By Tom Cater
PROLOGUE
(Spring 1761)
The
Crossing the river in a birch
canoe, the hunters followed the deep creek through the mountains and into the
forest where lightning danced among the trees. Among
the
*
“Your face is earth, your thoughts are clouds; you are like a weed
growing on the path to my home. My father taught me how to hunt, but you can
hide behind a blade of grass. I slew you with a sacred shaft, smoothed it with
wet clay and poke, and with the knife you gave me, I have gutted you. Tonight
we will make a fire and my children will speak your name.
“With my gourd and eagle feathers, I will sing and dance at your
feast. You will heal the pain in my heart and live again in the telling of
dreams. But whose dream is this, yours or mine? The breath of your fawn calls
my name. Nothing every dies; we will meet again on the mountain and I will
remember you.”
*
From behind a hemlock tree the
young brave watched a doe browse in the early morning mist. Near the rippling
stream’s edge she sunk her muzzle in the stone cold water to drink. Her
coat was as white as winter's snow. The young hunter dreamed of the glory the
kill would inspire. Silently he knocked an arrow to the taut gut strung to the
slender bow, touched and anchored thumb to cheek and released the shaft. Before
the boy's father could cry out, recall the reckoning shaft, the beautiful white
doe, a totem his tribe silently revered, was dead. ...
CHAPTER ONE
(Fall, 1861)
… The shot hit her clean and
solid behind the left shoulder. She crumpled in a heap beside the creek. Her
large dark eyes gazed at the soundless forest as if she were awaiting an
explanation. Her heart was broken, punctured by the ball. Blood flowed from the
wound to the ground.
Andrew kneeled beside the
white doe; the first he'd ever seen. He touched the downy white hair on her
soft belly and found two lactating teats. Stroking the hair on her motionless
side, he felt the fullness of life within her womb. But something was wrong;
fawns were usually born in the spring and deer did not lactate until they'd
given birth. She's dropped one fawn already, he thought. Pungent green feces
soiled the white hair on the back of her legs. He lay on the ground and
positioned his ear against her side. The incubating fawn was motionless.
A sharp object embedded in
dead leaves and dark soil stabbed at his knee. He dug through the foliage and
found an arrowhead. The chipped point of hardened flint was good as new. He
rubbed the sharpened flint on his trousers and held the point in his hand.
Smooth and cold, it was an heirloom from the past. He turned it over in his
hand, smiling as if he were sharing with the hunter from the past the
bloodletting ritual of the hunt.
Pressing two fingers on the
deer's wound, he painted his face with her blood. Across his forehead and over
his nose he drew long wavy lines. Red bloody lines streamed down his eyes,
across his cheeks and under his chin. Circles and dots spotted his neck, hands
and arms. Concealed by the mask of the doe's bright blood, he stuffed the
arrowhead into a pocket and unsheathed his bone-handled knife. Raising a fold
of skin from the doe's soft belly, he made an incision exposing the swollen
womb. The fawn had turned and strangled. He slit the womb and the unborn
creature tumbled out. Its eyes had turned white and the stench of putrefaction
was keen. He removed the doe's organs and entrails, slit the artery in her
throat and turned her downhill so the flow of blood would not blemish her
remarkable white coat. Kneeling and wiping his hands and the blade of the knife
on dead leaves, he dreamed of the glory and honor that would be his for killing
the beautiful white doe.
*
Andrew McCandlish
could trace his family's history through three generations along the
His father, Tom McCandlish, was an accomplished blacksmith and metalworker.
A proud and resourceful man, he built a steam-powered lathe that could turn
parts for locks and latches. He did his own tanning, made his own saddle
pockets, bridles, harnesses and ox whips. On his infrequent trips to
When war broke out between the
states, Tom McCandlish served as a delegate to the
Wheeling Convention. With an unshakable faith in the integrity of the
Following the vote to create a
new state in western
In the name of the
Confederacy, a detachment of partisan rangers had taken an oath to "follow
They carried few provisions
and preferred to plunder the larders, smoke houses and root cellars of friends
rather than foes. After each raid they roasted chickens and pigs over open
fires and consumed them on the spot. They
wantonly killed anyone suspected of sympathizing with the Union cause.
The men were led by
Confederate Major Rob Witscher, a former horse trader
from
*
Andrew dragged the gutted
carcass of the doe through the leaves and pine needles to the path that
descended the hill. The white hairs on her belly and throat were matted with
clumps of dark blood. His hands were stained plum red and the painted lines
that streaked his face stood out like brutal scars.
