existence dates only from the formation of the county in 1871,--is
situated by the Tuckasege river, and at the foot of Rich mountain. It is
in the midst of a new country. The two most conspicuous buildings,
standing directly opposite each other at one end of the village street,
are the new and old court-houses. The former is a substantial brick
structure, likened by a wag, who draws his comparisons from homely
observations, to the giant hopper of a mill, turned upside down. The
old, frame court-house has its upper story used as a grand jury room,
and its lower floor, as formerly, holds the jail. The dark interior of
the “cage,” used for petty misdoers, can be seen under the front outside
stairs, through a door with barred window. An apartment fitted up for
the jailer is on the same floor, and, by a spiked, open slit, about six
inches by two feet in dimensions, is connected with the “dungeon.” For
its peculiar purposes this dungeon is built on a most approved pattern.
It is a log room within a log room, the space between the log walls
being filled up with rocks. It is wholly inside the frame building.
Besides the opening where the jailer may occasionally peek in, is
another one, similar to that described, where a few pale rays of
daylight or moonlight, as the case may be, can, by struggling, filter
through clapboards, two log walls, spikes, and rocks, to the gloomy
interior. A pad-locked trap-door in the floor above is the only
entrance. The daily rations for ye solitary culprit, like all our
blessings, come from above--through the trap-door. Here, suspected
unfortunates of a desperate stripe awaiting trial, and convicted
criminals, biding their day of departure for the penitentiary or
gallows, are confined in dismal twilight, and in turn are raised by a
summons from above, and a ladder cautiously lowered through the opening
in the floor. This invitation to clamber is always responded to with
alacrity by the occupant below. As Swain county is particularly
fortunate in having few crimes committed within its borders which call
for capital or very vindictory and exemplary punishment, the dungeon is
seldom put in use.
Along the main thoroughfare, and on the few side streets, are neat white
dwellings; well-stocked stores, where a man can buy anything from a
needle to an axe; and two good village hotels. Like all communities,
they have churches here, and possibly (for the writer does not speak on
this point from observation) on some grassy knoll, under the silence and
shadows of noble forest monarchs, may be found a few head-marked graves
forming the village cemetery.
The post-office is a good place, at the arrival of the mailhorse, to
survey and count the male population of Charleston; or, after papers and
letters are distributed, to meet, in the person of Postmaster Collins,
an intelligent man who will vouchsafe all information desired on matters
of local and county interest. In the middle of the day, you can sit on
the counter in any of the stores and discuss politics or religion with
the merchant, who, in his shirtsleeves, and perched on a pile of muslins
and calicoes with his feet on a coal-oil barrel, smokes a pipe of
home-cured tobacco, and keeps his eyes alternately on the ceiling and
the road, as though expectant along the latter for the white or Indian
customer.
Here we heard how a few years since a deer was hounded into the river,
and then in deep water was easily lassoed by a native, towed to shore,
and, rendered docile through fright, was led like a lamb through the
village street. This story heightened our ardor to be on the hunt; so,
leaving the village early on a foggy morning, we that day accomplished
thirty-five miles of travel and arrived at our destined quarters on the
height of the Smoky mountains.
The character of a river can not be known by a single view of its
waters. One must follow it for miles to know its peculiarities, and
wherein its picturesqueness differs from other streams. The mountain
rivers are admirably suited for investigations of this nature. The
levelest and oftentimes the only accessible way for a road is close
along the streams. The Little Tennessee is, through many of its
stretches, looked down upon from winding highways; but it is not until
the traveler leaves Charleston and strikes the banks some few miles
below, that the grandeur of its scenery is manifest. Here begins the
close companionship between river and road, that is not broken until by
the impetuous waters the heart of the Smoky mountains is cut asunder.
The scenery is similar to the French Broad, but the scale is
considerably enlarged. There is a greater volume of water, and a wider
reach between the banks; the mountains, whose wood-adorned fronts rise
from the sounding edge of the current, are loftier in height, and in
some places, like that before the farm house of Albert Welsh, present a
distinctive feature in their steep, rocky faces. In the vicinity of the
mouth of the Tuckasege, some charming pictures are to be found. Take it
at the hour preceding an October sunset, when the shadows thrown by wall
and forest lie dark and heavy on the slopes and levels; when the
sunlight is strong, and an evening serenity pervades the scene: the
steep mountains flame with the gorgeous coloring of autumn, mingled with
the changeless green of the pines; crimson vines gleam in the sunlight
smiting the cliffs which they festoon; and, in shadow, at the feet of
the mountains, “like some grave, mighty thought threading a dream,”
glides the silent river.
