humanity ever lived than one existing at present near the Tuckasege in
Jackson county. We heard of him one night at a dilapidated farm-house of
an ex-sheriff of that county. It can better be told in the exact words
of the conversation through which we learned of the specimen’s
existence; but, in order for you to fully appreciate it, it will be
necessary to give an idea of the appearance of the house and its
surroundings. The farm of level land was first owned by an enterprising
farmer. The house, a large, log one, was built by him 40 years ago. It
now consists of a main building of two stories, with a wing in the rear.
It first struck us that the house had never been completed; for on
riding toward it we found ourselves under a long roof extending from the
main building. The loft and roof overhead were intact, and were
supported by posts at the two corners out from the house. It was
apparently a wing that had never been sided or floored.
After supper as we sat by the moonlight-flooded window, on inquiring of
our host why the large wing had never been finished, he answered:
“Finished? Why, it war finished, but when the old man died, his son and
heir, one of the no-countist fellows what ever lived, moved in. Wal, ye
see them woods, yander?”
“Yes.”
“Not more ’en fifty yard away.”
“Just about that.”
“Wal, do you know thet thet man war too cussed lazy to go to them woods
for fire wood, and so tore down thet wing, piece by piece, flooring,
sidings, window sashes, doors--everything but the loft and roof, and
he’d a took them ef he hadn’t been too lazy to climb up stairs.”
“Wonder he didn’t take the whole house.”
“I spect he would ef I hadn’t bought him out when I did. Why, man! this
whole farm-yard was an apple orchard then. How many trees do you see
now?”
“Three.”
“That’s all. Chopped down, every damned one of ’em, for the fire-place.
Lazy, why, dog my skin!--”
“Where is he now?”
“He lives in a poor chunk of a cabin over in them woods, close enough
now to fire-wood, shore.”
Down further on the Valley river the landscape grows more open, and the
rugged mountains become softened down to undulating hills, drawn far
back from the stream, and leaving between them wide vales, rich in soil,
generous in crops, and in places over three miles in width. This is in
Cherokee, the extreme southwest county of North Carolina. Murphy, the
county-seat, is a small, weather-worn village, located in nearly the
center of the county. The Western North Carolina Railroad, as projected,
will, on its way to Ducktown, soon intersect it.
Just before reaching Valley river, the traveler will notice a large,
white house, situated in a fine orchard. Mrs. Walker’s is known through
the western counties as a place of excellent accommodation. At this
point, the road to the lower valley of the Nantihala, turns abruptly to
the right. It is a rough way through an uninviting country, thinly
inhabited, poor in farming lands, and devoid of scenery. After miles of
weary travel, the road disappears from the sunlight into a deep ravine.
A stream disputes passage with the swampy road, which is fairly built
upon the springy roots of the rhododendrons. It seems to be the bottom
of some deep-sunk basin, which at one time was the center of a lake,
whose waters, finding a way out, left a rich deposit for a luxuriant
forest to spring from. The trunks of the trees are covered with
yellowish-green moss. Matted walls of living and dead rhododendrons and
kalmias line the way. Your horse will stumble wearily along, especially
if it is soon after a rain; and if a buggy is behind him, it will take
a good reinsman to keep it from upsetting in the axle-deep ruts, over
low stumps and half-rotten logs. Keep up your spirits, and think little
of the convenience of the place for the accomplishment of a dark deed.
Soon it comes to an end, and a firmer, though rough, road leads into an
open forest, and gradually descends a narrow valley between prodigiously
high mountains.
The passage of Red Marble gap is now made, and the valley of the
Nantihala again entered twelve miles below where the State road crosses
at Monday’s. The first view of it will cause you to rise in your
stirrups. It is a narrow valley, with one farm-house lying in the
foreground. Around it rise massive mountain walls, perfectly
perpendicular, veiled with woods, and in height fully 2,000 feet.