Shadows of an Indian summer
fell in broken patterns on the forest floor. Dying, rust-colored leaves on the
tops of elm trees glowed in the wash of fading sunlight. In the stillness of
the forest, Andrew could hear the faint and distant sounds of shouting and
laughter coming from his home. Leaving the doe, he loaded his rifle and ran to
a ridge that abutted a field near the house.
Concealed by rocks and trees,
Andrew watched while Major Rob Witscher and his
Copperheads rode circles around his father. Their horses were pawing and
pounding the earth, destroying the heaped mounds of potatoes and turnips. Tom McCandlish was on his hands and knees pleading with the
major not to take his horse, while two Copperheads tried unsuccessfully to
unhitch the white mare from the plow.
Sitting high in the saddle, Witscher laughed and ignored the old man's pleas. The
Copperheads unsheathed their skinning knives, cut the lines to the plow and
gave the reins to Witscher. McCandlish
got to his feet and ran after the horse. Witscher led
the mare out of the field toward the road. A few Copperheads raided the smoke
house for the last of the cured ham and bacon. They speared the meat on the
ends of their bayonets and roasted it over a fire of fence rails piled high in
the road.
Tom McCandlish
grabbed the mare by the tail and ran behind her begging the major for her
return. Leading the horse down the road with McCandlish
in tow, Witscher roared with laughter.
The blood flowing through
Andrew's veins was the legacy of Scottish clansmen, border chieftains who
pledged allegiance to no man, nation or cause. When Andrew saw his father
stumbling and falling behind the mare, he could feel, almost hear, blood
calling to blood. Consumed with rage, he grabbed his rifle and ran down the
hill leaping obstacles like a wild animal, running in long strides to the angry
beat of his heart. It was as if the blood of the deer painted on his face had
given him a greater measure of her speed.
At a curve in the narrow dirt
road he climbed a ledge. Lying flat on the rock, he concealed himself within
the bower of a tree. Tucking the butt of
the rifle in close to his cheek, he aimed down the empty road. Struggling to
control his breath, he waited for the major.
He heard Witscher's
loud laughter and his father's desperate pleas before the horses trotted into
view. Tom McCandlish was still hanging on to the
white mare's tail. He was barely able to match the horse's pace. A cruel smile
masked Witscher's face as he jerked the reins and
made the animal trot faster.
Andrew laid the rifle's sights
between the major's eyes. His trembling fingers caressed the smooth steel of
the trigger. At forty feet the shot would empty Witscher's
head of teeth, tongue and brains. He steadied the rifle, locked the hammer into
place, but could not pull the trigger. As the major passed beneath the ledge
and tree, his father was still straggling close behind and begging for the
mare's return.
A dozen Copperheads were
riding up fast. Andrew held his breath. If he shot Witscher,
he knew they’d kill his father. He laid the hammer gently on the cap and closed
his eyes. They passed beneath the ledge and out of sight.
Andrew returned to the doe and
dragged it to the house. His heart was still beating an angry tattoo when he
entered the kitchen. He dipped a cup of cold cider out of a cask and sat by the
fire. A few minutes later his father return. Andrew caught a wary glimpse of
his eyes. They were hard and outraged. The old man sat by the fire rubbing his
hands and staring at the flames. Andrew could not find words to console him.
Tom's eyes smoldered like burning coals and the muscles in his jaw quivered
beneath the thin pale skin.
"You should have killed
him while you had the chance."
Andrew turned abruptly toward
his father, surprised to hear such violent words spoken so easily. The old man
kept staring at the fire.
"I wanted to, but I was
afraid. I knew they’d kill you."
The old man closed his eyes
and rested his chin on his chest. The rage melted and flowed toward the fire
rekindling affection for his son. His breathing eased and a natural color
returned to his face. Dry and callused and hard as hoe handles, his fingers
whipped the boy's dark and shiny hair into a tangle. Andrew grinned defiantly,
caught the rough hand in both of his and tried to restrain it. A mock battle of
wills ensued. The old man allowed his son a taste of victory and then snatched
it easily out of his grasp. Andrew nursed his aching wrist.
"You're still too strong
for me, pa."
The old man sank a little
deeper into the bent wood rocking chair and allowed the fire to warm him. He
looked curiously at Andrew's painted face as if he were seeing it for the very
first time.
"What are you painted up
for?"
Andrew's enthusiasm returned.
"I killed a deer, pa, a white one; it was white as snow."
Tom McCandlish
frowned. "You killed a white deer and let that black-hearted devil ride
away?" He said and shook his head sadly. "It's a bad sign. No good
will come of it. No good will come of it at all."