RSS1st of Novel Excerpts
Feb 28
The sun’s waning light glistened in the tears that ran down Ned’s face, but quietness of moment was not broken by the grief that enveloped his body. The cascade of tears was from the full realization that this young man’s father was dead—shot down! This, the Battle of Bull Run, was the Confederate and Union armies’ first real hard-core confrontation.
Ned look across the York River as the last traces of light reflected off its surface. From this high bluff of Gloucester Point he could see Yorktown, a battle site where essentially the American Revolution came to an end. And where another battle may yet come. As he stared across the water, pangs of sorrow began to well up stronger with more force and with it a terrible anger had been given birth. From the deepest part of his soul arose a guttural scream. “Why! Why!” Ned screamed over and over. With each primal scream, his 4-year old bay stud, Jake, startled and jumped. Ned sank to his knees, not feeling the still wet sand on the knoll of sparse grass, sobbing uncontrollably. He rolled onto the wet sand and pulled into a fetal position.
Jake slowly, tentatively, put each hoof down and edged closer to his friend. He lowered his beautifully scented head to Ned’s and snuffled at his hair, smelling the scent he came to be bonded with in his still young life. With his nose, Jake continued snuffling Ned’s long brown hair as if to say, “I’m here Ned.” At this Ned pulled himself together and said softly to his massive bay, “I’m fine Jake…it’s okay, big man.” The two were inseparable. With the help of his father, Ned’s very own hands brought Jake into the world. He had trained him with all the skills of horsemanship as had been taught him by his father, skillfully bringing out the desire to please that this part-thoroughbred, part-draft horse was born with.
Ned stood up slowly and, with light now only highlighting the western trees upriver, he wrapped his arms around Jake’s neck. To this, Jake nodded his head up and down as if he understood. And he did. “Mother will be worried, Jake; what you think?” Ned spoke softly and, with great deftness and speed, swung up onto Jake’s back. Adjusting his reins, he shook back his hair behind his shoulders. The pair cut an impressive sight—Ned, 6-foot 3-inches and 200 pounds; Jake, seventeen hands, built for power and speed. Pausing a moment longer, it became clear to Ned what he must do and the path he must go down.
July 21st, the Battle of Bull Run: That day had shown both sides what lie ahead. Blood shed, lives lost…the likes of the United States had never seen before.
It had been two months since Paul Jennings had come home to Gloucester Point—Paul, a farmer neighbor and friend to Ned’s father Clem Porter. The two had left together to help Virginia and the South in this desperate struggle that had come to be. Paul returned with a useless right arm and a maimed right hand from the fragments of a union shell. Mr. Jennings had told Ned’s family how his friend had died:
By mid-afternoon the sere of heat had taken its toll on all. Both North and South, soldiers and beasts. Their company had fought bravely giving ground and taking ground—the ebb and flow melting into chaos. Mr. Jennings and Ned’s father’s company were part of General Thomas Jackson’s five regiments, who on this day would become known affectionately as Stonewall Jackson. Jackson was a professor from the Virginia Military Institute, a man known for his eccentricities, but this day he would become known as a leader and warrior of the first order. Stonewall’s five regiments had to hold a line behind Henry House Hill, so named for the owners of the farm on this crest.
As the day waned, the Confederates had the Union on the run, running for their lives!
As throughout this day Paul Jennings and Clem Porter had stayed together, as they had promised each other, and were now running, hell bent, after the scared Union Army. Paul had seen the young Union soldier who shot and killed Clem for he was the only one of 200 on the run who stopped, turned and fired. Clem, full two strides ahead of Paul, fell face first in full stride. Clem died instantly from a .58 caliber mini-ball centered on his forehead.
Paul, at almost the moment Clem was shot down, was knocked to the ground by the last cannon fired that day. It came from across the Warrenton Turnpike behind the stone house. The cannon had been touched off before being abandoned by the fleeing north.
As fate would have it, Paul’s arm and hand caught many fragments. It was a miracle, actually, since most serious injuries such as his resulted in amputation. Paul’s was not, but the arm would be forever useless, hanging limply and severely scarred. He was sent to Richmond after basic tending to on the field, and thereafter home. Damaged of body and mind, his fighting over. Or was it? The day would come again that another Porter and Jennings would face the rage of battle.
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