Mourning Mist

© Copyright 2011 Jay Stafford.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4269-7039-9 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4269-7040-5 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4269-7041-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909107

Trafford rev. 06/25/2011

missing image file www.trafford.com

North America & International

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

phone: 250 383 6864 fax: 812 355 4082

For Jack Stafford:

1917-2003

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

PART I Boys

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

PART II War

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

PART III Men

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

First I must thank my father who was always interested in the American Civil War and who brought home a book on the subject to share with his 8 year-old son. The interest he sparked in me has never dimmed. Thanks, Dad.

To my best friend, Tony Ardolino, for sticking by me for over a half-century. As a successful, published writer you showed me the way. Thanks, buddy.

To my dear friend, Tina Westbrook, who has always supported and encouraged my efforts and guided me on this path. Your success as a writer, talent as a photographer and constant good cheer are truly an inspiration.

To the staff at Trafford Publishing: Your professional guidance and operations instilled confidence in this rookie. Many thanks.

To my many friends and family members who have shown excitement, encouragement and support in this project, my thanks.

And to my wife, Sylvia, who’s been there for me through thick and thin with her support, encouragement and anticipation. I love you, Sweetheart.

MOURNING MIST

Prologue

The menu’s cover read: Bayside Rib Company – Mobile’s Finest Barbequed Ribs – Probably Alabama’s Finest Ribs – More ‘N’ Likely The Finest Ribs East Of The Mississippi – Aw, Heck! The Best Dang Ribs In The Country! - Since 1965.

Jim Simon let out a loud, Ha!, which caused the other customers seated nearby to turn in wonder. Once they saw him grinning at the menu cover they understood and a few smiled and nodded

The waitress, whose name tag said Emily, walked up to Jim’s table grinning warmly and said, We get almost as many laughs at our menu as we do compliments on our ribs. Can I start ya out with somethin’ from the bar?

Jim looked up at the attractive, over-40 brunette and, still chuckling at the menu, asked, Do you serve Mojitos?

Emily thought for a moment, Oh, those Cuban rum drinks? With mint leaves? Um…sorry. No mint leaves.

Yeah, I get that all the time. I guess Mojitos aren’t that popular yet, and he shrugged.

No, that’s not it. They’re plenty popular alright, us bein’ so close to Cuba an’ all. It’s just that we ran outta mint leaves earlier. How ‘bout a Margarita?

Sure, he replied. On the rocks. No salt.

Comin’ right up!

Jim had been thinking about barbecued pork ribs ever since leaving Los Angeles earlier that day. The deskman at the Mobile airport’s car rental office didn’t hesitate when Jim asked where to go for good barbecued ribs. Bayside Rib Company! The missus and I go there all the time. Great ribs! Here, I’ll show ya on the map how ta get there. It’s not too far.

While waiting for Emily to return with his drink, Jim pulled his camera bag from beneath the table. He removed the camera and began checking the battery charge.

You a photographer? Emily asked while serving Jim’s Margarita atop a cocktail napkin.

I am, he replied. I work for American Traveler magazine. I’m on assignment here to take some photos for a feature they’re gonna run.

Really! What are ya gonna photograph?

Fort Blakeley Park, up at the north end of Mobile Bay. I just flew in from Los Angeles today and I’ll go to the park tomorrow.

At that, Emily broke into a huge grin, Well, Mister Photographer, y’all are sure livin’ right! My brother is the head park ranger at Blakeley. I can call ‘im an’ he’ll give ya a personal tour away from all the tourists.

Surprised, Jim said, Your brother? No kidding? That would be great! Away from the tourists. I won’t hafta edit ‘em out with their white legs and loud shirts!

Ha! Emily laughed. Gimme your name an’ when ya gonna be there an’ I’ll have Gene, my brother, meet ya at the ranger station. Meanwhile, what’s ya gonna have?

With a gleam in his eye, Jim responded, Ribs! Pork ribs! A whole rack!

Good choice. Those come with cornbread an’ your choice o’ french fries or onion rings an’ choice of potato salad, macaroni salad or cole slaw.

Okay, lemme have the onion rings and cole slaw.

Without writing his order down, the waitress gave him a thumbs up, You got it! Comin’ right up!

Before she could get away, Jim reached into his camera bag and pulled out a business card, which he handed to her. Here ya go. That’s my cell phone number in case something comes up and your brother has to contact me. What time does the park open? I’d like to get there as early as possible to take advantage of the morning light.

9 am. The morning mist should be cleared up by then. We get that most mornin’s. I doubt ya’d wanna take pictures o’ the fog.

Morning mist? Fog? he asked.

