by J. L. Salter
Hid Wounded Reb
by J. L. Salter
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
HID WOUNDED REB
Copyright © 2014 Jeffrey L. SALTER
ISBN 978-1-62135-332-4
Cover Art Designed by BOOK BEAUTIFUL
Respectfully dedicated to my wife’s great-grandmother, Nancy Catherine Bishop Fisher, who (at about age ten) resided in the log cabin where the Rebel soldier was hidden after sustaining severe wounds in the Battle of Dutton Hill on March 30, 1863.
Nancy Catherine’s parents, Mary Taylor Bishop and William Bishop, quite literally risked their lives by aiding the wounded Confederate… in the outskirts of Yankee occupied Somerset.
Prologue
March 30, 1919
Her worn overcoat already fastened as tightly as possible, Belva Butler’s bony fingers held the top of one lapel flap against the spot where the button was missing. With her other hand, she pulled her woolen scarf over her ears and clasped the ends against her throat.
As the sun hovered over the treetops to her right, she stood in the small graveyard. The hand-shaped stone marker bore no name, but she studied it as though she were reading. Belva remembered how she felt at sixteen, so long ago: the middle of the War Between the States. She never called it the Civil War because it was anything but civil. Brutal and horrible, it was devastating to the state, their community, her family… and to her.
Fifty-six years ago that very night was when her life first changed. Then a few years later, everything transformed again.
Without realizing, she began humming a mournful tune. Though people had mentioned this to her, she never seemed to notice. Humming that song felt as natural as breathing. A gust of wind made her shiver as she watched the sun disappear behind the highest branches of the leafless westerly trees.
Belva leaned forward slowly and placed in front of the unmarked stone a small, white blossom which she’d grown indoors on a windowsill. Though struggling to mature out of season, it was enough of a flower to suit anyone, especially here in the quiet cemetery. Nobody else would bring flowers until Decoration Day at the end of May. Her specially-grown flower, two months before anyone else, made this her private commemoration — her ritual every year on that date, weather notwithstanding.
Belva shuddered again, her frail bones aching. She exited the rusty wire gate and walked carefully over the hillside, through several gullies, along the crude line of dense cedars and oaks. At a large sinkhole, one of three near her little cottage, she paused again.
Clutching the thin coat around her neck with one hand, she reached into a coat pocket with the other. With considerable difficulty, she extracted a small, dark bundle. Belva stood there quite a while, gazing down into the deep sinkhole, seeming to calculate something. Perhaps she wondered whether she’d see another of her private annual Decoration Days.
Then she tossed in the bundle. Actually, it was more of a slow release. One might think it caressed her skin as it finally broke contact with her wrinkled fingertips… and fell to the sinkhole’s deepest part.
Another sudden gust swept away her scarf, which wafted upward slightly before settling into a different area of the pit, part way up the side nearest her. She thought about trying to retrieve it, but that would be too dangerous with the dark, the cold, and her unsteady legs. The sun was gone, leaving only a hint of orange in the western sky. Belva eyed the bright half moon and guessed just enough light remained to finish her business.
She made her way carefully to the small spring some forty yards away and lower on the slope. Everybody said the water sprang from somewhere deep below the sinkhole.
She turned over the dented metal bucket from its resting place on the small rock ledge just above the spring and filled it a bit less than halfway. Water was heavy and Belva longed for the day when her pump would be fixed. She also wished she had a heavier winter coat. She was upset at losing her warmest scarf in the sinkhole, but at least she could do something about that: she’d go back tomorrow morning and fish it out with a potato rake.
Belva trudged down the hill, past the fence-row, and over toward the southeast corner of the family property. She had hoped someday to build a proper farm house farther east toward the road, but the ground was too steep, and everybody said it would take too many wagon loads of dirt to build it up enough. It probably wouldn’t happen… not in her lifetime anyway.
By the time Belva reached her back door it was even colder. The last two days of March always seemed the bitterest.
****
Ten days later she was found dead in her cold bed; the blackened stove’s coal fire had been out for a long time. Her old family Bible, on the floor, appeared as if it had fallen from her hands while she was reading.
It was said Aunt Belva was seventy-two years old. Hard years, every one.
Chapter One
Friday, March 30, 2007
“Wonder what brought a wounded and dying Rebel soldier ta that cabin door.” Her landlord nodded toward the field where the old Butler cabin once stood. “But not another farm down the wagon road?”
It was unusual for the old man to drive all the way over, especially on such a cold morning. Kelly Mildred Randall had already heard from Chet “Pop” Walter about the dying soldier seeking help from his ancestors during the Civil War. “Don’t know. Maybe chance… fate?”
Pop’s ear had healed nicely from the gun-shot wound of the previous September, and he fingered it lightly as he gave her a faint scowl.
Kelly motioned for him to enter, but he shook off her invitation and sat in a rocker near the railing. He just gazed to his left — north — at the fields of his Fulton relatives, and then zipped up his heavy jacket.
Kelly was impatient to know what brought him, but she’d learned from many contacts with Pop that she wouldn’t gain anything by rushing him. He’ll say what he wants when he’s ready to say it.