Directly before you is a parting of the tremendous ranges, and through
this steep-sided gap, purple lines of mountains, rising one behind
another, bar the vision. The picture of these far-away ranges, in the
subdued coloring of distance, is of inspiring grandeur. The river is
unseen at this point; but, if the Cheowah Mountain road is ascended, its
white line of waters will be visible, as it issues from the wild gorge
at the head of the valley; and; bickering along between wood-fringed
banks, by the farm-house, under and out from under the birches, at
length disappears in the wilderness leading toward the great gap.
Widow Nelson lives in the only visible farm-house,--a low,
ill-constructed, frame dwelling with a log cabin in the rear, and small
barn near by. It is a hospitable shelter or dinner-place for the
traveler. On the widow’s porch is always seated a fat old man named
Reggles. He is short in stature, has red, puffed, smooth-shaven cheeks,
and appears like “a jolly old soul.” You will hear his sonorous voice,
if you draw rein at the fence to make inquiries concerning distances;
for he is an animated, universal guide-post, and answers in a set manner
all questions.
So few settlers live along the Nantihala that the strongest friendship
binds them together; and every one considers all the people surrounding
him, within a radius of ten miles, his neighbors. The social ties
between the young folks are kept warm principally by the old-fashioned
“hoe-downs.” During a week’s stay in the valley, we improved an
opportunity to attend one of these dances. Satisfactory arrangements
being made, one evening before dark we started with Owenby, a guide. A
branch road led to our destination,--a path, that, though a faint cattle
trail in the beginning, had grown, after being traveled over by the
mountaineers’ oxen and their summer sleds, into a road. As is usually
the case, it followed up an impetuous little torrent. At a small, log
cabin, where we stopped after proceeding a mile on one journey, we were
joined by a party of twenty young men and women; and with this body we
began the ascent to Sallow’s, where the dance was to be held. Still
enough twilight remained for us to find our way without difficulty. All
walked with the exception of three men, who, each with his respective
young lady seated behind him, rode mules, and led the way. After a
steady climb for several miles we halted before the dim outlines of
another little cabin. The mounted ones dismounted and fastened their
steeds.
“I reckon we’ll surprise ’em, fer it ’pears they’ve all gone to roost,”
remarked Owenby, as we silently stepped over the leveled bars of the
fence into the potato patch bordering the road. Not a streak of light
shone through a crack of the cabin, not a sound came from the interior.
One of our party pushed the puncheon door, which easily swung open with
a creak of wooden hinges.
“Come to life in hyar! Up an’ out! Hi, yi, Dan and Molly!” he yelled,
while following his lead we all crowded into the single room. The fire
had smouldered until only a few coals remained, and those were
insufficient to throw any light on the scene.
“Good Lord! what does this mean?” growled, from a dark corner, some one
who was evidently proprietor of the premises.
“Hit means we’re hyar for a dance, ole man; so crawl out,” laughingly
returned our self-constituted spokesman.
“Well, I reckon we’re in fer it,” continued the disturbed, as we heard a
bed creak, and bare feet strike the floor. “Pitch some pine knots on the
fire, and face hit an’ the wall while wife an’ me gits our duds on.”
A few seconds after, the host and hostess were ready to receive company,
and a blazing pine fire illuminated a room 20 × 25 feet in dimensions.
The beds were one side and the frowsy heads of eight children stuck with
wondering faces out from the torn covers. Two tables and a few chairs
were on the middle floor, and numerous garments and household articles
hung on the walls. The light from the great, gaping fire-place, in one
end of the room, showed the party off to advantage. The girls were
attired in their best garments; some of light yellow, though blue
dresses preponderated. The characters of most interest to all present
were two good-natured-looking young men dressed in “biled” shirts, green
neckties, “store-boughten” coats, and homespun pantaloons. With
self-important airs they accepted and immediately covered two chairs
before the blazing hearth. One of the twain had a home-made banjo on his
knee; the other, a violin. The necessary scraping and twanging to get
the instruments in tune took place; and then the older musician
announced that the ball was open.
“Trot out yer gals,” said he; “There mustn’t be enny hangin’ back while
these ’ere cat-gut strings last. Git up an’ shine!”
After some hesitation four couples stepped into the center of the floor,
forming two sets. Each one separated from and stood facing his partner.
