Hillcountry Warriors

PROLOGUE

Mississippi seceded from the union on January 9, 1861. Young men all over the state began to gather in specified areas to form military units and prepare for a war that not all were sure would ever occur. It was with this feeling that Lott Wilson allowed his two oldest sons, James Earl and Thomas, to enlist in the first military company that Newton County organized. It was assembled in Decatur, a small town in east central Mississippi about eight and one half miles southwest of Little Rock where the Wilson farm lay. They called themselves the Newton Rifles.

Lott knew its commanding officer, Montgomery Carleton, very well and felt his boys would be in good hands if any fighting did occur. Lott also sensed that when the United States Government saw that the South was willing to fight for its states' rights, the politicians in the North would then probably sit down and peacefully resolve their differences. War was about as likely as a snowstorm on the Fourth of July, Lott thought.

But that didn’t change the fact that while James Earl and Thomas were away playing war, their father was hard pressed to get everything done on the farm, especially since it was planting season. The boys had only enlisted for six months so Lott had determined to get by as well as he could until they returned. The demanding work now fell in the hands of John, his youngest son, and himself. Lott knew the work done by four would now have to be done by a boy and a worn-out old man. He prayed this excitement about a possible war would soon be over.

But hope fell on April 12, 1861, when Pierre G. T. Beauregard and his troops fired on Fort Sumter, out in the Charleston harbor, one of the four Federal forts flying the Union flag in Confederate territory. After that, the war escalated with each passing month and James Earl and Thomas were caught in the conflict. Their six month enlistment became an indefinite commitment.

SPRING PLANTING 1862

The spring of l862 was late in coming. The older Folk who had seen many come and go said this delay meant a season of unusual beauty. Across the woodlands, at first glance it seemed that a young snow lightly covered the ground. But closer examination revealed that what appeared to be snow was nothing but multitudes of dogwood trees in full bloom. Many of the hardwood trees were still dormant, so these white blossoms dominated the forestlands.

Among the dogwood trees were purple blossoms of native redbud trees dotting the landscape. In the open meadows where deer had once fed in abundance and where no plow had yet disturbed the earth, thousands of wildflowers displayed their colors.

Back in the quiet farmhouse, the pre-dawn breeze gently pushed John’s bedroom curtain back and forth while outside the rays of daylight were just illuminating the sky. Down through the hollow came a chorus of music from the whippoorwill. Occasionally the plaintive call of these lonely sounding birds would be interrupted by a screech owl somewhere near the creek bottom. Everything was peaceful, but Old Preacher Jack, the king rooster of the barnyard, began to let everyone within a good country mile know of his presence with one of the loudest voices God had ever given a creature. Jack could give ole Satan himself a headache.

But worst still was a sound John Wilson hated to hear. John... John Wilson...Son...it’s time to get up. Yore paw’s already gone to the barn. You got work to do and ole man sun’ll be up ‘fore long.

John couldn’t believe it was time to start another day’s work. It seemed only a minute ago he had put his head on his pillow to sleep.

Mom, you sure this ain’t Sunday and I’m just havin’ a bad dream?

John said jokingly. Being a religious family, the Wilsons never worked on Sunday. John settled deeper under the cover and before long was sound asleep.

This time, a more aggressive and mocking sound woke him. John... John Willy...it’s time to get yore lazy butt out of bed. Yore good friends who you loves and resembles is a waitin’ for ya. I’m talkin’ ‘bout Zek and Abner, the mules, you know...jackasses as Professor Hendon calls them.

Sister, how dare you talk to yore brother like that. He’s worked hard since the boys been gone, scolded Sarah.

Lucretia, called Sister, was the only daughter and the youngest child in the family and her parents had overprotected her. The boys felt she was a little spoiled.

Before the feud with the North began, Lucretia seemed to always be getting her way around the house. Now, that the South needed men, some of the young girls, like Sister, seemed to become less important. The Wilson boys were enjoying their moment of triumph.

John slowly dressed and made his way across the open hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. There he found a breakfast of bacon and eggs with the best biscuits in Little Rock.

