PRAISE FOR THE REBEL BRIDE
“The Rebel Bride is deftly woven with strands of dignity, thoughtfulness, and grace. With admirable attention to historical detail, Shannon McNear has given us a story of quiet determination set to a backdrop clamoring of war. Lovers of Civil War–era novels will appreciate the depth of character explored within these pages.”
–Jocelyn Green, author of the Heroines Behind the Lines Civil War series
“Shannon McNear has once again pierced through history, bringing the Civil War to life with accuracy and authenticity. The story of Pearl and Josh will haunt you like a melody carrying through time. You’ll find yourself cheering not for one side or the other in the conflict that tore our country apart, but for a Rebel girl and a wounded Yankee soldier to find not only common ground but a foundation for love.”
–Denise Weimer, historical romance editor and author of The Georgia Gold Series, The Restoration Trilogy, and The Witness Tree
“War is never easy, and sometimes neither is love. The Rebel Bride is a poignant peek into the harsh and complicated realities of the Civil War that will sometimes have you weeping and other times leave you with a smile. Either way, you will be touched. Another winner for author Shannon McNear.”
–Michelle Griep, Christy Award-winning author of the Once Upon a Dickens Christmas series
“Don’t miss The Rebel Bride! Through her wonderful lyric prose, Shannon McNear vividly paints the pain and conflict of the Civil War—and the ability of the human spirit to overcome heartache and adversity with deep and abiding love.”
–Jennifer Uhlarik, author of Sand Creek Serenade
“Shannon McNear’s The Rebel Bride riveted me from the first page. The vividly drawn setting and complex, authentic characters on opposite sides of the Civil War drew me right into the story and gripped me until its end. In the aftermath of the Battle of Chickamauga, the Confederate MacFarlanes find themselves forced to house, feed, and nurse wounded enemy soldiers regardless of the loss of three sons in battle against Union forces. The wounded soldiers face an equal dilemma as they have no choice but to depend for their survival on their reluctant hosts’ kindness and care. Each side believes that their cause is right and that their opponents are not only in the wrong, but evil. But Pearl MacFarlane and one of the Union soldiers, Joshua Wheeler, find themselves rethinking their prejudices as they begin to understand the other’s beliefs and reasons for their actions.
I love The Rebel Bride’s emphasis on obeying Jesus’ teaching to do good to your enemy no matter what the circumstances. And I love how McNear develops the growing attraction between Pearl and Josh, drawn together by mutual need and a shared faith. Their relationship is at first tentative, then tender, and finally one of heartfelt love and devotion. Throughout the story, McNear powerfully illustrates how deeply complicated the issues were that led to a war that tore apart not only our country but also many families and resulted in hundreds of thousands of deaths. And she answers the far-reaching question of whose side God is on in the conflicts of this fallen world in a profound way that readers will ponder long after finishing The Rebel Bride.”
–J. M. Hochstetler, author of the American Patriot Series and coauthor with Bob Hostetler of the Northkill Amish Series
©2019 by Shannon McNear
Print ISBN 978-1-64352-240-1
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-239-5
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-238-8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Photo: Robin MacMillan / Trevillion Images
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
William Lytton married Mary Elizabeth Chapman (Plymouth 1621)
Parents of 13 children, including Benjamin
Benjamin Lytton married Temperance Prescott (Massachusetts 1668)
Henry Lytton married Rebecca Adams (New York 1712)
Goodwill Lytton married Catherine Ballard (New York 1737)
Jemima Lytton who married Karl Gruener (New Jersey 1777)
Katarina (Kate) Gruener married Thomas Bledsoe (Kentucky 1794)
Jewel Bledsoe married George MacFarlane (Tennessee 1836)
Their children included Jeremiah, Jefferson, Gideon, Pearl, and Clem MacFarlane
DEDICATION
For the Blue and the Gray … for those who fought, who bled and died, and for those who waged their own private wars on the home front … indeed, for all who served for the sake of conscience.
And for living historians everywhere, whose passion for seeing history remembered is sometimes perilously misunderstood.
Dear Reader,
I never wanted to write a story set during the Civil War. After years of living in the South—first Virginia, then Mississippi, and finally South Carolina, the very cradle of Secession—I learned too well how complicated the issues really were, how much we still bear the imprint of the conflict, and it was far from my interests or ability to try to touch anything that sensitive. I found Revolutionary War history far more fascinating—and safe.
But one does not breathe the air of Charleston (really, any of the South) and not absorb some of that history. So when God popped open the door and nudged me through, I had to be obedient.
