The shotgun's blast rolled across the field and the sound bounced back from the trees. Perry watched as the small bird dropped to the ground and he grinned.

"Good shot," Ben Trogdon said. "I guess they did teach you something useful at that fancy-pants school."

MT was closest to where the quail had fallen and he went searching for it in the tall grass. He found the dead bird amidst a tangle of weeds and picked it up. Perry hurried over and held open the game bag which was slung over his shoulder while MT dropped the bird inside.

"That's two apiece," Perry said, handing MT the empty shotgun and two shells.

Carl was carrying the Ruger .22 over his shoulder while MT was learning to use the shotgun. The boy had surprised them all this morning, demonstrating proficiency with the rifle that was simply amazing.

They had left the house and walked across the pasture and through the orchard to the back fence. Beyond the well-kept grounds of the estate were the wild fields of grass and weeds, all tending towards brown and lifeless this time of the year. But this was the perfect abode for the small creatures which made their homes in the grass, and it was all Ben's private hunting ground.

"So what's this you want to show me," Carl had asked.

MT had smiled. "May I load the rifle now?"

Perry took three of the golf balls from his jacket pocket and lined them up on the top rail of the fence about two feet apart. Ben looked on with amusement as MT carefully loaded the rifle and stood about thirty paces back from the fence.

"You figure this is about fifty feet, don't you?" MT had asked.

"Maybe a bit more," Ben had replied. "Don't you go damaging my fence."

MT laughed. "No, sir, I won't." And then he had taken the shots one after the other from a standing position. The golf balls had flown off the fence and dropped into the weeds.

"Good Lord, where did you learn to shoot like that?" Carl had asked.

"A friend taught me," MT had replied, and now Carl was still looking at his son in amazement at what the boy had demonstrated just an hour before.

It wasn't beginners luck. MT had carefully and deliberately blasted each of those balls off the top of the fence. Granted they were only fifty or sixty feet away, but that was with an open sighted rifle. It showed what a steady hand he had and that meant great skill.

After that Ben had gladly allowed the boy to take up the shotgun. MT had watched Perry take down the first quail which had burst from the grass a hundred feet away. Perry had shouldered the gun, tracked ahead of the fleeing bird and brought it down with a clean shot.

MT had never used a shotgun before but he had watched Perry closely and understood the method. His first shot had missed, but the second did not. Ben looked perfectly pleased at the boy's prowess, and they had marched on across the field in search of further game.

It was a quiet time for Carl, time to spend with his son. Ben and Perry ranged ahead with the shotgun while MT walked beside his father. Taking the boys hunting had been Ben's suggestion, and he had been right. Carl could see that his son was growing up to be a responsible young man.

"You really do know how to shoot. I was surprised," Carl said.

"Remember Alvin?" MT asked. "He taught me to shoot like that. We spent a lot of time over at the dump shooting rats with his rifle."

Carl nodded. "I suppose that's good practice and no one would blame you for shooting a rat. I didn't know you were such good friends with Alvin ... you never brought him home."

"Yeah, well ... Alvin wasn't very sociable, at least around adults."

Carl understood. The boy's father was less than a paragon of virtue in the community which had to affect that whole family. But MT had reached out and befriended the boy, just as he had with Perry. He was beginning to see a pattern in his son's life but knew MT would be uncomfortable talking about it.

Ben and Perry had stopped on the edge of the field and stood waiting for Carl and MT to approach.

"Want to try for a rabbit?" Ben asked. "We can head out for the thinner grass and see if we can spook one into the open."

"Shot a squirrel once, never did try for rabbit," MT said.

"The secret is patience," Ben said. "You spook a rabbit and he'll run, that's when you stand still. The creature has a great sense of curiosity and that's their downfall. He'll run a ways and stop when he doesn't feel you in pursuit. He might even sit up on his hind legs to check for danger, and that's when you have him."

"So don't try to shoot a running rabbit," MT said.

