Chapter nn

Zeb

        “Mah name is Zeb Tomkins, and I’ve bin a-travelin’ a hard road.” Reuben said, looking up at the old man on the porch.

            The man eyed him suspiciously. The North Carolina hills were full of spies, deserters, outlaws, and runaway slaves. Getting too close to the wrong group could get you a visit from the Home Guard. That could prove fatal.

            “Well, Zeb Tomkins, what be yer business in these parts?”

Reuben paused before responding. Like a true Southerner, he spoke slowly and deliberately.

            “I’m a soldier from the Twenty-fust Tennessee Cavalry.”

            “That be part of Forrest’s outfit?”

            “That it is. For a while, we wuz commanded by his little brother, Cunnel Jessie Forrest.”

“Come on up heah, where’s I kin get a good look at ya !” commanded the old man.

            Reuben studied the man as he approached. He was sitting with his legs dangling off the porch. Long, white hair cascaded from beneath his battered, sweat-stained hat. His rudy, pockmarked face reflected years of outdoor toil in all kinds of weather. There was a big, shaggy, speckled brown dog lounging beside him.

            The old man slid off the porch to a standing position and watched Reuben as he approached. The dog looked up and growled. Reuben knew by now that all dogs in the South were mean.

            He felt self-conscious about his attire.  The faded blue was caked with dust and mud. From a distance, he could pass for a Rebel in Butternut.  Up close, his true colors might be revealed.

            “We’re you at Pillow?” the oldster asked.

            “No Suh,” was Reuben’s reply. The last thing he needed was to get into a discussion with a die-hard secessionist about the massacre of Black Union troops at Fort Pillow.

“I was at the Crossroads, though. We, uh, Sturges, got a purdy good drubbing.”

            “Why ain’t ya with the Army?” his interrogator questioned.

            “I ketched me the Malaria Fever. Got sent home to convalesce.”

            “Well. ya do look a bit poorly, but I’ve seen sicker men than you git hauled off by the recruiters.”

            “That’s a fer sure fact.  I managed to buy some Quinine when I come through Colombia. Cost me two months’ pay, but I’m a-feelin’ better now.”

            “Surpised anything is gittin’ through the blockade these days. I ain’t had no coffee in nigh unto two years. Why’s ya comin’  by way of Columbia?”

            “After Brice’s Crossroads, the Yankees near run us out of Nor’east Mississippi. They control all the roads leading back into Tennessee. I had to take the cars across Georgia and up through the Carolinas. Been a long, bumpy ride, and now I’m plum wore out and busted.”

The two men were now face-to-face. Reuben reached down to pat the head of the dog, half-expecting his arm to be torn off. Show no fear, he cautioned himself. The dog lifted its head to greet the stranger’s gentle touch. A Rebel dog that didn’t hate Yankees was a rare find.

“If Dawg likes ya, I ‘spose yer okay.”

Reuben grinned. He was winning the man’s confidence.

“Ma, set another plate fer supper. We got a visitor.”

The man beckoned Reuben to come inside. The door creaked on its old iron hinges. Warmth and the smell of bacon cooking came from a little iron cook stove. An old woman in a tattered dress barely looked up from her work.

“Have a seat.”

The man pulled a crock jug from a shelf, removed the cork, and took a swig. “Corn likker?” he asked, holding the finger ring of the jug toward Reuben.

This was no time to confess he was a tee-totaling Methodist, Reuben thought. He stuck his finger through the ring, raised the jug on the crook of his arm, and took a gulp. Don’t spit it out! he reminded himself as his throat rebelled from the fiery liquid.

“You make this?”

The old man nodded proudly. “It’s easier to hide when the gov’mint commissary off’cers come snoopin’ round.”

“They give ya much trouble?”

“Shore ‘nuf. They come around at harvest and took near half. Then they come back last month and took half of what wuz left.”

Reuben looked at a lone photograph on the mantle.

 “Yer boys doin’ alright?”

“John, there on the left is gone, kilt at Antietam. Zeke, there in the middle went missin’ af Atlanta. Could be a prizner somewheres.”