[Illustration: ON THE LITTLE TENNESSEE.]
Occasionally, the stream makes a long, straight sweep; then again,
abrupt bends throw it in zigzag course. A few flocks of teal and wood
ducks, apparently even wilder than when in marsh-water, rose
occasionally from placid faces of the river. They were out of gun-shot
at the start, and before settling, never failed to put the next lower
bend between them and their disturbers. The mountains so encroach on the
river that little arable land is afforded; houses are consequently far
apart, in some places miles of road being devoid of a clearing.
Eagle creek rises in Ecanetle gap. A narrow trail winds on the wild
banks along its waters. At its mouth we turned from the Little
Tennessee, and for ten miles pursued this trail without passing a house.
The forest was lifeless and unbroken throughout. Twilight came as we
traveled, and just after it became dark enough to see a phosphorescent
log that glowed, like a bed of burning lime, across our path, through
the laurel appeared a vista of cleared land embosomed in a dark forest.
The starlight revealed it. In the center stood a double log house, with
a mud-daubed stone chimney at each low gable, above which flying sparks
made visible a column of smoke. The two doors were open, and through
these streamed the lights from the fire-places. No windows marred the
structure; but chinks, through which one might easily stick his rifle to
blaze away at a wild turkey in the corn field, or at a revenue officer
beyond the fence, made the exterior of the hut radiant with their
filtration of light. Several low outbuildings were in the enclosure.
As Sanford’s horse struck against an intact row of bars which closed the
trail, the savage yelping of a body of unseen dogs startled the quiet of
the scene. In an instant a bare-headed woman, with a pan in her hand,
appeared at one door, and at the other a bushy-headed man leaned
outward.
“How are you?” yelled Sanford. “Do Jake and Quil Rose live here?”
“Shet up, ye hounds, ye!” addressing his dogs; then to us, “I reckon
they do. Who be you uns?”
By that time both doors were crowded with young and old heads, and two
men came toward us. After a parley, in which we explained who we were,
and the object of our visit, the bars rattled down, our horses stepped
after each other into the clearing, and in succession we grasped the
hands of the Rose brothers.
“Ef yer hunters,” said one, “we’re only too glad to see ye; but at fust
we didn’t know whether ye war gentlemen or a sheriff’s posse, the
road-boss or revenue galoots. Now lite, go to the house, and take cheers
while we stable the nags.”
As directed, we entered one of the two rooms of the cabin, leaving
behind us the night, the quieted dogs and the October chill that comes
with the darkness. A hot log fire, leaping in the chimney place, around
which were ranged four children and a woman preparing supper, threw on
the walls the fantastic shadows of the group, and enabled us to mark
every object of the interior. On the scoured puncheon floor furtherest
from the chimney, were three rough bed-steads, high with feather ticks
and torn blankets. Against the walls above the bed-steads were long
lines of dresses, petticoats and other clothing. No framed pictures
adorned the smoky logs, but plastered all over the end where rose the
chimney, was an assortment of startling illustrations cut from Harper’s
Weeklies, Police Gazettes, and almanacs, of dates (if judged by their
yellowness) before the war. A few cooking implements hung against the
chimney. Over half the room reached a loft, where one might imagine was
stored the copper boiler and other apparatus of a still, slowly
corroding through that season immediately preceding the hardening and
gathering in of the corn. A table, with clean spread on it, and set with
sweet potatoes, corn-dodger, butter and coffee, stood in the center of
the room. At this board, on the invitation of the brother known as Quil,
we seated ourselves to a repast, rude to be sure, but made delicious to
us from a long day’s travel. The wife of the mountaineer, as if out of
respect to her visitors, and following a singular custom, had donned her
bonnet on sight of us; and, keeping it on her head, poured out the
coffee in silence, and, although seated, partook of no food until we had
finished.
In the lines preceding these, and in those which immediately follow, the
writer has attempted to present to the reader a true picture of an
extreme type of mountain life,--that of a class of people, hidden in
mountain fastnesses, who, uneducated and unambitious, depend for scanty
subsistence upon the crops of cramped clearings and the profits of the
chase. Their state of perfect contentment is not the singular, but
natural result of such an uncheckered existence.
The Rose brothers, are known as men good-natured, but of desperate
character when aroused. They have been blockaders. Living outside of
school districts, and seemingly of all State protection, they refuse to
pay any taxes; having only a trailway to their door, they pay no
attention to notices for working the county roads. Thus recognizing no
authority, they live in a pure state of natural liberty, depending for
its continuance upon their own strength and daring, the fears of county
officers, the seclusion of their home, and their proximity to the
Tennessee line. Only one and a half mile of mountain ascent is required
to place them beyond the pursuit of State authorities. One of them once
killed his man, in Swain county, and to this day he has escaped trial.
