Gentle Reader, it is possible you have heard or read some of this Civil War type story before. But Peg and I are going to spend this coming weekend at the re-enactment of the Civil War Battle of Honey Springs which was the largest Civil War battle west of the Mississippi River involving Caucasian, Black, and several Native American tribes in a desperate struggle for the control of Fort Gibson, the main installation that controlled the western supply route along the Texas Road. I do not know if my Grandfather Redwine fought in this battle which occurred July 17, 1863 near what is now Checotah, Oklahoma. If he did, it would have been as a teenager on the side of the Confederacy. However, as he eventually ended up in this particular area immediately after the Civil War, I choose to believe that scenario. Anyway, as with many families, our history wanders through numerous thickets of possibilities. In this regard I am returning to what I choose to believe may be a part of the Redwine lore. Should you have seen or read the story before, I hope you will indulge me.
My father was born in 1905 in Indian Territory, what later became Oklahoma in 1907. My grandfather Redwine was born in Georgia in 1848, 13 years before the Civil War began. After the war he moved to Indian Country, declared himself a minister and sought to save souls among non-United States citizens. At a makeshift church-camp meeting he was preaching from a wagon hitched to a team that bolted. Grandpa was thrown off the wagon, hit his head, died from the fall and was buried by his flock right where he fell. The location of his grave was slowly forgotten by all but a few of his family.
During the Viet Nam War the anti-war protestors raised so much Cain our government sought to ease the pressure by honoring deceased veterans from prior wars. As the great Woke Movement had not yet begun, sometimes “veteran” included Civil War soldiers from both sides. As my paternal grandfather was a Georgia teenager during the war years 1861-1865, he must have been counted as a war veteran. The details of his allegiance were not noted.
However, Gentle Reader, my maternal great, great grandfather who was born in La Grange, Indiana served with the Iron 44th of the Union forces. My family was rather ecumenical. Regardless, Grandfather Redwine was included in the whole class and was deemed entitled to a bronze marker for his grave only 100 or so years after his service.
Therefore, the War Department sent out a representative to Oklahoma but he could not locate Grandpa’s grave. So, he contacted my first Cousin, Pal Gene Redwine in Wilburton, Oklahoma to enlist his help. Pal Gene was an accommodating and friendly guy who had been to our grandfather’s grave. He agreed to help but suggested that our Uncle Henry might be even more knowledgeable and brewed excellent moonshine besides. They proceeded to Uncle Henry’s still.
Uncle Henry was as affable as Pal Gene. He insisted his latest vintage be taste-tested before they went to find Grandpa’s grave. The federal man and Pal Gene felt it impolite to refuse such hospitality so a few hours were spent trying to get directions to Grandpa’s rural resting site. Of course, such mental exercise required chemical assistance.
Eventually, Pal Gene and the Veteran’s Affairs official left Uncle Henry’s with Grandpa’s marker and sought the mysterious grave. They never found it but did manage to lose the marker somewhere along the search. Talk about honor in the breach, or, just desserts if one is not a Rebel.
