by Bobby Akart
During the latter part of 1861 and into early 1862, the Civil War reached levels of violence that shocked the North and South alike. For months, the Union Army had worked its way up the Tennessee and Cumberland rivers. By February 1862, Kentucky was firmly in Union hands and the fight came to Nashville, Tennessee’s capital. Major General William Harvey Lamb Wallace, an Illinois attorney, commanded the second brigade against the confederate stronghold of Fort Donelson. The southerners attacked Wallace’s brigade with a vengeance, killing over five hundred Union soldiers. Wallace prevailed nonetheless, but the battle had a profound effect upon him.
A collision was coming between the mighty armies of Major General Ulysses S. Grant and the confederate forces led by Generals Albert Johnston and Pierre Beauregard. On the morning of April 6, 1862, General Grant was having coffee at the home of William and Annie Cherry — Cherry Mansion, located on the east bank of the Tennessee River in Savannah. Grant was joined by General Wallace and General Prentiss, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Cherry.
Mrs. Cherry, a southern sympathizer, had been irritated with her husband, a pro-Union partisan, for allowing the Union generals to occupy their home. Cherry had assured her that the stay was temporary while they awaited their troops in Nashville to join them.
Nonetheless, this was an opportunity for her to voice her displeasure to her guests about the war between the states.
“My family has never owned slaves,” said Mrs. Cherry. “This is only one aspect of why this confrontation with the government was necessary. Every state, north and south alike, was granted the power to govern its people by the Constitution. As Washington continues to force it’s will upon us, our hand was forced.”
“Madame, I am a guest in your home and as such, I will respect your opinion,” started General Grant. “But I must remind you that it was the Confederacy which fired the first shot upon our Nation at Fort Sumter almost one year ago. President Lincoln did not wish to pursue a war, he merely wants to preserve our Union.”
Mrs. Cherry persisted. “But is it not true that President Lincoln is using slavery as an excuse to spread his brand of federalism across the South. In fact, the issue of slavery is a means to an end. He wishes to force our state governments to stop exercising our sovereign powers.”
Mr. Cherry stepped in. “Now, Annie, please. General Grant is a guest in our home. He is not here for political discussions nor will he change his plans based upon …”
The pounding on the front door startled the group and a soldier abruptly entered the foyer.
“General, a courier has arrived sir,” announced Grant’s aide-de-camp.
“Read the message,” said General Grant.
“Sir, from the south, elements of the armies of the Confederacy, Crew’s Battalion, have advanced across Pittsburg Landing. A larger advance has been observed from the armies of Generals Johnston and Beauregard.”
Grant stood and slammed his coffee onto the table. This development complicated his strategy of awaiting General Don Carlos Buell, Commander of the Army of Ohio to march to Savannah along the Natchez Trace from Nashville. One the two armies were merged, Grant intended to engage the forty-four thousand troops of the Confederacy gathered at Corinth, Mississippi. His goal was to cut off their supply lines by destroying the Confederate railroad center there.
“As surprise attack, sir?” asked General Wallace.
“Indeed, William,” replied Grant. “This is Johnston’s doing. He’s the finest general in the south and he deserves our respect. We have to move quickly to slow his advance until General Buell arrives.”
Grant pulled out a map of the area which identified Shiloh, Pittsburg Landing, and Savannah along the Tennessee river. He began to trace his fingers across the map.
“Johnston will move along the banks of the river, using the landing at Pittsburg to resupply,” he began. “That places the strength of their forces within two miles of our main army. They’ve got to be slowed until General Buell arrives.”
General Wallace joined his side. “General, I learned at Fort Donelson that these southerners have a will to fight like no other. There passionate about their cause as opposed to being hired soldiers like the majority of our troops. From my experience, they will fight night and day to advance through our foothold.”
“If we don’t stop the advance, they’ll drive my army into the Tennessee River.”
Wallace made a suggestion. “General, allow me to reinforce our lines here, at the church located at Shiloh — meaning place of peace. My men know the enemy. They have gained the fighting spirit from their opponents. We will do our duty for you General, and the Union. We will fight fire with fire.”