Then the music struck up, and such music! The tune was one of the
liveliest jigs imaginable, and the musicians sang as they played. The
dancers courtesied and then began a singular dance. There was no calling
off; it was simply a jig on the part of each performer. The girls danced
with arms akimbo, reeling sideways one way, and then sideways the other.
Their partners, with slouched hats still on their heads, hair swinging
loosely, every muscle in motion and all in time with the music, careered
around in like manner. The rest of the party stood silent and interested
looking on; and on the whole scene blazed the pine knots.
At intervals, parties of two, three, or more, of the men slipped out of
the door, then in a few minutes returned, apparently refreshed by a
draught of the night air, or something else. After the finish of one of
the dances, in which we strangers engaged, a fierce-mustached
mountaineer tapped me on the shoulder, whispering as he did so: “Come
outside a minnit.”
I hesitated for a moment, hardly knowing whether I would better follow
or not; then I stepped after him. As the light shone through the open
door, I saw that three men were outside with him. The door shut behind
me. It was intensely dark, every star was blotted out, and a damp,
chilly wind was sweeping down the mountain. We walked a few steps from
the house.
“What do you want?” I asked in an apprehensive tone.
No one spoke. I attempted to repeat the question, but before I could do
so, the man who had invited me out, said: “We don’t know your
principles, but we seed you ’aint got the big-head, an’ like yer way o’
joinin’ in. We want to do the fair thing, an’ no offence meant, we hope,
whichever way you decide.--Won’t you take a drink?”
I had feared some harm was intended, possibly for dancing with the girl
of one of the fellows. I felt relieved. In the darkness I felt a small
jug placed in my hands, and heard the corn-cob stopper being drawn from
it.
For several hours longer the dancing kept up, and so did the outside
drinking, the motions of the drinkers growing wilder as they joined in
on the floor. It was two o’clock when the musicians’ powers failed them.
Preparations were made for departure.
“Hits blacker outside ’en the muzzle o’ my old flint-lock,” remarked
Sallow, as he opened the creaking door; “I reckon ye’d best light some
pine knots ter see yer way down the mounting.”
Each man selected a knot from a pile near the fire-place; lighted it,
and with flaming torch filed out into the night. The mules were mounted,
each animal carrying double, as spoken of above; and then into the dark,
still forest we went. The scene was striking. Those in front were close
in one body, the torches, with black smoke curling upwards, being held
high in air, rendering the carriers visible, and lighting up the woods
with a strange glare. The lights wavered and danced in circles, as if
those who held them were unsteady on their feet. Now and then, one of
the boisterous mountaineers would fire off his pistol, giving rise to
shrill screams from the fair sex, loud laughs from their partners, and
causing the mules to jump in a manner terrifying to their riders.
However, no accidents occurred, and journeying on, we soon reached our
temporary quarters, well satisfied with the night’s experience.
On this occasion the hilarity of a number of the party proved damaging
to them. Some one gave in evidence of their carrying concealed weapons;
and, soon after, several arrests were made and convictions followed. The
law against carrying concealed weapons is stringently enforced in the
mountain section of the State, and with good results.
Shooting matches are frequent, in the valley of the western section.
The prize is generally a beef. The time is in October, when the cattle,
in sleek condition, are driven down from the mountain summits. Notice of
the proposed match is communicated to the settlers; and, on the stated
day, the adepts in the use of shooting-irons, assemble, with their cap
and flintlock rifles, at the place of contest. The gray-haired,
rheumatic, old settler, with bear scratches, will be there. His eyes are
as sharp as ever, and the younger men, who have never shot at anything
larger than a wild-cat or turkey, must draw fine beads if they excel
him. Every beef makes five prizes. The hind quarters form two; the fore
quarters the next two; and the hide and tallow the last choice.
Sometimes there is a sixth prize, consisting of the privilege of cutting
out the lead shot by the contestants into the tree forming the
back-ground for the target. The value of a beef is divided into shilling
shares, which are sold to purchasers and then shot off. The best shots
take first choice, and so on. Three judges preside.
It is an interesting sight to watch the proceedings of a shooting-match.
