Читать книгу Blue Ridge Country - Jean Pichon Thomas - Страница 10

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When Dr. Walker, the Englishman, the first white man in Cumberland Gap, followed the course of Russell Fork out of Virginia into Kentucky back in 1750, he came upon a wooded point of land shaped like a triangle which was skirted by two forks of tepid water. The one to the left, as he faced westward, this English explorer called Levisa after the wife of the Duke of Cumberland.

Generations later a lovely mountain girl wore the name he had given the stream and she became the wife of the leader of a blood feud in the country where he set up his hut. It was a blood feud and a war of revenge that lasted more than forty years, the gruesome details of which have echoed around the world, cost scores of lives, and struck terror to the hearts of women and innocent children for several decades.

Devil Anse Hatfield, the leader of his clan, himself told me much of the story when I lived on Main Island Creek in Logan County, West Virginia, and on Tug Fork of the Big Sandy River. His wife Levicy—she who had been Levicy Chafin—did not spell her name as the name of the stream was spelled though she pronounced it the same way. It was a story that began with the killing of Harmon McCoy in 1863 by Devil Anse, who was a fearless fighter, a captain in a body of the Rebel forces known as the Logan Wildcats. Later, when Jonse Hatfield, the leader’s oldest boy, grew to young manhood, he set eyes upon Rosanna McCoy, old Randall’s daughter, and loved her at sight. But Devil Anse, because of the hatred he bore Rosanna’s father, wouldn’t permit his son to marry a McCoy. Rosanna loved Jonse madly. And he, swept away with wild, youthful passion, determined to have her. He did, though not in lawful wedlock.

Quarrels and bickerings between the sides sprang up at the slightest provocation. Even a dispute over the ownership of a hog resulted in another killing. Old Randall grew more bitter as time went on, what with Rosanna the mother of an illegitimate child and Jonse, even though he lived with her under his father’s own roof, being faithless to the girl. And when, after the McCoys stabbed Ellison Hatfield to death, Devil Anse avenged his brother’s death by inciting his clan to slay Randall’s three boys, Little Randall, Tolbert and Phemer, the leader of the McCoys vowed he’d not rest until he wiped out the last one of the other clan.

There were killings from ambush, open killings, threats, house-burnings. Once the McCoys had outtricked Devil Anse and had stolen his favorite son Jonse away while he was courting Rosanna. They meant to riddle him with bullets. But the Hatfields got word of it. Rosanna had betrayed her own family, so the McCoys felt, for the love of Jonse. The Hatfields came galloping along the road by moonlight, surrounded the McCoys, demanded the release of the prisoner, young Jonse, and even made a McCoy dust young Hatfield’s boots.

When the law tried to interfere, Devil Anse built a drawbridge to span the creek beside which his house stood, stationed a bevy of armed Hatfields around his place, and ruled his clan like a czar, directing their every deed.

The bloody feud did not end until 1920, after Sid Hatfield on Tug Fork, which with Levisa forms Big Sandy, had shot to death some nine men led by Baldwin-Felts detectives. They had killed Mayor Testerman of the village of Matewan. And when they came to arrest Sid on what he termed a trumped-up charge he reached for his gun. Sid, then chief of police of Matewan, West Virginia, had been accused of opposing labor unions among the coal miners and the coming of the detectives was the result. Though Hatfields and McCoys were both miners and coal operators, the killing of the detectives by Sid had no direct bearing upon the early differences between the clans. But the wholesale killing on the streets of Matewan in 1920 marked the end of the Hatfield-McCoy feud.

Devil Anse lived to see peace between his family and the McCoys.

Through thick and thin Levicy Chafin Hatfield stood by her man, though she pleaded with him to give up the strife.

They waged their blood battles on Levisa Fork and Tug, on Blackberry and Grapevine, creeks that were tributaries to the waters that swelled the Big Sandy as they flowed down through the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky, emptying at last into the Ohio.

Levicy bore her mate thirteen children and died a few years after 1921 when the old clansman had passed to the beyond. There was not even a bullet mark on the old clansman. He died a natural death, mountain kinsmen will tell you proudly. He was buried with much pomp, as pomp goes in the mountains, on Main Island Creek of West Virginia, in the family burying ground.

I knew Devil Anse and “Aunt” Levicy quite well. For, long centuries after my illustrious kinsman had returned to Merrie England to report upon his expedition for the Loyal Land Company in the Blue Ridge, I followed the same course he had blazed out of Virginia into the mountains of Kentucky and West Virginia. I lived for a number of years on Levisa Fork and Tug Fork and on Main Island Creek in West Virginia, where my nearest neighbors and best friends were Hatfields and, strangely enough, McCoys.

