Confederados

Alan Ables

Description

In the Spring of 1861 Union soldiers invaded Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia.  The war was new there. But, in the volatile Trans Mississippi-West Theater the conflict was much older.  Long before Fort Sumter, Unionist Jayhawkers and Confederate Bushwhackers killed with religious fervor along the Missouri-Kansas frontier and deep in the isolated Arkansas hills.  Atrocities cloaked in partisan allegiance had made enemies of family and friends in a place like none other in the young nation.  

At war’s end the wounds were deep.  The blood-soaked ground was seeded with hate.  The victor’s anti-bellum harvest was swift and bitter: it was war by other means. Southerners left for the American West and Mexico.  Some 20,000, known as Confederados, fled Reconstruction’s excesses all the way to Brazil.  All hated their righteous oppressors.  

Led by the powerful and clandestine Knights of the Golden Circle, they envisioned a new, slave-holding Southern Empire anchored in Cuba.  Men from all walks of life, openly and secretly, pursued the goal.  The James and Younger gangs – and others, prominent and unknown – poured stolen treasure into the cause. 

A new war had begun, fought until the dawn of the 20th Century by Northern victors, Southern patriots. From the Missouri Ozarks, across the American West to the jungles of Brazil, both hunted once and forever enemies to their graves.  

This is a story of that conflict.

Sujets

• Civil War Era
• Historical
• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• American Civil War
• Southern
• Fiction
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 31 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977263506
• Langue: English