He finally finished and as he rose to leave the table, Mrs. Wilson also rose as if by habit, John, let me look at ya boy. I want to see what kind of young man you is growin’ up to be.

Maw, why do I go through this inspection might near every day? You can see I’m still a growin’ and I wash my face and comb my hair every morning. This is embarrassin’, John stated in frustration.

Stand tall young man, Sarah commanded.

Yes Ma’am, I’m a-standin’ tall.

And so he was. John would not turn seventeen until October, but he was already over six feet with a slim, but muscular build. The hard work on the farm had shaped him well.

His hair was black and straight, except for a small curl in the back and his eyes were a deep sparkling blue. He wore his hair long; but when working he would wet it, comb it straight back, and tie it up with a piece of cloth to keep it off his shoulders. As the summer sun tanned his upper body, he could almost pass for one of the neighboring Choctaws.

Mrs. Wilson, acting like a military officer, slowly looked him over. Okay, Mister John, I guess you look good ‘nough for me this morning. You can go help yore Paw now.

She gave John a kiss on the cheek and tenderly pushed him toward the door. I love ya boy.

I love you too, Maw, John responded as he bounded down the front steps and trudged through the dark toward the barnyard located across the road from the house. As he walked, he could hear his mother and sister clanging pans and discussing his new status in the family. They seem to always be arguing lately, especially since James Earl and Thomas had left.

Mamma, why does John get all the special treatment ‘round here? All I hear is ‘John works so hard everyday/ and ‘Oh, John is such a good student/ and ‘John was first in his class/ and ‘John has been savin’ his money so’s he can attend college at Oxford/ and ‘John is going to study law and come back to Newton County and ‘John this/ and ‘John that/ mimicked his sister.

That’s enough, Mary Lucretia, her mother sternly interrupted. I’m proud of that boy and I’m proud he’s got the ambition to make sump’n of himself. Since his brothers has gone away, yore paw and I has got to depend on him. He’s got to help us hold this here farm together. He’s not a boy no more—manhood has kind of been pushed on him.

Sarah put her arm around Lucretia, tenderly pushed her silky blonde hair away from her face, and quietly in almost a whisper said, Daughter, you’re important to us too. I don’t know what I’d do without you to help me keep up this household.

She paused for a moment and looked at her rough and callused hands. I ain’t as young as I used to be. I would have a hard time doin’ everything without yore help. You know I love ya.

As Lucretia moved silently toward the sink, her eyes wet with tears, she reached back and grasped her mother’s hand and with a weak voice murmured, I know you loves me, and I know you’re worried about what could happen to James Earl and Thomas up in Virginie, but just tell me, just sometimes, that I’m special too.

John glanced back and instead of seeing a mother and daughter confrontation, he saw his mother wrap her arms around Sis and give her a hug that seemed to say everything is going to be just right.

John then picked up his pace and made his way across the front yard and on toward the barn. Once across the road, he could see a faint glow from an oil lantern hanging on one of the beams in the barn. Lott already had the mules harnessed, fed, watered, and ready to go.

John, that you comin’? These mules told me they is going to make a man out of ya today, he joked.

Yes, it’s me, Paw, reassured John.

It wasn’t long until they reached the fields, and there they stood, silhouettes in the soft morning light. Way up the hollow behind John and his dad, they could hear Joe and Spot, Lott’s prize hounds giving some critter a run for his life.

Paw, you think they’s after a coon? John asked, as he turned to catch a clearer sound.

Naw, Son, they sound like they might be after that cat who’s been a-catchin’ our chickens. I hope they is.

The two stood silent and seemed to forget about the day’s work before them. But all of a sudden one of the mules snorted as if to get their attention.

John, I believe I can see to plow a straight row now. How ‘bout you? You ready boy?

I’m ready as I’ll ever be, Paw.

Every day, Monday through Saturday was the same schedule...up before dawn and in the fields until it was too dark to see. It had to be like that. It was the only way they could keep the farm going. Lott placed the harness lines around his neck and John and he stood together facing over a hundred acres of young corn to plow plus seventy-five acres of cotton land to be broken and prepared for planting.

