can describe the overpowering effect of the view from that precipice. I
shall attempt to give only a few outlines to enable the reader, by the
aid of his imagination, to form some idea of the bold and broken
character of this part of the Blue Ridge.
One evening in August I crossed the state line through Jones gap, and
rode along the backbone of the spur. A dark cloud had mantled the
mountain tops all the afternoon. So dense was it, that the deep gorge of
Little river had the appearance of a tunnel, reverberating monotonously
with the sound of falling waters. On the south side of the ridge the
cloud clung to the ground, making it impossible during the last three
miles of the ride to see ten feet in any direction. No rain was falling,
yet drops of water were soon trickling down the saddle and the chill of
moisture penetrated my clothing. It was fast growing dark when a sound
of laughter signaled the end of the journey. The indistinct outline of a
large white house appeared a moment later, and on the long veranda sat
numerous groups of men and women.
My thoroughly dampened condition must have appealed to the sympathies of
the manager of the hotel, for I had scarcely entered my room when a
servant appeared at the door with a tray of needed stimulants, after the
fashion of the hospitable southern planter. Every attention was bestowed
upon me, and a short time after I was in as agreeable a condition as I
have ever been before or since. In the journal for the day, written up
that evening, is this concluding sentence, which I had no inclination to
change afterwards: “This establishment is managed by a man who knows his
business, and is liberal enough to give his guests what they have a
reasonable right to expect.”
At daybreak I joined Judge Presley, of Summerville, who has spent nine
summers here and knows the surroundings perfectly. From an eminence near
the hotel, the peaks of the Blue Ridge and its spurs can be counted for
tens of miles in both directions, those in the distance resembling in
the morning light, parapets of massive castle walls. “Do you see,” said
the Judge, pointing in a northeasterly direction, “that oval line
[Illustration: BOLD HEADLANDS.
Table Rock and Cæsar’s Head.]
against the sky? That is King’s mountain, on the border of the state,
seventy miles from here. Now, look the other way, between yon
pyramid-shaped peaks. There you see what might be a cloud. It is Stone
mountain, near Atlanta, Georgia, 110 miles distant. You have overlooked
an expanse of 180 miles of country.”
It was still clear when, an hour later, our party arrived at the ledge
of rock called Cæsar’s Head. A strong imagination is required to see any
resemblance in the profile to a man’s head, much less to a Roman’s of
the heroic type. We are inclined to believe the story told by a
mountaineer. An old man in the vicinity had a dog named Cæsar, whose
head bore a striking resemblance to the rock, and being desirous to
commemorate his dog, the appellation, “Cæsar’s Head,” was given to the
rock. But this is a point not likely to be considered by the tourist,
first dizzied by a glance down the precipice into the “Dismal” 1,600
feet below. The view is strikingly suggestive of the ocean. Our
standpoint was almost a third of a mile above the green plain of upper
South Carolina, its wave-like corrugations extending to the horizon
line. Patches of foamy white clouds jostled about the surface, and above
them, white caps floated upon the breeze. The breaker-like roar of
cataracts, at the base of the mountain, completed the deception. Boldest
and most picturesque of the numerous precipitous headlands, is Table
Rock, six miles distant. There are several glens and waterfalls in the
vicinity of the hotel, numerous walks leading to views of mountain
scenery, and drives through solitary glens. The view from the top of
Rich mountain is broadest in its scope, taking in the Transylvania
valley. The “Dismal,” that is, the apparent pit into which you look from
the “Head,” may be reached by a circuitous route, but the labor of
getting there will be rewarded only by disappointment. I spent a
forenoon climbing down and an afternoon climbing out. It is a good
place for bears to hibernate and snakes to sun themselves, nothing more.
I was reminded, by this foolish exploit, of a paragraph from Mark Twain:
“In order to make a man or boy covet anything, it is only necessary
to make the thing difficult to attain.... Work consists of whatever
a body is obliged to do, and play consists in whatever a body is
not obliged to do. This is why performing on a treadmill, or
constructing artificial flowers is work, while rolling tenpins or
climbing Mount Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen
in England who drive four-horse passenger coaches, twenty or thirty
miles on a daily line, in summer, because the privilege costs them
considerable money, but if they were offered wages for the service
that would turn it into work, and then they would resign.”
