Part 27

It was still clear when, an hour later, our party arrived at the ledge of rock called Cæsar’s Head. A strong imagination is required to see any resemblance in the profile to a man’s head, much less to a Roman’s of the heroic type. We are inclined to believe the story told by a mountaineer. An old man in the vicinity had a dog named Cæsar, whose head bore a striking resemblance to the rock, and being desirous to commemorate his dog, the appellation, “Cæsar’s Head,” was given to the rock. But this is a point not likely to be considered by the tourist, first dizzied by a glance down the precipice into the “Dismal” 1,600 feet below. The view is strikingly suggestive of the ocean. Our standpoint was almost a third of a mile above the green plain of upper South Carolina, its wave-like corrugations extending to the horizon line. Patches of foamy white clouds jostled about the surface, and above them, white caps floated upon the breeze. The breaker-like roar of cataracts, at the base of the mountain, completed the deception. Boldest and most picturesque of the numerous precipitous headlands, is Table Rock, six miles distant. There are several glens and waterfalls in the vicinity of the hotel, numerous walks leading to views of mountain scenery, and drives through solitary glens. The view from the top of Rich mountain is broadest in its scope, taking in the Transylvania valley. The “Dismal,” that is, the apparent pit into which you look from the “Head,” may be reached by a circuitous route, but the labor of getting there will be rewarded only by disappointment. I spent a forenoon climbing down and an afternoon climbing out. It is a good place for bears to hibernate and snakes to sun themselves, nothing more. I was reminded, by this foolish exploit, of a paragraph from Mark Twain:

“In order to make a man or boy covet anything, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain.... Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and play consists in whatever a body is not obliged to do. This is why performing on a treadmill, or constructing artificial flowers is work, while rolling tenpins or climbing Mount Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger coaches, twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money, but if they were offered wages for the service that would turn it into work, and then they would resign.”

Brevard, the capital town of Transylvania, is a center from which to make several short journeys to scenic points. In reaching it from Cæsar’s Head, take the Conestee road, which runs over an undulating plateau declining gently from the base of the hills which mark the crest of the Blue Ridge, and then down the narrow gorge of the Conestee fork. There are few houses to mar the wild beauty of nature. Seven miles from Brevard is the waterfall bearing the name of the stream. The ruin of a primitive mill is the perfect complement of the natural picturesqueness of the scene. The road finally descends into a narrow bottom, which gradually widens until it is lost in the broad stretch of the level valley of the main stream.

The village of Brevard consists of about fifty houses. It is situated a short distance from the French Broad. The distance from Asheville is thirty-two miles; from Hendersonville, the nearest railroad point, a third less. One of the most noted places reached from Brevard is Shining Rock, seen from mountain tops thirty miles distant. It consists of an immense precipice of white quartz, which glistens in the sunlight like silver. The precipice is 600 feet high and about a mile long. Parties will find protection from a passing storm, or if need be over night, in a cave near the base of the mountain.

The road from Brevard to Hendersonville runs through the widest part of the French Broad valley, and part of the way follows the river bank. The Government has expended $44,000 in deepening and straightening the channel between the mouth of Ochlawaha creek and Brevard. The result is a sixteen inch channel for a distance of seventeen miles. A small boat makes semi-weekly excursion trips during the summer months. It was once pushed as far up as Brevard, but in ordinary stages of water, twelve miles above the landing is the limit of navigation. The road from Brevard to Asheville, is through the valley of Boylston, at the mouth of Mill’s river, and around the base of long projecting spurs of Pisgah.

When near Brevard, just four years ago, while Redmond, the famous moonshiner, lived in the neighborhood, and a little blockading was still going on in the Balsams, I made a midnight journey, the details of which may be of general interest. One afternoon, during a deer drive through the wilds and over the rugged heights of the Tennessee Bald, I advanced far enough in my month’s acquaintance with a fellow, Joe Harran, to learn that he was formerly a distiller, and even then was acting as a carrier of illicit whisky from a hidden still to his neighbors.

After the hunt, as we walked toward my boarding-place, I expressed a wish to go with him on a moonshine expedition. He readily agreed to take me. We were to go that night.

