, reached for the rifle over the mantle. He’s much too close, Mama.

Sh … He’s on the porch, Sam.

Can you see him or are you guessing, Mama? he whispered back.

I see him by the light of the moon. He’s arrogant, standing on the top step.

I guess there’s a first time for everything, said Sam. Now what?

I hate to, but he’s hanging around, and we need to get him, said Rachel. He’s big, and I don’t want him killing our animals.

I’ll unlock the door. You bang on the window. When he starts to run, I’ll get him. I don’t want to have to clean blood off the porch.

Good point, Sam. Do you want me to shoot?

No ma’am. I won’t miss.

I know you won’t, son.

Rachel pounded on the windowpanes; Sam jerked the wood door open then kicked the screen. In the split second before he fired, the coyote bared his teeth, snarled and growled then turned and jumped from the top step of the porch. Samuel fired, catching him in mid air. Coyote yelped and fell, blood spurting in the air and to the ground.

The cold night was once again silent.

Splendid, Sam. He’s mangy. You may have saved our lives, or at least that of our chickens. If we had gone for wood, not knowing he was on the porch, it could have been— Rachel shivered.

Do you want me to pull him up the hill a ways, Mama?

Better not, he could be rabid. The vultures will get him before the light of day.

Yes’m. They do a pretty good cleanup. If not, I’ll build a fire on him.

What would I do without you, son?

I hope you won’t ever have to, Mama.

Rachel closed and locked the door. Sam reloaded the old squirrel rifle and hung it in place over the mantle.

Rachel, in awe of her son, thought—he is sometimes a boy; sometimes a man, that place in life when a boy puts away childish things and life changes. She knew it was all he could do to suppress the rising and swelling of his pride. But that was not like her youngest son. He would keep it all inside.

I’m blessed to have you, Sam.

Yes’m. I reckon so.

I’m going back to my room now. What have you been doing out here? It’s getting cold.

Yes’m. I was killing the fire. Just sitting here thinking.

He followed Rachel to the door of her room and stood on the threshold in his ragged nightshirt waiting for her to respond. She was fighting more tears wondering what her young ragamuffin was ‘just thinking’. She pulled some thick socks on and sat on the edge of her bed.

Thinking about what, son? Come, climb up in my bed awhile. I want to know what you’re thinking.

That sounds nice, Mama. I wanted to talk to you anyway, he said, happy she had invited him to stay. Otherwise, he might never speak his thoughts.

You do?

Yes ma’am. I just don’t know how to say it, but I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.

Rachel leaned back on a pile of goose-down pillows. She could only imagine the loneliness her son was experiencing. His father and two brothers were dead, the other three married and gone. There was no one. The results of the war were far-reaching and every southern mother’s thoughts were to protect her remaining sons, most of them no younger than Samuel. Child bearing was over, mainly because few husbands returned from the war. Rachel thought often about that. The South had lost so many young men and boys; it would take a few years to bring up another generation of men old enough to marry and have children.

Samuel, we can always talk. No matter what you’re thinking, I want to know.

Yes, Mama.

Well, what is it, son?

Would it be … could you consider …? I mean what I’m trying to say is, I would like to go to Sarepta School if there’s any way possible. With the boys all gone from home … well, I get lonesome sometimes and I just thought maybe it would do me good and it would take a burden off you at the same time. I could see my friends every day instead of just on Sunday at meeting.

Rachel had cried a million tears through the years. But only when she was alone, the worst of times bottled up inside her, stifling, choking, pushing against her heart, never quite exploding, but when Samuel spoke, everything inside her came unhinged, and she was unable to control the tears.

Oh, Mama, no! I’ve caused you grief and I’m so sorry. Please, Mama, don’t cry. I’ll be just fine the way things are. You’re the best teacher of all, anyway. I know I’ll never learn more from someone else, not even Miss Anna. I guess I should call her Mrs. Worthington, since she’s the teacher now and she’s married and all.

Words were tumbling, Samuel trying hard to distract Rachel. He had not intended to make her cry. She cleared her throat and spoke, ashamed for getting caught off guard with her feelings.

You like Miss Anna, don’t you, Samuel?

Yes ma’am. I like all the Jamison ladies.

They’ve been our friends all their lives, really. Duncan fought with your father all the way to Gettysburg, then finished out the war and came home. I’m so glad he lived through that. He had no sons to take care of his girls and Mrs. Jamison. I had all of you boys. But that’s not why I got emotional, Sam. I was thinking about you being the last one left at home. How selfish of me. But you’re right. It does get lonesome here. For me, too. Let’s think it over. I’m sure we can make a good decision. We’ll have the answer at the end of next week.

That suits me. Good night, Mama. I’m gonna go think about it some more, and I know you’ll be doing the same thing. You’re not gonna cry anymore, are you, Mama? Please!

Samuel kissed his mother, slid off the high feather bed, and skittered across the cold wood floor to the great room. He took a lighting stick from the corner and held it in the glow of the last coals on the fire. When it flamed, he went to the bunk room and laid it against the wick until it caught and held the hot end of the stick until it cooled. He crawled beneath a stack of quilts and stared at the golden streaks the light cast on the low ceiling.

