One Day In The life, Of A Confederate, Veterans Christmas In The Mountains Of Virginia—1890 By K. Carson Kirk The old house is cold so he pulls the chair up close to the fireplace trying to stay warm. A blackened Iron kettle hangs above the blaze cooking dry beans flavored with a hunk of sow’s belly. Cornbread is baking in an iron skillet under hot coals. A coffee pot sits above the flames on a little grate. He stares at the burning flames of different colors and ever changing images that remind him of his past life. He becomes completely lost in the past as the fire embers turn gray and eventually into ashes. Finally he rises from the chair and tosses another block of wood on the fire. He sits back down in the chair out of breath. He’s only 47 but looks and acts much older. It’s Christmas day 1890 and he wonders if it might be his last Christmas here on the ridge. He sips on a cup of coffee and thinks about uneaten salt bacon and gravy from breakfast that sets on a rough home-made table behind him. The smell of bacon finally beckons him but after the first bite he turns away knowing that his appetite is slowly going away. He walks across the room to the door and opens it to icy cold wind. He looks down on the houses in the valley below. Smoke from chimneys rise above the landscape covered with an inch of snow. Children’s voices can faintly be heard as they play in the snow reminding him of his childhood here on the ridge with his father and mother. He turns his head to see their graves partially covered with snow a few yards to his left. Another grave holds his attention as thoughts of their short time together brings tears to his bony cheeks. ‘We both wanted children and planned on a long life together but consumption took her before our first wedding anniversary.’ He closed the door and walked back to the fireplace, moved the skillet of cornbread from the ashes and removed the lid to find it was baked to a golden brown. He cut off one corner to cool thinking it would taste good with a cup of coffee but like the bacon before, the first bite was enough. He sat back down in the chair and thoughts of Floyd his mule that he buried just three days earlier out of sight around the hill. ‘Th’ grave needs more dirt on it to keep th’ varmints away but I jist couldn’t hold up to do it. But old Floyd knows how much he means to me, he knows that I would do it if’n I was able. He had to be th’ smartest mule in all th’ Civil War. He saved my life there in th’ Yankee prison camp and it bound us together fer th’ rest of his life. That mean Union Sergeant would have killed me sooner er later fer shore. We slaved together here on this hillside after th’ war, I longed fer a piece of land down in th’ valley where we could bring in a better crop witout half th’ work but it never happened. I shore do miss old Floyd.’ He walked across the room and opened a door to an add-on structure made of poles. ‘I built this fer him to keep him out of th’ cold in th’ winter, I reckon I stand proud of that.’ His eyes fell on a bull tongue plow leaning in a corner of the add-on room, a cuff made of wood and lined with a piece of leather was attached to the left plow handle. He looked down at his left arm to where his hand used to be and said, ‘Got my hand blowed off in th’ battle at Buckland Mills in my very first battle. Never thought I’d ever be able to plow again but old John, th’ blacksmith down in th’ valley made th’ cuff to slide my arm in and I was able to plow many a row afore old Floyd passed away. Me and old Floyd met up in a temporary Yankee prison camp near Atlanta. Th’ very first day a Yankee Sgt. took me to him and said, “You will be in charge of this old mule and haul th’ dead away over th’ hill yonder and bury them. I expect you to hitch him to a sled and be ready to pick up th’ dead every morning at daybreak. If you fail to follow my orders then you will be one of th’ dead bodies riding in th’ sled. And th’ same goes fer th’ animals that die yonder in th’ shelter. Most of them are mounts that belong to you rebs and they are dying off fast from lack of food, so you haul them away in th’ same sled and bury them.” ‘And I’ll never ferget what he said next. “Th’ mule’s name is Floyd. Now don’t ask me where he got that name cause, I don’t know but I do know he is mean as hell and will kick your brains out. I have thought about killing him and will if he ever kicks at me again” ‘I reckon old Floyd heard that because a few days later old Floyd weak and hungry like myself was struggling to pull th’ sled over the hill loaded with three dead bodies. The sergeant noticed and came up the hill screaming at me, “Use th’ whip on that damned mule dammit.” He ran on past the sled grabbed Floyd’s nose and yelled, “Give him some good lashes while I hold him.” When I hesitated he yelled again, “Come on, beat th’ hell outta him, you hear.” I had jumped rebel soldiers for beating th’ animals and had made up my mind not to give in to this union soldier. I cracked th’ whip a couple times and let go of it. It landed between the sled and old Floyd’s hind legs, handle and all. “You bastard,” he yelled as he went behind Floyd to get the whip, “Bygod I’ll whip him but I’ll give you some lashes first.” He bent over to pick up the whip just as old Floyd mustered enough strength to let him have it right in the head with both hind legs knocking him back in the sled. He never knew what hit him. I looked to see if anyone seen it but no union soldiers were in sight. I clucked to old Floyd and he found extra strength again to pull all four bodies across the hill to th’ burial site. I unhitched old Floyd from the sled and we lit out fer home. I figured they would catch us afore we got outa Georgia. I reckon it’s a miracle we made it.’ Finally his eyes drifted and settled on Harness held together by twisted wire hanging from the wall. A smile touched his face when he looked at the brand new red bridle hanging next to the harness. ‘I reckon that moved me mor’en anything in a long time when th’ preacher in th’ valley handed me th’ bridle last Sunday and said, “Christmas present from th’ folks here in th’ church fer yur old mule Floyd, Mister Arnold.” It brought me to tears and old Floyd shore looked good wit a new bridle, but he only wore it one time afore he died.’ Colt Arnold crawled in a corn-shuck mattress bed aware that his life on earth was drawing to a close on Christmas night 1890. Did he spend the night going over his past life? Did he sleep? Did he live to get up the next morning and stoke the fire and look down in the valley one more time? At midnight the cold wind picked up blowing tiny snowflakes in all directions. To mountain folks that is known as ‘A blue snow.’ Light from the fireplace lit up the room to show a man struggling to breathe and in a state of delirium. Covers lay alongside the bed from where he had kicked them off. Finally the wild look in his eyes became softer as he struggled to a sitting position on the side of the bed and set staring at the fireplace. He then struggled to his feet and took a few steps toward the door that led to the attached room where old Floyd had bedded down next to him for so many years. He pitched forward before reaching the door and lay still on the floor. The wind calmed down outside and the last embers of light from the burning wood in the fireplace turned the room into darkness. In his state of mind had he forgotten that old Floyd had passed on and was trying to get to him to say goodbye? Guess we will never know but I do know old Floyd was his only companion there on the hill side farm for many years. Old Floyd had been abused many times during the war by Confederate and Union soldiers so it was only natural he would love someone who treated him well. A farmer down the hill and across the railroad started toward his barn to milk the cows early the next morning. He stood looking up the ridge at Colt’s house and noticed no smoke coming from the chimney. He knew immediately that something was wrong. He hurried back to the house and told his ten year old son, “Go on the ridge and check on our neighbor Colt, son. Hurry up and if you find him in need give me a sign, wave yur arms, now get going and I’ll be watching fer yur signals.” The son opened the unlocked door and walked in to find him dead on the floor. He turned and rushed out the door waving his arms as best he could to resemble a state of emergency. His father was watching and picked up on it right away. He headed up the hill not knowing what he would find but knew it was grave. The son stood in the yard looking down at his pa climbing the hill. Pa finally got there but was out of breath, and sweating, in spite of the bitter cold. “He’s on th’ floor Pa, I reckon he’s dead.” Pa walked in and fell to his knees by the still body, as he tried to check his pulse he noticed his body was ice cold. He rose to his feet and said, “Yeah he’s gone son. You run down th’ hill and put th’ word out. Stop at th’ house and tell yur ma, then run down to th’ village and tell th’ pastor. I reckon I’ll build a fire in th’ grate there and wait til some folks get up here so we can get organized on what steps to take next. Now hurry along but be careful and don’t fall and break a bone er sompin we got enough trouble as it is.” Two hours later eight men followed the pastor up the hill. Pa had kept the fire stoked with dry oak and the room was warm. “Now here’s what we have to do” the pastor said as he shed his coat and started rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Lift his body to that table there where we will clean him up and dress him in th’ best clothes he owns. I reckon all his clothes are hanging there on th’ wall so they won’t be hard to find. One of you go back down in th’ valley and go to Lige Miller’s sawmill. Tell Lige Colt Arnold has passed on and we need a coffin up here. He keeps two or three made up so he will take care of it. I spect he will put it on a sled and have one of his workers haul it up here with one of his mules he uses for snaking logs from th’ woods. “ Later in the evening a dozen or more from the valley including five women who brought food for the men set around the fireplace drinking coffee and speaking softly out of respect for a man that was now at rest in a hand made solid oak coffin on the table behind them. A half dozen set up all night with the body. Early the next morning men got busy digging his grave alongside his beloved wife and near his mother and father. In the early afternoon they carried the coffin to the yard and set it down by the fresh dug grave. The pastor stood in the yard, cleared his throat, said a prayer and preached a short sermon. Singers from the church sang two old Appalachian style hymns. After the mourners filed by the open coffin for one last look two men placed the lid and fastened it with wooden pegs. They lowered him in the grave and two men started shoveling dirt on the coffin until it shaped in a mound. The pastor led the mourners through the house after the service. One of the church ladies spotted a picture of colt sitting in the saddle atop old Floyd hanging on the wall. The red bridle hung nearby. She pointed it out saying, “Look he has his rebel uniform on, I reckon a picture taker took that some place, no telling where when he was making his way back home. Pastor can I take that picture and the bridle too, I would like to hang them in the church vestibule?” “Well, I reckon that will be alright, but we have to leave everything else as is until th’ court sorts all this out. He has no family or kin that we know of so I reckon his estate will be awarded to th’ County.” The following Sunday the church goers on their way in paused in the little vestibule to admire Colt sitting astride old Floyd on a wall framed by the red bridle tacked to the wall. The pastor spent most of his sermon talking about Colt and old Floyd. “I reckon there is nothing in th’ Bible about animals going to Heaven” He said. “But I can’t imagine Colt Arnold and old Floyd not being together, could be that God meant to include animals but forgot to record it.” As they filed out they paused in the vestibule to view the picture again framed by the red bridle. Once outside they stood looking at the house on the ridge. No smoke swirls came from the chimney, a reminder that no one lives there anymore. Other than a dozen or so chickens that could be seen in the yard there were no other signs of life. “I reckon we forgot about th’ chickens” The pastor said. “We will have go up there every day to feed them, no telling how long. Th’ judge might relent to turning them over to th’ village, I’ll speak to him tomorrow about that.”
Posted on: Tue, 23 Dec 2014 23:45:25 +0000
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