Brevard, the capital town of Transylvania, is a center from which to
make several short journeys to scenic points. In reaching it from
Cæsar’s Head, take the Conestee road, which runs over an undulating
plateau declining gently from the base of the hills which mark the crest
of the Blue Ridge, and then down the narrow gorge of the Conestee fork.
There are few houses to mar the wild beauty of nature. Seven miles from
Brevard is the waterfall bearing the name of the stream. The ruin of a
primitive mill is the perfect complement of the natural picturesqueness
of the scene. The road finally descends into a narrow bottom, which
gradually widens until it is lost in the broad stretch of the level
valley of the main stream.
The village of Brevard consists of about fifty houses. It is situated a
short distance from the French Broad. The distance from Asheville is
thirty-two miles; from Hendersonville, the nearest railroad point, a
third less. One of the most noted places reached from Brevard is Shining
Rock, seen from mountain tops thirty miles distant. It consists of an
immense precipice of white quartz, which glistens in the sunlight like
silver. The precipice is 600 feet high and about a mile long. Parties
will find protection from a passing storm, or if need be over night, in
a cave near the base of the mountain.
The road from Brevard to Hendersonville runs through the widest part of
the French Broad valley, and part of the way follows the river bank.
The Government has expended $44,000 in deepening and straightening the
channel between the mouth of Ochlawaha creek and Brevard. The result is
a sixteen inch channel for a distance of seventeen miles. A small boat
makes semi-weekly excursion trips during the summer months. It was once
pushed as far up as Brevard, but in ordinary stages of water, twelve
miles above the landing is the limit of navigation. The road from
Brevard to Asheville, is through the valley of Boylston, at the mouth of
Mill’s river, and around the base of long projecting spurs of Pisgah.
When near Brevard, just four years ago, while Redmond, the famous
moonshiner, lived in the neighborhood, and a little blockading was still
going on in the Balsams, I made a midnight journey, the details of which
may be of general interest. One afternoon, during a deer drive through
the wilds and over the rugged heights of the Tennessee Bald, I advanced
far enough in my month’s acquaintance with a fellow, Joe Harran, to
learn that he was formerly a distiller, and even then was acting as a
carrier of illicit whisky from a hidden still to his neighbors.
After the hunt, as we walked toward my boarding-place, I expressed a
wish to go with him on a moonshine expedition. He readily agreed to take
me. We were to go that night.
I retired early to my room, ostensibly for the purpose of a ten-hour
sleep. At nine o’clock there was a rap at my door, and a moment after
Harran was inside. He had a bundle under his arm, which he tossed on the
bed. Said he:
“The clothes ye hev on air tu fine fer this trip. My pards mout tak’ ye
fer a revenoo, an’ let a hole thro’ ye. Put on them thar,” and he
pointed to the articles he had brought with him.
“Is it necessary?”
“In course. Ef hit war’nt, I wouldn’t say so. Ef ye’r goin’
moonshinin’, ye must be like a moonshiner. Hurry an’ jump in the duds,
fer we’ve got nigh onto seven mile ter go ter git to the still, an’ ef
we don’t make tracks, the daylight’ll catch us afore we gits back.”
I took off an ordinary business suit, and a short space after stood
transformed into what appeared to me a veritable mountaineer, after the
manner of Harran, except that my friend had granted me a tattered coat
to cover the rough shirt, and my pants were not tucked in my boots,
because the latter were not exactly of the pattern most suitable for the
occasion.
“I reckon ye’ll do, tho’ ye don’t look ez rough ez ye mout ef yer har
war long; but pull the brim o’ the hat down over yer eyes, an’ I ’low
when I tell ’em yer a ’stiller from Cocke county, over the line, they’ll
believe hit, shore.”
We went outside, climbed the rail fence, and found ourselves in the
road.
“Hold up,” said Harran, “we mustn’t fergit these things,” and from a
brush pile he drew out two enormous jugs and a blanket.
“You don’t mean to say,” said I, in amazement, as he stood before me
with a jug in each hand, “that you intend carrying those things seven
miles, and then bring them back that distance filled with whisky!”
“In course. I mean that they’re goin’ to the still an’ back with us, but
I don’t reckon me or you are goin’ to tote em.”
“What then?”
“Wait an’ see.”
We wound along the crooked valley road for several rods, until, in front
of a cabin, my companion stopped, sat down his jugs, and unwound from
his waist something that looked like a bridle.
