WRITER - HISTORICAL FICTION
JAMES H. BIRD
Tullahoma Mud--The Founding of the American, a draft
In November 2013 I entered and “won” the National Novel Writing Month challenge called NaNoWriMo. By winning, the writer must submit a 50,000 word manuscript. What follows is a small sample of what I wrote during the challenge. This is very raw so keep that in mind. I am still working on the novel as it approaches 90,000 words.
I tend to do major editing after I have written the story so what you read will likely change dramatically before I ever send it to an editor. Enjoy and let me know what you think! Thanks.
An Introduction
Eighteen sixty-three was a wet year, and the place became known to the bedraggled troops of both sides as a place of endless mud. One Confederate soldier jokingly remarked, “It is from two Greek words – ‘Tulla’ meaning mud, and ‘Homa,’ meaning more mud”. The Yankees had been on the move from Murfreesboro for days and now approached the small railroad town forcing the Confederate Army of Tennessee to flee for Chattanooga to the south. Stewart watched in great sadness as the Mankett Mercantile and Livery burned to the ground. A fire he started to keep his supplies out of the hands of the enemy. His store started by his great-great Grandfather with his Cherokee wife the time of this nation’s birth. The Mankett Mercantile and Livery had been in the family for 100 years. Now it lay smoldering because of the Federal invasion that had forced Stewart Mankett to ignite the powder keg. So much promise for the new form of government by the people. Like the Mankett Mercantile and Livery it lay in a fiery pile.
A hundred years it took to get to this bloody mud and burning buildings. During the time of Benjamin Franklin and the rest of that crowd. When George Washington was a Colonel fighting France for the George II. When America was a loose confederation of colonies and relied heavily on Britain for protection and trade. The Seven Years Wars was an extension of what we called the French and Indian War. After the signing of the Paris treaty of 1763, the British gained the land west to the middle of the Mississippi. During and after all that mess some brave souls explored and hunted these new frontiers over the Appalachians into the contested lands inhabited by the aboriginal Cherokee bands. Settlers in droves followed these Long Hunters, trappers and traders. The inevitable skirmishes broke out and George III issued a proclamation, also in 1763, banning encouragement on the Cherokee lands west of the Appalachians. The uneasiness swept the lands especially in what is now east Tennessee and west North Carolina.
The French had been in the area for hundreds of years but were not good at establishing permanency they liked running around the woods chasing beavers rather than taking out the trash. They laid claim to the area but in name only. The British had everything under control in the colonies but they ran things the old way. Here then is a unique wrinkle in time that allowed an idea of a new country began to fester to bubble to life like hot tar. Oozing black goo that eased its way down the other side of the mountains filling the empty spaces. For some folks, like the French, city life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Too many rules, too many people, too much politics and land was held by few and a government by even fewer. A man felt lost in all that too muchness. The right kind of man can never be lost in the wildness for the wildness is his home. This book is about that wrinkle in time that lead to extraordinary men and women doing extraordinary things for the last time. Until another new frontier is discovered.
This a story seen through eyes of a man that witnessed firsthand the Trans-Appalachian expansion into the unknown and the final break from Europe by America. It is a story about the Americanization of The New World and the molding of the American. The tale of those who braved the wilds of Appalachia and formed the Watauga Association which led to the failed State of Franklin that became Tennessee. So too, it is an eyewitness account of Tennesseans that were the authors of a chapter in what would become America. A tale of heroes and heroines, how they lived, fought and loved, their new country and each other.
This narrative will look at this time from a modern perspective but the story is set in the 18th century. The distinctively American characteristics emerged in the west, not the east. The forging of the unique and rugged American identity transpired at the juncture between the civilization of settlement and the savagery of wilderness. This produced a new type of citizen with the power to tame the wild and upon whom the wild had demanded strength and individuality. As each generation of pioneers moved 50 to 100 miles west, they abandoned useless European practices, institutions and ideas, and instead found new solutions to new problems created by their new environment. Over the next several decades, the frontier produced characteristics of unpretentiousness, violence, rawness, democracy and initiative that the world recognized as "American". The American frontier is like wave of a rising tide with each reaching further inland. Leaving its print and forming a new frontier to be overtaken by the next wave.
With each successive frontier line, American development returned to primitive conditions and a new development new innovations for that area. American social development has been continually beginning over again on the frontier. This persistent reincarnation, and fluidity of American life, with its new opportunities and its continuous touch with primitive society, harshness of the wilderness furnished the forces that dominated American character. The true point of view in the history of this nation is not the Atlantic coast, it is the Great West. Even the slavery struggle occupies an important place in American history because of its relation to westward expansion. In this advance, the frontier is the outer edge of the wave-- the meeting point between savagery and civilization.