John Willy, this here land ain’t going to get worked with our eyeballs. Let’s hit it one row at a time.

Occasionally, when things were going well and Lott felt that he had the fields in control, he would give John Saturday afternoon off. But Saturday afternoon off was a rare event at this time of the year.

Finally, John heard what he longed for, Okay, Mister John Willy, we ain’t workin’ this afternoon. I don’t want to see hair nor hide of ya till dark. No hard liquor, no wild women, and ya better bring me a fresh mess of fish from the creek. Ya hear? Oh, by the way, I don’t mind if’n you do go see that cute little Walker gal.

Yes sir, Paw. John gave his father a brisk military salute and ran toward the house hollering as loudly as possible.

For this moment, John Wilson didn’t have his mind on the beauty of the spring nor on the war raging in the East and along the Mississippi River. His thoughts were on simpler things—the afternoon off and his fishing trip to the rock hole.

As John strode down the road toward the creek, he could still hear his father’s morning prayer. Dear Lord, thank Thee for this another day to see Thy beauty. Help me to be able to feed and clothe my family; and Lord, take care of my two boys away fightin, with Mister Bobby Lee. And, Dear God, thank Thee for my faithful wife and hardworkin’ son; and, Dear Lord, please forgive me for all the things I’ll be a-callin’ that stubborn animal of burden today. Amen.

As John recalled all the long hours of work done to help the family, he was proud of himself; but his mind quickly returned to his fishing trip. He began to run, leap, and skip in joy as he savored this little time he could relax by himself.

Soon he reached the creek and worked his way through the underbrush that grew along the road. Once through the entanglement of vines laced with prickly blackberry bushes, he stepped into a large stand of virgin oak and hickory trees that grew in abundance along the creek banks. John was glad his father had not cut down any of the trees in this lower section and had left them exactly as the Choctaw Indians found these timbers hundreds of years before the first white settlers came. The trees were so large it would take several men holding hands to reach around their trunks. When the trees were covered with leaves, very little direct sunlight could reach the ground so little vegetation grew underneath. This lack of growth left a clear path of vision for almost a quarter of a mile.

As John worked his way through the woods and along the creek banks, he passed ferns and several different kinds of canes that grew in abundance. It took only minutes to reach the bend of the creek, and finally he approached the high bank overlooking his favorite fishing hole. Glancing down, John found the water clear enough to see the large stone boulders settled into the sand. Other stones reached up and out into the deeper part of the creek and gave John a perfect place to sit and dangle his feet in the cold, crystal waters. He quickly slid down the steep creek bank and settled himself on one of the larger stones.

John couldn’t believe the week’s work was over and not only did he have the afternoon off, but Sunday as well. As his father always said, Sunday is the good Lord’s day. The animals rest, we give the fields a day off, and we thank God for givin’ us this land of plenty, and besides I need a day away from them damned ole mules.

John took his shoes off, and before one could swat a mosquito off an ear, he had his hook baited and had cast it out into the deeper water near the bend of the creek.

Okay, Mister Catfish, it’s time for you to head for our supper table. You hear me? John whispered.

It wasn’t long before his fish line bulged with catfish and red-bellied bream. Confident that he could more than place a meal on the table, John’s mind began to wander. He stuck his pole down into the soft creek mud and lay back on the bolder that had now become pleasantly warm and comfortable, especially welcomed on this cool spring afternoon. As he looked up through the massive tree limbs, he studied a clear blue sky with puffs of white clouds moving slowly as if to say, Can you make out my face? or Who or what do you think I might be? John picked out funny faces and weird looking animals. Then one cloud caught his attention. It looked like a beautiful young lady. It suddenly began to look like his own Rebecca Ann. Her hair was bouncing just like when they were running the horses at full gallop.

