CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Leaving Cincinnati
Hundreds of miles southwest of Point Lookout Christmas of 1863 is approaching for Luke and Nathaniel also. Earlier both had crawled upon the riverbank south of Cincinnati. Nate slipped past the Union sentries to the corral where a large herd of cavalry horses were being quartered for the night. He quietly places the bridles, saddle blankets and saddles on a couple of black horses, figuring they will be harder to spot in the dark.
Softly walking the two cavalry mounts back to Luke they slowly and quietly slid onto the saddles and are about to head south toward Lexington, Kentucky, when Luke notices his horse’s saddle blanket. It is Union blue with a yellow stripe around its border. Its distinctive feature was a white star in the right and left rear corners.
Grinning, Luke looks at Nate and whispers, “Darn you Nate, did you have to steal the General’s horse?”
“Sorry, Luke, it wuz dark and you ferget I wuz in quite a bit of a hurry, I thought black would be good tho’. Here Luke, I didn’t thank they’d miss some of that good smelling bacon either,” Nate said handing Luke a couple of large pieces of fried fatback.
Chewing the meat as fast as he could, Luke answered as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “You did good Nate, real good!”
Luke estimates they should make twenty to twenty-five miles a day. Even twenty is to be a huge overestimation; the Yanks are thick as fleas on a dog’s back along the way. Most of the day Luke and Nate spent hiding out and at night it is extremely hard picking their way along the dark trails. Their twenty-five miles per day becomes more like five miles, and this on a good day.
It is impossible to use the main roads; Yankees patrol all the crossroads, and columns of moving troops are constantly coming up and down the roads. Even if they had maintained travel on the roads, the cannons and caissons pulled by their teams of six horses would probably have run them down. Early in the War cannoneers had learned when the order, ‘Move Cannons’ was issued anything or anyone in their way would get overrun. Moving those giant beasts that belched the heavy iron balls took priority over the road and anything moving on it.
Cincinnati, Ohio to Lexington, Kentucky is a mere eighty or eighty-five miles. Luke figures this is only a four or five-day journey. He again is overly optimistic; they have traveled the better part of two weeks to reach Lexington. Lexington is a town heavily garrisoned with Union troops. There is no way to pass straight through without being challenged by a Yankee; they must make a large circle on the east side to by-pass the main part of town. Ride at night, hide out in the daytime becomes their daily routine.
As they are making their detour around Lexington Luke asks Nate about their food supply. Checking the saddlebag, Nate replies, “Old Mother Hubbard ain’t got nothin’ in the cupboard, the pantry is plum empty.”
“Nate, I know it is taking an enormous chance, but I have to sneak in to Lexington and find us some food. The prospects of finding food after going farther south will be mighty slim.”
“But Luke, we’s ain’t got no money and nothin’ to trade.”
“I still have my grandfather’s gold pocket watch. Lexington is a Rebel town; although, the Yankees have it occupied, I believe I might find someone that will barter with me. You stay hidden here in the woods until I return Nate and do not get caught.” Reemphasizing his instruction, “You hear me Nathaniel? Don’t you get caught!”
Luke moves slowly through the woods until he comes to the main road. As he follows the road toward Lexington he approaches a steep curve in the road ahead, moving into the woods he dismounts. Tying his horse to a tree, he slips through the dense undergrowth until he can see the curve clearly. His instincts are correct. Just around the turn is a detachment of Union infantry. Two sentries are manning posts on either side of a country crossroads. Down on his hands and knees Luke quietly crawls close enough to hear the guard’s conversation. He hears one say they were attached to the 7th U.S. Cavalry. The other guard made reference that the commander was Brigadier General Stoneman. Luke learns the General’s headquarters is stationed at Mount Sterling; however, Luke has no idea where Mount Sterling is.
He also overhears General Stoneman was captured at the Battle of Brian’s Station, close to Frankfort, Kentucky and General George Armstrong Custer assumed command of the 7th.
Making his way back through the woods to his horse, he mounts and returns to Nate.
“Nate change jackets with me. I need your Yankee blue one.”
“What’s you doin’ Luke, with you wearin’ yer blue-belly britches and my blue-belly jacket, theys gonna shoot you as a spy foreshore.”
“I hope not. I’ve got me an idea.”
Entering the main road again, he digs his heels in the horse’s flanks, going from a slow walk to a fast gallop. Rounding the curve in the road the two sentinels step out to block the rider’s path. Luke sees them and yells, “Out of my way you men! Get out of my way, I order you!”
“Halt, or we’ll shoot!” The guards answer, raising their Springfield muskets to their shoulders.
Pulling his reins he slows his horse from a gallop to a walk, and yells, “You idiots! Don’t you recognize me?”
One of the Yankee privates orders, “Advance and be recognized!”
Walking up to the two sentries, one of them asks Luke, “What’s the password?”
