Lights And Shadows Of The South - Charles M. Skinner
MYTHS AND LEGENDS
OF
OUR OWN LAND
By
Charles M. Skinner
Vol. 5.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH
CONTENTS:
The Swim at Indian Head
The Moaning Sisters
A Ride for a Bride
Spooks of the Hiawassee
Lake of the Dismal Swamp
The Barge of Defeat
Natural Bridge
The Silence Broken
Siren of the French Broad
The Hunter of Calawassee
Revenge of the Accabee
Toccoa Falls
Two Lives for One
A Ghostly Avenger
The Wraith Ringer of Atlanta
The Swallowing Earthquake
The Last Stand of the Biloxi
The Sacred Fire of Natchez
Pass Christian
The Under Land
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH
THE SWIM AT INDIAN HEAD
At Indian Head, Maryland, are the government proving-grounds, where the
racket of great guns and splintering of targets are a deterrent to the
miscellaneous visitations of picnics. Trouble has been frequently
associated with this neighborhood, as it is now suggested in the noisy
symbolry of war. In prehistoric days it was the site of an aboriginal
town, whose denizens were like other Indians in their love for fight and
their willingness to shed blood. Great was the joy of all these citizens
when a scouting party came in, one day, bringing with them the daughter
of one of their toughest old hunters and a young buck, from another
faction, who had come a-courting; her in the neighboring shades.
Capture meant death, usually, and he knew it, but he held himself proudly
and refused to ask for mercy. It was resolved that he should die. The
father's scorn for his daughter, that she should thus consort with an
enemy, was so great that he was on the point of offering her as a joint
sacrifice with her lover, when she fell on her knees before him and began
a fervent appeal, not for herself, but for the prisoner. She would do
anything to prove her strength, her duty, her obedience, if they would
set him free. He had done injury to none. What justice lay in putting him
to the torture?
Half in earnest, half in humor, the chief answered, "Suppose we were to
set him on the farther shore of the Potomac, do you love him well enough
to swim to him?"
"I do."
"The river is wide and deep."
"I would drown in it rather than that harm should come to him."
The old chief ordered the captive, still bound, to be taken to a point on
the Virginia shore, full two miles away, in one of their canoes, and when
the boat was on the water he gave the word to the girl, who instantly
plunged in and followed it. The chief and the father embarked in another
birch--ostensibly to see that the task was honestly fulfilled; really,
perhaps, to see that the damsel did not drown. It was a long course, but
the maid was not as many of our city misses are, and she reached the
bank, tired, but happy, for she had saved her lover and gained him for a
husband.
THE MOANING SISTERS
Above Georgetown, on the Potomac River, are three rocks, known as the
Three Sisters, not merely because of their resemblance to each other--for
they are parts of a submerged reef--but because of a tradition that, more
than a hundred years ago, a boat in which three sisters had gone out for
a row was swung against one of these rocks. The day was gusty and the
boat was upset. All three of the girls were drowned. Either the sisters
remain about this perilous spot or the rocks have prescience; at least,
those who live near them on the shore hold one view or the other, for
they declare that before every death on the river the sisters moan, the
sound being heard above the lapping of the waves. It is different from
any other sound in nature. Besides, it is an unquestioned fact that more
accidents happen here than at any other point on the river.
Many are the upsets that have occurred and many are the swimmers who have
gone down, the dark forms of the sisters being the last shapes that their
water-blurred eyes have seen. It is only before a human life is to be
yielded that this low wailing comes from the rocks, and when, on a night
in May, 1889, the sound floated shoreward, just as the clock in
Georgetown struck twelve, good people who were awake sighed and uttered a
prayer for the one whose doom was so near at hand. Twelve hours later, at
noon, a shell came speeding down the Potomac, with a young athlete
jauntily pulling at the oars. As he neared the Three Sisters his boat
appeared to be caught in an eddy; it swerved suddenly, as if struck; then
it upset and the rower sank to his death.
A RIDE FOR A BRIDE
When the story of bloodshed at Bunker Hill reached Bohemia Hall, in Cecil
County, Maryland, Albert De Courcy left his brother Ernest to support the
dignity of the house and make patriotic speeches, while he went to the
front, conscious that Helen Carmichael, his affianced wife, was watching,
in pride and sadness, the departure of his company. Letters came and
went, as they always do, until rumor came of a sore defeat to the
colonials at Long Island; then the letters ceased.
