Cane Creek Devilry
Historical Fiction vignette thematic of the story DEVILRY
1863, Cane Creek Settlement
Solomon thrust calloused hands into the bucket, splayed his fingers, and brought them slowly toward the surface to distribute the tobacco seeds evenly through the ashes. He worked patiently lest he spill the precious blend. Even with perfect eyesight, the intermingling was necessary for proper distribution in the seedbed, and Solomon’s eyes were far from perfect. At thirty-eight, they had begun to dim, a trait shared by all the Epps according to his mother.
“A sower went forth to sow,” he murmured as he sifted the mixture onto the finely milled soil, gauging distribution by color as the dark loam turned ash gray.
He often quoted scripture or sang hymns while working. The Lord had blessed his labors, enlarged his borders, and given him Dolly, the bride of his youth. She had taken the baby up the Military Road to the Kittrell’s where Patience lay in confinement awaiting her firstborn. The old women declared the signs propitious for birth today.
He thought of his friend Caleb Kittrell, impossibly far away and fighting for the rebellion. Solomon was the sole Union man in the Cane Creek bottom. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of equality of all men with slavery, but he couldn’t take up arms in defense of his country if it meant killing his own people. He prayed for a merciful and quick end to the horror.
Finished, he upturned the oaken bucket and thumped it smartly to dislodge the last of the invisible seeds. In a few weeks, the seedlings would be ready to move to the field. Lacking cash, he hoped to trade his small crop for the store goods Dolly needed. He straightened, craning his neck to squint at the sun. The seedbed sat against a sheltering hill to the northwest and gently sloped to catch the sunlight. Barring a late frost, the seedlings would prosper as they had the previous two years.
“Lord willing,” he said, turning toward the path leading by the spring and on down to the back of the cabin.
In the light shade of the budding oaks and hickories, he felt the lingering chill of winter. Today held promise of an early spring. He was eager to get on with the work of another year.
Coming around the cabin, he nearly collided with a man on horseback. Behind him, a dozen more sat silently staring at him, most with blank expressions, but some with amusement.
“You be Solomon Epps?”
“I am.” He took in the man’s butternut uniform. The others wore common clothing. “And who would you be, sir?”
Behind him, a gangly boy of no more than fifteen barked a laugh.
“Colonel Sparks.”
A chill ran through Solomon. He was glad Dolly was at the Kittrell’s.
“If it’s provender you need, Colonel, take what you want. We don’t have much, but you’re welcome to it.”
“You would do that for a Confederate man?”
“I have no part in this war, sir.” He motioned toward to small outbuildings. “Yonder is the corncrib and smokehouse. Take what you need.”
Sparks nodded solemnly. “You’re a Union man.”
“I am an American, but I will not fight against my people, north or south.”
“If you ain’t with us, you’re agin us,” pronounced Sparks.
With a whoop, the teenager jumped from his horse, pulling a knife. “Over yonder’s a hickornut tree,” he yelled excitedly, running toward a fifteen-foot sapling.
He shinnied up it until it bent over. “Help me peel her, Johnny!”
Another boy slid from his horse and went to help, hacking with a heavy Bowie knife until the three-inch thick trunk shattered, felling the tree. The two slit and peeled the bark with frenetic energy.
Sparks turned back to Solomon. “You chose the wrong side, Mister Man.”
“I didn’t choose.”
The boys plaited strips of bark into a hasty rope. It would stiffen to uselessness within days. Presently, it would serve its purpose.
“You want to pray?” asked Sparks.
Solomon shook his head. “I’m prayed up.”
Sparks stiffened at the words. “You’ll sing a different tune afore long.”
“This is wrong, but killing me today is not what you’ll have to stand in judgment for. Lord grant that you some day find him precious to your soul that you may be accepted of Him.”
“You think that will save your blue-belly hide?” spat Sparks.
“I reckon not.”
No further words passed, and as the culmination approached, even the blood-scenting teenagers fell silent. The deed was accomplished with efficient, if not neat, haste.
The bushwhackers were climbing out of the valley before the first smoke turned eyes farther up the creek toward Epps’ burning cabin. Old Man Kittrell tried to get the frantic woman to stay behind as he rode down to spy out the tragedy, but of course she had to follow. As he cut Solomon down, Dolly screamed, running toward the ruins of her life.
“There weren’t no need of this,” said the old man, thinking for the first time that he had lived too long.
