GLORY II Chapter 1

Chapter 1
         
  The Yankees had been camped down by Muddy Creek since the day before and there was no doubt in Laura's mind that three of their best laying hens had mysteriously disappeared.  Their nests were usually the first to provide warm, fat, brown eggs each morning and this morning they had not only been empty but cold.  She and her younger sister, eight-year-old Sara Beth, had been watching the coming and going of the Yankee cavalry patrols for over an hour safely hidden by a thick tangle of scrub oak and blackberry vines which dominated the hillside overlooking Muddy Creek.

  They had been sternly warned by their father, Reverend James Thaddeus Tyree, to go nowhere near the Yankee soldiers because it was not fit and proper for young ladies.  Like most adolescents, this harsh warning was soon forgotten in their eagerness to lay their eyes on the devil invaders; to see for themselves what kind of men would sell their very souls to Satan by robbing and murdering innocent women and children of the newly independent Confederacy.  Although the Yankees had passed through their farm on many forays and had occupied the town of Ripley scores of times, Reverend Tyree had persistently sheltered his children, forbidding them to go near the "devil's spawn" as he termed the northern invaders.

  As they watched another Union patrol enter the sprawling camp, Laura was entertaining the thought of boldly walking down to the Yankee commander and demanding the immediate return of their missing hens, an angry arch furrowing her brow, a subtle hint of rashness in her sparkling green eyes. 

  She was tall for a young sixteen years, nearly five-feet-six-inches, but her slender frame carried a mere one hundred ten pounds, slim but not skinny, as her sister Elizabeth Jane often taunted her with.  Her long honey blond hair curled lazily down to her slender waist and she kept it in a single braid most of the time, but the thick silky strands always managed to work their way loose and float like a golden cloud at the mere wisp of a breeze.  Her eyes were an emerald green that her mother said reminded her of the rich emerald fields of her homeland in Ireland.  They also possessed a mischievous twinkle that furthermore lent credence to her father's saying that Laura was far too wild and carefree.  Unlike her three sisters and four brothers, Laura did not possess and abundance of freckles.  Her skin was flawlessly clear and exceptionally smooth, especially across her high cheeks and slim Grecian nose.  Altogether she would be considered a strikingly beautiful young country girl.

  “Look!” Sara Beth exclaimed, breaking into Laura’s bold thoughts, “Nigra soldiers.”  Sara Beth half stood from their hiding place amid the briars in her eagerness to see this new amazing sight, for they had never before seen Negro soldiers.  Laura pulled her back down with a scowl, fear quickly replacing the anger on her face.  Half a dozen black soldiers riding insecurely on the bouncing backs of army mules brought up the rear of the latest cavalry patrol.  The pain on their shining black faces proof that they were new to the rigors of riding the obstinate and stubborn animals.  Sandwiched between the end of the Yankee cavalrymen and the front of the Negro soldiers, four men wearing the tattered but recognizable gray uniforms of the Confederate cavalry were tied hand and foot on their weary mounts.  Their horses were lathered with white foam flecking their bits as if they'd been pushed far beyond endurance.

  “Them's our boys,” Sara Beth stated in an unnecessarily loud whisper, her right index finger pointing through the tangle of briar bushes.  “What for are they doing with them nigra soldiers?”

  “They ain’t with them,” Laura shushed, “They're prisoners.  The Yankees done captured them.”

  “Lordy mercy,” blurted Sara Beth, “What do you reckon they’re gonna do with them, kill them?”

  Laura placed her finger in front of her lips as a sign for Sara Beth to be quiet before answering.  When she did, her voice was low and much quieter.  “No silly, they don’t kill them.  They ask them questions then send them off to a terrible camp where there is little food and mean guards watch over them.  Now, be quiet!”

  As the winding patrol drew nearer to their unknown hiding place, the two disobedient young girls watched in awkward and unconcealed amazement.  A sudden overpowering smell of horse manure and the heavy stench from the unwashed bodies of hundreds of men was carried to them on the gentle breeze.  Sara Beth held her nose and looked over at Laura with a disgusted smirk.  Laura did not return her stare; her entire attention was suddenly riveted in the direction of one of the prisoners.  Even from their scant hiding place, a distance of a hundred yards or more, Laura could tell that the young man was uncommonly handsome and carried himself like a gentleman of fine breeding; obviously an officer, and a very young one at that.