It was a year later when a ragged soldier, who had stopped at the hall
for supper, told of Albert's heroism in covering the retreat of
Washington. The gallant young officer had been shot, he said, as he
attempted to swim the morasses of Gowanus. But this soldier was in error.
Albert had been vexatiously bogged on the edge of the creek. While
floundering in the mud a half dozen sturdy red-coats had lugged him out
and he was packed off to the prison-ships anchored in the Wallabout. In
these dread hulks, amid darkness and miasma, living on scant, unwholesome
food, compelled to see his comrades die by dozens every day and their
bodies flung ashore where the tide lapped away the sand thrown over them,
De Courcy wished that death instead of capture had been his lot, for next
to his love he prized his liberty.
One day he was told off, with a handful of others, for transfer to a
stockade on the Delaware, and how his heart beat when he learned that the
new prison was within twenty miles of home! His flow of spirits returned,
and his new jailers liked him for his frankness and laughed at his honest
expletives against the king. He had the liberty of the enclosure, and was
not long in finding where the wall was low, the ditch narrow, and the
abatis decayed--knowledge that came useful to him sooner than he
expected, for one day a captured horse was led in that made straight for
him with a whinny and rubbed his nose against his breast.
"Why!" he cried,--"it's Cecil! My horse, gentlemen--or, was. Not a better
hunter in Maryland!"
"Yes," answered one of the officers. "We've just taken him from your
brother. He's been stirring trouble with his speeches and has got to be
quieted. But we'll have him to-day, for he's to be married, and a
scouting party is on the road to nab him at the altar."
"Married! My brother! What! Ernest, the lawyer, the orator? Ho, ho! Ah,
but it's rather hard to break off a match in that style!"
"Hard for him, maybe; but they say the lady feels no great love for him.
He made it seem like a duty to her, after her lover died."
"How's that? Her own--what's her name?"
"Helen--Helen Carmichael, or something like that."
Field and sky swam before De Courcy's eyes for a moment; then he resumed,
in a calm voice, and with a pale, set face, "Well, you're making an
unhappy wedding-day for him. If he had Cecil here he would outride you
all. Ah, when I was in practice I could ride this horse and snatch a
pebble from the ground without losing pace!"
"Could you do it now?"
"I'm afraid long lodging in your prison-ships has stiffened my joints,
but I'd venture at a handkerchief."
"Then try," said the commandant.
De Courcy mounted into the saddle heavily, crossed the grounds at a
canter, and dropped a handkerchief on the grass. Then, taking a few turns
for practice, he started at a gallop and swept around like the wind. His
seat was so firm, his air so noble, his mastery of the steed so complete,
that a cheer of admiration went up. He seemed to fall headlong from the
saddle, but was up again in a moment, waving the handkerchief gayly in
farewell--for he kept straight on toward the weak place in the wall. A
couple of musket-balls hummed by his ears: it was neck or nothing now! A
tremendous leap! Then a ringing cry told the astonished soldiers that he
had reached the road in safety. Through wood and thicket and field he
dashed as if the fiend were after him, and never once did he cease to
urge his steed till he reached the turnpike, and saw ahead the scouting
party on its way to arrest his brother.
Turning into a path that led to the rear of the little church they were
so dangerously near, he plied hands and heels afresh, and in a few
moments a wedding party was startled by the apparition of a black horse,
all in a foam, ridden by a gaunt man, in torn garments, that burst in at
the open chancel-door. The bridegroom cowered, for he knew his brother.
The bride gazed in amazement. "'Tis the dead come to life!" cried one. De
Courcy had little time for words. He rode forward to the altar, swung
Helen up behind him, and exclaimed, "Save yourselves! The British are
coming! To horse, every one, and make for the manor!" There were shrieks
and fainting--and perhaps a little cursing, even if it was in
church,--and when the squadron rode up most of the company were in full
flight. Ernest was taken, and next morning held his brother's place on
the prison-list, while, as arrangements had been made for a wedding,
there was one, and a happy one, but Albert was the bridegroom.
SPOOKS OF THE HIAWASSEE
The hills about the head of the Hiawassee are filled with "harnts," among
them many animal ghosts, that ravage about the country from sheer
viciousness. The people of the region, illiterate and superstitious, have
unquestioning faith in them. They tell you about the headless bull and
black dog of the valley of the Chatata, the white stag of the
Sequahatchie, and the bleeding horse of the Great Smoky Mountains--the
last three being portents of illness, death, or misfortune to those who
see them.