Ben laughed. "I sure couldn't, but then who knows what you can do?"

They spread out in a line about twenty feet apart and began to walk through the grass. Perry carried the empty shotgun over his shoulder since at close range a load of birdshot would mangle a rabbit and make for a messy kill. MT planned to take the first rabbit and then hand the rifle off to Perry.

They had walked maybe a hundred yards before the first rabbit flushed from the grass and took off towards the brush some fifty feet away. Ben held up his hand and they all stopped in place, and eventually the rabbit paused in his flight. MT had the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed off the shot, causing the rabbit to jump and fall over dead.

"Wow, great shot," Perry said.

MT jacked the empty cartridge out of the chamber and slid the bolt closed to reload the rifle. Then he carefully pushed the safety on with his thumb before handing the rifle over to Perry. Carl was the first to reach the rabbit and held it up as a whistle emanated from his lips.

"A clean head shot. MT, you ought to join the army and be a sniper."

Perry thought that funny while MT looked at the rabbit and shook his head.

"I guess I have to go with Mom's way of thinking. I don't like killing animals."

"Then why did you come hunting?" Carl asked.

MT shrugged. "It's a skill I suppose, something I ought to know about. Just don't ask me to shoot a deer."

Ben chuckled. "Don't feel bad, we'll eat everything we kill today. But I understand your reluctance; we don't have to hunt to feed ourselves. Remember me mentioning that bear hunt in Alaska? I guess I should tell you the truth about that. I had a big old bear in my sights and couldn't pull the trigger.

"It just didn't seem right, and we certainly didn't need him for food. All three of my sons like big game hunting, but not their father. The house used to have some deer antlers and one old bear's head mounted on a plaque. I got rid of that stuff when I took over. So don't be shy to admit you don't like killing animals. You have enough skill to shoot one, but you don't have to prove it."

"Thank you, sir," MT said.

Ben smiled. "You know, maybe you should call me Pops like Perry does, or ... I wouldn't even mind if you called me Ben."

"Yes, sir ... Ben," MT said with a grin.

"So, Perry, you think you can shoot a rabbit like that?" Ben asked.

Perry smiled. "Probably not ... but we'll see."

They spent another two hours walking the fields and Perry managed to bag his fair share of rabbits. Bernice would not enjoy skinning and cleaning the critters, so Ben led them out behind the barn where there was an outside sink and a bench to work on. That was when Franklin showed up with a couple of sharp knives and showed them his skill at cleaning game.

MT was fascinated by the quick cuts with the knife, while Perry hung back, disgusted at the sight of what was happening.

"I grew up cleaning my Daddy's game," Franklin admitted. "Back then he used to put meat on the table couple times a week. My cousins had a place up beside Pigeon Mountain and they all used to hunt down in that part of the valley. Mr. Trogdon has been kind enough to let me hunt on his land, too. Been doing that nigh onto forty years now."

Ben and Carl had gone on up to the house and a few minutes later Bernice came on down to the barn with a couple of large roasting pans. She looked at the rabbit carcasses and nodded.

"Somebody is a good shot, clean through the head," She said.

"That would be MT," Perry replied. "We didn't use the shotgun on them."

"That's a blessing, won't be picking no buckshot out of your teeth. Franklin, you set them birds to hang a few days so the feathers come right off."

"Yes, Momma ... I know how it's done," Franklin replied.

"Been a while since we had rabbit stew, but I guess Mr. Ben is looking forward to that so I better get moving," Bernice said. She loaded the rabbits in her pans and took off back towards the house.

"Why do you call her Momma?" MT asked.

Franklin smiled. "She acts like everyone's momma, don't you notice? Everyone in the family calls her Momma, and then scoots out of her way." He laughed at that and picked up the six quail to go hang them in the rafters of the shed.

"Almost lunchtime," Perry said. "But I think we have time for a quick trip to the summerhouse."