I retired early to my room, ostensibly for the purpose of a ten-hour sleep. At nine o’clock there was a rap at my door, and a moment after Harran was inside. He had a bundle under his arm, which he tossed on the bed. Said he:

“The clothes ye hev on air tu fine fer this trip. My pards mout tak’ ye fer a revenoo, an’ let a hole thro’ ye. Put on them thar,” and he pointed to the articles he had brought with him.

“Is it necessary?”

“In course. Ef hit war’nt, I wouldn’t say so. Ef ye’r goin’ moonshinin’, ye must be like a moonshiner. Hurry an’ jump in the duds, fer we’ve got nigh onto seven mile ter go ter git to the still, an’ ef we don’t make tracks, the daylight’ll catch us afore we gits back.”

I took off an ordinary business suit, and a short space after stood transformed into what appeared to me a veritable mountaineer, after the manner of Harran, except that my friend had granted me a tattered coat to cover the rough shirt, and my pants were not tucked in my boots, because the latter were not exactly of the pattern most suitable for the occasion.

“I reckon ye’ll do, tho’ ye don’t look ez rough ez ye mout ef yer har war long; but pull the brim o’ the hat down over yer eyes, an’ I ’low when I tell ’em yer a ’stiller from Cocke county, over the line, they’ll believe hit, shore.”

We went outside, climbed the rail fence, and found ourselves in the road.

“Hold up,” said Harran, “we mustn’t fergit these things,” and from a brush pile he drew out two enormous jugs and a blanket.

“You don’t mean to say,” said I, in amazement, as he stood before me with a jug in each hand, “that you intend carrying those things seven miles, and then bring them back that distance filled with whisky!”

“In course. I mean that they’re goin’ to the still an’ back with us, but I don’t reckon me or you are goin’ to tote em.”

“What then?”

“Wait an’ see.”

We wound along the crooked valley road for several rods, until, in front of a cabin, my companion stopped, sat down his jugs, and unwound from his waist something that looked like a bridle.

“Hist!” said he, in a low tone, “I reckon they be all asleep in the house. Jist ye stay hyar, an’ I’ll catch the filly in yan lot.”

This was more than I had bargained for. The expedition we were on was bad enough, but horse-stealing was a crime of too positive a kind. Of course I knew Harran only intended to borrow the horse for the evening, but if we were caught with the animal in our possession, and going in an opposite direction from the owner’s farm, what was simply a misdemeanor, might, from attendant circumstances, be construed into a crime to which no light penalty was attached. But Harran was over the fence and had the filly in charge before I could prevent him. Talking was then of no use. He had done the same thing a hundred times before. He said there was no danger. I was not convinced, but, having started, I determined to proceed, let come what might. He let down the rails of the fence, led the filly through, threw the blanket over her back, and, tying the jugs, by their handles, to the ends of a strap, slung them over the blanket.

“Now git up an’ ride ’er,” said he, “an’ I’ll walk fer the first few mile.”

“No riding for me until I get out of this locality,” I answered. “I have no intention of being seen by chance travelers on a stolen horse, with two demijohns hanging before me, and in the company of a moonshiner. It would be a little too suspicious, and next fall there might be a case in court in which I would be the most important party. You may ride.”

Harran laughed long and rather too loudly for safety; but seeing I was in earnest, he mounted. We started. It was a clear, moonlight night. The air was just cool enough to be comfortable. We followed the country road for four miles without meeting a person, and only being barked at once by a farmer’s dog; then we turned into a narrow trail through a dense chestnut forest. At this point my fellow traveler dismounted and I filled his place. He walked ahead, leading the way along the shaded aisles, while after him I jogged with the two jugs rubbing my knees with every step the horse made. We were to ascend and cross the ridge that rose before us, and then wind down through the ravines on the opposite slope until we reached the still. The top was gained by a steep climb of two miles, during part of which ascent the filly carried nothing but the earthenware luggage. On the summit we found ourselves in a dense balsam forest.