I knew, however, that I didn’t want to write just another Civil War novel. With so many authors who do this era very well (Jocelyn Green, wow!), I hoped to spin a story that would complement rather than compete with what’s already in print. It helped that my editor initially encouraged me not to write a “plantation story” but to choose more of a middle-class setting, specifically from those who were not slaveholders—because non-slaveholders comprised, honestly, the vast majority of Southern society. In serving up, then, a little more obscure sliver of history, and a much more obscure social strata, I hope I have done them justice.
It was still enormously difficult. How could I show the plight of enslaved people? Explore the issue of abolition? Again, so many stories already give such an excellent treatment of these issues. Doubtless many will find fault because they are not the main focus, here.
You may
also find it much different than my other stories, set during the colonial and early Federal eras. A bit of that is due to my attempt to write within period voice. Historical voices of any time have tended to be far more wordy than we moderns are used to, but primary sources from the Civil War era seem particularly so. Because of this, I took some liberty in turns of phrase and descriptions, and a more generous use of adverbs than I otherwise might.
A note about period terms and political thought. In the North, this conflict was referred to as the War of the Rebellion, while the South regarded it as hostility and invasion on the part of the North, whatever view individuals held on the issue of slavery. Militarily, Federal and Confederate are the proper terms for the respective armies, while the colloquial terms were Yankees and Rebels. Political leanings were described as Unionist and Secessionist. Both sides emphasized that slavery was at best a side issue, and I will not belabor that point here, although many who are much more intelligent and articulate than I have argued otherwise. Because I’ve always been a proponent of examining an issue from both, or all, sides, my intent is to portray the people of this time with as much accuracy—and yes, sympathy—as I can.
There are particular racial terms I avoid, simply because they are too inflammatory and, like the use of other language, largely unnecessary to get one’s point across. I do use the term Negro, which simply means “black” in Spanish and was a common term for those of African descent during the time, and darky, which was often used as a self-identifier.
No other time period evokes such visceral reactions, even now—or especially now. This would be the greatest reason why I approached this story with trepidation. Grown men and women still argue the politics of the period online. And even as I write this note, preparing to turn in my finished story to my editor, a heated discussion takes place on a well-known writers’ forum on the subject of underrepresentation of diverse cultures and ethnicities within the publishing industry, which then expands to debate over race relations and whether “whites” can ever really understand the plight of other ethnicities. One might extend that line of questioning to other areas. Can I, as a woman, ever presume to know what goes on in the mind of a man? Or as a middle-class modern myself, can I even begin to know what it was like to live in other time periods? It is the studied practice of novelists, however, to write about things we do not know. One might say that our stories are at best educated guesses at the experiences of others—does that make our stories any less valid?
Let us not forget that the cause of abolition in our country, and some could argue the Civil War itself, was fueled by the fictional work of one white woman presuming to write about the experiences of enslaved blacks. Yes … Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe. I am not arguing on behalf of “white privilege” or anything like it—just pointing out the powerful nature of story.
If you find my story enjoyable, thank you. If you find it lacking, I still thank you—because regardless, I appreciate the time and effort given to reading my work.
Blessings!
Shannon
Judge me, O God, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation: O deliver me from the deceitful and unjust man. For thou art the God of my strength: why dost thou cast me off? why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?
PSALM 43:1–2
Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully.
–Abraham Lincoln’s second inaugural address, March 4, 1865
Hold the line! For the love of God, hold it!”
Not for the first time, Joshua Wheeler wondered if he’d descended into hell. The sun blazing fierce enough to make his head ache even through a cap. The flash of fire from his own rifle as well as those to his right and left. Answering fire from across the forested, rock-strewn gully. The burn of gun smoke in his nostrils, and the screams of men above the continuous concussion of shots, both rifle and artillery, pounding through his chest.
Oh God, save us …
Fire, reload, fire again. Over and over.
God … if You do love us …
Cursing, frantic. “Hold—the—line!”
There was no holding. The return fire was too hot, the Rebels pressing hard, and those on both sides of Josh either falling back or—falling. A curse was on his own tongue as he reloaded just one more time—
Something struck him, but he barely felt it. Stared in shock at his shredded sleeve, the forearm dangling above the wrist. Tried to make his hand move, but—nothing.
The pitch of the cries around him changed to a warble, the distress of his fellow Union soldiers and the unholy glee of the Rebels alike fading as the ground rushed up to meet him….