Perry had left a lot of his things in the summerhouse, giving him an excuse to go in and out of there as he saw fit. Now he dragged MT through the door and locked it behind them. Their clothes came off and they sprawled on the bed, kissing and caressing until the passion possessed them both.

The summerhouse was safe ground, as was Perry's bedroom in the wee hours of the night. But the boy could get the urge at the strangest of times which left MT with concerns that they might get discovered, and then life as they knew it would be over. Passions aside, MT knew he would have to be the one who resisted the desires they both felt and choose their moments carefully.

Now that Thanksgiving was past, the bleak cold days of winter lay ahead. With the exception of Christmas and the holiday, there seemed to be little in the way of excitement two boys might share here in Trogdon. School days would slowly creep by as the students were enveloped by a lassitude that would test the patience of their teachers.

But there was one teacher who had above average skills, and whose syllabus was carefully planned to reach out and grab his students with interest in the subject at hand. Mr. Albright was well aware that the Civil War was something his Marsh County students found fascinating.

Trogdon was surrounded with the history of that struggle. The battlefield park north of Fairview had enshrined the engagement of 1863 at the Battle of Chickamauga. That major battle had spread across three states and several mountains, including their very own Lookout Mountain. The Confederate Army of Tennessee and the Union forces in the Army of the Cumberland had overrun the valley, and only by a miracle had Trogdon survived the destruction.

A miracle most agreed was delivered by Lindsey Trogdon in the fall of that year, and would forever enshrine his name in the hearts of those who lived in Marsh County. It was this story that Albright was prepared to deliver over the weeks before Christmas, but MT and Perry were already deep in the family lore by that time.

Aloysius Trogdon's journal had appeared on the desk in the library from wherever Ben kept it hidden. There was a handwritten note lying on top which contained just two rules: "There will be no food or drink on the desk with this book, and pages will be handled carefully." Ben had written this with the suggestion that when the boys were done they would all meet to discuss the contents.

The outside surface of the journal was covered in ancient polished leather and had a brass binding to secure the pages. MT and Perry arranged two chairs side by side behind the desk and looked down on the book. The journal itself was about an inch thick and looked to be about ten inches square.

"I'm almost afraid to touch it," MT said.

"It's kept in a good environment, at least the paper isn't brittle," Perry said. "I think Pops has a lot of old documents in there."

"In where?" MT asked.

"You know that gun case built into the wall up in his bedroom? Well, it isn't just a gun case, that's just the front part. It's a special document keeper with a safe built into it. I don't know how to open it, but Pops says I'll be told someday when I get older. My uncles know how it works, and he says now I'm on that short list, too."

"Cool ... so you've read this before," MT said.

"Part of it ... the last part anyways. Aloysius began the journal when Lindsey left with the cavalry to fight in the war. His intention was to record everything that happened on the estate and in town so his father would be able to read it when he came back."

Perry sat back in his chair and sighed. "Those were difficult times in the South, and the journal records so much of that chaos. There are pages of names, the wounded and the dead who went off from Marsh County to fight and never came back. The Historical Society was particularly interested in that kind of thing.

"But there was hardship for everyone and the Trogdons did everything they could to help the poor families who lost husbands, brothers and children. Damn, MT, there were over two hundred from Marsh County who were killed long before the war ever came across that mountain."

Perry reached out and slid the book over in front of MT. "Go ahead, you can start the reading. His handwriting takes a little getting used to and the language is different from how we speak it today. Just don't worry about it. Some of the pages are just lists of stock and the produce they grew, but I skipped over much of that."

"And what about this riddle?" MT asked.

"That comes at the end after Lindsey came home," Perry said. "Go ahead and read it, but it will only leave you as confused as the rest of us."

Perry gently turned the pages until there were only a few remaining. MT noticed that there were dozens of blank pages in the latter part of the journal. But Perry stopped at a particular page and pointed.

