by J. L. Salter
“I see what you mean by a big mess. So you don’t bank much hope of nailing down one anonymous soldier.”
“Nope.”
“Then what can you tell me about the battle where he was wounded?”
Don smiled — this was obviously his passion — and pulled two pages from a medium-thick folder. He handed one sheet to Kelly; part of the other he read, but most he seemed to have memorized. Some portions he related as if he’d been a newspaper correspondent watching the actual battle.
As her host spoke, Kelly marked passages of general interest, realizing she could later consult that page for any of the plentiful details provided. When Don had finished, Kelly read the highlights back to him to be certain she had the condensed essence correct.
“Brigadier General John Pegram’s Rebel forces moved into eastern Kentucky in mid-March of 1863, mostly to obtain beef cattle for the Confederate army. Major General Quincy Gillmore collected Union troops to oppose them. Rebels slightly outnumbered the Yankees. As Gillmore’s Yankees advanced, Pegram backpedaled toward Somerset.
“Though there were several fighting skirmishes, most people think the entire battle was the fight near a hill on the Dutton farm, about two miles north of Somerset. Around mid-day, Gillmore ordered a Yankee assault on the Confederates, whose hill positions fell rather quickly.
“Pegram sent a unit around his left, to attack the Yankee right, but that Rebel attack never developed. After several hours of fighting, Pegram’s command retreated from one position to another, completely through Somerset, and later that night crossed the Cumberland River. His nine day expedition into Kentucky was over, and his partial success came at a high cost.
“Most of the losses were on the Rebel side. As many as 200 may have been taken prisoner — the number of wounded or missing was likely around twenty-five. Actual battle deaths were somewhere between twenty and thirty. Some were buried on the battlefield where they died, including many who were interred in a single grave up on Dutton’s Hill.
“The Yankees had considerably fewer total casualties. Reports vary for them also, but the figures most often seen are twenty-five wounded and ten killed. Some of those bodies were taken to the cemetery near Nancy.” Kelly placed the sheet in her lap. “Does that cover the basics?”
Don squinted at his copy then closed the folder. “You have a gift for instant distillation, Kelly. That leaves out the rich detail which makes it come alive for me, but your summary is factual as far as it goes.” Tapping the folder lightly, he added, “Of course, I prefer the complete story for my presentations.”
“To school groups?”
Don smiled. “Yes, plus meetings of historical associations and small groups of Civil War buffs. Most isn’t my original research, though.” He reopened the folder and pointed to a bibliography sheet near the top.
“Well, I see why Pop sent me to you.” She craned her neck. “It would have taken me weeks to track down all those sources.”
Don nodded and, after a brief silence, sneaked a peek at his watch.
“I guess I should get out of your hair.”
“No hurry yet. I have a closing later on after lunch, but I’m good for a bit longer. Was it you or Pop who mentioned something about a song?”
“Aunt Belva supposedly always hummed a slow tune, something like an elegy or maybe a lullaby. Pop couldn’t recall how it went, though.”
“I’ve got a friend at U.K. who specializes in music of the nineteenth century, including Civil War years, of course. Sheet music publishing boomed in the second half of the 1800s. If you can figure out how it goes, we can get him on the phone. Maybe he’ll recognize it, or at least help point us in the right direction.”
Kelly was writing notes as fast as her hand could move. She wondered if Don’s friend at University of Kentucky knew her ex-husband, but decided not to mention the redoubtable Rob.
“Just remembered. Several years back, one of my James cousins mentioned something about a tune his aunt used to hum. Not Belva, of course — different generation. This lady’s in a nursing home somewhere around here. I can call him and find out where she is and whether she’s up to visitors. She’s pretty old, and I understand she kind of fades in and out. Plus it’s a long shot for it to be the same tune.” Don sighed lightly. “Just that my cousin knew it was something from one of his aunt’s ancestors. Some of them go back to the Butlers also.”
“Couldn’t hurt to check. She might know some other things which could help me. What’s her name?”
