Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“How long have I been bringing you here, Dan?” Jack asked as the younger man moved about with evening chores before settling down.

“Over twenty years, I suppose. I think I was five or six the first time.”

“And before that-before you were born, in fact,” Jack said, reminiscing. “I took your sister fishing in the back streams of Alaska during my years up there. Brave lass she was, too. Kodiak bear upstream as we waded in the water, salmon swirling around our hip-waders lookin’ for a place to spawn. You should’ve seen that slip of a girl-couldn’t have been more than twelve-in her hip-waders. Looked like chest waders, all folded down to her size. Seems like only yesterday.” The older man reached with a stick to stir the fire, then said, “It’s been a good life. No complaints to speak of, except losing your grandmother too soon.”

Dan continued straightening up the campsite, thinking about his grandmother’s death and the struggle Jack had gone through to adjust to life without her. Dan had always been close to his grandfather, but when Susan died, it was as though they added another dimension to their relationship.

Dan put away the last scrap of food, out of smell and sight of any nocturnal animals, then pulled a sweater over his head and came to sit on a log near the fire. They sat for a time, enjoying the warmth and colors of the blaze.

“Jack, you told me some time back you were opposed to the secession, but what do you think is going to happen? What should I expect?”

The old man sat quietly for a few moments, drinking his coffee.

“That what you brought me up here for, son?”

“No. I just wanted to cook your meals, blow up your air mattress, and see to your every comfort,” Dan kidded. “Seriously, Granddad, when I was drilling with my guard unit a few weeks back, some of us were discussing the next election. One of the other officers-a ‘brigade boy,’ as you call ’em-challenged me that one day I might be called upon to decide if I was going to be an American or a Californian. If the previous election results are any indicator, it looks as though we might have to make that choice.”

“You think it could come to that?”

“Can’t tell yet, Granddad. But a lot of folks are pressing the issue. And some powerful organizations-financial and political-are behind the push.”

“And you?” Jack asked.

“You know how I feel about this valley, Jack. And I know what you told me after the primaries-about being an American.”

Jack nodded. “I guess you think you’ve heard all the family stories, don’t you?”

“Yep,” Dan said, looking at his grandfather through the flickering sparks rising up from the campfire into the darkness.

“The twins, Howard and Frank-I told you about them?”

“You’ve told me many stories about how Howard settled Rumsey Valley, but not much about his brother.”

“Well, maybe there’s something to be learned from what happened to them.” Jack reached for the coffeepot and refilled his tin cup before going on.

“In 1828, my great-great grandfather, Tomas Rumsey, was still living in Connecticut, where his family had been for nearly two centuries. He had a scrap with his father about marrying the Hawkins girl, so he took his new bride and moved down to South Carolina, where he eventually bought a small parcel of land and took up tobacco farming.

“In 1830 they had a baby girl, and then in ’33, they had the twins, Howard and Frank. When the boys were nineteen, they both got an appointment to West Point and graduated together in 1856. By 1860, they were both captains, with Howard stationed in Washington and Frank down in Tennessee. Well, you know what happened in ’61. The boys met at the homestead in Carolina to decide their futures. Their dad, Tomas, was in poor health by then, and they came home only in time to bury him. Immediately after the funeral, the two brothers argued bitterly. South Carolina troops had fired on Fort Sumter, and Carolina had pulled out of the Union. Frank ended up resigning his Army commission and taking a confederate commission with a South Carolina regiment.

“Howard stayed with the Union, went back to Washington, and was later assigned to Meade’s staff. General Meade assumed command of the army of the Potomac in ’63, two days before Gettysburg, and Howard went with him. He was in the bulwarks on Cemetery Ridge when Pickett’s boys, including a South Carolina regiment, came so gallantly across that field. It wasn’t Frank’s outfit, but Howard had no way of knowing if his brother was there or not. After it was all over, Howard wrote a poem about it. In it, he said the Southern troops were the bravest men he’d ever seen.”

Dan sat quietly, enthralled by this new story, potentially a significant addition to his novel. “Jack, I really thought I’d heard them all over the years. Why haven’t you ever told me about this?”

“Kind of a family secret, I guess. Usually the story just jumps forward to Howard Rumsey’s trek west. He was a colonel by the end of the war. The brothers got together once again for a brief time at the Carolina homestead after the rebels surrendered. Their mother had died during the war, and their older sister had married. Howard got home first, and when Frank came back from two years in a Yankee prison camp, he was minus one arm-lost at Chickamauga. As the family version of the story goes, they didn’t argue, but Howard agreed to leave the farm to Frank and left to come West. They never saw each other again.”

“But that’s not the whole story, is it, Jack?” Dan asked.

“Nope,” the old man replied, pausing to drink his coffee.

Dan sat quietly, smiling inwardly at Jack’s habit of dragging out things other people wanted to know. After several long moments, Jack smiled in return, and Dan knew his grandfather was wise to him.

“So, anyway, I found out some years back-from a distant cousin on Frank’s side of the family-that this family reunion in South Carolina wasn’t entirely peaceful. It makes sense that after the war there were hard feelings against the local boys who’d served with the Yankees. With the twins’ parents gone and their sister married off to some farmer from fifty miles away, it was just the boys on the farm. That lasted about three weeks. Then Frank told Howard he wasn’t welcome anymore and to get out.”

“Weren’t they both owners-the father’s will or something?”

“Don’t know. But Frank laid it out for his brother-‘don’t want you here.’”

“What convinced him to leave?”

Jack stood and stretched his back, turning to look out over the lake and the sliver of moonlight reflecting off the water. Finally he turned back toward Dan.

“The hangings.”

“ Hangings ?” Dan got up from his log and came to stand alongside his grandfather. “Who was hanged?”

“Maybe a half-dozen returned Yankees from that part of South Carolina. It seems the local boys didn’t take kindly to them deserting their state during the war, and although the sheet-head boys were just starting up, the night riders went after who they called ‘the traitors’ before they did the freed slaves.”

“And so Frank warned Howard to leave before he-”

“That’s the way it was told to me. It sounds right, although Howard never told my granddaddy anything about it. Leastwise, nothing I ever heard about.”

Dan considered this new information, new thoughts about his family running through his head. “So, you’re telling me that if this California secession issue comes to a head-considering what just happened to McFarland-we’ll probably see more of the same.”

“Men do strange things when they get an idea stuck in their craw and think they’re heaven’s choice for being right. Those choices aren’t easy, and ‘family blood’ doesn’t always count.” Jack turned to look at Dan. “You decided where you’re going to stand, if it comes to it?”