The script was finely written and must have been done with an expensive ink pen. But the sentences flowed across the page in Aloysius' handwriting and MT studied the words carefully:

Thunder rolled across the valley as if the gods themselves were at play upon the mountain. But these were only the sounds of those self-made gods in uniform who would come to destroy all that we hold dear. The battle for Chattanooga had begun and Marsh County was in peril.

Our father has been gone these past two days, rushed away on the back of a horse that even his doctor had forbidden him to ride, but with a sense of purpose that none of us were able to defer. Once he donned that uniform again he became a different man and our needs were subordinate to his.

But this leaving was different in that he took with him the Balls, Jacksons, Tilleys, and every one of them a free man with a mind to look after the Colonel. I had written the documents of manumission myself, granting freedom and a parcel of land to each head of household. It was the grandest thing to see the looks on their faces, and I could but imagine their joy.

They left in clothes bereft of insignia, but no man could mistake them for anything other than a local militia. Black and white together, for the love of family and friends, they marched away towards the distant clash of armies.

Father had said to gather the valuables to be hidden from what may be the marauding spirits of the victors in this battle. He did not define those words and yet I knew it mattered little if the criminal element wore blue or gray, they would surely come in the aftermath of battle's chaos.

It had been a dry summer and so I knew where to hide the precious family goods so that none but my family and I would know of the place. We worked to arrange the shifting of these items and seemed done with this assignment when Martin Tilley and Abraham Ball returned to the house with a team of horses pulling a heavy wagon.

Their urgency seemed spurred on by unknown demons, and then we learned of father's wounding. Tilley pulled the wagon around behind the house with orders from my father to unload sixteen crates beside the barn. Father's direction told me these boxes would be ransom to my future endeavors if I didn't dawdle. So we reset the ropes and got back to work.

The boxes were heavy and belied the contents to be other than biscuit which was stenciled on the outside. We had no time to contest my father's wishes and so the crates, after much struggle and labor, joined the family valuables in their place of hiding.

Tilley and the Parson didn't remain with us long, and rode off, taking the buggy as their ambulance. From the brief news they left behind, I knew my father's men had made their stand at the Miller's Bridge. For their part the location was chosen well since a small detachment could defend the stone walls and prevent the crossing.

Time and material wealth belong to the enemy, father and I have discussed this many times. The South cannot prevail and I fear for my father yet again. But he is the warrior, of which there is no spark in me, so I pray to the Lord for his safe return.

We have done our best to disguise the house, and from the road it appears to be in ruin. The women and children spent considerable time pulling boards off the barn and piling them across the front of the house. Vines were cut and draped from the railings to give the whole a rather shabby appearance. With a casual glance one might think the place had been attacked and abandoned, it is our hope the deception works.

But we now await the outcome of battle and fear for the safety of our loved ones. The people from town come often to the gates to beg for food and news. No one is turned away although the larder is much depleted. The hours tick by and I shall finish this entry which could be my very last. God willing, I will see my father's face before the sun sets.

MT glanced at the final words and turned the page. The following pages were blank all the way to the end, and he looked up at Perry with confusion.

"I don't see a riddle."

"The description of where Aloysius hid the family valuables is scattered throughout those two pages," Perry said. "We know it was near the barn and they needed rope to lower things into it. Pops says there must be an old well out there somewhere and I agree. The fact that it had been a dry summer is mentioned and so the water level in a well might decrease during a period like that."

"That sounds logical," MT said. "But you don't suppose they just dumped things down the well, do you? Valuables could mean anything like china and silverware, stuff like that would be ruined if it sat in water for too long. And then there are these mysterious crates, they couldn't just stack them on top."

"So far your thoughts agree with Pops, he said much the same thing. So what do you think was in those crates?"

"How about gold? Maybe Lindsey captured a Yankee paymaster and stole the money," MT suggested.

"They certainly didn't hand out gold to the soldiers marching down the road, too heavy to carry. But I agree with you, I think it was gold, and we just don't know where it came from."