They are men of fine features and physique. Both wear full, dark beards;
long, black hair; slouch hats; blue hunting shirts, uncovered by coats
or vests, and belted with a strap holding their pantaloons in place.
High boots, with exposed tops, cover their feet and lower limbs. They
are tall and broad-shouldered. Thus featured, figured, and accoutered,
they appeared to our party.
All the children had been covered with feather beds, when we six men and
two women formed a wide circle before the fire that evening. Naturally,
our conversation was on hunting, and Kenswick opened the ball by
inquiring about the state of deer hunting.
“We allers spring a deer when we drive,” responded Jake.
“Do you never fail?”
“Never; but sometimes we miss killin’ ’im.”
“They must be thick around here,” remarked Sanford.
“Not so powerful. Why, just a few ye’r ago, Brit Mayner killed nine in
one day. He couldn’t do hit now.”
“Why?”
“Gittin’ scurce; every man on the Smokies owns dogs, an’ they’re bein’
hounded to death.”
“How about bears?” asked Kenswick.
“Gittin’ scurce, too. We generally kill eight or ten now in the season
agin twenty a short time back.”
“When is the best season for bear,” began Kenswick, but Sanford, who had
stepped to the door, interrupted him.
“Oh,” said he, “let information about bears rest until we hunt for them,
and let me ask if that is a wolf I hear howling. Listen!”
“By George!” exclaimed Kenswick, “it does sound rather wolfish.”
“Hit’s one, shore enough,” returned Quil. “We hear ’em every winter
night from the door.”
“They must do damage to your sheep.”
“Reckon they do; but not much worser ’en dogs.”
“How do you destroy them?”
“Trap ’em, an’ shoot ’em.”
“Will they fight a pack of hounds well?”
“Prime fighters, you bet! But, dog my skin, I got the holt on one the
other day that he didn’t shake off!”
“Hold of one! How was that?” two of us asked together.
Jake threw a rich pine knot on the fire; Kenswick ceased puffing his
pipe for an instant; Sanford came from the door, and, leaning against
the chimney, stuck one of his feet toward the blaze; Mrs. Jake Rose with
her sister-in-law exchanged compliments in the shape of a tin snuff box,
in which the latter dipped a chewed birch stick and then rubbed her
teeth; and Quil began:
“This day war four weeks ago when I went down on Forney creek to see
Boodly about swoppin’ our brindled cow-brute fer his shoats, want hit?”
nodding to his wife.
She nodded.
“Wal, I hed my rifle-gun an’ the dogs fer company, countin’ on gittin a
crack at some varmint along the way. On Bear creek, the dogs trottin’ by
my side got ter snuffin’ in the rocks an’ weeds, an’ all o’ a sudden,
barking like mad, broke hell-bent through the laurel and stopped right
squar’ at the branch. Thar was cliffs thar, and the water, arter slidin’
down shelvin’ rocks fer a piece, poured over a steep pitch. I clumpt hit
up an’ down the bank, lookin’ sharp fer deer-signs, but seed nuthin.
Then thinks me ter myself, I’ll cross the stream, an’ call the dogs
over. The nighest way to cross war across the shelvin’ rock above the
fall. I waded in thar. Do ye know, the blamed thing was so slick and
slimy that my feet slipped, an’ I cum down ker splash in the waters. I
tried to clutch the rocks, but couldn’t, an’ as quick as ye can bat yer
eyes, over the short fall I went, strikin’ bottom on sumthin’ soft an’
ha’ry.”
“A wolf?” some one asked.
“Yes, dog my skin! Hit was the dry nest of a master old varmint under
thet fall. He war as fat as a bar jist shufflin’ out o’ winter quarters,
an’ he only hed three legs. One gone at the knee. Chawed hit off, I
reckon, to get shet o’ a trap.”
“What, will they eat off the leg that is fastened to free themselves
from a trap?” asked Kenswick, excitedly.
“In course they will, an’ so’ll a bar,” continued Quil. “But I didn’t
find this all out until arterwards. Thar I war astraddle o’ thet
varmint’s back, an’ my fingers in the ha’r o’ his neck.”
“That’s a pretty stiff story, Quil,” remarked Sanford.
“Stiff or not, hits the truth, so help me Gineral Jackson!”
“Go on, go on!”
“Wal, the wolf snarled and struggled like mad, but I hed the holt on
’im. I didn’t dar’ to loose my holt ter git my knife, so I bent ’im down
with my weight, and, gittin’ his head in the water, I drowned ’im in a
few minutes. Then I toted and drugged ’im out to the dogs.”