Cane Creek—Devilry
1863, Cane Creek Settlement
Solomon thrust calloused hands into the bucket, splayed his fingers, and brought them slowly toward the surface to distribute the tobacco seeds evenly through the ashes. He worked patiently lest he spill the precious blend. Even with perfect eyesight, the intermingling was necessary for proper distribution in the seedbed, and Solomon’s eyes were far from perfect. At thirty-eight, they had begun to dim, a trait shared by all the Epps according to his mother.
“A sower went forth to sow,” he murmured as he sifted the mixture onto the finely milled soil, gauging distribution by color as the dark loam turned ash gray.
He often quoted scripture or sang hymns while working. The Lord had blessed his labors, enlarged his borders, and given him Dolly, the bride of his youth. She had taken the baby up the Military Road to the Kittrell’s where Patience lay in confinement awaiting her firstborn. The old women declared the signs propitious for birth today.
He thought of his friend Caleb Kittrell, impossibly far away and fighting for the rebellion. Solomon was the sole Union man in the Cane Creek bottom. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of equality of all men with slavery, but he couldn’t take up arms in defense of his country if it meant killing his own people. He prayed for a merciful and quick end to the horror.
Finished, he upturned the oaken bucket and thumped it smartly to dislodge the last of the invisible seeds. In a few weeks, the seedlings would be ready to move to the field. Lacking cash, he hoped to trade his small crop for the store goods Dolly needed. He straightened, craning his neck to squint at the sun. The seedbed sat against a sheltering hill to the northwest and gently sloped to catch the sunlight. Barring a late frost, the seedlings would prosper as they had the previous two years.
“Lord willing,” he said, turning toward the path leading by the spring and on down to the back of the cabin.
In the light shade of the budding oaks and hickories, he felt the lingering chill of winter. Today held promise of an early spring. He was eager to get on with the work of another year.
Coming around the cabin, he nearly collided with a man on horseback. Behind him, a dozen more sat silently staring at him, most with blank expressions, but some with amusement.
“You be Solomon Epps?”
“I am.” He took in the man’s butternut uniform. The others wore common clothing. “And who would you be, sir?”
Behind him, a gangly boy of no more than fifteen barked a laugh.
“Colonel Sparks.”
A chill ran through Solomon. He was glad Dolly was at the Kittrell’s.
“If it’s provender you need, Colonel, take what you want. We don’t have much, but you’re welcome to it.”
“You would do that for a Confederate man?”
“I have no part in this war, sir.” He motioned toward to small outbuildings. “Yonder is the corncrib and smokehouse. Take what you need.”
Sparks nodded solemnly. “You’re a Union man.”
“I am an American, but I will not fight against my people, north or south.”
“If you ain’t with us, you’re agin us,” pronounced Sparks.
With a whoop, the teenager jumped from his horse, pulling a knife. “Over yonder’s a hickornut tree,” he yelled excitedly, running toward a fifteen-foot sapling.
He shinnied up it until it bent over. “Help me peel her, Johnny!”
Another boy slid from his horse and went to help, hacking with a heavy Bowie knife until the three-inch thick trunk shattered, felling the tree. The two slit and peeled the bark with frenetic energy.
Sparks turned back to Solomon. “You chose the wrong side, Mister Man.”
“I didn’t choose.”
The boys plaited strips of bark into a hasty rope. It would stiffen to uselessness within days. Presently, it would serve its purpose.
“You want to pray?” asked Sparks.
Solomon shook his head. “I’m prayed up.”
Sparks stiffened at the words. “You’ll sing a different tune afore long.”
“This is wrong, but killing me today is not what you’ll have to stand in judgment for. Lord grant that you some day find him precious to your soul that you may be accepted of Him.”
“You think that will save your blue-belly hide?” spat Sparks.
“I reckon not.”
No further words passed, and as the culmination approached, even the blood-scenting teenagers fell silent. The deed was accomplished with efficient, if not neat, haste.
The bushwhackers were climbing out of the valley before the first smoke turned eyes farther up the creek toward Epps’ burning cabin. Old Man Kittrell tried to get the frantic woman to stay behind as he rode down to spy out the tragedy, but of course she had to follow. As he cut Solomon down, Dolly screamed, running toward the ruins of her life.
“There weren’t no need of this,” said the old man, thinking for the first time that he had lived too long.
Cane Creek—Devilry
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