He had known Rebecca since they were children. Her father had come to Little Rock to open a general store when she was three years old, and he and Rebecca were always taking up for one another...kind of puppy love, he often thought. It seemed Rebecca, or Becca, as they called her, was just one of the boys. She loved to go fishing and hunting with John and his older brothers, and it was many a late afternoon that she helped the boys clean a mess of squirrels out behind the woodshed. She also could outrun and outride most of the boys in Little Rock.

As the years passed, she grew into the most beautiful girl in the community. Not only was she pretty with her silky reddish hair, emerald green eyes, long but muscular legs, and full bosom, but she was a lady in every way, at least every way John could imagine. Becca always loved competing with John and the other boys. Whether it was in the classroom or in a political debate after church, when the ladies and girls were supposed to be cleaning up the tables after lunch, Becca always found a way to get the best of her adversary. She felt women didn’t have to be just housewives. Becca would often say, Us girls, one of these days is going to change this country. I might even be the Gov’nor of this great and glorious State of Miss’sippi. But what John liked the most was the way she could say, Mister John Wilson, you know one day I’m going to be Mrs. Rebecca Wilson, whether you like it or not. John would always answer, We’ll see young lady, we’ll see.

As the clouds were finally swept from the sky, John recalled the stories of how his grandparents came to this United States and how his father and Uncle Jake settled in this wilderness and carved out a farm and a home.

LAND OF HOPE

Crewmen worked rapidly to strike the sails and prepare for docking at the port of Savannah. The area was swarming with people. Supplies were being moved from other ships to wagons ready to deliver their long awaited cargo. Breezes rushing across the Savannah River caused sails to flap vigorously and scared the seagulls that had encircled the ships seeking a handout. The sky was filled with screams of distress as they flew in a frenzied search for food. The latest arrival edged slowly to the dock where it was then secured and made safe for unloading. A gust of unanticipated wind caused passengers to grab their caps and bonnets or lose them forever to the muddy, swirling currents of the river. Near the side of the ship a young couple stood quietly, feeling a special joy at the realization that they had at last reached Savannah after long weeks at sea. But this joy was tinted with the uncertainty of what this new country would hold for them.

Mary Ruth, fm not sure what our future is going to be here in America, but at least it’s a new beginning. They say there is a fresh kind of freedom of expression here which may even keep my spontaneous and unrestricted pen out of trouble, Jonathan Wilson said, as he placed his arms around his wife and pulled her close to his side.

Mary stared out toward the wharf almost ignoring his attempt to make her feel secure and breathed the reply, Look at all those people! They are moving like ants and Jonathan we don’t know anyone. Not anyone.

Jonathan turned her around and, looking straight into her face, reassured her that they did have a contact waiting for them.

Remember, he said, we are to get in touch with a Mister Albert Haskins who will help us.

Suddenly, Mary’s thoughts were interrupted.

All right, all you Scotch-Irish, get your belongings and get off this ship unless you want to sail with us to the African coast, bellowed the Captain. I guess you’ve probably had enough of this old crate.

The crowd of passengers gathered their boxes and suitcases and briskly moved down the walkway leading to the pier.

The Wilsons soon found themselves on the cobble-stone street below the ship, surrounded by people disappearing in all directions.

What do we do now, Jonathan? Where do we go? Mary asked, as she held tightly to her husband’s hand.

With the clamor of talking, laughing, and carts and goods being moved from one area to another, Mary could hardly hear her husband shout, Mary, let’s just wait until some of these people leave, and then we will begin our search for Mister Haskins.

All of a sudden, above the ruckus came the most beautiful sound the Wilsons had ever heard, Jonathan! Jonathan Wilson! If you’re here, raise your hat above your head!

Jonathan immediately raised his hat and bellowed in reply, Jonathan Wilson is here. We are here.

Through the crowd came a large burly man with a most pleasant smile. You Jonathan Wilson?

Yes indeed, and who might you be?

I’m Albert Haskins, and I’ve been waiting for you two. Let me help with your baggage. My wife is expecting you for dinner.

Mister Haskins, we are certainly glad to see you, and let me introduce my wife. This is Mrs. Mary Ruth Wilson, Jonathan said proudly.

