An epic story of the Civil War: the men who fight in it, the families they leave behind, and several
rascally slaves whose antics help make this story unforgettable.
Sarah Sutton and Clay
Bickford plan to marry but his class-conscious mother, Prudence, forbids their marriage and sends Clay to a distant
university. Upon learning that Sarah carries Clay’s unborn child, Prudence bans Sarah from Bickford Plantation and traps
her into marrying Adam Kent, ten years her senior.
Adam Kent—deeply
in love with Sarah, accepts her unborn child as his own and gives the boy his name—Judson Kent. Adam hates war, but
tragedy lies in wait for him.
Clay Bickford—unaware
of Sarah’s pregnancy, marries a pitiful woman of class. He becomes an attorney and joins a law firm at Yorktown to be near Sarah.
Believing Clay had betrayed her, she spurns him. When the Civil war starts, Clay joins the Confederate Army as a captain.
Judson
Adam Kent—when two drunken Union soldiers attempt to rape his mother, Jud, now seventeen, kills them and joins
the Confederate Army where he serves in Clay’s unit. In the battle of The Wilderness, both are wounded and captured
by Federals, they escape and make their way home to the woman they both love . . . neither knowing they are father and son.
Jason—son of slaves and Jud’s best friend, helps Jud and
Clay escape; he is shot by Federal soldiers.
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SARAH’S CREEK
Prologue
1864—The Wilderness,
near Fredericksburg, Virginia—
A forest once stood
here, but in the spring of 1864 only a tangle of rotted stumps, scrub trees, and underbrush remained—a virtually impenetrable
wasteland called the Wilderness. This fallow land was worthless for any practical use; yet, by coincidence of time and circumstance,
it brought together two great armies.
On May 5, 1864 tens of thousands of soldiers clashed in a fever
of war mentality. Tragically, they were of one nation, divided, as was their nation, in what they fervently believed to be
a fight for the rights of man and country.
After two days of fighting,
the sounds of musket and cannon dwindled—the Wilderness was quiet again except for the anguished cries of the wounded
and dying. During the lonely darkness of night, their cries diminished as one by one the dying gave pitiful moans and drifted
into eternal peace. On the third day, despair shrouded the battlefield as the mortal remains of brave soldiers of both armies,
were buried in shallow graves.
Brothers again—in
eternity.
For
many wounded soldiers the war was over. They limped homeward to find their families and to rebuild their shattered lives.
Two such men were Virginians: Clay Bickford III, heir to Bickford Plantation
on the Rappahannock River, and Judson Kent
from Sarah’s Creek on the York River. Clay Bickford had been born to aristocracy. Jud
Kent had not. Yet a common thread unknown
to either forged their destiny—for the same blood ran in the veins of both men.
Wounded at the Wilderness
and taken prisoner by Federals, they escaped and made their way down the Rappahannock
River to the land and people they loved, to the woman whose love they
shared, to the secret that bound them inexorably together.
Chapter 1
Coming Home—
A small sailboat appeared
in the distance. She came from upriver where the water had been calm and protected.
Upon rounding the point at Grey’s Crossing, she ran into the full force of a storm that had pounded the mouth of the
Rappahannock River
for three days. Her sail, wet and heavy, listed her dangerously as whitecaps lapped over her bow. The tiny vessel could not
last in these seas; yet she pushed onward as if sensing the urgency of her journey.
Two wretched men huddled
below the gunnel trying to escape the cold wind and drenching spray. They cursed as saltwater seeped into raw wounds, setting
them on fire.
Sprawled in the bow, a gaunt
man lay gravely wounded and in excruciating pain. His handsome gold-braided uniform, now wet and dirty, was stained with blood
oozing from a chest wound. “Damn Yankee musket ball,” he had growled.
The young man at the tiller had a gaping wound in
a his left thigh where a rifle ball had ripped through flesh and sinew until it struck bone. Infection had set in and even
the slightest movement caused agonizing pain. A huge wave crashed into the skiff and slammed him against the gunnel. He lost
his grip on the tiller causing the skiff to fall off the wind, nearly capsizing.
Grimacing, he lunged desperately for the tiller and brought the tiny craft back on its course.
Consciousness was fleeting as he searched for a creek the colonel
had described. His eyes closed for a moment. He jerked awake and splashed his face with cold water. Shivering, he cursed the
pain that ripped through him. He dozed again and jerked awake. In the distance, he saw an opening in the shoreline. Must be
the creek, he thought. Just a little longer. Please, Lord, just a little longer.
“We’re gonna
make it, Colonel.” He had to shout above the wind. Now broadside to the heavy seas, the small boat nearly swamped before
she entered the quiet waters of a wide creek.
“We’re there,
sir.” His voice faltered. “Thanks to the Lord, we’ve made it. We’re home.”
The colonel grabbed
the gunnel and tried to sit up, but weakened by the futile effort he fell back, gasping for breath, grimacing from the pain.
“See anyone?”
His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“Nary a soul.”
The youth scanned the shoreline. “Wait . . . yes, sir. Over yonder in that cove. Two slaves.”
“Tell them to
get help.” The man groaned and fell silent again.
“You all right,
Colonel?”
The colonel’s
eyes were closed, his face ashen, flaccid. He had been in fair condition when they escaped from the Yankees, but with each
passing hour, the pain had grown worse. Now it was nearly unbearable. Still he did not complain, although he surely knew he
was failing fast. “I’ll make it,” he said.
The youth steered for
the cove and shouted to the slaves who dropped their tools and came hesitantly to the water’s edge.
“This place called
Bickford?”
One of the slaves nodded.
“Yes, suh.”
Nudging the skiff to
the bank, the youth pointed to the colonel and said, “You know this man?”
The slave edged closer
to the skiff and looked in.
“Mist’ Clay!
Oh, Lawdy . . . it be Mist’ Clay!” The slave moaned, shaking his head, his mouth hanging slack. “He sho
do look bad.”
“Get help. Fast!
Colonel Bickford needs help.”
The youth slumped to
the bottom of the skiff, closed his eyes, and felt no more pain.
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