In a duo with the wind that whistled, the naked limbs on the tupelo scratched at his window pane. While his thoughts lingered on Sarepta School, the wind forced breathy sounds through the cracks of the bunk room. Cracks that had widened over the years and that needed to be pitched, but there had not been tar sufficient to do so. Samuel didn’t mind. These were the sounds of winter, and strangely he loved this time of year. Mainly because cold was better than hot in the deep South. At least there were no flies and mosquitoes. He could pile on the clothing and get warm, but could scarcely get cool in the heat of summer.

Starting to Sarepta School in the wintertime would certainly have its advantages, for in the middle of the room stood a grand potbelly stove, one upon which a tin pan of fruit and spices boiled, tincturing the air. And, thankfully, it would be a long time before they would have to swat the flies and mosquitoes. Samuel had never been to the schoolhouse as a student, only for special events from time-to-time like harvest and Christmas parties. He thought about bobbing for fresh red apples from Widow Tanner’s orchard just last month. If his mother came to a positive decision, he could participate as one of the students instead of an outsider.

He considered himself blessed to have Rachel teach him since he was four years old. She knew a lot, especially about history and the Bible and grammar, even arithmetic. She could speak French if she were called on. He loved to hear her speak French. As far as he knew, she was the only mother within miles that could do so. The change to Sarepta would only enhance the splendid education his mother had started.

The more he thought about it, the more enchanting it sounded. Besides, there was something mystical about the one-room schoolhouse. Isaac’s wife, Jennie, had been assaulted there by the Carpetbagger Simon Graystone shortly after the war, during the faulty and hated Reconstruction, which had miserably failed and finally come to a close whether the radical North wanted to accept it or not. Sam was so young, vaguely remembering the carpetbagger incident. He did, however, remember how his brother, Isaac, was torn apart by it. Graystone had beat Jennie and left her for dead by the side of the road.

Of a sudden it struck him that he had no horse. Mama would have to consider that. Money was scarce. But the very thought of riding his own horse to school five days a week gave him a surge of joy. He still worked with his brother, Jonathan, at Grandpa Church’s sawmill during the summer months and half days on Saturday all year long. He would continue to do that. They needed the money. Having his own horse would mean he could ride to the main road to meet Jonathan, and that Jonathan could ride Jackson instead of taking the buckboard. It would be better for both of them. And it had always been that way—his brothers riding their horses together, everywhere they went.

Samuel lay still while thoughts turned to his father, at least the way he imagined, the way his mother had described him, the kind of man he was. Samuel had no first-hand remembrance of him, having been two years old when his father left. Not even old enough to say good-bye. His mother had an ambrotype she cherished, but she had told Samuel that was not the way his father looked when he went off to war. He had a full head of hair and a graying beard that touched his chest in the photograph, but the day he left home, his hair was dark, neatly trimmed and his face, clean shaven. He fought in Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia and fell at Gettysburg. In the railroad cut.

Isaac had told Samuel the whole story while Joab was gone last year, knowing that Joab would have lots to tell the whole family when he returned from Gettysburg, and Isaac didn’t want Samuel to be in the dark about it. It was time for Sam to know everything any of them could remember about their father, for all too soon the memories would start to fade.

Joab had brought back a wonderful, but heart-rending story of redemption. The war had affected the whole family, and they each had a personal way of dealing with it.

Sam’s brothers and some of his friends had passed so much down to him over the last few years, the War for Southern Independence still hot on the lips of every southerner he knew, and he imagined it would be that way for years to come. He listened to everything, wanting to learn as much as he could, and he received every word with enthusiasm.

Samuel’s head was full of war stories but for now, he closed his thoughts to everything but the whisper of the wind through the cracks and the tapping of the limbs on his windowpanes.

He fell asleep to night sounds and the vision of Coyote flying through the air to his death.

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Rachel lowered the flame on her lamp. In the past, the darkness had not mattered. Thomas was there. Just the touch of his hand on hers was assurance that everything was as it should be. For years after he died, she could not stand the darkness. Even now it was hard to embrace the reality that her husband would never return to the house in the valley.

She lay still in her lonely bed thinking about her talk with Samuel, wishing she had been the one who had thought of Sarepta School. He would start right after Christmas. She was certain of that, having made the decision in this very moment. But she didn’t want him driving the buckboard with the mules. He was too young and small for that. She would make a way. Well … she wouldn’t, but God would. She closed her eyes and whispered His name … Jesus … Jesus, you’ve made a way through the longest days and the darkest nights. Please let faith rise up strong in me. I must believe you for one thing right now—a horse for Samuel.

Through the years, Rachel had believed God for everything. She had never blamed Him for the death of her husband and the thousands of their countrymen who had perished at the hands of men who wished them death, much like the Egyptians wished upon Israel. She drew a parallel there that was comforting. She knew this much, God had been faithful through the years to provide her needs, to bring her out of and into, in every circumstance. She thought in this moment to ask Him not only for a horse, but for a chestnut mare just like Thomas rode for all those years before the war. Isaac had long since put the old mare down.

"Jesus, please give us a chestnut mare. We’ll call her Lady."

Part One

Winter 1872

Sarepta, Mississippi

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed

of our tears, for they are rain upon the

blinding dust of earth, overlaying our hard hearts.

Charles Dickens

Great Expectations

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Rachel Beauregard Payne

Chapter 1

Looking Back

Rachel Payne sat in her window seat with a stack of old newspapers, pouring over the past, trying