Other ghosts are those of men. Near the upper Hiawassee is a cave where a
pile of human skulls was found by a man who had put up his cabin near the
entrance. For some reason, which he says he never understood, this farmer
gathered up the old, bleached bones and dumped them into his shed. Quite
possibly he did not dare to confess that he wanted them for fertilizers
or to burn them for his poultry.
Night fell dark and still, with a waning moon rising over the
mountains--as calm a night as ever one slept through. Along toward the
middle of it a sound like the coming of a cyclone brought the farmer out
of his bed. He ran to the window to see if the house were to be uprooted,
but the forest was still, with a strange, oppressive stillness--not a
twig moving, not a cloud veiling the stars, not an insect chirping.
Filled with a vague fear, he tried to waken his wife, but she was like
one in a state of catalepsy.
Again the sound was heard, and now he saw, without, a shadowy band
circling about his house like leaves whirled on the wind. It seemed to be
made of human shapes, with tossing arms--this circling band--and the
sound was that of many voices, each faint and hollow, by itself, but loud
in aggregate. He who was watching realized then that the wraiths of the
dead whose skulls he had purloined from their place of sepulture were out
in lament and protest. He went on his knees at once and prayed with vigor
until morning. As soon as it was light enough to see his way he replaced
the skulls, and was not troubled by the "haunts" again. All the gold in
America, said he, would not tempt him to remove any more bones from the
cave-tombs of the unknown dead.
LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP
Drummond's Pond, or the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, is a dark and lonely
tarn that lies in the centre of this noted Virginia morass. It is, in a
century-old tradition, the Styx of two unhappy ghosts that await the end
of time to pass its confines and enjoy the sunshine of serener worlds. A
young woman of a family that had settled near this marsh died of a fever
caused by its malarial exhalations, and was buried near the swamp. The
young man to whom she was betrothed felt her loss so keenly that for days
he neither ate nor slept, and at last broke down in mind and body. He
recovered a measure of physical health, after a time, but his reason was
hopelessly lost.
It was his hallucination that the girl was not dead, but had been exiled
to the lonely reaches of this watery wilderness. He was heard to mutter,
"I'll find her, and when Death comes I'll hide her in the hollow of a
cypress until he passes on." Evading restraint, he plunged into the fen,
and for some days he wandered there, eating berries, sleeping on tussocks
of grass, with water-snakes crawling over him and poisonous plants
shedding their baneful dew on his flesh. He came to the lake at last. A
will-o'the-wisp played along the surface. "'Tis she!" he cried. "I see
her, standing in the light." Hastily fashioning a raft of cypress boughs
he floated it and pushed toward the centre of the pond, but the eagerness
of his efforts and the rising of a wind dismembered the frail platform,
and he fell into the black water to rise no more. But often, in the
night, is seen the wraith of a canoe, with a fire-fly lamp burning on its
prow, restlessly urged to and fro by two figures that seem to be vainly
searching for an exit from the place, and that are believed to be those
of the maiden and her lover.
THE BARGE OF DEFEAT
Rappannock River, in Virginia, used to be vexed with shadowy craft that
some of the populace affirmed to be no boats, but spirits in disguise.
One of these apparitions was held in fear by the Democracy of Essex
County, as it was believed to be a forerunner of Republican victory. The
first recorded appearance of the vessel was shortly after the Civil War,
on the night of a Democratic mass-meeting at Tappahannock. There were
music, refreshments, and jollity, and it was in the middle of a rousing
speech that a man in the crowd cried, "Look, fellows! What is that queer
concern going down the river?"
The people moved to the shore, and by the light of their torches a hulk
was seen drifting with the stream--a hulk of fantastic form unlike
anything that sails there in the daytime. As it came opposite the throng,
the torchlight showed gigantic negroes who danced on deck, showing
horrible faces to the multitude. Not a sound came from the barge, the
halloos of the spectators bringing no response, and some boatmen ventured
into the stream, only to pull back in a hurry, for the craft had become
so strangely enveloped in shadow that it seemed to melt into air.
Next day the Democracy was defeated at the polls, chiefly by the negro
vote. In 1880 it reappeared, and, as before, the Republicans gained the
day. Just before the election of 1886, Mr. Croxton, Democratic nominee
for Congress, was haranguing the people, when the cry of "The Black
Barge!" arose. Argument and derision were alike ineffectual with the
populace. The meeting broke up in silence and gloom, and Mr. Croxton was
defeated by a majority of two thousand.