“She’s Nora Lee James now. Might’ve been born a Fulton… don’t think she was a Norman.”
Kelly wrote down the name and then told Don about Pop’s discussion of sinkholes.
“Wonder why sinkholes would come up? Those holes have been here for dozens of generations. For as long as humans have lived here, lots of them have used sinkholes as trash dumps.”
“Well, Pop’s immediate interest is apparently pushed by his decision to fill in at least one sinkhole in his woods. It’s too close to the old log road and there’s a little camping clearing near it that he and Wade are working on for the great-grand-kids who visit Pop’s acreage. But first, he wants to search for Jonathan Butler’s tombstone, since he knows — or says he does — that some creep threw old Jonathan’s headstone in one of the many nearby sinkholes.”
“Pop could be right. Used to be a small graveyard somewhere over yonder.” Don pointed at the south wall of his office. “But I didn’t realize Jonathan Butler was buried there.”
“Jonathan and his son William both, as best I could understand from Pop. But it doesn’t make sense to me — the two founders, if you’d call them that, of the Butler family… not buried in the Butler Cemetery.”
“I can explain this part,” Don interjected. “Since Jonathan and his son William both died before the Butler Cemetery existed, they were most likely buried where others in their family were already laid to rest.”
“I guess it makes sense for Jonathan, who came here from Virginia in about 1800,” Kelly recalled. “He probably died in the 1830s or 40s. But William was in the Butler cabin at the time of the Civil War, according to Pop’s records.”
Don flipped to a page in a different folder on his desk. “True, but he was an old man in his eighties. Uh, William died in… hmm, he died the same year as the Rebel soldier they buried up in the trees. But later that year, 1863.”
“So why not bury him on your property where you already have one body?” Kelly was also thinking how hard it must have been on the new widow, Mary, for those final two years of the war.
“Don’t forget, 1863 was the middle of the war. The Union controlled most of Kentucky, including Pulaski. The dead Reb was still a secret… an extremely dangerous secret. You’re caught helping the enemy and you become the enemy too. It only makes sense for William to be buried near his father Jonathan, wherever it was. Likely way south of the area you’re talking about.”
“So it was only after the war, when things were settling down a bit, that the family felt safe clearing the area around the Rebel grave.”
Don nodded. “And later, when some near neighbor — or possibly a Butler family friend — died, it was a natural place to bury them.”
“Well, it’s hard getting all this stuff straight. By the time I figured out what all Pop wanted me to research, I had kind of lost some of the threads of what he was telling me. Pop thinks whatever Aunt Belva hid — whether information or something tangible — has a chance of being in a sinkhole near where her old cottage used to be.”
“Back a ways from the current farm house. Up a little on the hill, closer to the little spring.”
Kelly wasn’t certain but nodded anyway. Thinking she shouldn’t tie Don up any longer, plus because her stomach was growling, Kelly stood to leave.
“You know, there might be something else.” He pointed to her chair. “Did Pop mention anything about the Butler family Bible?”
“No.” Kelly sat back down, on the edge of the seat.<
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“Likely the only reason I even know about it is a lucky accident.” Don didn’t elaborate. “Wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”
“Who’s got it and how can I get a peek?”
“Let me check with my Uncle Len, if he still has it.” Don stood at his desk and extended his hand.
Kelly shook it firmly and walked out, certain Don’s gaze followed her.
Maybe this Bible is one of those presumed secrets… the kind of thing various members of the Butler lineage supposed might exist, even if they didn’t know it for certain. They were led to believe in something they couldn’t see and didn’t know, but faithfully allowed the space for it as they inculcated the next generations. Wow!
Kelly hopped into her Jeep and smiled as she drove back up Craggy Road.
Chapter Eleven
Saturday, April 28
A light warm breeze greeted Kelly mid-morning as she drove home from the library. After several chilly months, she had started wearing cutoffs again and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her legs.