Luke responds, “Password the Devil, I don’t know no d*** password! Don’t you recognize me, I’m General Stoneman; I understand General Custer has taken command of my 7th Cavalry! Where is he, still at the Mount Sterling Headquarters?”
Seeing the General’s white star on the saddle blanket one sentry says, “Sir, but...but Sir, they said the Rebs captured you at the battle of Brian’s Station?”
Luke staying in character, “You fool, do I look the h*** like I’m captured. I’m dressed as a private so I could escape, now git your fool selves out of my way before I have you court-martialed and shot.”
The two sentries, never having seen General Stoneman, salute and jump aside as Luke slaps his horse’s flanks with his reins. “General Custer, he’s at Mount Sterling,” one of the sentries yells as Luke gallops past them and rides down the road and out of sight.
THE BLACK HORSE TAVERN
A couple of miles down the road Luke approaches a decrepit, old, roadside tavern. A faded, wooden, sign swings from a rusty, iron bracket mounted over the door. It reads ‘Black Horse Tavern,’ underneath is written, ‘Est 1791’. Tying his horse to the hitching rail, he walks toward the entrance door. The only sounds are the creaking of the windblown sign and a drunken patron stumbling out the tavern door, “No use goin’ in there blue-belly, they don’t serve Yankee scum the likes of you.”
Luke almost responds to the insult until he realizes he is dressed in a Union blue uniform, riding a horse with a big U.S. brand on its flank and a general’s blue saddle blanket. ‘That’s good! This place must be run by Southern sympathizers,’ he thinks.
Pushing the door open, he enters a dim lit room, which appears as if it hadn’t been cleaned since the date on the sign outside. Only a fireplace and a couple of lanterns cast a little light to the interior. It has the smell of wood smoke, stale beer, cigars and a couple of other smells he’s not too anxious to identify. Two drunken customers have passed out, face down on an old rickety table. The barkeep, wiping a shot glass with a filthy rag, looks over the top of the glass, “This is my place and I don’t serve the likes of you. Most times all y’all soldiers want to do is drink, cuss and fight. I ain’t gonna put up with it...no sir...no way! Go find yerself sommers else to do yer drinkin’, yer hear?”
Luke catches a hint of a Southern leaning in this man’s voice. Luke might be wrong, dead wrong if he isn’t correct, but he decides to take a chance. “I know what it looks like, but I’m not a Yankee! I’m simply an escaped Reb from the Penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio trying to get home to Alabama. I’m looking for food – any food. I left my partner on the outskirts of town while I tr
y to find us something to eat. All I have to barter with is my grandfather’s pocket watch. It’s solid gold, but it’s yours for just enough food to help us get farther south.”
Without looking up again, he asked, “What was yer unit Yank?”
“I joined up in ’62 with the 48th Alabama, got captured at Gettysburg during General Pickett’s Charge, escaped on my way to the POW camp at Point Lookout, Maryland. Hooked up with General John Hunt Morgan’s raiders. Captured again and got sent to the Confederate soldier’s prison in Columbus, Ohio and escaped again. So here I am, hungry, broke and friendless in enemy held territory,”
The bartender deliberately places the glass on the bar in front of him. Slowly he droops the bar towel over his shoulder, reaches under the counter and pulls out a mean looking .56 caliber, seven shot, Spencer rifle. The appearance of the gun immediately worries Luke. The Spencer is a Yankee rifle. The only ones Southerners possess are pick-ups from the battlefield. The Rebs say the Spencer is ‘that gun you load on Sunday and shoot it all week!’
‘The man has the look of a soldier,’ thinks Luke. ‘With that Spencer he is either a Union deserter or just recently discharged Yankee soldier; regardless I believe this was the wrong tavern to come to. I’m afraid this is going to turn out bad!’
“Sounds like you’ve had an interested career in this here man’s Army. Seems like you be better at getting’ caught than fightin’?”
“Does seem that way, don’t it? But leastways I’m not rotten in one of them blue-belly prisons.”
The innkeeper glares long and hard at Luke. He looks him up and down carefully, and then along with his rifle, begins to move ominously from behind the bar. Sweat is starting to form on Luke’s brow as the barkeep starts to raise the Spencer.
Luke stares at the business end of the rifle, ‘I guess he didn’t care too much for my story,’ he thinks to himself.
The barkeep loads a shell into the breech and looks as if he is about to fire his rifle. Suddenly instead of aiming the menacing weapon at Luke he lowers it and taps his leg with the rifle barrel, it emits a dull sound – it is an artificial wooden leg. “Gettysburg too, Armistead Brigade, 14th Virginia, we was on the left of yer 48th during Pickett’s Charge. I’ll give it to you boys; you fellers put up a pretty darn good fight that awful day. We both lost a lotta good boys that terrible afternoon,” he said staring as if the Gettysburg battle was taking place right before his eyes. “How fer did you boys git?”