Haskins tipped his hat and in a polite manner stated, Welcome to Savannah and to America. I hope this country is as good to you as it has been to me. Let’s get out of this crowd. I hate crowds. Shall we go?

They soon reached his wagon and were on their way to the Haskins’ home on Liberty Street, just two blocks from the docks.

Mrs. Haskins was waiting at the door. Welcome to our humble home. I know you must be completely famished from your long trip. Please come in.

After dinner while the Haskins and Wilsons were relaxing and getting to know each other, Mister Haskins tipped his glass to Jonathan and almost like a toast said, Jonathan, tell me about your problems in Ireland; and by the way, I’ve heard some good things about you. Talk straight, you’re in America now.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and recounted what had happened during the winter. As a promising young printer and writer, he had become too bold and aggressive. Several of his editorials displeased the local politicians and the Crown, and soon he was without a job or a future. His salvation came when one of his wealthy friends offered to lend him enough money to make the trip to America. The debt would be repaid as soon as Jonathan was financially able. In addition, a contact in America would be made for the Wilsons.

Mister Haskins, you are going to help us, aren’t you? You can help us? inquired Jonathan, as he once again reached for Mary’s hand.

Yes, Jonathan, I think I can be of help if you think you can put up with my cantankerous ways. I run a little printing and newspaper shop here in the city, and I need someone who is somewhat spirited. You know, that’s exactly what sells papers here in this country. How about it? Mister Haskins questioned with a tilt of his head and a twinkle in his eyes.

Jonathan moved quickly out of his chair and rushed in excitement to embrace Mary. He picked her up as effortlessly as if she were a feather, then spun her around and around.

Mary, can you believe I’ve—I mean we have employment. Can you believe it?

Jonathan let me down this minute so you can shake this gentleman’s hand, exclaimed Mary.

Shaking hands in Ireland was the way men always sealed an agreement. Jonathan reached eagerly for Mister Haskin’s hand as Mary thanked him and Jonathan accepted Mister Haskin as his employer.

The year was 1807. Jonathan enjoyed working for Mister Haskins, and he slowly began to prosper. It seemed this new country was everything a hard-working young couple could ever want. They soon repaid their debt, made a down payment on a house, and Jonathan was prepared to offer Mister Haskins a bid to buy into the business.

One afternoon when Jonathan came in from work, he found an arrangement of flowers attached to the front doorknob. Entering the house cautiously, he found Mary waiting for him in the hall with a most unusual, but pleasant expression on her face.

Mary, what is the occasion for the flowers? I’ve never received this kind of welcome.?

Sit down my love—we have plans to make, Mary said, as she led him to his favorite chair.

All right Mary, what is it?

She placed her hands in his and softly whispered, There is another Wilson on the way.

Jonathan was flushed with excitement as they began to prepare for the welcomed addition. The first son, Lott, was born in the fall of 1808, and two years later, a second son whom they named Jeremiah.

Life, in general, had been good to the Wilsons, but in the winter of 1812, a massive epidemic of influenza struck the city claiming over three hundred lives. One was Jonathan Wilson. The death of Jonathan was devastating to Mary and her two young boys.

Mister Haskins did all he could to help the Wilsons, but the war with England had made it impossible for him to remain in Savannah. During the past revolution, he had sided with the colonist in their struggle to separate from the Mother Country and once the British had seized Savannah, his newspaper articles had endangered his life. He had been beaten twice by a group of Loyalists, his shop had been almost destroyed, and the safety of his family had been threatened on several occasions. He felt he was too old to go through this kind of ordeal again.

Mister Haskins knew he must warn Mrs. Wilson about the danger that existed for him and his wife if they remained in Savannah. Mary had been working in his business since Jonathan had died and always helped him clean up the shop each afternoon before closing. Telling her he was leaving Savannah was no easy task, and day after day, he procrastinated until he knew he could wait no longer.