BUCK MANKETT
William and Mary Mankett had come to the Virginia colony in 1630s from Sulgrave, a village in South Northhamptonshire County, England. They brought with them the old ways of Europe and lived in the struggling village of Jamestown. The Mankett family eventually left Jamestown relocating to Williamsburg then called Middle Plantation mostly to be rid of the oppressive heat and mosquitoes and resultant malaria. Jamestown was the original capital of Virginia Colony, but was burned down during the events of Bacon's Rebellion in 1676 armed rebellion Virginia settlers led by young Nathaniel Bacon against the rule of Royal Governor William Berkeley. The Mankett’s left for Middle Plantation, which became the temporary capital of the Virginia colony. A distinction made permanent a few years later. The delegates renamed the town Williamsburg in honor of King William III in 1699. The Mankett family was growing in stature in the colony and gaining attention from English royal agents. They were moderately prosperous members of the Virginia gentry, of "middling rank" rather than one of the leading planter families. Like many planters of the time across the colonies they used African slave labor to work their fields.
After four generations of Mankett’s, in 1738, Bartholomew Adair Mankett was born in the family house on the Duke of Gloucester Street. They lived over Mankett’s Tavern built and owned by Buck’s uncle Francis. Buck’s father, James Sr., was building a tobacco farm on land granted to the family by the crown. He also has a few subsistence crops of corn, squash, peas, onions and peanuts.
As a toddler his family called him BAM because of his propensity to bash into furniture, door frames, trees or some poor pedestrian that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once little Bartholomew gained adequate control of his voluntary motor skills the nom Bart was trotted out but resoundingly rejected. Most viciously by Bartholomew. His older brother James Jr. came up with the approved name of Buck upon watching BAM’s first attempt at equestrian mastery.
Buck soon learned to fire the rifled musket and became an excellent shot with this type of riffle. His first volley sent him ass over tit from the kickback. In an attempt calm the energetic boy’s quick trigger his father taught how to make a bow and shoot his own arrows. His horsemanship recovered from its rocky start and Buck was on the firm path to manhood. Buck became fascinated with the remaining descendants of the Powhatan Indians that lived and traded in the area of Williamsburg. The Powhatan had long ago ceased to exist as a tribal unit having migrated up the peninsular and ameliorated with other native groups. Buck in particular liked to talk to an elderly Powhatan who claimed to be the grandson of a once powerful chief. Oldewan believed himself to be somewhat of a shaman and the townsfolk were agreeable to this remarkable distinction despite the admonishment of the preacher on matters of the mystical.
By 1744, the Mankett farm had grown and the family was making extra money growing tobacco, no longer planting for subsistence. Buck, a small boy now, he enjoyed the first of many lessons from the old Powhatan.
“Come walk with me Master Buck for I have a lesson for you.”
“Yes Chief Oldewan…” The young boy pouted for a second, “Can we play stick ball later?”
“Yes, later, come.”
The two strolled down Duke of Gloucester Street town the outskirts of town with Buck kicking the occasional stone thoughts of stick ball still in his head.
Oldewan continued, “This path leads to the river. A river is important lesson of nature. It flows always smooth and constant against bank and stone. Nothing can stop the water for it is the force of nature. The land can never be defeated. In it lies the Great Spirit that you must recognize. The Great Spirit is above. He is the sun and moon he works the stars. The Great Spirit is in the clouds. You must learn the lesson of the great spirit.”
“I do not understand Oldewan.”
The chief leans down and picks up a flat round river stone the size of a tea cup. He tosses it in his hand.
“This small rock is as a man. It has two sides. This side the warm, loving man.” Oldewan turns the stone, “This side is the other nature. The side hardest to control. It is the warrior side.”
Oldewan looks across the river. It was wide and flat at this section but moving swift. A tree branch drifted by like a hand reaching for the sky.
“You will face many journeys in life Master Buck. No journey is complete without trouble. You solve the trouble then face a new difficulty. There is no end. If you kill a deer to feed your family you will need to kill another the next day. Each day you must kill a deer.”
Oldewan looks down at Buck.
“This rock here… is your journey.”
Oldewan cups the stone in his fingers and skips it three times across the river striking an oak tree on the far bank. A brown hawk wings away from the tree.
“See that Master Buck. The stone skips three times then the bird flies. That is life Buck. In three parts. You are in the first skip and flying to the second.”
“What happens when I smack into the tree Oldewan?!”
“You become the Hawk Master Buck.”
“You mean like the spirit or something? I can fly and all. I think that would be swell!”
Oldewan smiles at Buck.
“Yes that will be … swell.” He taps Bucks chest. “It is here. That is where the spirit of the Hawk lives in you.”
“Can I try that?!” Buck picks up a similar sized stone and cocks his arm.
“Aim low and throw easily. You must not force it.”
“OK”, Buck squints his eyes sticks out his tongue for maximum concentration and delivers a low toss. The stone skips twice bounces off a rock and lands in the mud on the other bank. Oldewan roars in laughter.
“Very good Master Buck! You are half way to learning the way of the Hawk.”
“But I didn’t hit the tree like you!” Buck says in disgust. He jams his hands in his pockets.
Oldewan puts his hands on the boys shoulder.
“It takes many times to learn. That too is the way of life and that too never ends. You will be a good man Buck Mankett.” Oldewan looks sternly at Buck. “Have you mastered the bow yet? That your father and I made for you?”
“Hey! I made that bow and yeah I can shoot it! And dang gum good too!”
Oldewan smiles again.
