Spake As a Dragon (19 page)

The two sentries, never having seen
General Stoneman, 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 by them and rides down the road and
out of sight.

A couple of miles down the road he
approaches a road-side 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 wind blown sign and a drunken
patron stumbling out the tavern door, “No use goin’ in there
blue-belly, they don’t serve Yankee scum like 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 the
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
illuminate 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, facedown 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 someplace else to do yer drinkin’, yer
hear?”

Luke catches a hint of Southern
sympathy in this man. He might be wrong,
dead
wrong if he
isn’t right, but he decides to take a chance. “I know what it looks
like, but I’m not a Yankee! I’m an escaped Reb from Camp Douglas in
Chicago trying to get home to Alabama. I’m looking for food – any
kind of food. I left my partner on the outskirts of town while I
try to find us something to eat. All I have to trade is my
grandfather’s pocket watch, but it’s yours for just enough food to
help us get farther south.”

Without looking up again, he asked,
“What was your unit?”

“
I joined up in ’62 with
the 48
^th
Alabama, got captured at Gettysburg, escaped on
the way to Point Lookout, Maryland. Hooked up with General John
Hunt Morgan’s raiders. Captured again and got sent to Camp Douglas
and escaped again, so here I am.”

The bartender deliberately places the
glass on the bar, slowly drooped the bar towel over his shoulder,
reaches under the bar and pulls out a mean looking .56 caliber, 7
shot, lever action Spencer rifle. The sight of the rifle
immediately worries Luke. The Spencer is a Yankee rifle. The only
ones Southerners possess were pick-ups from the battlefield. The
Yanks say the Spencer is ‘that gun you load on Sunday and shoot it
all week!’

‘
This man has the look
of a soldier,’
Luke thinks.
‘With that Spencer he must be a
Union deserter. This is gonna turn out bad!’

“
Sounds like you’ve had an
interested career in this here man’s Army. Seems like you’s better
at getting’ caught that fightin’?”

The innkeeper glares long and hard at
Luke. He, along with his rifle, begins to move ominously from
behind the bar. Sweat is beginning to form on Luke’s brow as the
barkeep begins to raise the Spencer.

The barkeep loads a shell into the
breech and looks as if he is about to fire his rifle, suddenly
instead of aiming the deadly weapon at Luke he lowers it and taps
his leg with the rifle barrel – it is an artificial wooden leg.
“Gettysburg too, Armistead Brigade, 14
^th
Virginia, we
was on the left of yer 48
^th
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
day,” 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 stone wall on Cemetery Ridge.”

“
You means 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, I’ve got food, it’s yours, 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
something.”

Luke’s horse was loaded down with a
good supply of food. The innkeeper had supplied coffee, hardtack,
bacon, some beans, a coffee pot, a frying pan, a small pouch of
sugar, a cured ham, a powder horn half filled with powder, some
percussion caps and a Colt Army Model 1860, .44 caliber, 6-shot
revolver complete with holster. 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 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 near-by tree. Hiding
he waits for whoever is coming. His plan is to wait for the
intruder to pass and then slam the chuck 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 sky 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 grand
pappy’s watch Luke, I knows it means 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 believe our luck is finally turning.” With these last
words Luke calls to Nate, “Heads up!” Luke pitches the Spencer to
Nate. “The pistol wasn’t all he gave me!”

Nate grabbed the rifle with one hand
and began to admire the rifle’s beauty – from the walnut stock to
the golden color of brass in its trigger action. “Luke I’ve heared
about such rifles, but I never put much stock in them bein’ real.
And right here in my own hands is one, 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 75 to
100 miles distance. From the Cumberland Mountains to Knoxville was
another 100 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 easily 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
most days 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 gray-smoky 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 it was pretty cold. 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, sliced off some of the cured ham and enjoyed the first
good meal they had eaten in a long time. It was a few days before
Christmas.

The next morning they took the risk to
travel during the day. Being able to see where they are going
doubled their speed. Luke guesses at the rate they are traveling
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. This is the road, which winds its way across
the mountain. It is the only real road across these mountains for
dozens of miles in either direction.

“
Nate, you and I must make
a decision before we begin our trek across this wilderness. We can
follow this coach road, which, by far will be the easiest and
fastest, but this route is sure to get us captured, or we can dead
reckon a path through the woods which will be safer, but 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 such thangs.”

“
All right Nate, let’s do
it fairly,” Luke reaches down on the ground and picks up a long
straw. He separates it into 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 cross the mountain. Is that
fine with you?”

Nate nodded his head, reaches and
pulls a straw – it is the long one. “The decision is made, we’re
fixin’ to stomp ourselves across this old Cumberland Mountain. 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 see if I can 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 everything is ready for supper – just as soon as
Luke returns with some 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 thinks he can catch a few winks before Luke
returns.

He nods off, almost asleep when he
hears a twig break - 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 in into his
hands – gently he 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 footfalls. 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’ was close 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 there Union repeater rifle.”

“
What if I is a Yank who’s
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, hunched 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 grey 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 –
Naw
, thought Nate
; this old fellow means me no
harm.