  They watched intensely as one of the Negro soldiers wearing the stripes of a sergeant undid the bonds tying the prisoners feet beneath the belly of their mounts then roughly pushed them from their saddles, their arms still tied behind their backs.  Both winced as the prisoners hit the solid ground with heavy thuds, falling flat on their backs or sides, one Confederate captive cursing profoundly at the unnecessary rough and brutal handling.  Sara Beth's face turned a bright red as she heard and obviously understood some of the extremely colorful words mouthed by the angry man.

  All thoughts of regaining her missing hens evaporated as Laura watched the Negro sergeant and two other colored soldiers begin to beat the prisoners with heavy mule straps as they lay helpless on the manure spattered ground.  A white Yankee soldier, an officer from the gold bars on his shoulders, pointed at the squirming prisoners, spat a stream of tobacco juice in their direction, and then strolled slowly away, laughing and pointing behind him.  A few loud words could be heard coming from the Negro sergeant as he vented his anger upon the helpless captives, lying about with enough force from his blows to bring blood from the back of one prisoner.

  “How's you like dat, masser!” he yelled as he continued his whipping unabated.  “How's you like dat, and dat, and dat!  Speak up masser, I can’t hear you.”  The Negro sergeant suddenly halted his violent swinging when another colored sergeant with a diamond above his stripes walked up and prevented his swing from going forward. They stared at each other with pure hatred until the new sergeant finally spoke.  His voice was low and sounded more like that of an educated white man than an ex-field slave.

  “We don’t abuse prisoners in that manner sergeant,” he stated, glancing angrily at the other Negro soldiers.  “No matter their past, slave owner or no, we do not treat them that way.  They are prisoners of war and will be accorded all rights pertaining to that status.  Do you understand me?”

  Instead of answering, the first Negro sergeant threw his mule harness to the ground and stalked angrily away.  Turning to the remaining two colored soldiers, the second sergeant ordered, “Take these prisoners to the Provost Officer for interrogation, and no more beatings or you'll both loose those corporal stripes you're wearing.  Is that clear?  Do you fully understand me?”  They both nodded and quickly turned to the task of escorting the prisoners away.

  As the prisoners were marched in the direction of whatever fate awaited them, a sudden commotion from behind them startled the two young girls.  Stalking towards them and making enough noise to wake the dead was their ten-year-old brother George.  He was either unaware of the presence of the Yankees or was totally unafraid of them as he approached in the open and stood glaring down at the girls.

  “If Pa knowed you were down here he’d tan your hides,” George blurted, a hint of adolescent arrogance in his voice.  “He done said we were not to go down near the Yankee devils,” he ended, his knuckles resting on both hips like a stern parent reprimanding disobedient children.

  “Well, what for are you down here?” Sara Beth smartly answered, not at all in fear of her sassy sibling.

  “Ma cooked early supper,” George spat back, “and sent me to fetch you.”  His eyes glanced over the sprawling camp ground where the hundreds of Union cavalrymen were preparing their own evening meals, the aroma of frying fat back slowly replacing the dominant harsh smell of men and manure.  With a wistful look in her eyes, Laura Jean turned and headed back towards the farm house located on the other side of the gentle slope, the memory of the Confederate prisoners weighing heavily on her mind.

  The knowing look on their father’s face and the stern glance their mother, Margaret, gave them as they rounded the corner of the chicken house more than told her that their disobedience had not gone unnoticed.  Therefore, when her mother ordered them to wash for supper with a stern voice, they hastened to obey her.  What shocked Laura as she entered the large family dining room and stopped her in her tracks, was the appearance of a large stranger sitting in the place of honor at the head of the huge oak table which was heavily laden with steaming platters of food.

  The man was attired in the dusty uniform of a Union officer.  He was a large heavyset man with a big head and bull neck and possessed an abundance of dirty blond curly hair crowning his head.  His nose had a rosy glow as if he had been fighting a summer cold or had been tipping the bottle too much.  Following her father's pointing finger, Laura quietly took her usual place at the family table on a bench between her sisters, Elizabeth Jane and Rebecca Ann.  Both gave her a disapproving look as she slowly sat down.  Laura could easily tell from the unnaturally nervous way her father glanced at the faces around the table, and especially the quick jerky way he looked at their guest of honor, that he didn't particularly approve of the man’s presence.