General Wallace’s troops quickly advanced to the white-washed Shiloh Church where the Union’s resistance stiffened. For nearly eight hours, Wallace’s men fought in a thick area of woods near the church. General Wallace himself led the defense of a sunken road which ran past Shiloh Church. They held their position for hours until they were overrun late in the afternoon.
They valiantly sacrificed their lives to buy precious time to allow General Buell’s Army of reinforcements to arrive. They ultimately perished but the exhausted Confederates chose to wait until the break of dawn on April 7th to continue the Battle of Shiloh.
As the lines broke, Wallace was wounded by a piece of fragmented shell which struck him in the head. He lay there as the battle raged around him, unable to move or communicate. He watched his men die and the Confederate soldiers advance.
Throughout the night, he waited. He listened. The war quieted and the aura surrounding Shiloh Church settled in. The sun rose and the battle ensued. He began to see the uniforms of the Army of the Ohio — dark blue jackets with shoulder straps, adorned with nine brass buttons down the front.
General Buell had arrived in the night!
General William Wallace was removed to Cherry Mansion where he died with his wife by his side. He was hailed as a hero for turning the tide on the bloodiest battle between north and south of the time. This small area of woods at the Shiloh Church where Wallace’s men took a stand became known as the Hornet’s Nest, and is considered one of the major turning points in the Civil War.
Chapter 1
12:12 a.m., September 28
Front Gate
Shiloh Ranch
Colton tried to shield his eyes from the blinding light. A low-lying fog began to settle in, causing the ground to disappear within an eerie, dramatic glow. His mind raced, but not toward a solution.
He thought of his daughter, Alex, as a newborn. She was lying in her crib—crying. He couldn’t discern whether the grating sound of her cries were on some level from a distant memory or in the present.
His memories shifted to the moment when she was born—the moment his beloved wife, Madison, gathered the strength for one last push. He remembered Alex’s head appearing. I saw her first!
We all know about life’s forks in the road—those seminal events that create a turning point on our respective journeys. One door closes, and then another door opens. Each of us has cycles like the changes in seasons. But the moment his child was born, the moment was beyond surreal. He’d transformed from a free-wheeling, high-flying talent agent to a dad charged with the responsibility of keeping this tiny baby alive.
Everything became different for Colton when Alex was born. His world was gone, but a new one had opened up. It was much smaller, shrunk down to the dimensions of a six-and-a-half-pound squallin’ mass of baby girl. In that moment, he promised God, and his newborn’s mother, that he’d always protect their daughter.
Now, as threatening guns held by faceless men behind blinding spotlights placed the Rymans in danger, he felt utterly helpless and trapped with no way out.
Clippity-clop. Clippity-clop. Clippity-clop.
A familiar sound, yet he couldn’t place it. The fog consumed his brain and the surroundings.
A horse—approaching at a steady pace.
“Whoa!” shouted the rider. “Wha
t do we have here, boys?” The creaking sound of metal accompanied the rider as the gates to Shiloh Ranch opened. Boots crunched onto gravel as the horse whinnied.
Colton tried to speak, but couldn’t. He was back in the present but still frozen in time.
“Un hombre, dos mujeres,” replied a Hispanic voice. One man, two women.
The silhouette of a large man approached, causing Colton to instinctively step between the approaching figure and the Ryman women.
“Daddy,” whispered Alex, “what do we—”
“Lower your arms so I can see your faces,” instructed the man.
The reflection of light upon a nickel-plated sidearm caught Colton’s attention as it was pulled from the man’s holster. Colton hesitated and then lowered his arms slowly. He contemplated pulling his own weapon to defend his family but knew it would result in certain death.
The man laughed, deep-throated and genuine. “Well, slap my head and call me silly!” he roared. “If it ain’t Colton Ryman. Why you little cotton-picker! What the heck are you folks doin’ out here in the middle of the night?”