"Or went," MT said. "You don't suppose if they had a fortune in gold that the family would just let it sit in a hole in the ground. At the very least Lindsey would have pulled it up."

"Well there's the thing," Perry said. "Lindsey died from the wound at Miller's Bridge and the remainder of the militia brought his body home."

MT looked back down at the journal. "I knew he was killed defending the town, but Aloysius doesn't mention that."

"There were no more journal entries after his father was killed, he just gave up. But the battle at Miller's Bridge is well documented because it changed the course of the Union advance. Let me show you," Perry said.

He walked to the library wall and pulled down a heavy volume, another book bound in leather, but still fairly new. MT looked at the cover and saw the emblem of the Marsh County Historical Society. The book was titled The Battle of Chickamauga, 1863, but what stunned him was the name of the author ... Norman Albright.

"Mr. Albright wrote all this?" MT asked. "Wow."

"It's a compendium ... a collection of documents and statistics about the battle. Albright is one smart man."

"I'll say, I hope he got paid for this," MT said.

"He did. Pops gave money to the Society to commission this work, but I don't think Albright knew that his old friend paid for it. Look in the Table of Contents and you'll fine Miller's Bridge listed there."

Perry picked up the journal and slid it into a plastic sleeve. "I'll go give this back to Pops. Someday we both need to read the whole thing, but you have the concept behind it now. Albright's book will give you a better idea of what Lindsey went through for those three days in September." He held up the journal. "And now that this is off the desk I'll bring back some cookies and milk ... that's going to take you a while."

Perry left with the journal and MT opened Albright's book. The first few pages were all maps and MT located Trogdon and followed the Chickamauga Creek down to the spot marked Steven's Gap. It was here that the Union Army, under the command of General George Thomas, pierced the barrier of Lookout Mountain and entered the valley.

Their path lay across the foot of Missionary Ridge and straight down the road towards the forces of General Braxton Bragg who awaited them on the ridges of Pigeon Mountain. The main forces of the Union Army of the Tennessee were still far to the north in Chattanooga. Thomas didn't know it but he was headed straight into the main portion of Braxton Bragg's army.

But Thomas was a cautious man and sent forward a single division of over four thousand men who pierced Steven's Gap with orders to take Davis's Crossroads. This division, under the command of Major General Negley, was the first to encounter resistance and didn't hesitate to fight back. But he was supposed to foil any movement of Confederate troops heading south and he didn't know the land very well.

The valley between Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge is where the Chickamauga Creek runs north to the Tennessee border. One valley over beneath Pigeon Mountain is where the West Chickamauga Creek runs and this is where the Confederate forces would make their stand.

The confusion began for Negley when he came to the Chattanooga Road which ran north towards Trogdon and encountered skirmishers defending a bridge over the wide creek bed. This didn't seem like the major crossroads he was to take, but his troops took the resistance to mean a large enemy force was already upon them.

This was all explained in the synopsis of the chapter on Miller's Bridge and pretty well confirmed the stories MT had heard over the years. But now he began to read the details of how the citizens of Trogdon put up their fight and changed the course of Marsh County history.

It was already late afternoon when the advance units of Negley's division crossed over Lookout Mountain and came down into the quiet valley on the other side. The narrow road through Steven's Gap had spread his forces out in a long line and they stopped when they reached a broader roadway to reshuffle the columns.

Negley had his orders to proceed through Dug Gap in Pigeon Mountain and reach Lafayette before nightfall, but they were already behind schedule. They knew the Confederate Army units were out there somewhere to the east and had some intelligence that a large force of the enemy was approaching on their left flank from the north.

The first Chickamauga Creek was on their left and so when shots rang out from across the water the Union forces assumed this was the large Confederate contingent sent to oppose them, but they were wrong. Still, it was getting dark and they could not see Lindsey's militia crouched behind stone walls on the other side of a narrow bridge.

Negley could not bypass such opposition or his flank would be compromised. That might allow the Confederates to cut him off from reinforcements which were still on the other side of Steven's Gap so he had to turn and fight. The first company of men sent to cross the bridge was cut down, but it also showed their officers that the opposition was not very large.

