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...

The Hornets' Nest was stirred at Shiloh and the blood filled the pond that day. It was not long before the North had control of Missouri and northern Arkansas. And Grant was still after the South's waterways. New Orleans was seized, closing the Mississippi River to southern commerce, Grant's best hopes becoming reality. The Confederacy was slowly deprived of manufacturing capacity. And men. They scrapped for food, clothing, and ammunition. Slowly but surely, they became the ragtags. April 12, 1862 ". . . You watch, Henry, but stay close. I love you, son." "And I love you, Papa." With those sentiments expressed, T.G.'s emotions were stirred again. He was gripped by homesickness to an indescribable degree. He turned his back on his son and went inside the tent. His father had said to stay close, Henry mused. A comforting thought expressed by a faithful father. Henry added some logs to the fire, stoked it good to keep his father warm, and pa...