  “Before we begin with our blessing,” Reverend Tyree stated, motioning with an exaggerated sweep of his arm towards the Yankee officer, “I’d like to introduce our distinguished guest.  This is General Samuel Sturgis of the Union Army, commander of all those Yankee soldiers camped down by Muddy Creek.”  He threw a special and knowing glance in Laura's direction before continuing.  “He has graciously accepted our hospitality by joining us this evening for our supper meal.  General Sturgis, I present my daughters; Elizabeth Jane, Laura Jean, Rebecca Ann, and Sara Beth, and my sons’ George Robert and Enoch Matthew.  I believe you've already met my wife, Margaret.”

  “Yes indeed,” General Sturgis replied, nodding his plump head up and down.  “I feel out of place among such beauty and grace.  I also feel obligated to congratulate you, sir, on the splendor of your home and elegance of your fine estate.”

  After the lengthy blessing, the silence at the table was unusual and out of place for a family who normally discussed the day’s activities with expansive talking and good-natured bantering.  Even the younger children held to an unnatural silence, glancing furtively at the uniformed figure slouched at the head of the family table, eagerly stuffing his cavernous mouth with new potatoes and fresh string beans.  Laura picked at her food, glancing sideways at the imposing general then in the opposite direction at her father’s reserved visage.  Her mother, though it was completely out of character, was first to break the harsh silence, her voice as smooth as honey as she spoke.

  “Will you be staying in our peaceful little valley for long General?” she politely asked, merely as a means of breaking the taut tension around the table.

  Taking his time to chew and choke down a large piece of meat before replying, General Sturgis finally blurted, “Tomorrow we leave for Memphis.  I’ve been chasing that devil Forrest halfway across the state but I fear he’s out run me, and our poor animals are exhausted and without sufficient food to continue.  Citizens down in Ripley-town and at the Crowder Plantation south of here say he passed this way several days ago heading south, probably Tupelo.  He didn’t happen to pass through here did he, Reverend?”

  “Bedford, or General Forrest if you prefer, has often been the guest of honor in my home,” Reverend Tyree replied, serving notice to General Sturgis that he was after all, a loyal Confederate citizen.  “However, he did not grace us with his presence as he passed through this time.”

  Laura felt a surge of pride at the staunch manner in which her father had stood up to the Yankee general.  A slight smile formed on her face as she noticed General Sturgis’ obvious discomfort.  She kept the smile until Sara Beth innocently gave away their open secret by blurting out her knowledge of the Yankees down at Muddy Creek.

  “We saw some of our boys,” she declared.  “They was prisoners of the devils and we saw some nigra soldiers beatin’ them with mule straps.”

  Reverend Tyree, though still upset at his youngest daughter for disobeying him, was even more concerned with the information just released.  “Is that true General?” he sharply demanded, “Do you have nigras beating white prisoners of war down in your camp?”  His suddenly angry eyes left the General and focused on Laura as if to seek confirmation of this evil news.  The steady look she returned and her haughty demeanor portrayed the truth of Beth’s statement.

  General Sturgis, well aware that he was being entertained by a minister of God, though somewhat reluctantly, and also cognizant of the fact that he had very loose control of the men under his command, took his time before answering.  A quick glance at the smug Sara Beth who was fidgeting and frowning steadily at her older sister across the table caused him to frame his reply very carefully.  “My orders concerning prisoners are very explicit,” he finally stated.  “They are to be accorded all rights and such privileges as their status demands.  Mistreatment and abuse will not be tolerated and any officer or enlisted man under my command will be severely reprimanded should I find cause, unjustified cause, in the disobedience or dereliction of my standing orders.”

  “Then I may rest assured that you will look into this serious allegation?” Reverend Tyree replied, his fierce eyes boring into the general.

  “Immediately upon my return to camp,” stated General Sturgis, “without delay.  Often times, Reverend, soldiers go beyond the letter of their orders,” he offered in way of an excuse, “but having little knowledge and exposure to military matters I’m certain you would not understand nor fully appreciate my sensitive position in a case of this nature.”

  “As to your position, I cannot ascertain,” replied Reverend Tyree, “However, as to matters’ military I will point out that both my brother John and I served with Colonel Jeff Davis in the past war with Mexico.  My brother. John Tyree was laid low at the battle of Monterey and he lies to this day beneath the soil of that heathen nation.”