“They captured me standing on that dadburn stonewall on Cemetery Ridge. We’d held it too if the Yanks had not sent up reinforcements.”
“You mean to tell me y’all got all the way to the wall? Well, I’ll be!” He said with a glazed over look in his eyes as he remembered that dreadful fight.
Blinking his eyes, he returned to reality, “No worry friend I’ll supply food for you and yer pal. You keep that darn watch, I ain’t got no use fer it no how.” Mumbling to himself, “I’ll be...all the way to the wall, my, my, now that’s was something.”
Luke’s horse was loaded down with a ready supply of food. The innkeeper had provided a bag of coffee, hardtack, bacon, some beans, a coffee pot, frying pan, small pouch of sugar, a cured ham, a powder horn half filled with powder, some percussion caps and a Colt .44 caliber, six-shot revolver complete with holster. And, why Luke did not know, he also threw in two sticks of dynamite. Best of all – “Any man that got to that wall and still lives deserves this,” the barkeep said handing Luke the Spencer rifle and fifteen rounds of .56 caliber ammunition. Luke was mighty glad to get the supplies since most of theirs went overboard on the near collision with the steamboat on the Ohio. He was especially glad to get the pistol and rifle. After thanking the innkeeper profusely, Luke mounts his horse and begins his trip back to find Nate.
Luke is still smiling as he goes through the woods to dodge the troops at the crossroads on his way to meet Nate hiding just beyond the checkpoint.
Nate hears the rustling of the leaves as someone approaches from the direction of the road. All he can find for protection is a stick of wood from a nearby tree. Hiding, he waits for whoever is coming. His plan is to lay in wait behind a big elm tree. As the intruder passes close-by he is going to slam the chunk of wood into his skull as hard as he can swing, hoping to kill him. The footsteps grow louder, a few more steps and Nate will be able to strike. Nate raises the piece of wood above his head with both hands it is now or never!
“Nate,” Luke whispers, “Nate!”
Lowering his arms Nate voice quivers as he speaks, “T-T-Thanks the good Lord it’s you Luke,” looking towards the heavens he continues his prayer, “Thanks you Lord!”
“Nate, saddle your horse and let’s walk them out of here for a mile or two before mounting to ride. I have a good supply of food; all we need now is to get away from the soldiers at the roadblock and head south again. We’ll camp a little farther down the trail.”
After a mile or so they mount and begin to ride. Nate turns to Luke, “I’m sorry ‘bout your grandpappy’s watch Luke, I knows it meant a lot to you to swap it fer our food.”
“Well, I have some good news! I still have Pappy’s watch. I ran upon another Gettysburg son of the South. He provided us the food at no cost. He wouldn’t take my pocket watch in trade. Nate, you won’t believe this; he also gave us a pistol. I have it stuck right here in this holster I’m wearing. I think our luck is finally turning.” With these last words, Luke calls to Nate, “Heads up!” Luke pulls the rifle from its saddle holster and pitches the Spencer to Nate. “The pistol wasn’t all he gave us!”
Nate grabbed the rifle with one hand and began to admire the rifle’s beauty – from the walnut stock to the plum color metal in its trigger action. “Luke, I’ve hear’d tell about sech rifles, but I’s never put much stock in them bein’ real. And right here in my own black hands is far shore one of them, well I’ll be!” Luke couldn’t keep from admiring the rifle as he rubbed his hands up and down its barrel and stock saying again, “Well I’ll be!”
Luke explained that the innkeeper told him if they skirted the main stagecoach road to Knoxville their next major obstacle would be the Cumberland Mountains, roughly seventy-five to one-hundred miles distance; from the Cumberlands to Knoxville was another hundred miles. Luke thinks since they were getting deeper and deeper into Confederate territory they should see less and less of the Yankees. Maybe they can pick their speed up from five miles a day to ten miles a day if so they might reach the mountains in about a week.
“One more important thing I found out Nate, the area from Lexington to the Cumberlands is crawling with bandits. The innkeeper warned they rob and kill Yankees as readily as they kill Rebels. We will take four-hour shifts sleeping just to be on the safe side. One of us will pull guard duty, while the other sleeps.”
They stayed away from the main road and still only traveled at night. Each day, as they slept, one of them was always on guard with the Spencer rifle. At daybreak a few days later they could see the smoky gray outline of the Cumberland Mountains to their southeast. They were deep into Kentucky now and had not seen or heard a Yankee or the hint of any bandits. That night the weather turned colder. Luke thought it might be safe enough to build a fire. They boiled a pot of coffee with the last of their water except for a couple of mouthfuls in their canteens. Tate sliced off some of the cured ham and they enjoyed the first good meal they had eaten in a long time. It was a few days before Christmas.