“Hist!” said he, in a low tone, “I reckon they be all asleep in the
house. Jist ye stay hyar, an’ I’ll catch the filly in yan lot.”
This was more than I had bargained for. The expedition we were on was
bad enough, but horse-stealing was a crime of too positive a kind. Of
course I knew Harran only intended to borrow the horse for the evening,
but if we were caught with the animal in our possession, and going in an
opposite direction from the owner’s farm, what was simply a misdemeanor,
might, from attendant circumstances, be construed into a crime to which
no light penalty was attached. But Harran was over the fence and had the
filly in charge before I could prevent him. Talking was then of no use.
He had done the same thing a hundred times before. He said there was no
danger. I was not convinced, but, having started, I determined to
proceed, let come what might. He let down the rails of the fence, led
the filly through, threw the blanket over her back, and, tying the jugs,
by their handles, to the ends of a strap, slung them over the blanket.
“Now git up an’ ride ’er,” said he, “an’ I’ll walk fer the first few
mile.”
“No riding for me until I get out of this locality,” I answered. “I have
no intention of being seen by chance travelers on a stolen horse, with
two demijohns hanging before me, and in the company of a moonshiner. It
would be a little too suspicious, and next fall there might be a case in
court in which I would be the most important party. You may ride.”
Harran laughed long and rather too loudly for safety; but seeing I was
in earnest, he mounted. We started. It was a clear, moonlight night. The
air was just cool enough to be comfortable. We followed the country road
for four miles without meeting a person, and only being barked at once
by a farmer’s dog; then we turned into a narrow trail through a dense
chestnut forest. At this point my fellow traveler dismounted and I
filled his place. He walked ahead, leading the way along the shaded
aisles, while after him I jogged with the two jugs rubbing my knees with
every step the horse made. We were to ascend and cross the ridge that
rose before us, and then wind down through the ravines on the opposite
slope until we reached the still. The top was gained by a steep climb of
two miles, during part of which ascent the filly carried nothing but the
earthenware luggage. On the summit we found ourselves in a dense balsam
forest.
Down the opposite side, as we descended, even with the bright light of a
full moon overhead, we were surrounded by a darkness, formed by the
shadows of the trees, that made the path almost imperceptible to me.
Harran seemed to have no trouble in tracing it.
“Almost thar,” said the moonshiner, as he slapped my leg, while the
filly stopped for a drink at a cold, bubbling stream coursing along the
roots of the laurel: “Now, swar by God and all thet’s holy, ye’ll never
breathe to a livin’ soul the whereabouts o’ this hyar place.”
I swore, reserving at the same time all an author’s rights of revelation
except as to the whereabouts.
“The spot’s not a hundred yards from hyar.”
We turned into a ravine, and went upward along the stream. The sides of
the ravine grew steeper. Suddenly I heard a coarse laugh, then caught a
glimmer of fire-light, and by its blaze, for the first time in my life,
I saw the mountain still of an illicit distiller. We paused for a moment
and Harran whistled three times shrilly.
“All right. Come ahead!” yelled some one. A minute later, obedient to
this return signal, we had stopped at our destination. The ravine had
narrowed, and the sides were much steeper and higher. The place was well
shut in. An open shed, roofed, and with one side boarded, stood before
us. Within it was a low furnace throwing out the light of a hot fire.
Over the furnace was a copper still, capable of holding twenty-five
gallons. Several wash-tubs, a cold water hogshead, and two casks,
evidently containing corn in a diluted state, stood around under the
roof. Close to this still-house was a little log cabin. The two
distillers, who greeted our arrival, ate and slept within this latter
domicil. The smoke from the still curled up through the immense balsams
and hemlocks that almost crossed themselves over the top of the ravine.
The two distillers looked smoky and black, and smelled strongly of the
illicit. They, like my friend, were in their shirt sleeves, and dressed
as he was. Their hats were off, and their long brown locks shaking
loosely over their ears and grizzled faces, gave them a barbarous
appearance.
“We ’lowed ye would’nt come, Joe, afore to-morrer night. Who’ve ye got
thar on the filly?” inquired one of the pair.
