“ATHIAMIOWEE, A CIVIL WAR JOURNEY HOME”
It was 1865, and the Civil War was over. The Confederate soldier had been released from an Ohio prison.
“Go away,” they said. “We are done with you.”
Being finally free, Soldier Bailey had nothing more to say to them. He was going home, and being from the Mountains of East Tennessee, he knew how to get there. On what was once called the “Warrior’s Path,” little used now, but which would take him directly south, through the Cumberland Gap and back to his own mountain community. That Gap wouldn’t be hard to find, he had scouted it as a Confederate picket before he had been captured. The Native Americans called that route, “Athiamiowee,” which can be translated to “Path of the Armed Ones.” And so it still was.
It was cool this night, but they had given him a blanket. It was scant pay for four years of military anguish. He was hungry, for certain, but had come to terms with that condition. He would have no rifle, but he knew how to work flint. He had soon fashioned a sharp-edged rock knife to slip under his belt. He felt powerful having created it, but he would not take the time to trap small game for eating. He needed the knife for protection, but it would not be sufficient.
Soldier Bailey felt more free with each step that carried him forward. Into the Mountains of Kentucky which were so similar to the range of ridges and hollows within which lay the cabin of his Tennessee birthplace. Over an ancient trail first hammered out by Ice Age mammals and then, for generations, traveled by Native Americans hunting after them. Later, when the big game was gone, they traveled over this trail hunting each other.
Soldier Bailey was soon traveling across a high Kentucky Ridge leading down to the Cumberland River, and from which he could then cross the gap in the mountain bearing the same name and turn towards his Tennessee Mountain family.
It’s just that he made a wrong turn. He followed the wrong Indian trail to the left. Towards the morning sun, yes, but too far over. I joined in with him at the “War Gap” crossing as he crossed over that ridge. So, I know what happened next in more detail.
Perhaps Soldier Bailey had been imprisoned on Johnson’s Island between Toledo and Cleveland, Ohio. But that would have been unlikely. That camp housed Confederate officers and guerillas. The Ohio State Penitentiary in Columbus also housed some Confederate prisoners. It was from that prison that Confederate General John Hunt Morgan had escaped. There was also another War Camp up there, Camp Chase. Or perhaps he came from Camp Dennison near Cincinnati. I don’t know, and he didn’t say.
After his release, heh ad walked south to the river, where a kindly ferryman carried him over to Maysville in Kentucky. He didn’t like it there, either. The residents scorned him. He was still wearing his soiled Butternut uniform, and he felt the need to make a statement, if not to them, for himself. So he proudly pulled his Confederate soldier’s cap from under his belt and smartly fashioned it over the brow of his head.
The wide old buffalo trace which crossed over with him had been improved and was now a road. It quickly took him to the place called Blue Licks where it crossed over the Licking River.
The even older, if now seldom used, Warrior’s Path also passed through the Blue Licks. It was an important junction, so it was easy to find. Soldier Bailey was pleased to reach the solitude of that old Indian Trace now almost forgotten. In a way, he too felt displaced like the Indians who once had tread their way through this place. He liked that thought. Still a rebel, and now back in touch with his wild roots.
The Path south was somewhat still used for farming purposes and was easy to follow as it skirted the fields of the European colonists who had cleared the land beside it. Soldier Bailey was one of those people, too. His family also farmed lands once planted in Indian corn by Native Americans.
Crossing into the headwaters of Lulbegrud Creek, he passed into a pocket of Bluegrass plains that once supported the thriving Shawnee village of Eskippakithiki. But he saw no vestige remaining of that once important tribal community. “Indian Old Fields” was what the colonists would call it. But archaeologists have yet to find it.
These were the first fields of bluegrass that Daniel Boone had spied after climbing atop the bordering Knob we call “Pilot.” In fact, Soldier Bailey crossed over the nearby creek where Boone had been sleeping before climbing up that edifice almost ninety years prior.
Soon enough, he was following the path farther in and crossing the Kentucky River at Irvine. Up Station Camp Creek, he walked alone. That was a creek named by Boone in 1769 while traveling with that odd “ghost” of Kentucky’s history, John Finley. Up the War Fork, Bailey hiked forward. The path was obvious, cloaked by tree boughs, and beautiful.