“Was it an old sheep-killer?” I asked.
“Thet’s jist what he war. He hed been livin’ nigh the settlement fer
months, till he war too fat ter fight well.”
Quil’s story was a true one, with the exception that in the narration he
had taken the place of the actual hunter. After it was finished,
conversation lagged, and hanging our coats for screens over the backs of
chairs, we jumped upon and sank from sight into the feather beds.
Early the following morning, some little time before daylight had sifted
through the chinks of the cabin, when all out-doors was wrapped in the
gloom of night, and but one premature cock-crow had sounded in my ears,
I heard the feet of the occupant of an adjoining bed strike flat on the
floor, followed by the noise of thrusting of legs into pantaloons. Then
there was a noise at the chimney-place, and soon a fire was in full
blaze, crackling and snapping in a spiteful way, as it warmed and filled
the room with its glow. As soon as this light became strong enough, and
I was sufficiently aroused to distinguish objects about me, I saw that
Quil Rose was up and stirring; and, a minute after, I perceived the
white, night-capped head of the lady of the house shoot, like a
jack-in-the-box, up above the bed-clothes. I thought of Pickwick and the
lady in curl-papers, so I laid quiet. It is curious in what a short
space of time a mountain woman will make her toilet; for that covered
head had not appeared above the bed more than one minute before Mrs.
Rose was in morning dress complete, even to her shoes; and quietly
rolling up her sleeves, was making active preparations for an early
breakfast.
Corn-meal, water, and salt were soon stirred up for the dodger; the
small, round skillet with cover (Dutch oven they call it) was set over a
bed of coals; the tea-kettle was singing on the fire, and some chunks of
venison boiling in the pot.
While Mrs. Rose was thus engaged, one by one we began crawling out, but
not before Quil had come to my bed, stooped down at the head, thrust his
hand under, and lo! by the light of the snapping logs, we saw him draw
forth a gallon jug without a handle.
“I reckon we’ll have a dram afore breakfast,” said he, with a jolly
twinkle in his eye, and smack of his lips, as he poured out a glass of
liquor as clear as crystal, and handed it around.
“Hit costs us jist one dollar a gallon, an’ I’ll ’low hit’s as pure as
mounting dew,” remarked the head of the family, as he drained off a
four-finger drink.
By the time we were dressed, breakfast was ready, and we moved around
the neatly-spread table. Coffee and buttermilk were poured; the corn
dodger was broken by our fingers, and these, together with stewed-apples
and venison made up our morning’s repast.
“The sooner we’re off now, the better,” said Quil, as he took down his
rifle from the buck-prongs fastened in the cabin wall, and drew his
bullet-pouch and powder-horn over his head and arm.
We stepped from the cabin’s door into the gray light of the morning. The
peaks of the Smoky, through which winds Ecanetle gap, were black in
shade, while the jagged rim of mountains, toward the east, was tipped
with fire, and above was an azure sky without a speck of cloud upon its
face. Below us, as seen from the edge of the rail fence, looking far
down across red and yellow forests, the fogs of the lower valleys, lying
along the stream, appeared like great rivers of molten silver. This
effect was caused by the sunlight streaming through the gaps of the
mountains, upon the dense masses of vapor. The glory was beyond
description.
The kindled Morn, on joyous breezes borne,
Breathed balmy incense on the mountains torn
And tumbled; dreamy valleys rolled
In Autumn’s glowing garments far
Below; and cascades thundered
Sparkling down the cedared cliff’s bold
Faces: peaks perpendicular
Shot up with summits widely sundered.
The best time to visit this country is in October. The tourist who,
after several months’ sojourn among the mountains, leaves for his
lowland home, loses, by only a few weeks, the most pleasant season of
the year. In this month is fully realized the truth of Shelley’s words:
“There is a harmony
In autumn and a lustre in its sky,
Which through the summer is not heard nor seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been!”
The skies are intensely blue, seldom streaked with clouds, and the
rain-fall is the least of the year. The atmosphere is free from the
haze, that through a great part of the summer pervading the air, renders
the view less extended. In it one can distinguish tree-top from tree-top
on the heights thousands of feet above him; and the most distant
mountains are brought out in bold relief against the sky. The days are
mild and temperate.