“Cematarry’s going to need a mow before too long.”
Butler Cemetery was on the adjacent property of Pop’s ancestors.
“Last week was 144 years since it started.” He cleared his throat loudly.
Kelly realized Pop had begun explaining the purpose for his visit, so she sharpened her focus.
“Ever tell you about the big fight near here? Northeast a couple of miles.” Pop didn’t wait for a reply. “This was a running battle that ended up on a hill at the Dutton farm. Rebs came up from Tennessee, hunting beef cattle mostly. Yanks chased them down. After the shooting stopped, the Rebs had lost a couple hundred. Most was prisoners, but a bunch was killed and a whole lot was wounded. Some hurt so bad they knew they was dying and was left ta make their own way, if they wasn’t caught by the Yanks anyhow. They’d stay on small back roads and in the woods ‘til evening came or they couldn’t go no farther. That night, Rebs — some say one Reb, some say two — came by the old Butler cabin on their way home… some say Tennessee. One’s wounded real bad, not sure about the other. Butlers took them in, even though it could’ve been their ruin if the Yanks found out. Anyhow, they hauled the Reb they knew was dying up to the attic, and the other one hid in the little cellar. The one bad-off died during the night. Other Reb left the next morning heading west and left the dea
d man’s horse.”
“Significant?” Kelly interrupted.
Pop gave her a frown like she ought to know already. “If the Yanks found a Reb horse at the Butlers, it would’ve been big trouble. Anyhow, old William and one of his brothers took the dead Reb up on the hill behind their cabin — the hill was still woods back then — and buried him. Shallow, ‘cause the ground was still so cold. It was only after the war they dug him deeper and marked the grave. Soon other folks started burying family up there. Gradually, they cleared some space and more family and citizens was buried.”
So the wounded Confederate died in their attic and was buried in an unmarked secret grave, which started this cemetery. She’d heard a good bit of this before. Kelly wasn’t sure whether Pop expected a response to his story, but she was still eager to learn the reason for his visit. Her terrier, Perra, suddenly appeared from morning rounds and sniffed the visitor perfunctorily.
“Great Aunt Belva was born in that cabin and lived there most of her life.” Pop pet the pup briefly and continued his narrative. “Old maid. Her daddy died during the war, but Belva took care of her momma for a good while — past the turn of the century. Later she got a small place built over back behind where the farm house sits.” He motioned with his right thumb. “Just a bunch of briars there now. Not real far from the little spring that feeds from the sinkhole farther up the hill in the woods.”
From cemetery, to soldier, to great aunt whoever. When will he cut to the chase?
“They say old Aunt Belva walked over ta the graveyard practically every day, weather allowing, and she always hummed some old tune.”
“What tune?”
“Don’t recall it now. Mom used ta hum it a little, back when we was little tads and she was putting us ta sleep. It was soft-like, kind of slow, and sad. Can’t recall how it goes.” He appeared as though he might try to hum or sing, but did neither. “Old Aunt Belva died just a few months after the First World War ended. Folks always speculated that Belva kept a family secret.”
If it’s a secret, how would anyone know about it? “What kind of secret, Pop?”
“Some say it’s her doings. Others say it’s something she knew about other family doings. Could be both, could be neither. I’ve also heard something’s hid somewhere.” He paused and gazed back toward what remained of the Butler cabin foundation, as cattle moved slowly back and forth on its filled-in cellar. “I’d like ta find out. Might be the last one alive ta even know there is a secret something. When I’m gone, nobody’d know ta look for it.”
“And if anyone else accidentally found it, they wouldn’t realize it was a secret.”
Pop nodded and smiled slightly — the heuristic lesson was complete. Now Kelly understood why he’d visited this morning. For him, somehow, it seemed more satisfying to let it trickle out so she could verbalize it herself than for him to simply state it outright.
“So you want my help researching it or tracking down leads, or whatever?”
He nodded. “I’ll pay for your time… knock it off your rent.”
“How much?” Kelly wished she hadn’t sounded so eager. But it’d been a while since she’d had any decent income, other than the per-column-inch pittance she got from the local paper as a stringer. She could get a temporary work shift installing satellite dishes, but she didn’t want to call her former part-time employer, whom she had also dated. Not since her current boyfriend was already primed with belated jealousy.
“Guess we’d have ta tally up after we see what ya find, and how long it takes.” Pop’s face showed contentment. Mission accomplished: he’d just hired his first research assistant.
“I’m going to need a few more facts from you. Especially the family tree stuff.”
“One of Belva’s sisters was Naomi, Grandma ta me, my brothers and sisters, and lots of my cousins. Another sister died in Missouri. Belva’s only brother died during an epidemic in the 1870s. Ellie wrote it out.” Pop retrieved a folded page from his pocket and cleared his throat raggedly. “I got some, uh, theories about this. Want ta know them now? Or would ya ruther dig through everything first?”
“Let me study the existing objective data first, and I’ll need to hear the stories again. But yeah, I’d like a chance to formulate my own notions. Fresh eyes. Then I’ll want to hear yours. Okay?”
“I guess.” Pop nodded after his frequently used reply and then shivered.