Next morning they took the risk to travel during the day. Being able to see where they are going doubled their speed. Luke guessed at the rate they are moving they should reach the mountains sometime late the next day.
Luke is right, as night falls the following day they made camp in the woods a couple of hundred yards from the coach road, a road, which winds its way across the mountain. It is the only route through these mountains for a score of miles in either direction.
“Nate, you and I must make a decision before we begin our trek across this moun
tainous wilderness. We can follow this coach road, which, by far will be the easiest and fastest. However, this way will probably get us captured, or we can dead reckon a path through the woods, which will be safer. Blazing a trail will be much harder and will take at least an extra two weeks. Nate, I want your opinion. I do not want to make this decision alone.”
“Luke you know I don’t know nothin’ about sech thangs.”
“All right Nate, let’s do it fairly,” Luke reaches down on the ground and picks up a long straw. He separates it in to one long and one short piece, arranges them between his thumb and index finger. “Nate you pull one - short we use the stagecoach road - long we go across the mountain. Is that fine with you?”
Nate nods his head and pulls a straw – it is the long one. “Okay,” says Luke, “that settles it, we’re fixin’ to stomp ourselves across these old Cumberland Mountains. We leave out at first light tomorrow morning, but before we begin climbing these hills and hollows, I’d like to have another good taste of coffee. If I’ve got it figured right, it’s a few days before Christmas. We can call it a Christmas present to us both. We will break out the hardtack, and by the Grace of our Lord in honor of his birthday we’ll even put a pinch of sugar in our coffee. Guard the camp Nate and I will find a spring or creek nearby to fill our canteens.”
THE ‘BANDIT’
Luke rides off and disappears into the forest of old growth elm, oak, birch, and pine. Nate un-saddles his horse, plops the saddle blanket and saddle on the ground. Later this will become his bed. Firewood, to build a fire, is plentiful, so it isn’t long before Nate has the bacon fried and everything ready for supper – just as soon as Luke returns with the coffee water.
Nate worn out from the day’s ride settles down on his saddle blanket, using the saddle as his pillow. He thinks maybe someday the smell of leather and horse sweat won’t be the last smell he experiences before going to sleep. His old slouch hat, found at Gettysburg, with its wide brim, is pulled down over his eyes. He believes he can catch a few winks before Luke returns.
He nods off, almost asleep when he hears the slight sound of a twig breaking - he is now wide-awake! Someone is trying to sneak up on him. Fortunately, that big old .56 caliber Spencer is snuggly pressed against his stomach. He slowly slips his finger on the trigger and gently cocks the hammer. The rifle is loaded, cocked and ready to fire. He doesn’t move. He wants to give the impression he is fast asleep to whoever is trying to sneak into his camp. His ears strain to determine the direction of the footsteps. They are coming from his right, good; he can squint through his eyes, and get a good look at the intruder before he gets close, besides the barrel of the Spencer is pointed in that direction too.
The ‘bandit’ is close enough Nate can see his outline at the outer limit of the fire’s light. Slowly, step by step the hunched over figure approaches Nate as he ‘slept.’
As the man draws closer to the fire, Nate springs from his horse blanket, points the Spencer at the stranger and demands, “Don’t you move a nuther step or I’m fixin’ to scramble yer brains all over God’s creation!”
“Please Mister! Please don’t shoot, I mean you no harm. I see you is a Yank by the looks of yer clothes and that theres a Union repeater rifle ain’t it?”
“What if I is a Yank whos you side with?”
“Mister, I don’t have a dog in this fight – I’m not Union or Confed, I’m a prospector – gold ain’t blue or gray, it’s yeller.”
“Yank or Reb, what you doin’ slippin’ ‘round here in the dark? Don’t you know that’s a good way to git yerself kilt?”
Nate could see this ‘bandit’ was an old man, with a back bent over from years and years of heavy toil, limping on a bad knee. A dirty, wide-brimmed hat with the front brim turned up and secured with a pen covered what little gray hair he had left on his head. A guitar was slung over one shoulder. This War aged people beyond their years, so guessing his age is useless. He has a face full of whiskers that have already turned to the color of snow, and a chew of tobacco stuck in his jaw big enough to choke a hog. ‘Nah,’ thought Nate; ‘this old fellow means me no harm.’
“I saw yer fire and smelt the bacon and though I might come in to git warm and maybe a bite to eat. My name’s Billy Jefferson, Old Bill as most calls me,” he said spitting. “I’m a prospector, been at it near on fifty years now. I’ll strike it rich one of these days. I keep telling myself that mother lode is jest around the next bend in the creek.”
“Billy Jefferson, ye say? I got me a brother called Tom Jefferson, but his ’en is Thomas Jefferson Scarburg. We jest call him Jefferson. You alone Mr. Jefferson?” Before Old Bill could answer, “Pull up a chunk of wood to sat on and warm yerself close to the far.”