“The one you made is a fine first bow. Such detail. Everything not so perfect as it should.” Oldewan gives a fatherly look. “You must use the very best on anything, pick the best to work when making.”
“It was dang good birch. What’d ya talkin’ ‘bout?! I strung it and everything. I got me a varmint with it!”
“Speak as gentleman Buck.”
“OK” Buck kicks the sandy river bank. “What was wrong with it?”
“You must closely examine your work. If it your livelihood or your life depend upon it.” Oldewan straightens up, “Your wood was flawed. There were weakness you did not see. Your father will show you how to pick wood without weakness.”
“OK”
“You must do this finding of weakness in all things. Then yourself. This way you gain strength. You give strength to others.”
[Buck grows and as a boy Oldewan puts Buck through the Cherokee ritual of manhood. Years later Buck quits college to be come a Long Hunter in far western Virginia.]
…………
[After some narrow escapes and a run into some renegade white traders that try to steal his furs. He has a heated dispute with a rather annoyed bear while building a permanent shelter. Buck meets a Cherokee that has wandered into his camp. What follows is a description of the Cherokee and a snippet of their conversation.]
The Indian, in traditional dress of hunting shirt a sort of short gown with a beaded white belt around his waist and deer skin legging. He had moccasins of the hunter and a blanket, like the plaid of a Scotland highlander. Around his neck were four or five strings with a mixture of cream to bone white and blue black with wavy curving lines of purple and gray beads strung in patterns. These were his wampum. Very valuable for trading or memories, stories or instructions; the beads may also signify status. They were about two and half inches long and a quarter an inch in width and strung with deer sinew. These strings of contrasting beads hang around his neck. His hair is shiny black the color of a polished black crystal but cut close on the sides and leather head band held his hair back with one eagle feather on the back. He has a series of tattoos on his shoulders and arms. On the ground next to The Indian is a large bow and he wears a quiver full of arrows on his back a blow gun made of river cane leans against his chest.
The Indian chuckles and speaks in English. He lowers his head studying Buck.
“I know of the language of the whites from the Christian ones … the kanohedv atsinvsida that taught us …um… Missionary. She and her husband taught me and the other children many things about their ways,” he nods his head in thought and tilts his head, “The phrases you speak are of a tribe that has fled to the mountains to escape the white invasion. They are gone now scattered to the spirit world. I am from here, this is where I live, I have learned to tolerate them in a passive sort of way, accepting favors from the whites as though I favored them by accepting…..”
Buck’s stomach is jumping he knows not the situation and the intentions of this strange visitor from the forest. He moves his hand near his Spanish Long Knife. Buck did not reply. He did not know what to say. He glanced at the Indian’s face in the absent way of a man who lost the power of thought and seeking to find the thing that will start his mind working again. He begins to reach for his knife.
“You need that not,” The Indian flips his hair back throws the bones of the fish into the fire and crosses his arms.
“I mean no harm,” Buck says but not convincingly.
“Speak the truth. You are afraid. You need not know this fear. I am known as Swift Canoe to white traders. I have met many traders of the French not many like you.”
“Did you like the fish I caught and cooked?” Bucks asks low and slow. He wishes he had his pistol with him. He looks up at Albert the Mule, he seemed relaxed.
“Too much fire, heat on hot stone. Better.”
“Are you the one in the woods … uh … following me?” Buck surveys the lean-to it appears untouched, his bow and arrows against the tree next to Albert the Mule untouched.
“Yes. Think maybe I kill you,” said Swift Canoe. He showed a playful grin Buck thought odd.
Buck clears his throat dismissing the death threat. “What is Ani Yun Wiya, or what you said? Is that your name? You don’t look like no Indian I’ve ever seen.” Buck asks, his eyes darting looking for any movement out of the ordinary. Albert the Mule is usually good about announcing incoming visitors. He would snort or bay and a few minutes later a trapper or trader would appear. This time there was none.
“Ani Yun Wiya is what you say Cherokee this word you call my people the word used by our enemies the Creek and the Haudenosaunee in the land of north woods. The people you name Iroquois.” The Indian says while pointing north with his chin. “We are not fond of the title but tolerate it when used by the white settlers. We are a peaceful people and Cherokee name is not enough for fighting. We have many names for them that they do not like.” The Cherokee scoops put a mess of greens with his knife and begins to slurp them holding the boiled plants over his mouth.
“What do your people call you? What is your name?” Buck asks.
“I’m am known as Gatsinula Tsiyu Usdi,” he looks at Buck. “Swift Canoe in your language. I was born in a canoe while fleeing from a Creek raiding party. We were going down Tellico River after a hard rain when the water was fast. My father named me the moment I came into this world. His name is Gawonii or the one who speaks he is now War Chief of the village. My clan, The Wolf Clan call me Tsiyu,” He straightens his body hold his head high, gleam in his eyes voice firm.
“Well, that makes sense to me. My Name in Buck Mankett,” he says while leaning back and reaching for his handmade leather day pack that he uses for short trips when he checks traps, trout lines and when hunting or fishing. He let out a long breath satisfied now that maybe this Gatsinula Tsiyu Usdi fella might be one of the good ones…..
To be continued...