Kelly stood and motioned again for the old man to go inside. “So, run down the different versions you’ve heard from the family historians who preceded you.” She felt like she was at the feet of an ancient tribal chief or medicine man — hearing the legends, learning his stories, and getting his secrets while he could still hand them over.
Later, as Pop sat quietly in the warm recliner, Kelly pointed to her writing tablet. “I’m still puzzled why everybody seems to expect your great-aunt had a secret.”
He turned his grey head slowly and gazed at her intently. “Everybody’s got secrets. Some folks just hold theirs tighter.”
Everybody? Kelly just nodded silently.
“Want ta tell ya about something else. I’m going ta clean out that big sinkhole over yonder.” Pop’s thumb motioned to the south. “Ellie finally convinced me ta fill it in. Don’t want my great-grandkids getting hurt.”
It seemed unlike Chet Walter to spend money, so Kelly figured there was more.
“Feller who owns the car dealer place cleared out a little cematarry back that way.” Pop motioned south again but seemed to mean much farther away. “Those graves was in his way and he just pulled up the stones and threw them in a sinkhole somewhere. Ain’t right. Cematarry’s a cematarry. Ya don’t yank down the headstones and pour a concrete parking lot.”
“Whose stone are you looking for?”
“Old Jonathan Butler’s buried somewhere over there. He was first holder of the original thousand acres, a Revolutionary War land grant. He’s father ta William Butler who built the cabin.” Pop’s thumb motioned back to the spot worn bare by uncountable cattle hooves.
“And the car dealer creep just tossed his tombstone in a sinkhole?” It made Kelly angry to verbalize it, even though she bore no known familial ties to Jonathan Butler.
Pop quietly stared out the front window while Kelly’s brain processed all this new data.
After several minutes she realized she’d zoned out and focused again on her guest.
Her landlord’s head motioned toward his old family farm house on the southeast corner of his ninety-nine acres. “Met the new renters?”
Kelly had seen her new neighbors at the farm house, and at various places in town, over the past months since late October. But she’d never made time to go visit them, nor had she yet invited them to her cabin. Kelly would like to interact, but sometimes the notion weighed her down with a sense of what she predicted were the accompanying obligations and expectations. “I’ve seen them around…”
Pop’s expression signaled minor disapproval. Then he grunted loudly and announced he must return to his place before Ellie came over to clean.
“So Ellie’s helping with your housework now?”
He grunted. “And a meddlesome woman, too.” Then a tiny smile played on his lips.
“By the way, Pop, Perra’s been barking at something particular in the woods.”
“Where?”
She pointed southerly.
“Any idea what?”
“Not a clue, but it’s new because Perra’s using a different bark.”
Pop cleared his throat raggedly. “Probably just a critter.”
“If so, I hope it’s a four-legged critter.”
“I guess.” He always said so even when he was certain. After Pop shrugged on his heavy coat, he walked stiffly down the steps and climbed slowly into his truck. In his late eighties, each movement looked like it pained him.
As she watched Pop’s old pickup slowly bounce along her gravel driveway, Kelly realized he badly needed new shocks.
C
hapter Two
Sunday, April 1
Kelly’s address was 197 Butler Cemetery Road. Since it was the only above-ground dwelling on that road, people often asked about the number. Her answer: she had 196 neighbors below-ground, in the cemetery up the hill from her driveway. The number was not precise, but her sense of them as neighbors was real. Quiet neighbors.
Pop’s small research job came at a very good time. Kelly had been in a mode of extreme thrift for several years — she didn’t eat expensive meals, didn’t pay for TV reception, and she used the public library’s free Internet. She drove an old Jeep Wrangler and wore casual clothes which didn’t vary much from day to day. But it was a much healthier way of life for her. She looked better, felt better, and was better. She exercised three times a week at the YMCA and made favorable impressions, judging from the number of men’s gazes which followed her.
Perra interrupted Kelly’s porch reverie by clattering something up the steps. Another deer bone. Where did the little dog find them? The fresh bone reminded Kelly to check her watch — it was time to get ready for supper with Bill “Mitch” Mitchell.
She put on a long-sleeved knit Henley. From the laundry basket — folded, but not yet put away — she picked freshly-clean jeans, quite tight and very flattering. At the last minute, Kelly slipped on her high-heeled slides, which Mitch had often admired. For comfort, she regularly wore sneakers or sandals, but tonight she didn’t mind pleasing Mitch a little extra.
This supper with Mitch was unusual for three reasons: he’d phoned her about it the day before, they were going to a restaurant with real tablecloths, and he wanted to drive. Hmm. Was this a date? If so, why?
Before Mitch arrived at the cabin around seven o’ clock, Kelly had already put out fresh food for Perra and Gato, washed her hands to remove the smell of kibble, and collected her large carryall purse. She spotted him through the front door’s glass and waved him inside. When Mitch saw her face, he grinned, which always made Kelly smile. Mitch’s strong arms held her tightly, and he released only enough to lower his hands to her hips. “You look good enough to eat.” His gaze sampled the fare. “And I’ve got an appetite too.” His hands roamed.