One day Devil Anse stopped at my house out of a downpour of rain and as he sat looking out of the open door he fell to talking of another rainy day many years before. “This puts me in the mind of the time I had to go away on business down to the mouth of Big Sandy,” he said in his slow, even tones. All the time his eagle eyes were fixed on me. “I had to go down to the mouth of Big Sandy,” he repeated, “on some business of my own. A man has a right to protect his family,” he interrupted himself and arched a brow. “Anyway there come an awful rainstorm and creeks busted over their banks till I couldn’t ford ’em—not even on Queen, as high-spirited a nag as any man ever straddled. But she balked that day seeing the creeks full of trees pulled up by the roots and even carcasses of calves and fowls. Queen just nat’erly rared back on her haunches and wouldn’t budge. Couldn’t coax nor flog her to wade into the water. A feller come ridin’ up on a shiny black mare. Black and shiny as I ever saw and its neck straight as a fiddle bow. He said the waters looked too treacherous and turned and rode off over the mountain, his black hair drippin’ wet on his shoulders. Anyway there I was held back another day and night till that master tide swept on down to the Big Waters [the Ohio]. When I got home my little girls Rosie and Nancy come runnin’ down the road to meet me. ‘Pappy, look! what a strange man give us!’ Rosie held out her hand and there was a sil’er dollar in it and Nancy brought her hand from behind her and openin’ her fist she had a sil’er dollar too and little Lizbeth she come runnin’ to show me what she had. Another sil’er dollar, bless you. ‘This strange man were most powerful free-hearted,’ sez I, gettin’ off of Queen. I throwed the bridle over the fence rail and went on up to the house, packin’ my saddle pockets over my arm and my gun and cartridge belt over my shoulder. My little girls come troopin’ behind. Their Ma stood waitin’ in the door twistin’ the end of her apron like she ever did when she was warned. ‘Captain Anderson!’ sez she, that were her pet name for me, ‘I’ve been nigh in a franzy. I ’lowed sure you and Queen had been washed plum down in the flood. Here, let me have them soppin’ clothes and them muddy boots.’ Levicy was the workinest woman you ever saw. Washed and scoured till my garmints looked like new. And after I’d got on clean dry clothes such a feast she set before me. ’Pon my word, it made me feel right sheepish. ‘A body would think, Levicy,’ sez I, ‘that I were the Prodigal Son come home.’ She spoke right up. ‘See here, Anderson Hatfield, I won’t have you handlin’ no such talk about the sire of my little girls,’ sez she, spoonin’ the sweet potatoes on my plate, and smilin’ so tender and good on me. Then my little girls gathered round to see what I’d fetched them. There was store candy and a pretty hair ribbon for each one that I taken out of the saddle pockets. And a gold breast pin for Levicy. Never saw a woman so pleased in my life. ‘I don’t aim to hold it back just to wear to meetin’,’ sez she. And she didn’t. From then on she wore that gold breast pin every day of her life. Said she meant to be buried with it. Well, ’ginst my little girls had et their candy and plaited each other’s hair and tied on their new ribbons they hovered around me again to show their sil’er the strange man had give them. ‘Captain Anderson,’ sez Levicy, ‘he was handsome built and set his saddle proud and fearless. But not half so proud and fearless as you. Nor were he half so handsome.’ I could feel her hand on my shoulder a-quiverin’ a little grain like Levicy’s hand ever did when she was plum happy. Then she went on to tell as she washed the dishes and Nancy and Rosie dried them and Lizbeth packed them off to the cupboard, about the strange man. ‘He laid powerful admiration on our little girls.’ Levicy was wipin’ off the oilcloth on the table with her soapy dish rag. ‘He had them line up in a row to see which was tallest, whilst I set him a snack. “Shut your eyes,” sez he, “and open your mouth.” They did, and bless you, Captain Anderson, what did he do but put a sil’er dollar in their mouth—each one.’ By this time Nancy and Rosie and Lizbeth had finished the dishes and they come hoverin’ round my knee again whilst I cleaned and polished my gun. Each one holdin’ proud their sil’er dollar, turnin’ it this way and that, rubbin’ it on their dress sleeve to make the eagle shine. Just then, Jonse, my oldest boy, come gallopin’ up the road on Prince, his little sorrel. He never stopped till he got right to the kitchen-house door. The chickens made a scattermint before him. ‘Pa!’ he shouted out, throwin’ Prince’s bridle out of his hand and jumpin’ down to the ground. ‘They’ve caught him! Robbed the bank at Charleston!’ Levicy was drying the tin dishpan. She starred at Jonse and so did I. ‘Caught who?’ sez I. ‘Jesse James’ brother, Frank! It was him that was here. Him that Ma fed t’other day. Him that give Nancy and Rosie and Lizbeth a sil’er dollar!’ Levicy dropped the dishpan and retched a hand to the table. ‘Mistress Levicy Chafin Hatfield!’ sez I, ‘never again can I leave this house in peace. A man’s family’s not safe with such scalawags prowlin’ the country!’ ”

Then Devil Anse went on with the rest of the story.