First time in Alabama, huh? she chuckled. This time o’ year the days are pretty warm which heats up the ground. The nights, though, are still kinda chilly. When the two mix, it sets up a ground fog. Ya can’t see much below the treetops beyond a hundred feet or so ‘til it burns off around mid-mornin’. I’ll enter your rib order an’ call Gene to tell ‘im you’re comin’. Another Margarita?

Sure. Thanks, Emily! I’m anxious to see the park and meet your brother.

An hour later, with nothing but gnawed rib bones and cornbread crumbs on his plate, Jim sat back, stifled a prize-winning belch and looked around for Emily. Seeing he was done eating, she came over to him. Well? she asked.

The cover of your menu is right on. Those were the best pork ribs I’ve ever had! Got any of those little, wet napkins?

Wet napkins? Ha! We ain’t got none o’ those! Ya just go out that back door there an’ we’ll hose ya down! No? Okay, then. I’ll see if I can scrounge up some o’ those pansy-wipes. Hee hee.

A few moments later she returned with his check and the wet napkins. Ya know how ta get to the park?

Yeah. I have a map and a layout of the park, Jim replied.

Good. When ya pass through the entrance, jus’ follow the signs ta the ranger station. Gene’ll meet ya there.

Thanks, Emily. I owe ya one.

Yeah? How ‘bout sendin’ me a copy of that magazine with your pictures o’ the park? No. Wait. Send two copies. Our cook wants one. He was back there laughin’ his fat butt off watchin’ ya tear apart them ribs!

Blakeley State Park, nestled on the banks of the Tensaw River, is 3,800 acres of wilderness, campgrounds, nature centers and over fifteen miles of hiking trails and bike paths. It is the site of Fort Blakely (original spelling) where the final, major battle of the Civil War was fought. Over 40,000 Union soldiers overran 4,000 Confederates with a casualty count of more than 4,000 men killed or wounded. Communications being what they were in April of 1865, the battle was fought a half-day after Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox.

Jim Simon drove up to the gatehouse near the park’s entrance at exactly 9 am. Rolling down the window of his rental car, he said to the guard, Howdy! My name’s Simon. I’m a photographer here to see Gene, your head park ranger.

Right, the guard replied. That’d be Gene Franklin. He jus’ called ahead sayin’ to expect ya.

Is there an entrance fee? Jim asked.

Yeah. Three bucks. But not fer you. I hear yer a travel magazine photographer. Any article yer magazine runs ‘bout the park will be worth a lot more than three bucks, what with the folks it’ll draw here.

Great! Jim responded. I was told to just follow the signs to the ranger station.

Sure. Bear ta yer right an’ follow the signs. It’s a little more’n halfway inta the park. Ya take some good pictures, now. Looks like it’ll be a good day fer ‘em. The morning mist jus’ cleared.

Jim thanked the guard and drove into the park. He passed through groves of tall trees, lush forests, open fields and crossed over a small bridge spanning Shay Branch Creek. A little further on the pavement ended and a well-compacted, dirt road began. The road veered left and Jim saw a small cemetery from the driver’s side window. He wondered about the people buried there beneath the ancient tombstones and the stories they would tell if they only could.

Standing in front of a small building with a sign announcing, Ranger Station, Gene Franklin, dressed in a park ranger’s uniform, and another man dressed in jeans and checkered shirt, waited for Jim to park his car. Both men appeared to be in their late-fifties or early sixties. The ranger was tall, slender and looked fit, whereas the other fellow was shorter and looked like he enjoyed his beer.

Waving a greeting, the ranger shouted, Howdy! You must be Jim, the magazine photographer.

Yep! That’s me, Jim replied, getting out of his car and walking up to the two men, hand outstretched. You must be Gene, Emily’s brother.

The ranger grasped Jim’s hand in a firm grip and responded, That’s me. This here’s my good friend, George Brower. George, say hi to Jim Simon from American Traveler magazine. Jim’s here ta show the world how nice an’ pretty our little park is.

Hey, Jim! Pleasure ta meet ya, George greeted with a wide grin as he shook Jim’s hand. Hope ya don’t mind me taggin’ along on yer tour with Gene here. Gene an’ me’s been best buddies since before the Dead Sea even got sick!

The photographer laughed, thankful the tour would be jovial and lighthearted as well as informative. Great! Pleased to meet ya, George!

Gene elbowed George in the ribs and commented, George here’s the unofficial park historian. His great, great, grandpappy fought right here in the Battle o’ Fort Blakely durin’ the War Between The States.

Yep, he sure did, George added, we’ll be walkin’ over some o’ the same ground my ancestor, Benjamin Brower did a hunnert-an’-fifty years ago.