Down the opposite side, as we descended, even with the bright light of a full moon overhead, we were surrounded by a darkness, formed by the shadows of the trees, that made the path almost imperceptible to me. Harran seemed to have no trouble in tracing it.

“Almost thar,” said the moonshiner, as he slapped my leg, while the filly stopped for a drink at a cold, bubbling stream coursing along the roots of the laurel: “Now, swar by God and all thet’s holy, ye’ll never breathe to a livin’ soul the whereabouts o’ this hyar place.”

I swore, reserving at the same time all an author’s rights of revelation except as to the whereabouts.

“The spot’s not a hundred yards from hyar.”

We turned into a ravine, and went upward along the stream. The sides of the ravine grew steeper. Suddenly I heard a coarse laugh, then caught a glimmer of fire-light, and by its blaze, for the first time in my life, I saw the mountain still of an illicit distiller. We paused for a moment and Harran whistled three times shrilly.

“All right. Come ahead!” yelled some one. A minute later, obedient to this return signal, we had stopped at our destination. The ravine had narrowed, and the sides were much steeper and higher. The place was well shut in. An open shed, roofed, and with one side boarded, stood before us. Within it was a low furnace throwing out the light of a hot fire. Over the furnace was a copper still, capable of holding twenty-five gallons. Several wash-tubs, a cold water hogshead, and two casks, evidently containing corn in a diluted state, stood around under the roof. Close to this still-house was a little log cabin. The two distillers, who greeted our arrival, ate and slept within this latter domicil. The smoke from the still curled up through the immense balsams and hemlocks that almost crossed themselves over the top of the ravine.

The two distillers looked smoky and black, and smelled strongly of the illicit. They, like my friend, were in their shirt sleeves, and dressed as he was. Their hats were off, and their long brown locks shaking loosely over their ears and grizzled faces, gave them a barbarous appearance.

“We ’lowed ye would’nt come, Joe, afore to-morrer night. Who’ve ye got thar on the filly?” inquired one of the pair.

“He? thet’s John Shales, a kin o’ mine. He’s started up a still over’n the side, an’ not knowin’ exact how tu run hit, he kum along with me tu see yer’s an’ pick up a bit,” answered Harran by way of introduction, as I jumped from the horse, and he, removing the jugs, tied the animal to a post of the still.

“Thet’s all right. Glad to see yer,” said the first speaker in a hearty, good-natured voice, extending his hand to me for a fraternal grasp, which he received, continuing at the same time, “My name’s Mont Giller.”

“And mine’s Bob Daves,” sang out the second of the pair as he clinched my hand.

“Hev ye enny o’ the dew ready fer my jugs, an’ fer my throat, which is ez dry ez a bald mounting?” asked Harran.

“I reckon we kin manage to set yer off,” answered Daves.

One of the casks in the shed was tipped, a plug drawn from its top, and a stream like the purest spring water gushed into a pail set below it. This was whiskey. The jugs were filled. Each of us then imbibed from a rusty tin dipper. In keeping with my assumed character, I was obliged to partake with them. We took it straight, my companion emptying a half-pint of the liquid without a gurgle of disapproval or a wink of his eyes.

While the men worked in the light of the furnace fire, and talked in loud tones above the noise of the running water flowing down troughs into the hogshead, through which wound the worm from the copper still, I listened and “j’ined” in at intervals, and this I learned:

One of the men was a widower, the other a bachelor. It was two miles down that side of the mountain to a road. The corn used in distilling they bought at from twenty-five to fifty cents per bushel, and “toted” it or brought it on mule-back up the trail to the still. They had no occasion to take the whisky below for sale. It was all sold on the spot at from seventy-five cents to one dollar per gallon, according to the price of corn. Those who came after the liquor, came, as we had, with jugs, and thereby supplied the tipplers in the valley, usually charging a quarter of a dollar extra for the trip up and back--nothing for the danger incurred by dealing in it.

The older man, Giller, I noticed, had been eyeing me rather suspiciously for some time. His observation made me rather uneasy. At last, while I was seated on a large log before the fire, Giller approached me, and, as though by accident, brushed off my hat. Not thinking what he was up to, as I naturally would do I turned my face toward him.