Leaving several companies of men behind to pin down the Confederate forces, Negley forged onwards, determined to reach Davis's Crossroads which was only five miles ahead. But he was hesitant to go any further towards Lafayette as darkness overcame them and the troops were called to a halt.

Under the cover of darkness, Lindsey Trogdon sent several men out on the bridge to retrieve the guns and ammunition of the fallen Union troops. They worked cautiously for three hours, doubling the amount of ball and powder they had brought with them. Lindsey commended his black militia members for having great courage under fire.

It was well after midnight on September 11th when Lindsey stepped back from the front lines to make notes of the skirmish and the disposition of his troops. He wrote for two hours by firelight on the far side of the mill house, and was given food and drink by his former slaves.

It was time enough for him to wax philosophic about the nature of these men who fought with him that day. Of the eighty-five men who had marched down from Trogdon, all but sixteen were white. For so long the white men of the South had fought this war and used their slaves as servants to do the labor of digging, carrying and cooking. Those black men were not invested in determining the outcome of this war because they assumed they would still be slaves when it was over.

Lindsey had changed all that, at least for those black families on his estate. Giving a man the deed to his life by setting him free meant each of them was now vested in the fight. For them this wasn't about saving the Confederacy. Long ago Lindsey had determined that this was a foolish war that could not be won. This was about saving their town and their families.

By deeding land to each of his former slaves, Lindsey had given them a purpose in defending the valley. There would be no winning against such a massive force of Yankees, but by defending the bridge, and destroying it if necessary, they might divert the Union troops. At all costs they had to prevent anyone from taking the road north towards Trogdon.

Lindsey could not know the mind of the opposing general, but his defiance was unwavering. The men who had come with him made no sign of turning away, they were all here to fight. And even as he made his notes, the bungling of orders on the other side would soon have the desired effect.

Negley was expecting reinforcements which did not come. Braxton Bragg was trying to move forces up the road from Lafayette but his generals did not listen to their orders. Excuses were passed around and Bragg would spend the next three days frustrated that they had missed the opportunity to ambush a large contingent of Union forces.

The Confederate army outnumbered the Union troops three to one at this point, and yet there was no battle. By dawn of the 11th, Lindsey began to see signs of movement across the creek and on the road. His men prepared to do battle once again and were astounded when the Union troops began to withdraw back towards Steven's Gap.

Quiet returned to the valley and Lindsey considered going home, but decided to give it one more day in case the Yankees returned. Rather than burn the bridge, which would cut off any forces attempting to move north towards Trogdon, Lindsey decided to have his men take it apart.

There were other bridges to the east and several fords lower down, but without Miller's Bridge there would be no incentive to use the road towards Trogdon. The task would take several days at least, so Lindsey sent four of his men up into Stevens' Gap to see what had happened to the Union army, and they returned rather quickly with disturbing news.

The entire XIV Corps of General Thomas was camped out on the other side of the mountain and a new column of troops was moving up from the south to join them. Lindsey decided he had to see this for himself and joined the four men in a return visit to the heights where he could look down on the vast Union position.

Sure enough, the army had swelled in size and was pulling up stakes. If they turned towards the Gap the lack of a bridge down by the mill would be meaningless, the whole valley would be overrun. But even as they watched the army formed up and began to march north towards Chattanooga.

From the safety of his perch on the slopes of Lookout Mountain, Lindsey felt a flush of relief overcome him. The danger was moving away, Trogdon was saved, and so they dismounted to spend the night in relative peace. But just after dark they heard the jingling of harnesses and the rumble of a single wagon heading down the Gap towards their position.

It was too dark to see what was approaching and Lindsey only hoped it was some family from Trenton trying to make their way east and away from the army. His men spread out through the trees and the darkness enfolded them. They had made no fire that night so those people with the wagon had no idea they were riding into a trap.