On top, he popped into the geologic trough leading south toward London, Kentucky. But he wasn’t going in that direction. He was headed southeast, into the more rugged Kentucky Mountains. He was headed along the wide Buffalo Trace that the Warrior’s Path followed to reach the great salt licks at Goose Creek, a tributary of the Kentucky River’s South Fork near Manchester. But he wasn’t going into that town, either. He was going home, so he followed the Warrior’s Path up Goose Creek and turned into its Otter Creek tributary. And that is where I joined him and come into the story.
For I walked with him through the Gap crossing over the last real mountain barrier on his route home in East Tennessee. It was then, and still is, called the “Kentucky Ridge,” and is a long mountainous spine that separates the land fought over by two mighty river tongues. The Kentucky River to the north, and the Cumberland River to the south. The gap was once known as the “Otter Gap” and “Patent Gap,” but is now called “War Gap.” Appropriate.
The climb is refreshing. The slope embracing. Cliffs never closing in but rather opening up invitingly. We see evidence of where the path was widened into a wagon road crossing over small creek passages.
There are broken wagon wheels and mule skeletons strewn out along the way. We both knew that Union General George Morgan had made good in his 1862 escape from Cumberland Gap along this route, successfully evading the Confederate Army that had just then invaded Kentucky. No one believed that he could get his men, artillery, and wagons up and over this Kentucky Ridge, but he did.
But he did, with half of his Army crossing here, and hundreds of them using block and tackle to lug the heavy gun carriages over. Lots of debris from that crossing remained, and I wanted to go over and inspect it more closely. But Soldier Bailey had proudly repositioned his Confederate cap on his forehead. These men had been the enemy, and he wanted no more to deal with their memory.
We crossed the gap together, and where the path pinched in between two large rocks, we took a breather. One on each rock, staring at the other. He was smiling now, and didn’t seem to care to ask how I had joined him.
When he got up, I followed. The path, now a road, was easy, open walking. We were hiking down the Trace Fork of Stinking Creek leading down to Flat Lick, Kentucky. The locals now call it “Road Fork,” after the path had been improved into this primitive wagon road.
We should have kept on heading down towards Flat Lick. Soldier Bailey would have soon enough reached home. But at the junction of Road Fork with Stinking Creek proper, at a place now called Dewitt, Soldier Bailey saw an obvious well-worn trail heading off to the left, upstream and east. And since that was where he thought he was headed, that’s the direction he chose to go forward.
He turned and, in the same action, removed and stowed his hat beneath his belt. This was Union land and he just wanted to get through it. But he had turned in the wrong direction. And although I protested, he didn’t seem to want to listen. So, I followed, continuing to walk along beside him.
The path was, in fact, an old Indian trail, but not the one headed down to the famous mineral springs of Flat Lick. This was a side spur leading up to the base camps that Native Americans established when they were hunting down there in the licks. So this path headed up Stinking Creek, to one of its long side streams falling down from the east, its Roaring Fork.
The soldier was not surprised when a primitive, rutted wagon track crossed Stinking Creek to join in the passage up into that tributary. That confirmed to him that he was headed in the correct bearing.
I tried to convince him otherwise, but he just wouldn’t listen. We crossed over Stinking Creek just before a jumble of wetland rivulets that masked the mouth of the Roaring Fork tributary, which, higher up in its rocky route down, would sound out its name as roaring water falling. I knew this creek could lead to another pass over the mountain, so maybe all was not lost to him.
It looked like the ridges here were going to quickly fold in upon us when, suddenly, the path opened up into a wide meadow with a well-defined tree-lined creek gently winding through it. This is where the Native Americans once came to build their seasonal hunting camps. A safe, hidden ground, with freshwater springs nearby and saltwater licks upstream. If Kentucky truly was a paradise to its early inhabitants, this was one of its Gardens of Eden.
The path skirted the south edge of the meadow. We saw an imposing cliff on the opposite side, which surely marked this otherwise hidden Native American haven. A small side creek came in from the south. We could see several cabins up in there, probably set higher up to avoid flooding. Although we were both hungry, the soldier didn’t turn in, but continued along the path that was mostly now just a horse or mule trail.
The passage tightened further as a bigger tributary cut in from around high knobs on our right. Across the main creek, we saw a perpendicular wheel turning, drawing its power from a small rock boulder dam that diverted water above it. I could imagine the mill stones grinding corn and wheat, and I suddenly wanted some cakes and bread. But we soldiered on ahead instead.
The mountains now began to crowd in around us, the creek and the path following in between them. They curved around, but always rising upward. Our course cut a route that looked, from above, like a dental pick hooking around a giant molar tooth in the mountain’s “maw.” We were climbing into the mouth of Kentucky’s wilderness.