  “And my brothers, John Philip and James Thomas, are fighting with Colonel Falkner of Ripley,” blurted ten-year-old George, his mouth full of new potatoes.  He knew he had spoken out of place when his father turned to him with a fierce look of anger.  The silence around the table became more intense as all heads turned to stare down into their plates, each trying to avoid the explosive anger their father was famous for.

  “I was informed of the fact that you were a rebel sympathizer,” General Sturgis stated, with just the right touch of personal affront, “however, I had no idea you supported and endorsed secessionist activities within your own immediate family.”

  “Neither my political nor personal views are a matter of your concern, sir,” replied Reverend Tyree curtly, fighting hard to control his trigger temper.  “As for my sons and my son-in-law, they are not rebels as you imply, but patriots engaged in a supreme effort to overthrow a repressive and morally corrupt government.  A government, which I might clearly point out, has seen fit to send invading and barbaric military forces into our homeland, proof of which sits at my family table before me and despoils the land with their presence on my sovereign estate.  There was a time when you Yankees were known as rebels, so called by the occupying British forces.  Do you see any difference between yourself and the British, sir?”

  “Gentlemen,” Margaret Tyree quickly inserted between the growing tensions among the men.  “I will not condone such behavior in my home and in the very presence of my children.  Political matters of such nature are best held in a public meeting hall where events can run their due course.  General Sturgis, I have a wonderful blackberry cobbler, will you honor me with your Epicurean appraisal of it?”

  As the General accepted with eagerness her mother’s face-saving offer, Laura could tell from the barely suppressed anger in her father’s eyes that the matter was far from being settled.  Her father handled any problem or concern with the tenacity of a dog gnawing on a bone, he would never let it rest until every morsel of marrow was extracted or the bone put to rest beneath a foot of dirt.  The remainder of the meal passed with relative calm and the general finally excused himself to retreat to the parlor for an after-dinner smoke.  By that time her father had sufficiently calmed his anger to fence back and forth with the general in a much more collected manner.

  “I still can’t understand why you southerners call your meals, breakfast, dinner and supper,” the general remarked, as they headed for the parlor, “up north we stick with the traditional breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

  “The Lord did not have a last dinner,” Reverend Tyree replied with good-natured humor, “he had a Last Supper.”

  The meal had been taken several hours earlier than normal, no doubt due to the presence of their guest, therefore, the children found themselves with extra time to account for before beginning evening chores.

  Laura, since it was her week for kitchen duty, helped her mother with the supper dishes.  From her preoccupied mood her mother could easily tell that something was bothering her.  “Tell me about it?” she questioned Laura, who gave her a look of feigned ignorance at the query.  “What did you see in the Yankee camp that’s made you so distant and abnormally thoughtful?  And, don’t even try to pretend you and Sara Beth weren’t spying, we both know the truth of the matter.”

  Laura leaned back against the sink counter and twisted the dishrag into a knot looking at some imaginary spot on the ceiling above.  “The way those nigra soldiers were beating our boys was really awful,” she replied, “and they just pushed them from their horses like sacks of tied grain to fall painfully to the ground.  It was brutal.”

  “I suppose Sara Beth witnessed this brutality,” her mother stated, “what else happened?  Lord knows, your sister will have nightmares for a week, you know how sensitive she is.”

  “Nothing else happened Mama.  A nigra sergeant stopped the others from beating our boys, and then they went further into the Yankee camp.  I think one of the prisoners was an officer though,” Laura finished, turning to grab a plate to dry.

    “And what difference does that make?” her mother returned.  “Regardless of rank or rating or whatever you call it, they’re still our boys, all our boys.  Just like your brother, James is a lieutenant and your brother, John, is a private and Elizabeth’s husband, Tony, is a captain, each are doing what needs to be done.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Mama; it’s just that he was different.”

  “Different in what way, child?”

  Laura did not want to admit to her mother that, even considering the long distance and short time she had seen the young man, for some reason her heart had fluttered and she had entertained silly, romantic notions about him.  She knew her mother would simply scold her for harboring licenscious and immoral thoughts and fostering immature, teenage daydreaming.  Instead she simply muttered, “Just different,” and returned to her task of drying the plates her mother was washing.