NATURAL BRIDGE
Though several natural bridges are known in this country, there is but
one that is famous the world over, and that is the one which spans Clear
Creek, Virginia--the remnant of a cave-roof, all the rest of the cavern
having collapsed. It is two hundred and fifteen feet above the water, and
is a solid mass of rock forty feet thick, one hundred feet wide, and
ninety feet in span. Thomas Jefferson owned it; George Washington scaled
its side and carved his name on the rock a foot higher than any one else.
Here, too, came the youth who wanted to cut his name above Washington's,
and who found, to his horror, when half-way up, that he must keep on, for
he had left no resting-places for his feet at safe and reachable
distances--who, therefore, climbed on and on, cutting handhold and
foothold in the limestone until he reached the top, in a fainting state,
his knife-blade worn to a stump. Here, too, in another tunnel of the
cavern, flows Lost River, that all must return to, at some time, if they
drink of it. Here, beneath the arch, is the dark stain, so like a flying
eagle that the French officer who saw it during the Revolution augured
from it a success for the united arms of the nations that used the eagle
as their symbol.
The Mohegans knew this wonder of natural masonry, for to this point they
were pursued by a hostile tribe, and on reaching the gulf found
themselves on the edge of a precipice that was too steep at that point to
descend. Behind them was the foe; before them, the chasm. At the
suggestion of one of their medicine-men they joined in a prayer to the
Great Spirit for deliverance, and when again they looked about them,
there stood the bridge. Their women were hurried over; then, like so many
Horatii, they formed across this dizzy highway and gave battle.
Encouraged by the knowledge that they had a safe retreat in case of being
overmastered, they fought with such heart that the enemy was defeated,
and the grateful Mohegans named the place the Bridge of God.
THE SILENCE BROKEN
It was in 1734 that Joist Hite moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia, with
his wife and boys, and helped to make a settlement on the Shenandoah
twelve miles south of Woodstock. When picking berries at a distance from
the village, one morning, the boys were surprised by Indians, who hurried
with them into the wilderness before their friends could be apprised.
Aaron, the elder, was strong, and big of frame, with coarse, black hair,
and face tanned brown; but his brother was small and fair, with blue eyes
and yellow locks, and it was doubtless because he was a type of the hated
white race that the Indians spent their blows and kicks on him and spared
the sturdy one. Aaron was wild with rage at the injuries put upon his
gentle brother, but he was bound and helpless, and all that he could do
was to encourage him to bear a stout heart and not to fall behind.
But Peter was too delicate to keep up, and there came a day when he could
go no farther. The red men consulted for a few moments, then all of them
stood apart but one, who fitted an arrow to his bow. The child's eyes
grew big with fear, and Aaron tore at his bonds, but uselessly, and
shouted that he would take the victim's place, but no one understood his
speech, and in another moment Peter lay dead on the earth, with an arrow
in his heart. Aaron gave one cry of hate and despair, and he, too, sank
unconscious. On coming to himself he found that he was in a hut of
boughs, attended by an old Indian, who told him in rude English that he
was recovering from an illness of several weeks' duration, and that it
was the purpose of his tribe to adopt him. When the lad tried to protest
he found to his amazement that he could not utter a sound, and he learned
from the Indian that the fever had taken away his tongue. In the dulness
and weakness of his state he submitted to be clothed in Indian dress,
smeared with a juice that browned his skin, and greeted by his brother's
slayers as one of themselves. When he looked into a pool he found that he
had, to all intents, become an Indian. In time he became partly
reconciled to this change, for he did not know and could not ask where
the white settlements lay; his appearance and his inability to speak
would prevent his recognition by his friends, the red men were not unkind
to him, and every boy likes a free and out-door life. They taught him to
shoot with bow and arrow, but they kept him back if a white settlement
was to be plundered.
Three years had elapsed, and Aaron, grown tall and strong, was a good
hunter who stood in favor with the tribe. They had roamed back to the
neighborhood of Woodstock, when, at a council, Aaron overheard a plot to
fall on the village where his parents lived. He begged, by signs, to be
allowed to go with them, and, believing that he could now be trusted,
they offered no objection. Stoic as he had grown to be, he could not
repress a tear as he saw his old home and thought of the peril that it
stood in. If only he could give an alarm! The Indians retired into the
forest to cook their food where the smoke could not be seen, while Aaron
lingered at the edge of the wood and prayed for opportunity. He was not
disappointed. Two girls came up through the perfumed dusk, driving cows
from the pasture, and as they drew near, Aaron, pretending not to see
them, crawled out of the bush with his weapons, and made a show of
stealthily examining the town. The girls came almost upon him and
screamed, while he dashed into the wood in affected surprise and regained
the camp. The Indians had heard and seen nothing. The girls would surely
give the alarm in town.