“We can rest here,” said the soldier, “by the two springs that I see by the creek.” He pointed downslope.
I thought, that for the first time, he actually included me. Until then, I didn’t really believe I was with him, relying instead on what I thought was an imaginative reading. But here was this ghost of history talking to me.
Or was he? He had learned to appreciate his own company when locked up alone in prison and had no problem talking to himself about ordinary events.
I looked around. No one else was in earshot. But I was wrong then in many things. We were being followed.
He knew that, of course, had been trained to pay attention. He was letting them know that he was just passing through and had no interest other than in home and family. So maybe he had actually been talking to them. I decided to test my hypothesis.
“Is it safe to drink the water down there?” I spoke pointedly to him.
He slowly turned around and looked directly at me. His volume rose as his gaze spread into the forest beyond.
“I think the water is clean in the spring.” He smiled, I think at me, but I became concerned then that perhaps I really wasn’t part of his play. And that he had only briefly broken the fourth wall, only for a brief moment, to let the audience know that this would be a performance. A drama. He turned and climbed down the stream bank.
But that was enough! He had brought me in, if only for that statement. I knew then that I was truly with him. And that there was more yet to be seen and recorded.
Mountains whisper. Don’t be surprised. The people know what goes on up there. And a rebel soldier, walking on through alone, was well known to those he passed, the ones not seen but still looking.
The Civil War brought out the killing beast inherent in the human psyche, training that primitive creature’s deadly attraction. A force that Union and Confederate leaders could use and expend like ammunition.
But you just can’t turn off evil and replace it with civility. And certainly not in a rugged mountain environment where soldiers from both armies had escaped and were roaming the land as bandits clothed in the false garbs of government. “Justice” they said, which they sought to inflict when they caught whom they called the rebel soldiers and “villains.” And they didn’t turn in their weapons when the “Civil” War ended.
So, after the war, there was still “free range game” left out on the fringe of society. And these monsters would continue to rape and kill and maim in the name of one side or the other. So Soldier Bailey was followed.
“Big Bill” was in the woods, now hoping for another opportunity to extract vengeance. But that was just him lying. He simply loved the killing, and his self-styled gang of “Union” defenders were already scattered up there in the gorge awaiting.
“Not here,” Big Bill had whispered to the others. “This one is lost. We’ll get him up top when he tries to cross over.”
Did Soldier Bailey know this? His countenance had changed. Not to one of fear, but to one of reflection. As one who had charged into enemy fire, he knew fate always charged in beside him. So he would soldier on. The path was only a narrow bridle trail now, the rocky sides of the mountain had completely closed us in.
At a small clearing where an opposite creek joined in, was built a strong cabin. This one had a small porch upon which now sat an old woman. The man of the house was away working. Upon seeing us, the woman rose and motioned us over. She waved a loaf of bread, seemingly wanting to feed us. And we were both hungry.
The loaf looked to me like a swollen French “boule.” Maybe cooked in the way of her ancestors. It was long and fat, soft and warm below its tasty, crunchy crust. She handed the loaf to the soldier, ignoring me. I could hear what she said, even though it was a whisper.
“You have been followed.” The old woman was direct. “The war is not over here. They wait for you at the rise up to the right, the one leading over to Long Creek,” she said. “They expect you will cross there.”
The old woman turned to look at me. She looked warily, as though I was unnecessary, in the way. When she spoke again, she spoke not to me, but to someone beyond.
“There is another gap, up to your left,” she said. “It is longer and will take you over to Little Creek [Buffalo Creek]. That connects to Straight Creek and will take you down to the Cumberland River ford [now Pineville],” she said. “Cross there and continue east. You’re almost to the Gap in Cumberland Mountain.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” said the soldier. “Much appreciated.”
He then took out his Confederate cap, which had been tucked inside his belt, and smartly set it out upon his head. As he took the bread, he smiled and tipped his hat in appreciation. As he turned to me, I could see that he was smiling. He now knew where he was going.
Big Bill was watching all of this. He had not been a Union Soldier, or in any government organized militia. But the mountains had trained him as a hunter, a hidden killer, watching for the next moves of the prey he was following. When we turned up along Tom’s Creek, in the direction that the old woman suggested, Big Bill followed smartly. He didn’t need his men to take us down. We were unarmed, and he had a pistol.