“No, it’s jest Old Bill, and I’m alone, well I suppose I ought to count my burro Lucky, and my horse Brownie. Never could keep a real partner, they sez I’m too ornery. Don’t know why I call her ‘Lucky’ she ain’t never led me to an ounce of gold, and Brownie, well her color speaks fer itself. You alone too Mr... Mr... I didn’t catch yer name.”
“Didn’t throw it, but since yer askin’ mines Nate...Nate Scarburg. My partners out fetching water sos I can bile us some coffee.”
“You fellers usin’ them parched corn kernels fer coffee?”
“No sirree bob, we got the real thang. Coffee jest like we had afore the War...” Nate slowed for a moment thinking back to the good old days before this awful War began. His home in South Carolina and his Ma, Pa and brother in Alabama... “Uh, what was I sayin’?”
Before Old Bill could answer, a noise comes from the brush. Was it Yankees, bandits, or bushwhackers? The fire is burning brightly; it is too late to hide or put out the fire. Nate says nervously to Old Bill, “That’s probly my partner coming now,” Nate slowly wraps his fingers around the trigger of the Spencer and begins to point it towards the sound. He quietly adds, “I hope!” Shouldering the rifle to fire, he says again, “Halt! Halt, or I’s gonna shoot! I’s got me a gun, and I know how to use it!”
“Hold on there Nate! It’s me Luke.”
Luke, walks his horse into the campsite, dismounts and slowly moves toward the fire. “We got company Nate?”
“Yes sir, this here’s Billy Jefferson goes by Old Bill, he’s looking for that chance to git rich in these here hills with gold. Sez he gonna find that mother lode someday.”
Tipping the brim of his hat Luke replies, “It’s my pleasure Mr. Jefferson.”
“Hope you don’t mind me buttin’ into y’all’s camp, but I seen that fire and was wantin’ to git my old bones warmed up. Nate here tells me y’all got some real, gen-u-wine coffee. He invited me to a cup and laws a mercy, I ain’t put my lips to no real coffee in... in... ain’t that a shame, I’ve done got so old I don’t remember the last real coffee I’ve had.”
“Nate’s right Mr. Jefferson, we do have real coffee, and it would be a pleasure to have you join us for supper. And you’re not old, you have just mellowed some.”
“Well thanks, but nobody calls me Mister, if you don’t mind it’s just Old Bill.”
Later after eating, while leaning back against a tree Luke smells the sweet coffee aroma coming from his cup, takes another sip and speaks to Old Bill. “Hope you enjoyed the meal? Coffee, bacon and beans make pretty good eating’.”
“Yes Sir, y’all don’t know how much I enjoyed that meal; it’s been a while since I et so good, and it’s been a pretty long spell since I had any bacon. If I jest had a chaw of tobaccy, it will be perfect.”
“Sorry, Old Bill, but I don’t have any tobacco, but Nate might give you a chaw of his plug.”
Old Bill glanced down at the Union blue horse blanket Luke had spread on the ground for his bed. He couldn’t help but notice the prominent white general’s stars sewn in the corners. He had also spied the U.S. brands on both Luke and Nate’s horses.
“You fellows Yanks?”
“Why would you ask?” Luke replies.
“Well, you see I
don’t take sides with the North or South in an open fight, but I see from y’all’s gear you fellers must be Yankees.”
“I guess it isn’t going to hurt to tell you – no, Nate and I are not Yankees, we’re Southerners through and through. Our horses and saddles belong to a cavalry unit just out of Cincinnati. We figured they had a bunch of them and wouldn’t miss just a couple, but Nate,” chuckles Luke, “just had to get the General’s horse and tack. The Union Army conscripted Nate in to the Yankee Army as a muleskinner. A while back those Yanks killed his wife and son, so he’s run off from the blue-bellies and trying to get back home. I was captured at Gettysburg but escaped, mine’s a long story.”
Grinning, Old Bill answers, “Now I get it. Sure, glad to hear that. It’s the truth I don’t openly favor either side, but I have a strong leaning to the South.” Old Bill said wiping his brow with his handkerchief.
“Old Bill can I ask you a question?”
“A question, for me? Shore nuff, what could I know that would interest you?”
“Could you give me a little bit of information? For instance, what would be our best route to take to get over these mountains and on to Knoxville?”
“As fer as gittin’ over this mountain, of course, the best way is the Wilderness Road, the one Dan’el Boone laid out, but those Yankees keep a close eye on it. It’s ‘bout the only way to git a wagon over these mountains. It runs right smack through the Cumberland Gap that’s where them Yanks will be, but I know another trail that leads from here plumb to the other side. Those Yanks don’t know about it tho’, so y’all will be safe usin’ it. Safe as fer as meeting Yanks, but I wouldn’t advise trying to go over this mountain in the winter. It’s fer too dangerous.”