If it is to be in the afternoon, the long open space beside the creek,
and within the circle of chestnut trees, where the shooting is to be
done, is empty; but, just as the shadow of the sun is shortest, they
begin to assemble. Some of them come on foot; others in wagons, or, as
is most generally the case, on horseback galloping along through the
woods. The long-haired denizen of the hidden mountain cove drops in,
with his dog at his heels. The young blacksmith, in his sooty
shirt-sleeves, walks over from his way-side forge. The urchins who, with
their fish-rods, haunt the banks of the brook, are gathered in as great
force as their “daddies” and elder brothers.
A unique character, who frequently mingles with the crowd, is the
“nat’ral-born hoss-swopper.” He has a keen eye to see at a glance the
defects and perfections of horse or mule (in his own opinion), and
always carries the air of a man who feels a sort of superiority over
his fellow men. At a prancing gait, he rides the result of his last
sharp bargain, into the group, and keeps his saddle, with the neck of
his horse well arched, by means of the curb-bit, until another
mountaineer, with like trading propensities, strides up to him, and
claps his hand on the horse’s mane, exclaiming:
“What spavined critter ye got a-straddle ov to-day, Bill?”
“He aint got nary blemish on ’im, you old cross-eyed sinner!”
“Bill, thet hoss looks ez tho’ he hed the sweeney, wunct?” remarks a
looker-on.
“Hits an infernal lie!” returns Bill, emphatically.
“Yas,” begins a cadaverous-cheeked, long-drawn-out denizen from over the
mountain, who has circled clear around the animal and his rider: “He’s
the very hoss-brute ez hed it. Tuk hit when they wuz drivin’ ’im in Toe
Eldridge’s sorghum mill.”
The rider, meanwhile, begins to look discouraged.
“He kicked Tom Malley powerful bad, ef thet’s the animal Tom uster own,”
chimes in another observer.
“Mebby you thinks this hoss needs buryin’,” remarks Bill, sarcastically;
“He’ll hev more life in ’im twenty ye’r from now than airy o’ you’uns
hey ter-day.”
“Ef he aint blind on his off side ye kin ride over me,” says one critic;
turning the horse’s head around, and then dropping the bridle as Bill
reaches over to strike him.
“He’s a good ’un on the go, tho’;” and at this bland remark of a
friendly farmer, Bill begins to revive.
“You’re right,” exclaims the rider.
“Is thet so!” thunders a heavy-set fellow, following his utterance by
clasping Bill around the waist and hauling him off the steed, which
proves to be old enough to stand still without demurring.
“I reckon I’ll try him myself, Bill,” he says, as he thrusts one foot
into the stirrup, and throws a long leg over the saddle, “and ef he’s
got a fa’r gait I mought gin ye a swap. Look at yan mule, while I ride
him sorter peert for a few rod.”
An examination on the part of both swappers always results in a trade,
boot being frequently given. A chance to make a change in horseflesh is
never let slip by a natural-born trader. The life of his business
consists in quick and frequent bargains; and at the end of a busy month
he is either mounted on a good saddle horse, or is reduced to an old
rack, blind and lame. The result will be due to the shrewdness or
dullness of the men he dealt with, or the unexpected sickness on his
hands of what was considered a sound animal.
One or more of the numerous candidates (Democratic, Republican,
Independent, or otherwise) for county or state honors will likely
descend on the green before the sport is over. He will shake hands with
every full-fledged voter present,--shaking with his own peculiar grip,
which one, with some plausibility, might be misled into believing meant
“God bless you,” instead of “Be at the November polls for me--and
liberty.” Most of the men understand the soft solder of the fawning
politician, and exchange winks with one another, as in succession each
one is button-holed by the aspirant.