Extrait

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Confederados Quest for Freedom All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 Alan Ables v4.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
Cover Photo © 2023 www.shutterstock.com . All rights reserved - used with permission. Back Cover Photo © 2023 www.mojophotomi.com . All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Dedicated to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
Always do right. This will gratify some people, And astonish the rest.
Mark Twain Note to the Young People’s Society, Greenpoint Presbyterian Church, Brooklyn, New York Feb. 16,1901
A UTHOR ’ S N OTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As I have done in previous writing, this fiction is built around historical events and people. Most significantly, this includes the Confederados , some 20,000 individuals who escaped the Reconstructionist South and fled to Brazil. Some of their families are still there. Albert Pike, Confederate generals, the James Brothers, Freemason Knights of the Golden Circle may or may not have had any involvement with them. Their actions and words are purely of my imagination. It’s all a romanticized version of history, with a touch of reality here and there, meant to entertain.
The Confederados, Old South Immigrants in Brazil , edited by Cyrus B. and James M. Dawsey, University of Alabama Press (ISBN 0-8173-0944-6), served as a rich resource. The Southern Dream of a Caribbean Empire 1854-1861, by Robert E. May, University Press of Florida (ISBN-13: 978-0813025124), is an excellent scholarly source.
Special thanks is due Jim Mundy, historian for the Union League of Philadelphia. His knowledge is expansive. Jim is the quintessence of the gentleman and scholar. The research he provided me was invaluable. I have enjoyed his friendship for decades.
Thanks to the most gracious Red Steagall, actor, musician, poet and stage performer, who offered encouragement for the writing of this novel. His radio and television programs celebrate the lifestyle of the American West through the poems, songs and stories of the American cowboy. Red’s Confederado ancestor Robert Stell Steagall is buried at Campo, Santa Barbara, Brazil.
C HAPTER 1
It is all an act.
The wiry little man first makes a theatrical show of his arrival. Deliberately, one slow-motion step after another, he lifts a knee high and stomps down heavily, happy at the loud, hollow noise it makes. After six more exaggerated steps, he stops. With feet wide, hands on hips, he bends forward at his waist and scowls down at the young man doing his best to pretend he’s seeing and hearing nothing.
Next, the tableau continues, with more drama. With his feet firmly planted wide apart, the prankster, with the wild-eyes of a lunatic, throws his arms wide, stretches to his full five-foot, five-inches. With his bearded face raised he shouts, "The words of the prophets are ANCIENT, and they are TRUE!"
The words launch over the tidy flower bed flanking the porch stairs and land unnoticed in the whispering pine boughs across the grassy yard. Motionless, he holds the pose as though expecting some reaction. None comes from the young man who only shakes his head. Only the family’s old Hereford reacts. Tied to a porch post awaiting afternoon milking, she looks up, twitches her tail, continues chewing her cud. Acting as though greatly disappointed, the little man drops his chin to his chest, exhales a long sigh and grabs his greying beard with both hands.
The final act is high art. From the corner of his eye, he steals a glance at the boy still dangling his legs off the porch, pleased with his eye-rolling tolerance of such antics. He holds the pose and – with a great lurching motion – again jerks upright. Again, he flings his arms wide. With face lifted toward the rafters and flexing his fingers as though seizing something invisible in the humid August air, he shouts, even louder, "The ancient prophesy is true. A cool breeze on a hot day is worth PECK-o- SHEQULS !"
There’s no applause, but he is still pleased with his little performance. He slaps his dusty overalls with one hand and tousles the boy’s blond hair with the other. He chuckles contently while retreating toward his well-worn cane-bottom chair. He gently eases into it and pulls a handkerchief from his bib overalls. He mops his face with it as though he’d just accomplished some great labor. He laughs seeing the boy slap his forehead with an open palm and moan as if in pain.
Isidor is not finished with his impersonation of a crazy old crank. He leans forward and aims a long, slightly bent index finger at the boy who has finally turned to look at him. He punctuates each word of his punch line: Aye gosh, my boy, that IS the truth, and the TRUTH shall set you FREE !"
Roz, short, plumpish, appears at mid-performance. She manages a smile at his corny shtick . She is as fast as Isidor. " Mei oui, bien-aimé ," she replies demurely and carefully sits her tray on the low table between their chairs, "But not free from weeding or milking, eh professeur ?" She wipes her hands on her apron and gathers her skirts. She sits gracefully and begins her task. Roz pours coffee into three delicate Limoges cups, placing the first in her husband’s hard hands.
The next cup goes to young Benjamin, now cross-legged facing the old couple. He knows Isidor well. With eyebrows lifted he smiles and takes his shot, "And, it must be true, dear Papa, that even on a hot day, there is no escaping the rantings of a crazy old man!"
Isidor nods approvingly. The last word will be his, "Aye, gosh, well done! You are right! Such wisdom from our own hakham!"
Roz laughes loudest. She takes her cup. Lifting it, she peers over the rim at Isidor, then Ben. " Oui , to our wise man, our hakham , l’chaim !"
The cups were cherished by the little family gathered in the shade of the long porch. The pieces were used only on special days. August 2 was prominent among them. It was the day in 1846 the young bride packed it with care and escaped Paris’ Marais Jewish Quarter. Even while they lived in a tent on their new forty-acre homestead on Missouri’s raw western frontier, she would set them on a split-log table as a reminder that life is short, that life is good.
The little ritual, never seen by anyone but them, is typical. Strangers in a strange land fourteen years ago, they now own nearly two-hundred acres of crops and pasture on what folks all around know as The Flint Pace. It includes a stone spring house, several outbuildings and a barn for crops and a growing herd. They have expanded the home three times, the biggest addition a second level over the widened structure, built around the original cabin. It is now one of the largest dwellings for miles around.
And time had brought more than prosperity. Isidor has earned a good name. Even though Missouri has been a state for four decades, courts and law enforcement remain scarce, schools rarer still. Isidor had filled a void. A self-taught scholar, he schooled neighboring children – and adults – in seasons prior to planting and following harvest. So respected is his judgement by old and young that he serves as arbitrator of legal issues between visits from circuit-riding judges. All note that his findings have never been overruled.
August 2 means much to Isidor and Roz, and – for similar and slightly different reasons – for Benjamin, too. Not knowing the actual day, it is the day given him as a birthday.
***
The Flints dream began nearly sixteen years ago with letters from Isidor’s uncle, an emigrant to America in 1835. An attorney, he settled in Kansas City to serve a growing list of clients well and wisely. His letters told of unlimited opportunity, where a man could own land, start a business, be free.
When money and a copy of Appleton’s travel guide to the western United States arrived, the Flint’s choice was clear. They could continue to struggle against prejudice and persecution or risk all in a new world, not perfect, but full of opportunity.
They boarded a clipper ship in Calais. Two weeks later they landed in New York. Isidor wanted no part of the big city, another but much better Paris, he thought. With the well-worn copies of Appleton’s and Stephen’s Farming Bible in hand, they continued westward.
The distances alone seemed otherworldly to the emigrants. The landscape like nothing they had ever seen, mile after mile mostly deserted. After two more weeks of travel by rail and wagon, the river before them was no exception. There was neither anything like the mile-wide Mississippi River in France, nor a bridge over it connecting Illinois to Saint Louis. A