“We’ll take the risk, will you show us where the trail begins?”
Old Bill readily agreed, with one stipulation: he was traveling in the same direction and wanted to accompany Luke and Nate across the mountain.
“Shore nuff Old Bill be happy to have you throw in with us,” Nate answers.
Luke invites the old prospector to bed down beside the fire and after breakfast they will all start out across the mountain at first light.
All three lie down on their saddle blankets and within a few minutes Old Bill is jarring the ground with his snoring. Luke waits another hour, slips quietly over to Nate. Places his hand over Nate’s mouth, scaring him almost to death. “Shh,” whispers Luke removing his hand and placing his index finger over his lips indicating for Jake to be quite. Motioning with his hand for Nate to follow they slip away from the fire into the cover of the brush nearby.
“By gosh Luke, what you tryin’ to do, plum done smother me to death to death?”
“Shh, quite Nate. I want to talk about Old Bill. I don’t believe he is whom he says he is.”
“What you mean Luke?”
“He says he is a prospector. Did you see a pick or shovel on his pack animal? No, me neither, and did you notice that Arkansas Toothpick knife he ate his supper with?”
“Luke, yeah I seen it, but perzackly what is one of them tooth picky knives?”
“An Arkansas Toothpick is just the name of a heavy dagger with a 12-inch pointed, straight blade. The knife is balanced and weighted for throwing, but its best use is for thrusting and slashing in a fight. I don’t think a prospector would need a blade like that, and did you notice his hands – they do not seem rough enough for someone who has recently been using a pick and shovel all day.”
“What you saying Luke?”
“Remember what that innkeeper told me about this road? He said this road is a good place to run upon cutthroats and thieves. I believe it was no accident that Billy Jefferson, Old Bill or whoever his name, found us. I believe he’s working with those outlaws! Slip back over to your blanket, but keep one eye on our guest. I don’t trust Old Bill, so tomorrow don’t let on we suspect him. Let him make the first move. Get some rest, we’ll leave at first light.”
UP THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL
An hour or so before sunup Old Bill is already up packing his gear on Lucky, his burro. Nate had rustled up a load of firewood and Luke has a pot of coffee brewing over the fire. The smell of its aroma is delightful. A light rain is falling, not hard rain, just enough to make a wretched, cold day in December more miserable.
Later as he sits around the campfire sipping on his coffee and nibbling on hardtack Old Bill explains the ordeal they are about to undertake. He tells how the trail over the mountain is hazardous with cliffs that drop hundreds of feet in certain places. In others, a horse and rider can barely squeeze through the tight opening between the rocks. He mentions the weather. Old Bill reminds Luke and Nate that it is December. December means snow, and the rain clouds here in the valley are beginning to get dark and thicker. The sky, he says, indicates snow is not far off. He expects the light rain they are experiencing down here will be snow up on the mountain. He suggests they load up and get started as soon as possible.
Once all three men are mounted they ride down the valley at the base of the mountain for a mile or so. Old Bill, in the lead, suddenly takes a sharp left turn and disappears between the widespread limbs of two large cedar trees. The limbs effectively hide the trail.
Nate had been keeping his eye on the area to his right and did not see Old Bill vanish. He looks ahead and discovers he and Luke are alone. “Luke! What happened to Old Bill? Where did he go?”
Luke slows and allows Nate to catch up, “Hush up Nate! Someone will hear. He turned between them cedars up yonder.” Luke said putting a heel to his horse. Luke’s horse begins to gallop forward toward the evergreens Nate follows. Both men rein their mounts left into the grove of cedars. They see a trail. A few hundred feet to their front is Old Bill on a narrow trail that is beginning to ascend the mountain. The rain is beginning to turn to snow. For the next few hours, all three men wind and weave the horses and burro up the steep incline. All along, the farther they go up the mountain, the harder the snow falls. It appears there must be at least a couple of inches of snow on the ground.
Luke signals, “Bill! Old Bill!” The old prospector hears Luke and waits for him to approach. Luke explains the snow is getting harder, and the trail is becoming treacherous. He asks Old Bill for advice. Bill answers saying he knows of a cave up the trail they can use to get in out of the weather. They can reach it in another hour or two if their mounts can stay on the slippery trail.
Old Bill was right and wrong – he was correct there was a cave ahead where they could seek shelter, but he was wrong, it has taken nearly four hours getting to it! The snow has accumulated to the depth of about six inches or better and is getting deeper by the minute. Finding the cave in this blizzard was more luck than skill. It is almost impossible to see less than a few feet to their front. The snow is coming down fast and furious, with flakes half the size of silver dollars, and the wind must be approaching forty miles per hour. Luke and Nate have never seen such a snowfall.