When Kelly unlocked and opened the front door, Perra circled the cabin, ran directly to the small back stoop, and sniffed frantically amid the clutter. Odd. No barking, however, so Kelly opened the back door and peered around. Something seemed out of place among the several unrelated items which had collected but not yet been discarded. She rarely even opened the rear door, so it required close study to determine somebody had moved an empty quart paint can. The when seemed obvious — very recently, and probably while Kelly was at the library. But why would someone move a can from the far corner of the stoop and place it right beneath the window? “So they could stand on it,” she said out loud. “Perra, whatever you’ve been barking at was here this morning peeking in my rear window. Right?”
The terrier did not reply, because she was following a trail which disappeared into the woods behind the cabin.
The fine hairs tingled on Kelly’s neck. “Couldn’t be J.D., because he’s already plenty tall enough to see inside.” As she watched her dog check and recheck the short trail, presumably of the recent intruder, Kelly asked, “So who was it, Perra?” Somebody too short to see inside without standing on a paint can. Some would-be thief wanting to study the contents of her cabin? “Or maybe somebody looking for me.”
Perra had returned but did not reply.
“Well, whoever it is, they’re liable to get a load of buckshot if they come back.”
The terrier’s bright eyes suggested total agreement.
“I don’t care how jealous Mitch will get, I’m talking to Fred Lee about this.” She called for Trooper Means, didn’t reach him, but left a detailed voicemail.
While on her porch waiting for the return call, Kelly scanned north and east. Birds and squirrels were improbably busy around the trees in the little gully — that overgrown scar carved into the hillside just north of her cabin. Were it not for the delicious smell of honeysuckle and the occasional blackberry bush, though treacherously thorned, she would have asked Pop to bush hog the gully. Pretty ugly and filled with varmints. But it did give her cabin a natural screen from vehicle traffic rounding Macon Circle from the north.
Her phone rang — it was Trooper Means. “Hi, Fred Lee, thanks for calling back. You got a minute?”
“Not much more than a minute.” Even just hearing his voice, Kelly could visualize the tall, powerfully-built man. “I just listened to your long voice mail. You believe all this is related?”
“Yeah, whatever Perra’s been barking at, what appeared at Diane’s window, and whoever stood on a paint can to see inside my cabin. It’s all been in a very short timeframe, and the peeper at both houses is a short person.”
“So definitely not the J.D. perp.”
“Not unless he’s shrunk down to about five feet tall.”
“Kelly, I hate to mention this, but you do realize J.D. has kinfolk around here, don’t you?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t.” And the realization made her skin crawl.
“I’m not saying any of this stuff on Pop’s farm is related to J.D., but I just want you to know J.D. has a longer reach than just what he can touch.”
His wording was unusual, but Kelly understood. “So what can we do about this short peeper?”
“Could be a junior high kid, just looking for a cheap thrill.” Means sputtered. “Uh, that didn’t come out right. I mean, it could be a youngster…”
“I don’t care how old they are, they’ve got no business lurking around people’s houses and peering in their windows.”
“I know, Kelly. But unless there’s been a direct obvious threat, all we can do is ask for additional patrols in your neighborhood.” He hesitated. “Which would be the sheriff’s department anyway.”
Kelly realized the matter was out of Fred Lee’s jurisdiction, but she didn’t know any of the deputies personally and she was friends with the big trooper. “I know. Sorry to bother…”
“No, not a bother. I just meant I’d have to contact the sheriff for the extra patrols. KSP isn’t supposed to make any rounds so close to the city limits.”
Boundaries were particularly fractious in Possum Knoll because Macon Circle, on the farm’s eastern border, was the boundary between city and county. The acreage’s southern fence was another demarcation between those entities. “Well, Pop’s property is bordered on two sides by the city and two by the county. It’s difficult to know whose jurisdiction I’m in. Which is why I keep calling you, Fred Lee.”
“Well, you’re welcome to keep calling me. I’ll check on those additional patrols, but even if they add some routes, it’ll be pretty sketchy coverage. Kelly, you still need to be very careful and proactive…”
“I know, I remember your lectures from last fall.”
