The Barker family lives in a remote valley of Tennessee during the Civil War, finding themselves in the chaos of the bloody conflict. Although to many the issues are black and white, the Barkers exist in a world of uncertainty. To protect their homes and lives, they must often reevaluate their beliefs in the midst of life altering upheaval. Their valley neighbors are no different. They also must make quick decisions about loyalty, family, and duty. The Sequatchie Valley is not one of wealth, but it is one of beauty. War threatens at their very doorsteps, and actions have far-reaching and unexpected consequence. Even as the war comes to an end, things are no easier. The country might be under the guise of peace, but conflicts do not cease. The Barker's isolation brings dangerous people to their realm. Externally, they must fight as they heal from the physical and emotional scars of the Civil War. They will persevere, as Americans always have, but at what price? Broken Valley A Wartime Story of Isolation, Fear and Hope in a Remote East Tennessee Valley By Gregory L. Wade iUniverse LLC Copyright © 2014 Gregory L. Wade All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4917-2501-6 CHAPTER 1 Will Barker July 1872 My name is William Barker, Jr. Folks just call me Will. The last eleven years of my life have been shaped by the Civil War and the journey to put it behind me. In our remote part of Tennessee, lives were once defined by scratching out a living in a beautiful yet unforgiving place. We were accustomed to hard times, but with the war came evil, an evil not easily described. Some of it was black and white; some of it was gray, an evil of circumstances. Although I tell this story from what I saw and the help of what others shared, one thing is for sure: the war taught different things to different folks. Some still struggle to get along. One thing we all agree on is that just across the horizon, life can change quickly. Will Barker Summer 1861 The muscular red horse pawed at the water along the bank, stomping his hoof in the mud. Sam is my favorite horse. I've known him all my life. We use him to plow and we're together a lot during the times we're not working. He is a dark brown red with an almost black mane and tail. Most folks say he is an impressive horse, strong and low with great power. Today, my father sent me and Sam to Howell Barker's to return the ax he left at our place for Pa to retool. I like riding over the rolling fields to the ford and across the river, the Sequatchie River. It's a brown, muddy, and sometimes sluggish stream, not at all like the big river, the Tennessee. Unless it's flowing really fast, Sam plunges right in. No pulling on the reigns can stop him. The water didn't bother him and it kept flies at bay, but it always meant more curry time. My pa insists I take care of Sam. Sometimes we find piles of shells from clams near the river, covered with bank brush and partially buried. Pa said the Injuns would open them up and pile them along the rivers as they ate their insides. I never saw an Indian, but we heard stories about their ways. Finding pots and arrow heads, I daydream about those days and how curious men would go along the riverbank just as I did, looking for what the stream might have deposited after the latest rain. But most of the time we just figured they didn't have much to eat and we were glad we didn't have to eat from the foul smelling shells. We couldn't help but wonder about those that did. Pa warned me to get to the Barkers' and back home. Not to "tarry," as he liked to say. Since the war began, people were on edge. Most quit talking about politics to avoid the certain disagreements that would come. All I thought about was the excitement it would bring. The war hadn't come here in mid-1861, to my disappointment. Like everything else in the valley, the excitement would be elsewhere and my folks hoped it stayed that way. But I wanted to see the soldiers, meet some real horsemen, and hear a cannon's roar. The only time I saw anything exciting was going over the mountain to the city, big river, and the general stores. Taking the ferry that creaked across the water. Now that, to me, was a good time. Sam finished inhaling gallons of water, the muddy color never bothering him. When the horse began to drink, no one could stop him until he finished. How he could drink the foggy water, I always wondered, but he did and did it with great skill. His ears folded back and he would paw at the river's mud, as if hoping to uncover some treasure. We slogged across the river at the ford, near the footpath. Some folks said the river was more like a creek, most days. But when it rained hard, it separated folks on either side into two slivers in the narrow valley. Today, Sam and I went across, my feet getting a little damp. That was fine since it was a warm early summer day so Mama wouldn't switch me for getting wet. I'm thirteen and Mama's whippings are getting a little embarrassin