KAY MANN
Reaching the cave’s entrance Luke marveled at the small size of the opening. The cave’s mouth is just large enough to get the horses and burro inside, but he is amazed upon entering at the cave’s interior size – it is huge. He reasons a full-size house could sit within the enormous cavern. However, it wasn’t the size of the cave that concerns him – far back in the rear recesses he sees a fire and a lone person kneeling close to its crackling flames. A bay mare stands off to his side. Who is this man and what is he doing up here on the side of this mountain, is the question that concerns him?
Luke reaches with his right hand and slips the leather loop from the hammer of his pistol. He walks his horse across the vastness of the cave toward the individual but does not remove his hand from his sidearm. Nate slides the rifle from his saddle, cocks the hammer back to half-cock and follows behind with his finger, resting lightly on the trigger.
About halfway across the cavern the noise from the horse’s hooves against the clay floo
r alerts the stranger at the fire. He turns to face them. Luke begins to pull the Colt from its holster; Nate draws the Spencer’s trigger back in to full-cock firing position. They are watching for the least bit of movement of the stranger’s right hand toward his gun. Within a second or two either the stranger or one of them is going to be dead – it just depends on who is the faster with their gun.
“Howdy fellers, get offa your horses and come on down to my fire,” motions the stranger. “I’ve got a good hot pot of coffee brewing; it’s roasted corn kernels, but it’ll warm your innards. From your looks you could use it.”
Luke, Nate, and Old Bill slowly move toward the fire, still unsure if this person is friend or foe. “Put your horses over there next to my bay she’ll never mind. I’ve got a rope stretched to use as a hitch, you’re welcome to use it.”
Dismounting and carefully keeping an eye on the man at the fire Luke walks from his horse toward him – his fingers still gripping his .44, he still does not know what to make of this person.
“Come closer, I’ve got a real good fire going. I was most froze to death when I stumbled upon this place. I believe I have traveled over this mountain a dozen times using that trail and never once have I noticed this cave. Wouldn’t have this trip neither, but as me and Nellie, oh, Nellie’s my horse, got close to the cave’s mouth I felt the warm air rushing out, and here I am.”
Luke walks closer, still apprehensive, still on guard. Once he got within a few feet Luke inquired as to who the stranger is and what is he doing out here on this mountain in a driving snowstorm.
“Well, first off my names Kay Mann, yeah my Ma wanted a girl, I’ve just learned to live with it. I see you fellers are Yanks. Well, as least you are young feller,” Kay said indicating Luke. “I ain’t exactly figured the black one out, his clothing is half Yank and half Confed. And you Old Timer you must’a fought with them Israelites when they escaped with Moses from Egypt,” he said laughing.
Limping up hurriedly, “Now you look here you young whippersnapper, I can fight my weight in mountain lions and bite the head offa rattlesnake. Don’t you be callin’ me old – I’ve jest... jest... what’s that you said Luke? Oh yeah, I’ve jest mellowed some. Dadburn if I weren’t so pert near froze I’d jest whoop you right here and now!”
“Sorry! Sorry friend, I didn’t mean no harm; it was just in fun. Who are you fellers anyhow? Yanks? Rebs? Deserters? It don’t make me no never you mind anyhow you understand.”
Luke answers, “Mr. Mann we are, well me and Nate are Rebs all right, but Moses here,” Luke grinned, “he’s kind of neutral. To be exact though, Nate was impressed in to Union service from North Carolina as a wagon driver and forced to bury the dead. I was a Yank prisoner and me and Nate escaped together.”
“Rebs is fine; I work for the Yanks, but my heart is with the South. Ole Nellie slipped a few years back, and I broke my leg, never did get it set back just right. I tried to jine up with the ‘federates, but they wouldn’t have me. Said I’d be more use carrying the Yankee mail. You see I am the mail rider for these mountains. I usually make my last run across in early December, but news is a breaking, and I knowed people wanted information about their kin.”
Luke pounced on the mail rider for news. “Tell us! Tell us, what news is there of the War? We have heard nothing.”
Kay explained that he carried the mail back and forth from the south of Lexington to Knoxville making the round trip about once every two months. If he found any letters that might be of use to the Southern cause, he would turn them over to a Confederate undercover agent at Knoxville.
“Enough talk, please Sir tell us the news!”
Kay went on to explain the Yankees have a general by the name of Grant that has taken Vicksburg. “In effect,” the mail-rider continued, “cutting the South’s main line of supply – the Mississippi River.”.
“Fellers I’m afeared the South has lost this here War. All, that’s goin’ on now, is Yankee Carpetbaggers robbing the South. Thieves and outlaws are taking what remains. That’s why I’m using this back trail instead of the main road. Them outlaws waylay practically everyone traveling the old Wilderness Road, even the mail riders. What’s y’all’s story?”