“I hear them Yankee prisons are better’n ours,” mused Reuben, not missing a chance to test the old man’s fealty to the Confederacy. “And the young one?”

The old man stiffened. “He’s away.”

Reuben knew better than to ask for details. A  young man of that age was either in the Confederate Army or hiding from it.

“Our daughter is married to a soldier from Kentucky,” said the man, pointing to the photograph.

Now that’s interesting, thought Reuben. Men from Kentucky were fighting on both sides in the War. Again, he wasn’t about to ask which side.

The old woman placed the pan of bacon, a pot of beans, and fresh biscuits on the table. The old man motioned for Reuben to serve himself. As the men began eating, the woman prepared another plate, but didn’t sit down. She covered it with an old napkin and quietly slipped out the back door.

I’m glad young “He’s away” is getting some of this, Reuben thought as he wolfed down the best meal he’d had since reenlisting.

“Yer a Yankee, ain’t ya?” the man queried matter-of-factly.

Reuben gulped. “What makes ya think that?”

Yer pants are light blue and made outa wool.”

Reuben thought about what lie to tell. He could say he took them off a dead Yankee after his own pants wore out. He glanced at the shotgun hanging above the door. It looked primed and ready. Hell, I can easily beat this old man to it, he thought. Might as well fess up.

“You have me dead to right, Sir.”

The man pushed the jug toward him. Reuben winced, held his breath, and took the tiniest sip he could manage. It still burned.

“I hope that doesn’t cause you any grief,” he said, rasping from the liquor.

“Depends. We uns might be able to help each other.”

About that time, the woman re-entered the house.

“Ma, go fetch the boy.”

Reuben began to realize that this might be the luckiest day of his life. Fifteen minutes later, a young man cautiously entered the house, followed by his mother.

“Son, this is Zeb. Zeb, this is Caleb.”

Caleb looked a little confused upon hearing his name.

“Gol darn it. His name ain’t Zeb neither.”

Reuben and “Caleb” looked at each other and chuckled. In the shadowy world of Confederate resistance, it was best not to use one’s real name. There would be a time for that later, like after the War later.

“Good to meet you,” Reuben said, extending his hand.

The young man shook hands warmly and sat down. It was time for an honest, trust-building discussion. Reuben spoke first.

“I’m a Union officer from Iowa. I escaped from Camp Sorghum, near Columbia, two weeks ago. I lost my two companions crossing a river yesterday. I’m trying to reach Knoxville.”

It was now Caleb’s turn.

“I got nuhin’ in this fight. My brothers are gone, and my Brother-in-Law is a-fightin’ in a Kentucky regiment, a Union one. The Confederacy has done nuthin’ but steal from us and force us to fight for the rich planters.  The South is losing the war, and I’d just as soon fight for the right side. If I kin git to Knoxville, I’ll join up on the Yankee side.”

Reuben was not surprised. He’d heard that the mountain people of the western Carolinas often had union sympathies. Lucky for him, he had stopped at the right place. Now it was time to hatch a plan.

“Can you get us over the mountains?”

“I can’t, but I think I know someone who can. He’s an outlaw, so it will cost us.”

“How much, how far, and when?”

“Probably a hunnert dollars each in Yankee money. He might hold off on collecting yours until you get to the Union lines at Knoxville. Pa, will have to owe him for me. He knows whar we live, and he’ll be back to collect with interest.

 It’s about a hunnert miles as the crow flies to Knoxville, but the passes are all guarded. This feller has been hiding out in the mountains for years. He knows all the old Indian trails. He’ll get us through if anyone kin.”

Caleb had hardly finished speaking when there was a loud knock on the door.

“Yancey County Home Guard! Open up.”

The young man made a dash for the back door. A shotgun blast flung him back into the cabin. His mother screamed. The front door crashed open, and armed men poured in.

The woman rushed to her dying son. Her stunned husband looked about and quietly raised his hands in surrender. One of the intruders grabbed Reuben and hustled him outside. He could feel the cold steel of the man’s revolver on his temple.

Had he led the Home Guard to this loyal family’s cabin, or had they been looking for the young draft evader?

Either way, Reuben was going back to prison.   

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