Devil Anse, the leader of the Hatfield clan whose very name struck terror to the hearts of people, and Jesse James’ brother Frank, highwayman and bank robber, had met on a mountain road, each unaware of the other’s identity, each intent on his own business. Captain Anderson had gone down to the mouth of Big Sandy, the county seat, Catlettsburg, Kentucky, to buy ammunition with which to annihilate the McCoys. That story too the outside world heard afterward, for the clans met on Blackberry Creek and engaged in battle for several hours with dead and dying from both sides on the field—or rather in the bushes.

Whatever else has been attributed to Devil Anse he liked to prank as well as anyone. He took particular glee in telling the following story to me, his eagle eyes twinkling:

“One day a tin peddler come with his pack of shiny cook vessels in a shiny black oilcloth poke on his back. The fellow wore red-topped boots and a red flannel shirt, for all it was summer. His breeches had more patches than a scarecrow and his big felt hat had seen its best days too. He kept at Levicy to buy his wares but she was one that didn’t favor shiny tinware. ‘It rustes out,’ she told the peddler. ‘Nohow I’ve got plenty of iron cook vessels.’ All the time the old peddler was trying to wheedle and coax her into buying something, a quart cup, a milk bucket, a dishpan, a washpan. I was inside in the sitting room resting myself on the sofa. I could hear the peddler outside on the stoop, bickering and haranguing at Levicy to buy. Finally I got my fill of it and I tiptoed out through the kitchen-house, my gun over my shoulder. I went to the barn lot and turned loose Buck, a young bull we had that I’d been aimin’ to swop Jim Vance. I give Buck one good wollop across the rump with the pam of my hand. He kicked up his heels and rushed forward, me close behind with my gun. The peddler took one look at Buck, so it peered to me, and Buck took one look at the peddler, lowered his head and charged. The peddler let out a war whoop and flew down the hillside like a thousand hornets had lit on him. The pack fell from his back and there was a scattermint of tinware from top to bottom of that hill. Buck shook his head and snorted. His eyes bugged outten the sockets. I couldn’t tell if he was ragin’ mad at the shiny tin cook vessels that was tanglin’ his hoofs, or if it was the red shirt and red-topped boots of the peddler that riled Buck. Nohow Buck ducked his head again and bellowed, caught a shiny quart cup on each horn and a couple washpans on his forefeet and kept right on down the hill. By this time the tin peddler had scooted up a tall tree quick as a squirrel and there he set on a limb. Buck was ragin’ and chargin’ in circles around that tree. That bull was riled plum to a franzy and that tin peddler was yaller as a punkin. Skeert out of his wits. ‘Come on down, you pore critter!’ sez I. But he just opened his mouth and couldn’t say a word, just a dry croak like a frog bein’ swallored in sudden quicksand. ‘Come on down,’ I coaxed, ‘I’ll quile Buck down till he’s peaceable as a kitten.’

“But the peddler just starred at me and shivered on the limb like a sparrow bird freezin’ of a winter time in the snow. ‘I’ll tend to Buck!’ I promised him. ‘Come on down!’ And to put his mind at ease I up with my rifle-gun, shot the quart tin cups offen Buck’s horns and the washpans offen his front hoofs. ‘Now get back to the barn where you belong and behave yourself!’ I sez to Buck and he scampered back up the hill as frolicsome as a lamb, pickin’ his way careful like as a Jenny Wren through that scattermint of tinware.

“The peddler was still shiverin’ on the tree limb overhead and his eyes buggin’ out worser’n Buck’s had when he ketched first sight of the feller’s red shirt and the shiny tinware. ‘Buck’s gone,’ I sez to him coaxin’ like. ‘You don’t need to be skeert of him no more!’ ‘T-t-tain’t B-b-buck!’ the feller’s teeth chattered. ‘It’s you, D-d-evil A-a-nse!’ With that he drapped off the limb down to the ground at my feet. Swoonded dead away!”

Devil Anse Hatfield chuckled heartily. “ ‘T-t-ain’t Buck! B-b-uck,’ sez he when he ketched his wind and revived up. ‘It’s you—D-d-evil Anse!’ ”

The rest of the story Captain Anderson himself would never tell but Aunt Levicy told me how he packed the tin peddler back up the hill to the house on his shoulder and had her cook him a big dinner of fried chicken and cornbread; how he gave the peddler a couple greenbacks that made him plum paralyzed with pleasure and surprise; and how he had Jonse take the peddler back to the county seat, the peddler riding behind Jonse on Queen, where he bought a new supply of tinware and went on his way.

Except for such interludes of pranking, doubtless Aunt Levicy and old Randall’s wife, Sarah McCoy, could never have survived the ordeal of the Hatfield-McCoy feud.

The women of both households lived days of torture, ever watchful of the approaching enemy. They spent sleepless nights of anguish, knowing too well the sound of gunshot, the cry of terror that meant another outbreak of the clans. And when the cross grew too heavy even for their stoic shoulders to bear they ventured unbeknownst to their menfolks to the Good Shepherd of the Hills to beg his intercession, his prayers for peace.