One afternoon as they were about to close for the day, he knew he could put it off no longer. Mary, I’ve got something to tell you, and I don’t know exactly how to begin.

Mary quietly stopped her cleaning and sat down. Mister Haskins, just tell me what’s on your mind, replied Mary. Tm a good listener."

Mary, I must leave Savannah. If the British take the city, my life could be in danger.

Then he told her his dilemma and that since his business would be closed, she would be without a job.

Mister Haskins, what am I going to do? she breathed, as she slowly stood with fingertips on her temples and the palms of her hands over her eyes. Then she ran her fingers backwards through her unbounded hair and said, How will I support my boys?

Mister Haskins reached for Mary’s hand and gently held her. Mary, you can go with Mrs. Haskins and me to the Carolinas where my oldest son lives. We’ll take care of you.

Thank you, Mister Haskins, but I can’t do that. You have your own family to support. We would be just an extra burden to you. I’ll trust the Almighty God to take care of us.

Mary was eventually forced to give up their comfortable home and move to an apartment near the Savannah River docks, a section far from respectable. To support her family, she worked during the day at a textile mill; and during the evenings, she was employed to cook and help maintain a kitchen in one of the local taverns located on River Street. Even though the food was the best in the neighborhood, the establishment often became a roughhouse late at night.

Meanwhile, the years passed quickly, and the family managed. Mary kept her job in the tavern and even found satisfaction in cooking there.

One day, a rare surge of cold weather dropped the temperature below freezing, but the kitchen of the High Step Tavern, was warm and comfortable. The tavern was called the High Step Tavern because of the steep steps that led up to the front door off the main street. These steps were an immense hazard to the intoxicated.

This day, Mary stood over the woodstove stirring some of her savory stew listening to the murmurings of people enjoying their meals, but with each passing minute the restaurant’s patrons became more lively and boisterous.

Mrs. Wilson, we need four more servings right away! shouted Ed Jenkins, the tavern’s owner. People are waitin’ and are hungry!

It’s about ready, Ed. Be patient, exclaimed Mary.

Lott, Mary’s oldest son and now a young man, was sitting near the wood box laboring over his schoolwork. Hearing Mister Jenkin’s tone of voice, he slammed his book to the floor in anger and hurled his pen at the door barely missing Mister Jenkins.

Mother, how can you stand to put up with these people and their rude behavior? I hate this place. Why don’t you quit this filthy work? We don’t need the money that much.

His mother stopped what she was doing, carefully placed her stirring spoon down, and angrily addressed Lott, Young man, we do need this job if we are going to survive. Without the money I take in, you ladies couldn’t stay in school. I don’t want to hear any more about it. You just keep studying.

She turned quickly from Lott and looked around the kitchen. Where is your younger brother? He is supposed to be doing his work, too.

Mother, you know Jeremiah doesn’t like to do schoolwork. He hates school. He’s probably in the big room entertaining the men. They like to tease him and make him do silly things. He likes all that rough house and racket in there. His language is getting as profane as theirs. Some of them men think it’s funny to hear him cuss.

Son, you go get him out of there right now and make him do his work. I don’t want him in there with that crowd. You keep him out! ordered Mary as she returned her attention to getting the food ready.

Yes ma’am. I can get him back in here, but I can’t make him learn, Lott said, as he stomped toward the door in defiance and, in a few moments, returned dragging Jeremiah by the collar.

Once again, Mary stopped what she was doing to address her boys, Jeremiah, I don’t like for you to be around those men when they are drinking, and I don’t want you in there. You hear me, young man? And that cursing has got to stop.

Jeremiah looked up at his mother and with a smile that could charm the Queen, reassured her he would never do it again.

You boys settle down and get to work. We’ll be going home soon. Your schoolwork is important. One of your late beloved father’s dreams was that you boys would be educated, no matter what the cost.

Mother, interrupted Lott, Professor Johnson wants to talk to you.

What about, Lott? It’s hard for me to get to the school and work at the same time.

Once again Mary stopped what she was doing. It’s Jeremiah, isn’t it? What trouble is he in now?