Hell took on a different face when he awoke. Darkness wrapped him about with lingering heat. A low moan rumbled from his left, while a whimpering came from his right. And somewhere not far away, the rasp as of a saw and the unmistakable scream of a man in mortal agony.
Pretty sure that had been him, not long ago.
He tried to move—but fire lit through that left arm, coursing up and into his shoulder and the rest of his body. A yelp escaped his throat before he could stop it.
God … oh God …
His mama’s voice. “Don’t you be takin’ the name of our Lord in vain, now!”
His breath came ragged. “I didn’t mean to, Mama.”
A slow, deep voice rolled out of the dark. “I reckon I ain’t your mama, but can I get you anything, soldier?”
He startled at both the nearness and cadence. “I—water. Please.”
A hand behind his neck and tin cup brought to his lips. Trying not to whimper again, but then the blessed coolness of water on his lips, into his mouth.
Maybe this wasn’t hell after all.
As he gratefully took another gulp, approaching voices overlaid the moaning around him.
“Local boy, and we’re gonna have to go tell his family.”
“While you’re at it, see if they have room for some of our prisoners to convalesce. Perhaps those less likely to survive the train journey to Richmond. Our own boys need attention, here, and there are more yet on the field.” The cultured accent of a Virginia native paused, giving way to the brief sound of boots shifting on the floor. “Portius, can any of these men be made ready to transport soon?”
“Yes, sir,” came the voice of his attendant. Tennessee, if Josh didn’t miss his guess. “This one’s awake. Not sure for how long, though.”
His pulse stuttered. Wait. Was he then a prisoner? Or—
Josh swallowed. “Sir.” He cleared his throat, tried again. “Where am I, sir?”
“And who do I have the honor of being addressed by?”
His shoulder and arm were on fire again. “Sergeant Joshua Wheeler, First Ohio, Army of the Cumberland, sir.”
A huff answered him, which might have been a sardonic laugh or something else entirely. “Well, Sergeant, you are now in the company of the Army of Tennessee.” A definite short laugh, now. “Welcome to the Confederacy, son. You may consider yourself a prisoner at this time.”
September 21, Southern Tennessee
The guns were silent now, over on West Chickamauga Creek and across the mountains. But as quiet fell, sullen and smoky under the moonlight, Pearl MacFarlane’s tears would not cease.
She never knew a body could cry so many tears.
All three of her older brothers gone now. First Jeremiah at Shiloh, then Jefferson at Fishing Creek, and now Gideon—here. In the very hills they’d run as children.
Pearl drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and let her body sag against the porch post. Clem’s sniffling still carried across the yard, likely from around the corner and behind the woodpile out back. Pa had taken hims
elf straight to bed. If Mama were still here—well, it would kill Mama all over again.
Instead, all three of them had gone ahead to greet Mama in heaven. Wouldn’t she be glad.
A fresh, hot stream poured down her cheeks at the thought.
Lucky.
Word was that the Confederacy had driven the Federals back this day through Rossville Gap and maybe even as far as Chattanooga. General Longstreet, all the way from Virginia, had swept in to help. But what good was victory if the blood of their finest lay spilled into the ground?
Never mind that her brothers had only cared about defending that ground and were only too glad to go into the fight.
All three lay in the very earth they’d fallen upon, if one counted Gideon’s being laid to rest today beside Mama. Pearl wished all three could be buried there, but they hadn’t the means to find and bring the other two home. With only her and Clem left of the MacFarlane clan, and Pa being nearly an invalid, they’d barely enough resources to scratch out a living, much less go trying to find family who were long since in the grave.
Pearl buried her face in a corner of the shawl—a beautiful Oriental weave of cream and tan and brown, presented to Mama from Pa as a courting gift years before. Mama’s scent was long gone, but Pearl inhaled anyway, out of habit.
No, she wouldn’t wish Mama back, not in the midst of such trouble.
A slight rumble broke the quiet from somewhere down the road, growing louder by the moment. Pearl stiffened. Why would a wagon be coming this late?
The rumble resolved into a rattle, and through scraggly brush lining the road, the shape of a pair of horses and wagon could be seen, the canvas cover a white blur in the dark. As the rig turned into their yard, Pearl patted the weight of the old flintlock pistol in her skirt pocket, then stepped out from under the shadow of the porch.
Two men sat on the wagon seat, one driving and the other cradling a rifle. Both tipped their hats to her as the wagon rolled to a stop below the porch. “Evenin’, miss,” the driver said.
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