“Jake, is that you?” asked Colton, exhaling a sigh of relief so big that it could’ve knocked down the doors of all three little pigs’ homes at once.
Jake Allen holstered his weapon and stepped into the light, all six feet six inches of him. He was grinning ear to ear.
“Of course it’s me, Colton!”
Colton stepped forward to shake hands and bro-hug his old friend. “Sorry to show up unannounced. We tried to call but got your voicemail. Then my email server was having trouble and, well, you know.”
“Verizon, right?” Jake laughed. The men shared an embrace of two old friends who were both dang glad to see each other. “Ladies? Madison and Alex?”
“Hey, Jake,” replied Madison, still trembling as she received a bear hug of her own. Tears of joy and relief began to stream down her face.
“Now, c’mon, darlin’,” started Jake. “Why the tears? Did Chevy stop makin’ trucks?”
The jokes spurred the Rymans and the onlookers into laughter. It eased the tension of the earlier standoff and allowed everyone to relax. Colton said a quick prayer to God, thanking Him for restraining nervous trigger fingers on this night.
“Listen up, boys,” yelled Jake. “These folks are the Rymans from Nashville. They are pert near family. A couple of y’all grab their things and take them up to the main house.” Three of the ranch hands immediately shouldered their rifles and hopped the four-rail fencing that surrounded the Allens’ property.
“I’ll keep this, thanks,” said Alex politely as one of the men offered to take her AR-15. Colton touched his daughter on the shoulders, attempting to reassure her.
“Honey, we’re safe now.”
“I’m not giving up the rifle, Daddy.”
Colton put his arm around his daughter, who had grown up a lot in the last four weeks. “Jake, you remember Alex, don’t you?”
“Well, look at you!” exclaimed Jake. “You’re all grown up and pretty as a peach. Taller than your momma already!”
“Hey, Mr. Allen,” said Alex as she gave him a hug. Alex seemed reserved, anxious about the whole situation. Colton hoped she could find a way to relax.
“Are y’all up for a short walk?” asked Jake. “From the looks of those backpacks, it appears you’ve been hoofin’ it for a ways at least. I can have the boys run to the stables and rustle up a wagon if you’d like?”
Colton looked to the girls and then responded, “I think we can walk another half mile, if my memory serves me correctly.”
“It does,” said Jake. “This fog has been settling in along the Tennessee River for the last several days as the nights have gotten cooler. Tomorrow, we’ll walk around the place after it burns off in the morning. We’ve added some things since y’all were here last. Plus, it’s a little more crowded around Shiloh Ranch, you know, under the circumstances.”
Madison spoke up. “I hope we’re not imposing.”
“Oh no, Madison. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that we’ve added quite a few ranch hands. Life is a lot different now and more dangerous.”
Colton laughed. “That’s an understatement.”
It took the group about ten minutes to reach the main house, where candlelit lanterns swayed slightly on the ropes that held them to the wraparound porch. They talked about the last time the Rymans had visited and a little bit about the extraordinary event that led them to the front steps of the Allens’ magnificent log home.
“These solar flares happen all the time,” started Jake. “But I had no idea they could knock out all the power.”
“I did,” said Alex. “I learned about it in school and then I was able to convince Mom that the threat was real.”
“It’s hard to imagine the power of the sun until you’ve experienced it firsthand,” said Jake. “I told Emily it was kinda like a gas buildup in your belly. If it’s just a little gas, you might politely let out a little toot.”
Madison and Alex giggled. Colton simply shook his head. He could only imagine where the rest of Professor Jake Allen’s science lesson was headed.
Unfortunately, he was about to find out as Jake continued. “But let’s say you’ve got a lot of gas. You know, after eating a plate of burritos or something. This gas, you see, has to escape your belly. So it does, but still isn’t massive, right?”
The girls were in stitches. Madison was pleading for Jake to stop. “No more, Jake,” she said with tears of laughter streaming down her face.