“By--!” exclaimed he. “Hit’s all a blasted lie. You’re no moonshiner. You’re a revenoo; but yer tricked right hyar.”

I saw a big, murderous-looking pistol in his hand and heard it click. I suppose I threw up my hands. “Hold on, hold on!” I exclaimed. “Don’t shoot! for heaven’s sake, man, don’t shoot! it’s a mistake.”

“Wal, I don’t know ’bout thet. We’ll hev Harran explain this thing while I keep a bead on yer head.”

Of course, Harran and the other moonshiner were by us immediately.

“What’s the matter with you, Mont, yer goin’ to shoot my cousin? That’s a perlite way to treat yer comp’ny. What to hell air ye up to?”

He had grabbed the excited and suspicious moonshiner by the arm.

“Let go ’o me,” said the latter, “I know thet man thar is no kin o’ yours, Joe Harran. He’s cl’ar too fine a sort fer thet, and ef ye don’t prove to me thet he haint a revenoo and ye haint a sneak, I’ll shoot him first an’ then turn ye adrift on the same road.”

Daves, on hearing this speech, surveyed me critically with an unfavorable result for myself, and then, in turn, drew a horse pistol, and cocked it swearing as he did so.

I saw the game was up as far as my being John Shales was concerned, so I decided to come out if possible in true colors, and also as wholly antagonistic to revenue officers. It took some time for an explanation; but on Harran’s vouching in decidedly strong terms as to the truth of what I said, they lowered, uncocked and slipped their “shootin’-irons” into their pockets.

They were by no means satisfied, though, and we left them with lowering countenances and malicious muttering, against my companion for daring to bring a stranger into their camp.

We made a safe trip across the mountain, and at 2 o’clock in the morning struck the road. I was riding.

“Hold on hyar,” said Harran.

I held in the horse. We were before an unpretentious farmhouse. The moon had just disappeared behind the western ranges, and the landscape was dark and uncomfortably cheerless, for a chill wind had sprung up. Harran went up to the yard fence, reached over and lifted up a jug. He brought it to me, shaking it as he did so. A ringing sound came from it.

“That’s silver,” said he.

“What does that mean?” I inquired in a curious tone.

“Why,” he returned, while he turned the jug upside down in his hat and shook it, “here’s two dollars an’ a half in dimes. I reckon thet Winters wants two gallon o’ the dew, an’ this hol’s two gallon, jist.” He said he “’llowed he’d be wantin’ some soon, an the jug, he sed, would be in the ole place. Ye see, now, he’ll find hit thar in the mornin’ but he’ll never know how hit cum thar, or who tuk his money.”

“What is the object of being so secret about it?”

“Why, what ef I’m arrested, an’ he’s hauled up ez a witness. What kin he swar to about buying whiskey o’ me? Nothin’. He’ll hev the whiskey all the same though, won’t he? Ha, ha!”

He filled the jug and four others on the way down. All had money with them, either inside or lying on the corn-cob stopper. It was a cash business. At the proper place he turned the filly in the barn lot, and a few minutes after we were at my boarding-house. Before we parted for the night--it was almost daylight--I reckoned up for him his account of purchases and sales for the expedition. He had a profit in his favor of two dollars and a quarter, and a little more than a gallon of the “dew.” All I had gained was experience.

The ride from Asheville down the French Broad will be to the stranger a revelation of the beautiful and sublime. For over forty miles you wind through the pent-in valley of the river, losing sight of its current only in one or two instances, where, for a short space, the skirts of the encroaching mountains are drawn back, and the track, following close on their edges, leaves woods or bare rolling meadows between it and the stream. On account of the newness of the bed, and the frequent sharp curves, the speed of the train is comparatively slow. There are other drawbacks to contend against. An amusing incident, in which several minutes of time were lost, occurred on our last journey down the river. The train had just attained full headway, when a man in blue jeans arose in an excited manner from his seat, near us, and, grabbing the bell-cord, pulled it in desperation. The train came to a stand-still. The conductor rushed in, demanding why the signal had been given.

“I got on the wrong train,” returned the countryman, leisurely gathering up his satchel, “and I wants ter git off.”