Suddenly their mother’s face turned red in anger, Jeremiah, who have you been fighting with now? Has it been those McCarley boys again?

Jeremiah hung his head and in a whisper said, No Ma’am, I haven’t fought in a long time, Mamma. I don’t know what Mister Johnson wants.

Mary took great pride in the fact that her boys were able to attend school. Very few boys in the backwoods area could read and write and most of the boys in Savannah were unschooled. With the help of her Presbyterian minister, she arranged for Lott and Jeremiah to attend their church school for boys.

"I’ll tell you one thing, Mister Jeremiah Wilson. We will get to the bottom of this by tomorrow afternoon, and you had better not be in serious trouble.

The following afternoon as soon as Mary finished her work at the factory, she hurriedly made her way to Saint Andrews School for Boys and Mister Johnson’s office. A secretary opened the door and directed her to a seat next to a large desk positioned in front of the most massive windows Mary had ever seen.

Mister Johnson will see you soon. He is up the hall taking care of a problem. Please, make yourself comfortable.

It wasn’t long until Mister Johnson, a tall thin man in his early thirties, came storming down the hall and entered the room unaware of Mary’s presence.

This old heating system and these rowdy youngsters are going to get the best of me, he mumbled, as he walked past the desk and peered through the window that overlooked the campus below. Why do I stay in this profession? he sighed.

Mary cleared her throat.

Mister Johnson quickly turned in surprise to see who had witnessed his moment of aggravation. Oh, please excuse me. This has been a most difficult day. You must be Mrs. Wilson.

Yes sir, I’m Lott and Jeremiah’s mother, and I’m here to talk to you about Jeremiah.

Lott and Jeremiah, He seemed unable to remember the exact intent of his appointment. Oh yes, I know now. It’s Jeremiah, not Lott, that I’m having some trouble with. Actually, I’m having a lot of trouble with that young man.

What kind of trouble, Mister Johnson? questioned Mary, as she quietly pulled her chair closer to his desk.

Mrs. Wilson, you have two very different sons. Lott loves to study and is always reading and completing everything assigned to him and he is especially sharp in mathematics. But Jeremiah is quite a different story.

What do you mean, Jeremiah is a different story?

Mrs. Wilson, I’m going to be honest with you. Jeremiah doesn’t seem to like school, and he doesn’t seem able to sit still long enough to perform his school tasks. His mind wanders off to fantasy lands or somewhere, and he simply is not passing his work. In fact, he’s not passing anything.

Tears began to ease down Mary’s cheeks. Mister Johnson, I can help Jeremiah do better. He’s just a restless lad.

Mrs. Wilson, I told you I was going to be honest with you and I must. The truth has got to be told. Jeremiah is basically a good, friendly child, but he has a quick and violent temper that at times is uncontrollable.

Mister Johnson, I know he has a temper, but...

Mrs. Wilson, please let me finish. Jeremiah is quite a bit larger than the other boys his age, and the older boys are endlessly encouraging him to fight with someone. If he’s not in a fisticuffs with the older boys, then he’s defending some other younger boy who’s being aggravated.

Is it wrong for my son to defend himself? questioned Mary in an attempt to justify Jeremiah’s actions.

It is when he fights almost daily, Mrs. Wilson. He must learn self control. He should have come to me when he had problems with the other boys. Then I could have helped him.

Mister Johnson, Jeremiah is large for his age and with unruly red hair that stands straight up, those boys call him names and make fun of him.

With tears now streaming down her cheeks and in a tone of anger Mary once again defended Jeremiah, Mister Johnson, I’ve told him to take up for himself. I’ve told him to fight and to be proud of his appearance. I’m the one who told him to fight.

Mister Johnson, feeling the anguish and pain Mary was experiencing, gave her his handkerchief and spoke softly. Mrs. Wilson, this isn’t pleasant for me either, but there is more.

How can there be more, Mister Johnson? What more? sobbed Mary.

Mrs. Wilson, this is the part of my job I detest, and there is no easy way to tell you, he said.