It is generally an orderly crowd, and arrangements are soon made for the
first shot. At sixty yards from the white piece of black-centered paper,
the shooter lays himself flat on the ground; and, with his rifle
(covered with a long tin shade to keep out the glaring sunlight) resting
over a rail, he takes deliberate aim and pulls the trigger. A center
shot meets with applause. Thus the day goes by, until every share has
been blazed away, the beef is butchered and divided, and the lucky
marksmen stagger homeward, each with his quarter in a sack on one
shoulder and his rifle on the other. If daylight still remains, some of
the crowd often engage in a squirrel hunt. It is no trouble to kill gray
squirrels in any of the woods. The crack marksman with a rifle generally
barks his squirrel. Barking a squirrel is one of the fine arts. The
hunter takes aim and fires at the upper edge of the limb on which the
squirrel sits, instantly killing him from concussion created by the
splintered bark.
But let us pursue the river from the Cheowah mountain to the Little
Tennessee. It is a distance of twelve miles, and not once do the road
and stream part company. At Widow Nelson’s it is a white winding-sheet
of rapids, as far as the eye can reach. A hundred yards by the house,
and the mountains draw themselves together again. The road straggles
around the foot of a cliff. The waters roar and splash beside it.
Overhead, the foliage is of a brilliant green, and the sky usually a
transparent blue. By the dilapidated dwelling of Widow Jarett you soon
pass. There is a cleared tract of land here. Across the river, with its
foot in the water, one of the Nantihala range towers 2,000 feet above
the valley. You must lean back to look upward along its green face and
see the edge of the summit. Up one steep ravine is a trail leading to
Brier Town. It is termed the Cat’s Stairs. Your mule must be dragged by
the bridle if you attempt the ascent.
Three miles down the stream, as you issue from the forest on the brow of
a gentle declivity, a wild picture lies spread before the eyes. You are
looking across a long pent-in vale. On one side the Anderson Roughs,
lofty and impending, with steep ridges, one behind the other, descending
to the river, reach away to where the blue sky dips in between them and
the last visible perpendicular wall that frowns along the valley’s
opposite border. The wildness of the scene is heightened instead of
softened by the vision of Campbell’s lowly cabin in the center of the
narrow corn-fields. You see the smoke above its blackened roof; several
uncombed children tumbling in the sunshine; the rail fence close by its
frail porch; and, beyond it, the limpid Nantihala, smooth and turbulent
alternately, and filling the ears with its loud monotone. (See
Frontispiece.)
“Buck” Campbell is a whole-souled fellow; his wife, a pleasant woman. If
you have time, stop here. Excepting the good-natured bearing of the
mountaineer and his wife, you will see nothing inviting about the place,
until the table is set for supper, out in the open air, at one end of
the cabin. The meal will be an appetizing one. Between each bite you
take of a smoking piece of corn-dodger, you can look up at the shadowed
front of the Anderson Roughs (for long since the western wall has
intercepted the sunlight from pouring on it), and watch how the shadows
thicken, while still the sky is bright and clear above. The
signification of noon-day sun, as applied to the river, will strike you
forcibly. Late in the morning and early in the evening the valley is in
shade. There is but one room in the cabin, consequently you will all
sleep together, and awake in the morning feeling that there is something
in the humblest path of life to keep a man happy.
Every morning, except in winter, a heavy fog fills the valley. This is
unfavorable for the cultivation of small grain, consequently corn is the
only profitable production on the Nantihala. Issuing from the cabin, you
jump the fence and go to the river to perform your ablutions. A tin
basin is not one of Campbell’s possessions. You are sure of clean water,
however; and, leaning over the river’s bosom, you have something to act
as a mirror, while you comb your hair with your fingers. If you yell for
it, a towel will be brought by one of a pair of black-eyed youngsters,
fondly called “Dutch” and “Curly” by their father. Campbell says he
believes in nicknaming his children; for he does not see why they should
go by their proper names any more than people should call him “Buck,”
instead of Alexander.
By 9 o’clock the mist has rolled itself in clouds and drifted up the
heights, a belt of sunshine is half way down the mountain on the west,
and day has fairly dawned. If it is in the early fall, the drum of the
pheasant may be heard from the near woods. The quail has ceased his
piping for the season, but he has by no means migrated, as one might
infer from his silence; for if you stroll through the fields, great
bevies will frequently rise from your feet and start in all directions
with such a whirr of wings that you will jump in spite of yourself. I
have started wood-cock in the wet tangles of the mountain streams, but
they are rare birds.