But as the sounds came closer Lindsey could hear more horses than was necessary to pull a single wagon and determined it must be a troop of Union soldiers. He was almost right, there were three soldiers guarding this one wagon, and they were moving cautiously in the dark which was suspicious.

Weapons loaded, Lindsey and his men sprung their trap, bringing the wagon to a halt.

"Give the password, friend," Lindsey said, pointing his pistol at the wagon driver.

His men had moved forward and disarmed the soldiers on horseback. The wagon driver squinted in the darkness and didn't move.

"Who are you?" The driver asked.

"I might be General Robert E. Lee for all you know ... what's in the wagon?" Lindsey replied.

"You'll never find out," The driver said and lifted a pistol up off the seat.

His pistol and Lindsey's fired at the same time, and they both went down. The three mounted soldiers made to turn and run, but they were immediately cut down by Lindsey's men. The driver was head shot and dead in the seat. Lindsey was sprawled on the ground clutching his chest when Abraham Ball reached him.

Dash Jackson had a medical mind, at least when it came to farm animals. He packed Lindsey's wound with a spare shirt and they carefully hoisted their leader up onto the back of the wagon. Lindsey remained conscious all the way back to the mill, and fortunately the bridge still stood for the moment.

Lindsey was taken from the wagon and placed in a tent to await the arrival of dawn when there would be enough light to see his wound. Abraham Ball was known as 'The Parson' because he was a learned man, and so Lindsey dictated a letter to him for Aloysius. The men stood around in the gathering light of morning and watched the tent. Everyone knew a chest wound was fatal and that the Colonel would bleed out before the day was done.

Lindsey had Parson Ball and Martin Tilley drive the wagon back to the Trogdon house with orders to return with the buggy which had springs and could cushion the road for a wounded man. Lindsey was bound and determined to make it home and recover, but that was not to be.

It was four o'clock on the afternoon of the 13th when Lindsey Trogdon died of his wound. Parson Ball returned at nightfall with the buggy, but it would only carry home the body of Trogdon's hero. The militia formed up behind the buggy and walked the twelve miles back to the Trogdon estate, while Parson Ball sat in back cradling the body and singing hymns on the way home.

The Battle of Chickamauga was fought on the northern reaches of the West Chickamauga Creek, just below the Tennessee line. On September 19th and 20th, the clash of armies on the other side of Missionary Ridge filled the Trogdon valley with dread.

The sound of cannon washed over the ridgeline and echoed down the valley towards town. Smoke from that encounter drifted like a fog for days, reeking of sulfur and gunpowder. For two days and nights the thunder rose and diminished, moving north and then south, but never coming closer. And then there was silence.

Word was passed down the Chattanooga Road, the Yankees had lost. But perhaps lost is an inadequate term. From Rosecrans on the Union side to Bragg on the Confederate, the armies never quite had the measure of one another. Chickamauga was all about lost opportunities, missed orders, and the failure to respond to situations in a timely manner.

Rosecrans retreated into Chattanooga where he was besieged for a month by the Confederate army. But the Union forces had a depth the Confederacy could not match in numbers and so Bragg's forces dwindled as they were called away to other battlefields.

It would be fair to say that by winning one battle The South did not come close to winning the war, which was far from over. Over the next six months there would be a further battle at Chickamauga and then over the steep sides of Lookout Mountain. None of this approached Trogdon, but it did open a way into the Deep South for Sherman's Army and the eventual march on Atlanta the following year. Fortunately for Marsh County, he chose a different road to reach his objectives.

Lindsey Trogdon was buried in the cemetery behind the Trogdon Baptist Church. His mausoleum is still one of the interesting places Civil War tourists visit on their tour of Georgia. But there is also a lesser known monument to the Colonel, and it sits in the middle of Lively Corners.