Then it is that Autumn begins to tint the woodlands. Strange to say,
although the forests on the summits are the last to bud and leaf in the
spring, their foliage is the first scattered underfoot. Along the
extreme heights on the northern slopes, the foot-prints of Autumn are
first perceived. This is not because of stronger sunlight or deeper
shade, but is due to the difference of forest growth between the north
and south sides of the ranges. She earliest changes to a dull russet and
bright yellow the upland groves of buckeye and linn, above whose margin
the balsams remain darker and gloomier by the contrast; and touches into
scarlet flame the foliage of the sugar-maple scattered widely apart amid
the sturdier trees.
As the days go by, in the valleys the buckeye drops its leaves; the
black-gum, festooned by the old gold leaves of the wild grape, gleams
crimson against the still green poplars; the hickory turns to a
brilliant yellow amid the red of the oaks; of a richer red appears the
sour-wood; the slender box elder, with yellow leaves and pods, shivers
above the streams; the chestnut burrs begin to open, and drop their
nuts; acorns are rattling down through the oak leaves, while on the
hill-sides from the top of his favorite log, the drum of the pheasant
resounds, as though a warning tattoo of coming frosts.
On the farms the scene is all animation. Although some corn-fields have
already been stripped of their blades, leaving the bare stalks standing
with their single ears, others are just ripe for work, and amid their
golden banners, are the laborers, pulling and bundling the fodder.
Stubble fields are being turned under and sown with grain for next
year’s wheat. The orchards are burdened with rosy fruit; and at the
farm-houses, the women are busy paring apples, and spreading them on
board stages for drying in the sun.
At this time the cattle, turned out in the spring to pasture on the bald
mountains, are in splendid condition, and no more tender and juicy
steaks ever graced a table than those cut from the hind quarters of one
of these steers. The sheep, just clipped of their wool (they shear sheep
twice a year in these mountains) afford the finest mutton in the world.
But let us return to the hunt.
There was a sharp tingle of frost in the atmosphere. Our breath made
itself visible in the clear air, and even Kenswick’s naturally pale face
grew rubicund.
“I’ll swear,” said he, blowing upon his fingers, “this is colder than I
bargained for. A man must keep moving to keep warm. No stand for me this
morning. I’m going in the drive. Why, I’d freeze to sit still for even
half an hour waiting for a deer.”
“Hit’s powerful keen, I’ll ’low,” returned Quil, “but hit’ll be warmer
directly the sun done gits up. You cudn’t stand the drive no how, an’
yer chances wud be slim fer a shot. Ef ye want to keep yer breath, and
the starch in yer biled shirt, ye’d better mind a stan’. Yeh! Ring; Yeh!
Snap; Hi! boys.”
At the latter calls, three hounds came leaping around the corner of the
cabin, joining the four which were already at our heels. It was a
mongrel collection of half starved curs. Two of them, however, were full
blooded deer dogs. Their keen noses, clear eyes, shapely heads, and
lithe limbs, put us in high hopes of the successful result of the day’s
hunt. By tying ropes around the necks of the two old deer dogs, Quil
carried into execution his proposition to “yoke up” the leaders; and,
forthwith, explained that, at the instant of springing the first deer,
he would loosen one hound, whom three of the other dogs would follow.
The next plain scent he would reserve for the remaining leader and two
followers.
Some of the old hunters of the Smokies have reduced dog training to a
fine art. They keep from three to eight hounds, who in a drive, hold
themselves strictly to their master’s orders. None of them need to be
“yoked,” or leashed, and simply at his word, when a scent is sprung, one
hound so ordered will leave the pack and follow alone, and so on, giving
each hound a separate trail. This plan of training the hounds does not
prevail to as great an extent as it did a few years since when the game
was more plenty.
Brushing through the wet weeds and rusty, standing stalks of
blade-stripped corn, we climbed a rail fence and entered a faint trail
along the laureled bank of a trout stream. This stream we crossed by
leaping from rock to rock, while the hounds splashed through the cold
waters. The forest we were in was gorgeous under the wizard influence of
autumn; chestnut and beech burrs lay thick under foot, and the acorn
mast was being fed upon by droves of fierce-looking, bristled hogs,
running at large on the mountain.
The long blast of a horn, and a loud barking, arrested our attention,
and soon after we were joined by a short, thick-set young man, whom Quil
introduced as Ben Lester. He was the picture of a back-woods hunter. The
rent in his homespun coat strapped around his waist, looked as though
done by the claws of a black bear. His legs were short, and just sinewy
enough to carry him up and down ridges for 40 miles per day. A
good-natured, honest, and determined face, bristling with a brown
moustache, and stubble beard, of a week’s growth, surmounted his broad
shoulders. His hands were locked over the stock of a rifle as long as
himself. The ram’s horn, that signaled us of his presence, hung at his
side, and three well-fed, long-eared hounds, were standing close by him;
one between his legs.