Jake was relentless. “But, back in the day, when we were kids, sometimes you’d like to really drop one on your friends. You know, let it build up and time it just right so as to blast them real good. So you let it build up and set your internal stopwatch.”
Colton joined in the laughter. “Jake, no mas! No mas!”
“When the time is right,” Jake continued, ignoring the pleas for mercy. “You drop your F-bomb. Boom! The room is cleared out, or in the case of this solar flare—boom-boom, out go the lights!”
Now, all three of the Rymans were bent over in laughter, holding their knees. Jake hopped up the steps and opened the front door. He turned to them and proudly announced, “Welcome back to Shiloh Ranch, my friends. Mi casa, su casa!”
Chapter 2
8:00 a.m., September 28
Main House
Shiloh Ranch
Colton sopped up the red-eye gravy with a biscuit. He and Madison had woken up at sunrise in the guest bedroom facing the east. They were exhausted the night before and had forgotten to draw the curtains, creating a natural alarm clock. Not that it mattered, however, as the main house was bustling with activity before dawn.
A plate of ham and grits coupled with what was commonly referred to as poor man’s gravy made for a filling country breakfast. The Allens had a smokehouse filled with cured country ham, and when it was pan-fried over their wood-burning stove, the drippings made for a tasty sauce to add to the meal.
“The smokehouse is one of the things we’ve added since y’all were here a few years ago,” said Jake. “We built it old-school, if you know what I mean. There are no windows and only a single entrance. We’ve got a fire pit in the center, where we burn hardwoods to dry the meat. First we cure the meat with a salt rub, then we smoke it.”
“That explains it,” said Alex as she took another sip of water. “I’ve never tasted anything so salty.”
“The smokehouse was Stubby’s idea,” interjected Emily Allen, Jake’s wife. At thirty-nine, Emily was slightly younger than her husband of twenty years. They’d married when he was still a country crooner on Printer’s Alley in Nashville. The two had been through some trying times in their marriage, as Jake had enjoyed his fame, and alcohol, a little too much. But the bond they shared over their son, Chase, and Jake’s subsequent maturation kept the family together.
“Where is Stubby?” asked Madison. “I haven’t seen Bessie either.”
“Oh, they get a re
al early start.” Emily chuckled. “They get goin’ way before the crack of dawn. They feed the hands and then the livestock. Jake and I try to stay out of the way during this process.”
“The hands?” queried Alex.
“Yeah, the farmhands,” replied Jake. “We have eight now, plus our gardener and landscaper. You’ll meet them all later. Trust me, we’re one big extended family now.”
Colton removed Madison’s plate and took it to the sink, where Emily was scrubbing the dishes with a soapy sponge. His mind replayed breakfast at the Hiltons’ just a couple of days prior. He wondered if Russ and Jake knew each other.
“Do you know Russ Hilton?” asked Colton, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. Jake finished up his plate and pushed away from the table.
“We’ve met. He played a few weeks in Branson just before I opened up my place. Good man. He had a great career.”
“Like you, Russ was one of my first clients,” said Colton. “You guys are practically neighbors.”
“You’re kiddin’?”
“Nope. They bought a place up north of here in Saltillo. Russ built his own honky-tonk in the middle of town called the Hillbilly Hilton.”
“Wow, who knew?” quipped Jake. “We’ll have to check it out. By the way, are you still pickin’?”
“Great, here we go,” groaned Alex.
Colton ignored his daughter’s protestations and answered, “Yeah, now and again. Russ and I belted out a couple of tunes while we stayed the night with them. I remember our nights around the campfire from our last visit. I suppose we could pick up where we left off.”
“Heck yeah!” said Jake. “I’ve actually got a couple of new songs rollin’ around in my head. When we find the time, I’ll run ’em by ya.”
Suddenly, the door flung open and in walked Stubby Crump, who at five feet eight inches tall and nearly two hundred pounds was the textbook definition of a man built like a fireplug. In his late sixties, a lifetime of athletic endeavors maintained a muscular build with thick arms and legs and a neck that wasn’t readily visible.