The conductor turned red in the face, and amidst the laughter of the passengers, assisted the man to make his departure in a hurried manner.

On the same trip, while we were rounding a bend below Warm Springs, the hat of a passenger who was standing on the rear platform, was blown from his head. The train was stopped for a time to allow the unfortunate man to run back and find the relic. He searched until he found it and then regained his place.

For several miles after leaving Asheville, low, undulating hills, sloping upward from the river, fill the landscapes. The water runs deep and dark around these bends, and no rapids of any consequence break the smooth surface of the stream; but as further down you go, sweeping along over the rattling rails, piles of huge drift logs, and clusters of Titanic boulders appear at intervals, and the country becomes wilder and more rugged. The foot-hills begin to roll higher, and with steep, stony fronts staring at each other across the intervening space of waters, resemble the severed halves of hills thus rent in twain by the impetuous river. On, on, the scenery becomes more grandly wild and beautiful. Now passes an old-fashioned country farmhouse--extensive portico bordering the front, and huge brick chimneys at each end--with dingy barn; pine log-cabins fast falling to decay around it; rail-fences encircling, and then meadows, fields, and forests sweeping back on three sides. The old road lies before the fence, and a stretch of white sand, shaded by willows and alders, comes down to the restless river. Alexanders, a wayside station, has long been known as a summer resort. As early as 1826 a hotel, located on the present building’s site, was the only tavern between Asheville and the Tennessee line.

The old man, smoking his pipe of home-cured tobacco, and daily seated on the veranda, has not yet become so familiarized with the vision of the iron horse and whirling coaches as to abandon his custom of walking to the gate as the train draws in sight. The women appear at the windows; the inmates of the barn-yard disappear behind the out-buildings.

Then comes a sudden stop to valley scenery, and you are passing between frowning walls of clay and rock, forming cañons. Then across the stream ascends a high mountain--the ancient stage-way at its base, and oak and chestnut forests receding upward--with a deep ravine in its front holding the waters of a mountain torrent that gleam white through the rustling foliage of the steep; then woods of pine above; then bare precipices, festooned with evergreen vines and mosses, set on top with lonely pines, and, above all, blue unfathomable space.

The lower lands are not the only stretches occupied by the mountaineers. Rugged steeps, trending hundreds of feet up from the river, become smoothed into gentle ascents, and on the thin soil, rich from thousands of years of decayed vegetation, log cabins expose themselves to view under the shadow of the mountain still rising above:--lofty perches for farms and famlies; unfortunate situations for children; no schools; no society; no people for companionship outside their respective families; nothing but the wildness of nature, blue skies, lofty peaks, the roaring French Broad--and the occasional fleeting trains.

Something interesting is to be found in the picturesque village of Marshall. Its situation is decidedly Alpine in character. Its growth is stunted in a most emphatic manner by these apparently soulless conspirators--the river, mountain and railroad. The three seem to have joined hands in a determination regarding the village which might read well this way: “So large shalt thou grow, and no larger!” It is sung by the river, roared by the train and echoed by the mountain. Sites for dwellings, in limited numbers however, can still be stolen on the steep mountain side above the town. Such a location is unfavorable for a man whose gait is unsteady; for a chance mis-step might precipitate him out of his front yard, with a broken neck. There is no lack of enterprise and prosperity here. The tobacco interests of Madison county are extensive, and this village--the county-seat--is reaping wealth from this source.

A continued series of rocky walls and dizzy slopes now borders the rail for mile after mile. Their sides are covered with pines and noble forests of hard-wood trees, and ivy, grape and honeysuckle vines mantle the bare spots of the cliffs. Stretches of roaring rapids and cascades become frequent; green mountain islands arise in the center of the stream;--it is one stern mountain fastness. The two most noticeable cliffs are Peter’s Rock and Lover’s Leap, both of them overhanging the old turnpike. The former was named in remembrance of a hermit, who, as legend whispers, lived at its base before the Revolutionary war. An Indian legend has it that two crazy lovers leaped into the French Broad and eternity from the top of the other massive wall.