An M-1 at Fort Donelson

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It was a wet winter in north central Tennessee, rainy and chilly in Stewart County, and rivers and branches were on the rise. The day had been mild, almost like spring; there had been a rare winter thunderstorm and just before it quit raining a lightning bolt split the big old oak down by the creek.

The smell of ozone still hung in the air when Jem Hardaway caught sight of the stranger, afoot—on shank’s mare, Aunt Jessie called it—plodding through the woodlot toward the house.

Jem, sitting on the white-columned veranda, called over his shoulder: “Rich, bring me my gun.”

“Yas suh, Mistuh Jem,” said the slave, and disappeared into the house.

It might be an unnecessary precaution. There hadn’t been any Yankee raiders in this area and the white trash stayed away from Five Oaks. But the word had come down that Fort Henry, twelve miles west, had fallen and Federal scouts might be out.

Jem sat in the wicker-backed chair, rocking gently and looking out at the twilight sky. Jem’s grey coat lay across his shoulders against the cold, moist breeze from the southwest. Thin curry-comb clouds skimmed across the sky and black Uncle Jobe, quoting his ancient joints, was predicting snow in the next few days.

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