One by one the lights of the village went out, and when it seemed locked
in sleep the red marauders crept toward the nearest house--that of Joist
Hite. They arose together and rushed upon it, but at that moment a gun
was fired, an Indian fell, and in a few seconds more the settlers, whom
the girls had not failed to put on their guard, were hurrying from their
hiding-places, firing into the astonished crowd of savages, who dashed
for the woods again, leaving a dozen of their number on the ground. Aaron
remained quietly standing near his father's house, and he was captured,
as he hoped to be. When he saw how his parents had aged with time and
grief he could not repress a tear, but to his grief was added terror when
his father, after looking him steadily in the eye without recognition,
began to load a pistol. "They killed my boys," said he, "and I am going
to kill him. Bind him to that tree."
In vain the mother pleaded for mercy; in vain the dumb boy's eyes
appealed to his father's. He was not afraid to die, and would do so
gladly to have saved the settlement; but to die by his father's band! He
could not endure it. He was bound to a tree, with the light of a fire
shining into his face.
The old man, with hard determination, raised the weapon and aimed it
slowly at the boy's heart. A surge of feeling shook the frame of the
captive--he threw his whole life into the effort--then the silence of
three years was broken, and he cried, "Father!" A moment later his
parents were sobbing joyfully, and he could speak to them once more.
SIREN OF THE FRENCH BROAD
Among the rocks east of Asheville, North Carolina, lives the Lorelei of
the French Broad River. This stream--the Tselica of the Indians--contains
in its upper reaches many pools where the rapid water whirls and deepens,
and where the traveller likes to pause in the heats of afternoon and
drink and bathe. Here, from the time when the Cherokees occupied the
country, has lived the siren, and if one who is weary and downcast sits
beside the stream or utters a wish to rest in it, he becomes conscious of
a soft and exquisite music blending with the plash of the wave.
Looking down in surprise he sees--at first faintly, then with
distinctness--the form of a beautiful woman, with hair streaming like
moss and dark eyes looking into his, luring him with a power he cannot
resist. His breath grows short, his gaze is fixed, mechanically he rises,
steps to the brink, and lurches forward into the river. The arms that
catch him are slimy and cold as serpents; the face that stares into his
is a grinning skull. A loud, chattering laugh rings through the
wilderness, and all is still again.
THE HUNTER OF CALAWASSEE
Through brisk November days young Kedar and his trusty slave, Lauto,
hunted along the Calawassee, with hope to get a shot at a buck--a buck
that wore a single horn and that eluded them with easy, baffling gait
whenever they met it in the fens. Kedar was piqued at this. He drained a
deep draught and buttoned his coat with an air of resolution. "Now, by my
soul," quoth he, "I'll have that buck to-day or die myself!" Then he
laughed at the old slave, who begged him to unsay the oath, for there was
something unusual about that animal--as it ran it left no tracks, and it
passed through the densest wood without halting at trees or undergrowth.
"Bah!" retorted the huntsman. "Have up the dogs. If that buck is the
fiend himself, I'll have him before the day is out!" The twain were
quickly in their saddles, and they had not been long in the wood before
the one-horned buck was seen ahead, trotting with easy pace, yet with
marvellous swiftness.
Kedar, who was in advance, whipped up his horse and followed the deer
into a cypress grove near the Chechesee. As the game halted at a pool he
fired. The report sounded dead in the dense wood, and the deer turned
calmly, watched his pursuer until he was close at hand, then trotted away
again. All day long he held the chase. The dogs were nowhere within
sound, and he galloped through the forest, shouting and swearing like a
very devil, beating and spurring the horse until the poor creature's head
and flanks were reddened with blood. It was just at sunset that Kedar
found himself again on the bank of the Calawassee, near the point he had
left in the morning, and heard once more the baying of his hounds. At
last his prey seemed exhausted, and, swimming the river, it ran into a
thicket on the opposite side and stood still. "Now I have him!" cried the
hunter. "Hillio, Lauto! He's mine!" The old negro heard the call and
hastened forward. He heard his master's horse floundering in the swamp
that edged the river--then came a plash, a curse, and as the slave
arrived at the margin a few bubbles floated on the sluggish current. The
deer stood in the thicket, staring with eyes that blazed through the
falling darkness, and, with a wail of fear and sorrow, old Lauto fled the
spot.