Wow! That’s super! I’ll bet you two have some great stories to tell. And I’ll bet you can provide some captions for my photos.

Gene asked, How much time ya got down here, Jim? We can prob’ly do the tour in a few hours, but if ya want George’s narrative, it’ll take a coupla days.

Jim thought, this is going to be great. These two are a hoot. Actually, I’ll be here three or four days. The magazine knows that photo assignments can stretch out due to unpredictable weather. If it takes a whole week to get the perfect shots, so be it. I just have to watch my expenses, though.

Gene placed his hand on Jim’s shoulder and said, Well, I think we can help a bit there with meal expenses. I hear ya like ribs!

Ribs? You kiddin’ me? I could eat a bathtub full o’ those ribs Emily served me last night!

The ranger laughed, Ha! Yep, Emily told me how ya smeared that rack o’ ribs all over yer face last night! Gotta warn ya, though. Ya look pretty fit right now. Got that California surfer look. Spend a few nights eatin’ an’ drinkin’ at the Bayside, you’ll end up lookin’ like George here. He’s a reg’lar!

Feigning being offended, the portly George said, You skinny old coot! I gotta huge investment here, patting his ample belly, I worked long an’ hard ta grow this an’ I wear it proudly!

The three slapped their knees in laughter, looking forward to an entertaining and fun time together over the next few days.

Well, Jim said, I’d better get my gear outta the car.

Gene responded, While you’re doin’ that, I’ll grab the care package my sister packed fer our little tour.

Care package? George’s eyes got big. Emily packed us some grub from the Bayside?

Yup! Pulled pork, cole slaw, potato chips an’ iced tea. Got it all in a backpack in the station. Be right back.

George walked with Jim to the car and said, Didja hear that, Jim? Dang! That Emily’s the sweetest gal around. Easy on the eyes, too!

Jim raised an eyebrow, saying, I’ll bet it doesn’t hurt, her workin’ at the Bayside, huh?

George blushed, Well, there’s that, too.

Jim reached into the car’s backseat and grabbed his camera bag, unzipped it and lifted out one of three cameras. It had a short, zoom lens attached and Jim pulled out a longer, zoom lens and shoved it into a fanny-pack. Those two lenses should cover about anything.

That a digital camera? George asked.

Sure is. I used to shoot with film, but since digital, I’ll never go back to film.

Why’s that? George inquired.

Easier and a lot less expensive in the long run. With film ya don’t know what ya got ‘til it’s processed and ya may find you’ve wasted a lotta shots. By then, it may be too late to go back and re-shoot. See this little window on the back of the camera?

George nodded, That’s the preview window, right?

Right. With digital, the second ya take a picture, it shows in the window. Don’t like the shot? Delete it and take another and another ‘til ya get it right. Save only the shots ya like. No wasted photos!

How do ya print the pictures without film? George asked.

Jim slid open a small cover on the side of the camera and removed a thin, plastic wafer about the size of a postage stamp. This is a memory card. This size will hold about 600 photos. Take it outta the camera, slip it into a slot on a computer or printer with the proper software and away ya go! You can even connect the camera directly to a computer so ya don’t hafta remove the card at all. With editing software, you can fiddle with the pictures, change or enhance the colors, crop to any size, add or erase stuff, do all kindsa things before printing. I spent years in darkrooms back when I used film. Now my darkroom’s a computer and printer. Much nicer – no chemical smells an’ I can leave the lights on!

Impressed, George said, Dang! I gotta git me one a’ those! I get my film prints back from the drugstore an’ hafta throw half of ‘em away. A waste of film an’ money!

Plus, Jim added, once ya load the photos into your computer files, you can erase the memory card and use it again for another 600 shots!

George simply said, Dang!

Gene emerged from the ranger station with a good-sized backpack strapped on and a wooden walking stick. Ready ta go?

You bet! Jim replied.

Let’s head off this way, Gene pointed to their right with the stick. We’re near the heart of the battlefield, next ta the Confederate lines. In front of us is redoubt numbers 4 an’ 5, where some o’ the heaviest fightin’ took place.

Seeing a low, weed-covered mound of dirt, Jim commented, Doesn’t look much like a fort. Did the walls fall down?

Ha! No, Jim. This is an earthenworks fort. It’s a series o’ long, shallow trenches with dirt, fallen logs or hay bales piled up in front fer protection. Fort Blakely’s made up o’ over five miles o’ these types o’ defenses.

He was right there, George pointed to his left.

Your great, great grandfather? Jim asked.

"Yep. Ben Brower. Just a kid, but when he left here he