Go ahead and tell me. What more can there be?

The Board of Directors has met and Jeremiah has been expelled -I mean asked to leave the school. They feel that since he is not passing his work and is constantly causing problems, it is to the school’s best interest that he not remain a student here.

Do you mean he can never come back? Mister Johnson, he is only in the sixth grade. What is he to do?

Mary slowly rose, not knowing what else to do. She placed her hands on the edge of the desk as if to hold herself upright and pleaded, He’s only a boy, Mister Johnson. Why didn’t you call me in earlier? I could have done something. I could have tried.

Mrs. Wilson, I am truly sorry our board has taken this action, but they feel they must make room for other students who genuinely want to learn. You probably know I’ve only been serving as headmaster for four months, and I wish I could have helped your son more. I wish I could have known him better.

Down deep Mary knew that Mister Johnson was right. She could recall how she had tried desperately to get Jeremiah to study over the years, but nothing worked. He loved to run, tussle, and play with the boys on the streets. He cared nothing for books. His education was her dream, not his.

But, Lott was different. Learning seemed to be stimulating and challenging for him. There was always a new book to read and knowledge to be gained.

In Lott’s spare time, he worked for Albert Haskins, who had now returned to Savannah. It was there that he met Cyrus McCorkle, a state surveyor, who was looking for a young man to help him survey property in the surrounding area. McCorkle needed someone good with keeping figures and healthy enough to carry his gear through rough country, when necessary.

McCorkle was a short slim man who walked with a slight limp caused by his being thrown from a horse when a boy. He was intelligent but at the same time fatherly. Lott had grown to respect and admire McCorkle and called him Mister Mac.

Although Lott was a somewhat younger than Mister McCorkle’s expectations, Lott impressed him with his ability in mathematics and his pleasant personality. During the following months, McCorkle depended on Lott to travel outside Savannah to survey land for the state.

Lott was immature physically for his age, but was becoming a strong, handsome young man. He stood at almost six feet tall and was slim. He had thick black hair and blue eyes that seemed to always sparkle. People who knew his father felt Lott was very much his image. In the meantime, life continued to present Mary Wilson with more hardships than she felt she could bear. Supplying the basic needs for two growing boys while sending one of them to school and worrying constantly about the future of the other, was beginning to bring moments of depression. She prayed nightly that God would send her relief.

Mary’s prayers seemed answered and life did improve for the Wilsons. Lott graduated at the top of his class and, at the same time, gained valuable experience as a surveyor’s assistant. The extra money helped to support the family.

As for Jeremiah, he continued in his rough and tumble ways and eventually found work on the docks loading and unloading cargo. In the evenings, when Mary was working at the High Step Tavern, Jeremiah worked clearing and cleaning tables. Due to his strength and size, he also often served as the establishment’s bouncer.

At fifteen, Jeremiah was already over six feet tall and weighed approximately two hundred and twenty pounds. He rapidly gained the respect of patrons because of his ability to survive a tough scrap and seldom lose a fight. When he was only fourteen, Jeremiah had a dispute with a well-known ruffian and with one punch to the chest, had sent the unfortunate character sailing across the floor, shattering the solid oak entrance door.

Because of Jeremiah’s questionable reputation and hard drinking binges, Preacher Amos, a local Methodist minister, who was a frequent visitor to the High Step and a friend of Jeremiah’s gave him the nickname Jake. When testing the spirits one night, he directed his mug of ale to Jeremiah and in a tone of religious nature toasted, Jeremiah, you are too wicked for an Old Testament name. You drink, cuss, and fight, the same. So from henceforth, Jake will be your name, and I don’t give a damn who you blame. The High Step erupted with laughter and cheers, and from that night on Jake was his name.

New Year’s Eve of 1826 found Mary still working in the High Step kitchen, and this evening Lott was sitting in the kitchen keeping his mother company.

Mother, let me know when you need help. This is going to be one long and lively evenin’. They are gettin’ loud mighty early.

Suddenly, a thunderous crashing sound caused Mary to drop a plate