Joab ambled Star down the dark street, pulling his jacket close for warmth. It was quiet in Oxford except for the wind that whistled and blew hard through the limbs of the oak trees. He turned his horse toward The University and slumped in the saddle while Star clopped along on the hard-packed dirt street. The lamps were turned up to a high flame, standing vigil over the few students who were still out making their way to the dormitories. He rode up on the hill, the little cemetery for Confederate soldiers killed at Shiloh and Corinth. Just when Joab thought that Shiloh held the Balm in Gilead, he found the bitter gall of the tomb, the burial grounds of those who gave a full measure—then and now. He remembered the day he walked the wood planked bridge over the Tishomingo Stream at Brice's Crossroads, the ride up the ridge to Shiloh Hill. And now he was in Oxford where Whiskey Smith under the Union flag had tried to melt down the city. Joab thought Shiloh was his place of peace...

Trail to William Faulkner Home,  Oxford, MS Amazing That God Shows His Approval In Such Splendid Ways. December 17, 1870 Joab rode up on the campus about ten minutes before noon, the first to arrive, so he thought. He sat on his horse for a moment, breathing deep. The cold air refreshed him. He was handsome in his dark denim trousers and the only white shirt he owned. Mrs. Raines had starched and meticulously ironed it. The pleats lay in tight creases across the front and the blousy sleeves fluttered in the slightest December wind. His hair was clean and straight, barely touching his shoulders. His face was clean shaven. He wore no hat, not wishing to accentuate any cowlicks today. Drawing a deep breath, he exhaled and relaxed as best he could on such a glorious occasion, prayed that amidst the unsteadiness of the times this would be one perfect day. When he looked up, wagons full of people and riders on horseback were coming out of the woods on that end of The Univer...