Before Luke begins to explain their situation he speaks to Nate, “Would you mind getting the food bag out of your saddlebag? Nate, it must be close to Christmas, bring all the other vittles too. We’re going to have us a good old fashion Christmas supper.” Luke reaches over the fire picks up Kay’s coffee pot and pours the contents on the floor of the cave.
“Whoa, there feller, what you doin’? That’s my coffee you’re flinging out!”
“Be patient for just a spell and we’ll have you some ‘real’ coffee.”
They fried beans sliced off some salt-cured ham and opened up hardtack and washed it all down with freshly brewed coffee. They ate until they could eat no more. Sitting around the fire Kay was the first to speak, “Fellers, I’ve had many a Christmas dinner in my life. I thought I had some good’ens, but I believe this is the best ever. Thanks, thank you for lettin’ me share a part of this Christmas with you all.”
“Hang on for just a minute,” Luke says as he gets up and walks toward the cave entrance. In a couple of minutes, he returns with a four-foot top section of a cedar tree covered in snow. Back at the fire he shakes the snow off and props up the little cedar with a couple of big rocks. He takes a scrap of paper from his pocket, tears it in to small pieces and uses it to decorate the ‘Christmas Tree.’ Nate finds a couple of odd looking sticks to hang on a limb or two, Old Bill removes some string from Lucky’s halter and Kay removes a couple of old, used stamps from some undelivered letters. They now have themselves a honest-to-goodness Christmas tree.
“Old Bill, if I may, would you lend me your guitar?”
Luke strums on the strings, tightening one string and loosening another, humming as he goes through the musical chords until the guitar sounds just right. He then starts strumming a tune. At first he is a little rusty, it has been a long time since he held a musical instrument. He picks a few notes, and stops then starts over, picks a few more, then starts playing and softly singing, ‘Hark the herald angels sing...’ the others all join in singing:
‘Hark the herald angels sing,
Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled.
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!’
Luke continues to play all the Christmas carols he knows, ‘Deck the Halls,’ ‘Oh Come all Ye Faithful,’ ‘It came upon a Midnight Clear’ and ends with the uplifting song ‘Jingle Bells.’
“That was wonderful Luke,” Old Bill said, with the flames of the fire glistening off a tear in the corner of his eye, “That sure brought back some good old memories. If I jest had me some eggnog with jest a touch of grandpa’s moonshine in it, this Christmas would be complete.”
“Ahem, ahem,” Kay clears his throat.
Luke sets the guitar down looks to the mail-rider and asks, “Did you wish to say something Mr. Mann?”
“If someone were to take a peek in my left-side saddlebag, there might be something in there besides the mail. Of course, I could not allow anyone to open a saddlebag belonging to the U.S. Mail, but if I was not looking I suppose I’m not responsible.”
The last vowel had barely exited Kay’s mouth as Luke bounds to Nellie. Opening the saddlebag he sees a few letters and a small leather pouch big enough to hold a little Christmas cheer. Back at the campfire, Kay still has his back turned to his horse. He turns and announces, “Oh, I see you have a leather pouch, you know there might be a bottle of snakebite remedy in there. For use in cases of emergency only, of course, you understand.”
Luke opens
the pouch – inside indeed was a bottle of Kentucky bourbon whiskey, a small bottle of ink, a pen and a few pieces of folded writing paper. He removes the bottle and begins to pass it around the circle, each taking a long drink. Kay takes the bottle from Nate saying, “Darn it; I believe a rattlesnake jest bit me! I need a sip of that life-saving medicine Nate.” Kay takes a swig, laughs and passes it to Luke. Luke takes a drink, “Darn rascal done bit me too!”
Luke hands the bottle back to Old Bill and addresses Kay, “I see you carry some writing material in your saddlebag. What is its purpose?”
“Oh,” says Kay, “many postal customers on my route do not have ink or paper, but have a desire to communicate with some dear one far away, usually in the army. I give them a chance to do so. Sometimes I have to write the letter myself, ‘cause they can’t read or write.”
“Would you allow me to do the same Kay? I would like to write a letter to my mother, if you would post it when you get down the mountain.”
“Of course, help yourself.”
December 25, (or there-a-bouts), 1863
My Dear Mother,
Merry Christmas to you and all my brothers and sisters, I hope this finds you well and in good health. I know I have been gone a long time and have written you many times, but must inform you that I have never received a post from you or from any of my friends at home.
I write to you from a cave somewhere in Kentucky where we have sought shelter from a raging blizzard, I have recently been imprisoned by the Yankees but have escaped and am headed home. If all goes well Nate, yes that is correct, Nate is with me, we should reach Albertville in a couple of months.
My love to all,
Your loving son,
Luke
p.s.
Nate says tell his Ma, Pa and brother Jefferson, he is well and will see them soon.