The grief over Lindsey's death was felt all over the valley, but especially in the community of freed slaves. Those black men who had fought returned to tell the story of what Lindsey had done on their behalf and their mourning was very real. It was the Ball family, led by Florence, who planted the Colonel's sword in a patch of ground beside the road and it became the focus of their gratitude.

It was Florence who had nursed the patriarch of the Trogdons back to health after his leg wound. Her knowledge of herbal medicines had been handed down for generations and she applied them with considerable care, allowing Lindsey to leave his bed and resume a somewhat normal life. Her son, known to all as Parson Ball, was a mountain of a man, and it was his strength and determination which assisted Lindsey's healing process. It was no wonder that he was the first to be granted his freedom.

By the time the war ended the families of Lively Corners had erected a stone monument that created some controversy in the white community. Despite their freedom, racism was not overcome by a piece of paper declaring them free. But the Balls, the Tilleys and the Jacksons persisted, until the monument was finally left in peace.

MT understood all of these things, at least in some form. He had been steeped in the knowledge like every school kid in the county. Lindsey was a hero, he got it. But never had he been so close to the man and the myth. Just to sit in this house and know the man died to save all this left a profound feeling of sadness.

On every September 13th, a parade of black citizens formed up at the Lively Corners monument and marched the half mile to the Trogdon Baptist cemetery in celebration of Lindsey Trogdon. Then the citizens of Trogdon and Lively Corners gathered at the park in the middle of town to hear music and listen to speeches about the great man.

It took more than a hundred years for black and white to come together like this, but Lindsey would have been proud. His true purpose in freeing the slaves was to prove that a man, once free and no matter what his color, would fight for the same reasons. The moral convictions of one man had brought them all together to save their town and their families.

But there were questions which begged answers, and MT wondered where Perry had gone. He closed the book and walked through the house to the kitchen where Bernice was up to her elbows in flour and just nodded her head towards the back door. Perry was standing in the yard with a puzzled look on his face.

"I think the old barn in the journal was located about where the summerhouse sits now," Perry said. "But that means if there was a well dug there it's long gone."

MT smiled at Perry's attempts to solve the riddle. "You think even if you could find it that there would be anything left down there?"

"Maybe ... maybe not. But Pops has other documents I want to look at even though they are probably pretty boring."

"Another journal?"

"No, we couldn't be that lucky," Perry said. "But there are accounting ledgers for the years following the war which list profits from the harvests and expenditures. I guess what I want to see is if there were any unexplained mounds of money available to the estate.

"That would prove the value of what was in those crates. Pops says the Trogdons fared well for the remainder of the war and in the aftermath. Those former slaves worked the land just as they had before so everyone had enough to eat. But they were hired help after Lindsey freed them, and I wonder where the money came from?"

"You do think there was gold in those crates," MT said.

"Yes I do ... and I have a theory which Pops finds interesting. Those men with the wagon weren't Yankees at all but Southern deserters who had stolen the gold up in Chattanooga before the Union army arrived. They were trying to smuggle it south and keep it from being captured."

"Wow, that's pretty far-fetched, don't you think?"

"Chattanooga had several large banks which were destroyed in the fighting, so if the gold was stolen no one would know about it. Crates of gold don't just disappear, they had to be stolen. I guess I'm just looking for an incentive to go looking for it."

MT laid an arm across Perry's shoulder and looked out at the yard and the fields beyond before he sighed.

"I suppose if you need any help you can count on me," MT said.

Perry smiled. "I never doubted that."

"There are old wells all across the valley and every once in a while someone falls into one of them. You be careful when I'm not around."

"I will," Perry promised. "So I guess Trogdon never needed a water system. Is everyone on well water?"

"Yes, and here too, ask your Pops. The mountains dump a lot of water in the valley so I guess the water table is pretty high."

"And how does the water get distributed from the mountains across the valley?" Perry asked.

"I imagine much of the bedrock here is limestone, just like the mountain itself. You saw how easily water flows up there. All those tunnels channel the water and ... OH!"

"Yeah, exactly what I was thinking," Perry said.


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