By now, we were both very hungry. In fact, the soothing scent of that warm bread was exceptionally welcoming when the loaf was opened. The soldier broke it in two and, without even looking, placed a half a loaf on a boulder for me. I needed no further invitation. The soft white bread inside felt like melted butter when I tasted it.
I looked up, high up. These were tighter valleys and there, hidden back in, was a run of bare, bald cliffs. Tall and wide, white and grey, like a natural stone tombstone in this natural cemetery. Tom’s Cliffs, they were called, like the creek below them that the old woman had named for her husband.
The soldier sat down peacefully on a fallen down split rail cedar fence, his back to the tall stone monument. He was chewing large mouthfuls of the warm, pasta-like bread dough. Now, that will bring a smile to any observer.
“CRACK.”
It sounded like a tall tree snapping and then crashing to the ground. And with that sudden startle, I spit out my meal, jumped up, and looked over. The soldier lay face first on the ground, blood seeping out of a bullet hole in his back and spreading like slime mold through the fibers of his shirt.
“Woo hoo!” yelled Big Bill, jumping up from behind a bush of heath-like Mountain Laurel.
“I got me a Reb!”
That he was mighty proud, could be taken from his face. Beaming it was, at causing the death of another, one of the human kind that you’re not supposed to be hunting. He hadn’t been trained to do it as a soldier. But that desire to kill was just in there, deep down in his nature. The Civil War, everywhere, had allowed those ancient urges to surface and find purchase again in our human population.
Big Bill jumped over the rail fence, leveling his pistol at the prostate form of Soldier Bailey. It was disgusting, but I felt powerless to interfere. Was I a coward? I had not fought for either side in that War.
The killer reached down and roughly turned over the body. Soldier Bailey was still alive!
“Noo…o,” said the soldier. “Hom…e. I just want to go ho…me.”
“I’ll send you home alright, Villain,” said Big Bill, invoking that lie to give justification to his killing.
Then the soldier looked over to me, silently pleading. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound was released. My body was suddenly wracked forward, and I vomited violently. Helpless, I was, in his time of need.
Big Bill had turned to look at me with the most malevolent smile capable of forming on human features. If the devil walks amongst us, it was him that was taunting me.
Then the man with the gun bent down to the man on the ground and placed the barrel up against his victim’s temple. As the soldier turned his head, Big Bill pulled the trigger.
“That will do it,” he laughed, straightening up and reholstering his weapon. Time now to steal from his victim.
First the boots, an initial prize for any human willing to kill to get them. As he was removing the boots and trying them on for fitting, his three “colleagues” came running across the creek hooting and hollering.
“You got him, you got him!” they yelled.
“Come on,” said Big Bill in a masterly voice.
“His clothes are yours. Come on and get ‘em.”
What did I do? I am ashamed to speak of it. I slipped around the big boulder and quivered. I was afraid that they would come for me next, since I was a witness.
They didn’t. They didn’t care about me. Instead, they grabbed the soldier’s nearly naked body and tossed it into a hollow, old fallen log as a coffin. Then they slowly walked down Roaring Fork Creek laughing and slapping each other’s backs as if they had just gone skating in winter.
They were not alone in these sentiments. The Civil War had brought out evil as the price of its victory. All over the now quiet battlefields, violence kept speaking. And here, in the Mountains of Eastern Kentucky, that violence fed petty dislikes to be resolved by gunfire, disputations that continued back and forth for multiple generations. Feuds by families living the mountain version of what Shakespeare already knew and of which he had written. “A pair … whose misadventured, piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife.” [Prologue, Romeo and Juliet.]
Soldier Bailey did eventually make it home. All the creek valley residents knew what had happened. They also knew, whether by hatred or fear of retaliation, that they would do nothing about it. In the way of seeking Justice, I mean.
The killers bragged openly of what they had been involved in, wearing the boots and clothing of the victim as though they were animal skin trophies. They passed around his discharge papers like a scalp to be counted. So, when the neighbors went up to bury the body, the community already knew the name of Soldier Bailey.
It took more than 30 years for his Tennessee family to discover what had happened and petition the local Government to search for his body. Permission was finally granted, and in 1899, the body was exhumed. Everyone, of course, knew where it was buried, so it was easy to find. And in that way, Soldier Bailey finally made it home. In a coffin hauled by a slow wagon down the Athiamiowee and over the Cumberland Gap.
I thought of these things when I recently returned and again hiked up to the War Gap along the Road Fork of Stinking Creek. I think Soldier Bailey walked quietly along with me, glad to be free once more, at least in my writings.
I smiled to be with him again.
The End
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