“Those weren’t lectures, but, anyhow, I’ve got to go. Be careful out there, Kelly.”
“Will do. Thanks. Bye.”
She stared at the blank phone screen and wondered why the pit of her stomach suddenly ached.
Perra’s tail signaled an arrival. The terrier stretched unhurriedly and then trotted off the porch to the south. Shortly, Diane came up the hill in a long diagonal from the far end of the fence row, up to the nearest corner of Kelly’s cabin.
Slightly out of breath, Diane waved but didn’t speak.
“Hi, neighbor. What brings you to the higher elevations?” Kelly also wondered why Diane wasn’t at work in her downtown office but then remembered it was the weekend.
“Give me a drink of water and I’ll tell you.” Diane trudged up the steps and plopped down in a porch rocker.
Kelly went inside and returned with a red plastic cup, about half full of water. Diane examined the cup and smiled, then drank about half of the contents.
“I don’t wash any more dishes than I have to. Got hundreds of those cups free from Wade, after one of his big family picnics.” Kelly shrugged. “So what’s on your mind?”
“Well, you know I’m very fond of little Perra and all… but she’s been wheeling and dealing.”
Kelly’s eyes widened.
“She’s left a few dead, half-eaten moles and mice on our little concrete porch… and in return, she’s swiped one of my garden gloves and one or both of my beach sandals.”
“I’m sorry, Diane. I didn’t realize my critter ranged so far with her captured prey. As far as the gloves and things, you sure it was Perra?”
“Well, I saw her running with one of my sandals. She kept dropping it as she romped through the low meadow. I’ve hunted for it, but the hay is too high.”
“They’ll be cutting it in a few weeks. Hey, I’m sorry about the sandals. Maybe we can find them — I know the route she usually takes across Disappearing Creek.”
“What creek?”
“Disappearing. Pop didn’t tell you about the vanishing creek?”
Diane shook her head.
“Eons ago, this low meadow was a river bed. The river was probably three hundred feet wide in parts, and maybe fifty or sixty feet
at its deepest.”
“Right here in this low hay field?” Diane pointed down and to the east.
Kelly nodded. “Over more eons, the river dried up — right here anyway — because the water dropped into a sinkhole back over there at the Fulton place. You know, near the ugly tree where all those cows usually hang out. Anyway, the water disappears into the sinkhole there, then goes underground for maybe a mile — possibly a bit less — then it reappears down to the south, somewhere in the vicinity of Trinity Springs Park. Disappearing Creek.”
“Okay, I guess I do recall somebody mentioning a creek bed. Might’ve been you. But I’d forgotten it, uh, disappears.”
“Yeah, and let me tell you something else. When it rains real hard for a long time, you’ll see water collect down in the very bottom of the old river bed. It can form an actual moving stream.”
“Sounds like it’d be pretty.”
“Pretty messy. Ask Mitch. It backs up into the leech lines of the septic system in your farm house. You can’t use the shower or the, um, toilet.”
“You’re kidding. The creek reappears in a hard rain, and we can’t use the bathroom?”
“Like I say, just ask Mitch. Anyway, your missing sandal and… you said a glove?”
“Yeah. I didn’t see Perra take the glove away, but I found the other of the pair with lots of tooth marks. Pretty sure it wasn’t Joe.”
“No problem, I’ll replace them.”
“No need to, Kelly. They were all worn out, gloves and sandals both. Just wanted you to know your dog is scavenging. If Perra trades with me, maybe she also swaps things with the Normans and Fultons. Could be they leave better stuff outside than I do.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll check around some of Perra’s known hiding places. She stashes old breadsticks over there at the corner of the cabin, beneath this big bush.” Kelly pointed and they both regarded the forsythia.
When she was sure Diane had finished her topic, Kelly briefed her neighbor on the phone conversation with Fred Lee Means. Then each seemed to drift mentally for a moment as their rockers moved slowly, unsynchronized.