“He? thet’s John Shales, a kin o’ mine. He’s started up a still over’n
the side, an’ not knowin’ exact how tu run hit, he kum along with me tu
see yer’s an’ pick up a bit,” answered Harran by way of introduction, as
I jumped from the horse, and he, removing the jugs, tied the animal to a
post of the still.
“Thet’s all right. Glad to see yer,” said the first speaker in a hearty,
good-natured voice, extending his hand to me for a fraternal grasp,
which he received, continuing at the same time, “My name’s Mont Giller.”
“And mine’s Bob Daves,” sang out the second of the pair as he clinched
my hand.
“Hev ye enny o’ the dew ready fer my jugs, an’ fer my throat, which is
ez dry ez a bald mounting?” asked Harran.
“I reckon we kin manage to set yer off,” answered Daves.
One of the casks in the shed was tipped, a plug drawn from its top, and
a stream like the purest spring water gushed into a pail set below it.
This was whiskey. The jugs were filled. Each of us then imbibed from a
rusty tin dipper. In keeping with my assumed character, I was obliged to
partake with them. We took it straight, my companion emptying a
half-pint of the liquid without a gurgle of disapproval or a wink of his
eyes.
While the men worked in the light of the furnace fire, and talked in
loud tones above the noise of the running water flowing down troughs
into the hogshead, through which wound the worm from the copper still, I
listened and “j’ined” in at intervals, and this I learned:
One of the men was a widower, the other a bachelor. It was two miles
down that side of the mountain to a road. The corn used in distilling
they bought at from twenty-five to fifty cents per bushel, and “toted”
it or brought it on mule-back up the trail to the still. They had no
occasion to take the whisky below for sale. It was all sold on the spot
at from seventy-five cents to one dollar per gallon, according to the
price of corn. Those who came after the liquor, came, as we had, with
jugs, and thereby supplied the tipplers in the valley, usually charging
a quarter of a dollar extra for the trip up and back--nothing for the
danger incurred by dealing in it.
The older man, Giller, I noticed, had been eyeing me rather suspiciously
for some time. His observation made me rather uneasy. At last, while I
was seated on a large log before the fire, Giller approached me, and, as
though by accident, brushed off my hat. Not thinking what he was up to,
as I naturally would do I turned my face toward him.
“By--!” exclaimed he. “Hit’s all a blasted lie. You’re no moonshiner.
You’re a revenoo; but yer tricked right hyar.”
I saw a big, murderous-looking pistol in his hand and heard it click. I
suppose I threw up my hands. “Hold on, hold on!” I exclaimed. “Don’t
shoot! for heaven’s sake, man, don’t shoot! it’s a mistake.”
“Wal, I don’t know ’bout thet. We’ll hev Harran explain this thing while
I keep a bead on yer head.”
Of course, Harran and the other moonshiner were by us immediately.
“What’s the matter with you, Mont, yer goin’ to shoot my cousin? That’s
a perlite way to treat yer comp’ny. What to hell air ye up to?”
He had grabbed the excited and suspicious moonshiner by the arm.
“Let go ’o me,” said the latter, “I know thet man thar is no kin o’
yours, Joe Harran. He’s cl’ar too fine a sort fer thet, and ef ye don’t
prove to me thet he haint a revenoo and ye haint a sneak, I’ll shoot him
first an’ then turn ye adrift on the same road.”
Daves, on hearing this speech, surveyed me critically with an
unfavorable result for myself, and then, in turn, drew a horse pistol,
and cocked it swearing as he did so.
I saw the game was up as far as my being John Shales was concerned, so I
decided to come out if possible in true colors, and also as wholly
antagonistic to revenue officers. It took some time for an explanation;
but on Harran’s vouching in decidedly strong terms as to the truth of
what I said, they lowered, uncocked and slipped their “shootin’-irons”
into their pockets.
They were by no means satisfied, though, and we left them with lowering
countenances and malicious muttering, against my companion for daring to
bring a stranger into their camp.
We made a safe trip across the mountain, and at 2 o’clock in the morning
struck the road. I was riding.
“Hold on hyar,” said Harran.
I held in the horse. We were before an unpretentious farmhouse. The
moon had just disappeared behind the western ranges, and the landscape
was dark and uncomfortably cheerless, for a chill wind had sprung up.
Harran went up to the yard fence, reached over and lifted up a jug. He
brought it to me, shaking it as he did so. A ringing sound came from it.
“That’s silver,” said he.
“What does that mean?” I inquired in a curious tone.
“Why,” he returned, while he turned the jug upside down in his hat and
shook it, “here’s two dollars an’ a half in dimes. I reckon thet Winters
wants two gallon o’ the dew, an’ this hol’s two gallon, jist.” He said
he “’llowed he’d be wantin’ some soon, an the jug, he sed, would be in
the ole place. Ye see, now, he’ll find hit thar in the mornin’ but he’ll
never know how hit cum thar, or who tuk his money.”
“What is the object of being so secret about it?”
“Why, what ef I’m arrested, an’ he’s hauled up ez a witness. What kin he
swar to about buying whiskey o’ me? Nothin’. He’ll hev the whiskey all
the same though, won’t he? Ha, ha!”
He filled the jug and four others on the way down. All had money with
them, either inside or lying on the corn-cob stopper. It was a cash
business. At the proper place he turned the filly in the barn lot, and a
few minutes after we were at my boarding-house. Before we parted for the
night--it was almost daylight--I reckoned up for him his account of
purchases and sales for the expedition. He had a profit in his favor of
two dollars and a quarter, and a little more than a gallon of the “dew.”
All I had gained was experience.
The ride from Asheville down the French Broad will be to the stranger a
revelation of the beautiful and sublime. For over forty miles you wind
through the pent-in valley of the river, losing sight of its current
only in one or two instances, where, for a short space, the skirts of
the encroaching mountains are drawn back, and the track, following close
on their edges, leaves woods or bare rolling meadows between it and the
stream. On account of the newness of the bed, and the frequent sharp
curves, the speed of the train is comparatively slow. There are other
drawbacks to contend against. An amusing incident, in which several
minutes of time were lost, occurred on our last journey down the river.
The train had just attained full headway, when a man in blue jeans arose
in an excited manner from his seat, near us, and, grabbing the
bell-cord, pulled it in desperation. The train came to a stand-still.
The conductor rushed in, demanding why the signal had been given.
“I got on the wrong train,” returned the countryman, leisurely gathering
up his satchel, “and I wants ter git off.”
The conductor turned red in the face, and amidst the laughter of the
passengers, assisted the man to make his departure in a hurried manner.
On the same trip, while we were rounding a bend below Warm Springs, the
hat of a passenger who was standing on the rear platform, was blown from
his head. The train was stopped for a time to allow the unfortunate man
to run back and find the relic. He searched until he found it and then
regained his place.
For several miles after leaving Asheville, low, undulating hills,
sloping upward from the river, fill the landscapes. The water runs deep
and dark around these bends, and no rapids of any consequence break the
smooth surface of the stream; but as further down you go, sweeping along
over the rattling rails, piles of huge drift logs, and clusters of
Titanic boulders appear at intervals, and the country becomes wilder and
more rugged. The foot-hills begin to roll higher, and with steep, stony
fronts staring at each other across the intervening space of waters,
resemble the severed halves of hills thus rent in twain by the impetuous
river. On, on, the scenery becomes more grandly wild and beautiful. Now
passes an old-fashioned country farmhouse--extensive portico bordering
the front, and huge brick chimneys at each end--with dingy barn; pine
log-cabins fast falling to decay around it; rail-fences encircling, and
then meadows, fields, and forests sweeping back on three sides. The old
road lies before the fence, and a stretch of white sand, shaded by
willows and alders, comes down to the restless river. Alexanders, a
wayside station, has long been known as a summer resort. As early as
1826 a hotel, located on the present building’s site, was the only
tavern between Asheville and the Tennessee line.
The old man, smoking his pipe of home-cured tobacco, and daily seated on
the veranda, has not yet become so familiarized with the vision of the
iron horse and whirling coaches as to abandon his custom of walking to
the gate as the train draws in sight. The women appear at the windows;
the inmates of the barn-yard disappear behind the out-buildings.
Then comes a sudden stop to valley scenery, and you are passing between
frowning walls of clay and rock, forming cañons. Then across the stream
ascends a high mountain--the ancient stage-way at its base, and oak and
chestnut forests receding upward--with a deep ravine in its front
holding the waters of a mountain torrent that gleam white through the
rustling foliage of the steep; then woods of pine above; then bare
precipices, festooned with evergreen vines and mosses, set on top with
lonely pines, and, above all, blue unfathomable space.