Assassins of History- Transference

by Vernon Dutton

  The responses to my last bit of information sort of spooked me. I asked the clerk, “Who’s this man that caused y’all such trepidation?”

  The clerk retorted, “Ain’t ya never heard of Jones Gill?”

  I responded, “I’m new to tha region and I’ve never heard of Jones Gill.”

  The clerk joyously proceeded to disclose all the gruesome particulars he knew about this notorious character.

  “Gill is tha meanest hombre in tha region. He and his brother, Seaborne, weren’t born. They’s hatched by some demon southwest of Harpers’ Ferry back in tha Allegheny Mountains. Tha Gills made their presence known in tha area from Harpers Ferry up to Hagerstown, Maryland back in 1848. Tha brothers rampaged over a nine-year period during which they’s charged with train robbery, assault, murder and attempted murder not necessarily in that order. However, they finally got convicted in 1857 of train robbery, which got ‘em both a term in tha penitentiary for five years. Tha region has enjoyed five years of peace and quiet, but evidently that’s come to an end. Tha brothers musta got outta of prison.”

  The hotel clerk further elucidated, “Jones Gill’s distinguishing trademark is a white streak in his beard, which led to his undoing. As a matter of pride he refused to shave his beard or dye tha distinctive white streak to match tha rest of his beard. During a train robbery he pulled up his bandana to force a kiss on a lady passenger and tha white streak was witnessed by tha lady and her companion. Later, he was caught by a posse and at trial tha lady described his unique beard. That’s why he was convicted and sentenced to five years in prison along with his brother, Seaborne, who is his long-time accomplice.”

  The town marshal was apprised of the confrontation by the Gills from the man in the lobby. The marshal summoned his deputy and together they converged on me at the hotel. I was asked many questions about the incident and I felt they were really buying time to allow the perpetrators to possibly leave town so they wouldn’t have to confront them. Eventually I was asked, “Where did tha assault take place and how did ya get out of their clutches?” I had to explain the move I had put on the person that headlocked me, but I don’t think either of the lawmen understood what leverage can do to an assailant.

  Finally, the lawmen, which incidentally were armed to the teeth with shotguns, pistols and knives, went on a search of the town for the culprits. This was no mean feat because it was a very steep walk from Shenandoah Street up to the top of Bolivar Heights.

  I left them to their duty, registered in the hotel and, due to my notoriety in escaping the Gill Brothers, was only charged fifty cents for the night. I informed the desk clerk I would be leaving in the morning for Shepherdstown. I also was given a private room and was soon sound asleep.

  

  The Dark Mage’s Log: Earth 3’ Date: 18620917

  Jargunn had returned to Harpers Ferry in the early night. Since he couldn’t use the cloaking device and the scent tracker at the same time, he turned off the scent tracker, implemented his cloaking device and stole around town without being seen.

  He kept his distance from all Earth animals to preclude any radical behavior on their part. At full dark, Jargunn turned off his cloaking device, and keeping to the shadows, switched on his scent tracker. After working the town by grids, he readily picked up the imposter’s scent.

  Jargunn tracked the scent to a building on a road near the river. He then activated his cloaking device and took up a vigil across the street.

  Jargunn saw the charlatan emerge from the building and followed him. He was getting ready to apprehend him when two men accosted the imposter.

  Jargunn decided to let fate rule the day. Hopefully they would kill this pesky Earthling. He retreated across the street to watch the show.

  He was surprised. He had to give the imposter credit in employing really good tactics in extricating himself from their clutches.

  Jargunn hung around in cloaking mode to hear all the conversations that took place. This phony was imbedding himself more and more into the fabric of this society.

  Jargunn left the area, walked to a grove of trees near the river and called Lord Dendaras. He related what had transpired.

  Lord Dendaras told him to leave the area tonight. Since during the many conversations the imposter had indicated that he would be traveling back to Shepherdstown tomorrow, Jargunn was to capture him tomorrow during the day in a secluded area of the road. Jargunn respectfully asked, “Sire, you wish me to make the apprehension during daylight?”

  “Yes,” Lord Dendaras irritably replied.

  “I understand, Sire,” Jargunn responded.

  Lord Dendaras abruptly cut communication. Jargunn thought, “This must truly be a problem of the highest order. To risk being seen during the day by a local is tantamount to creating a historical paradigm. But I have a direct order so I’ll not be at risk. ”

  

  I awoke the next morning to the singing of birds outside my hotel room window. The sun was just breaking over the horizon. This prompted me to get up. I went to the wash basin and poured water from a pitcher to the top of the basin, which was situated on the lone desk in the room. I washed the upper part of my body and face with a cloth that was also on the desk.

  Once I had finished and dried off with the hotel’s miniscule idea of a hand towel, I looked out the window at the town as it began to come alive. Town folk were walking to and fro and an occasional carriage went by. I have to admit this type of slow life style was rather appealing. I felt refreshed and ready to head back to Shepherdstown. I dressed and went looking for a decent breakfast.

  Downstairs I found a small breakfast area in a room adjacent to the lobby and ordered coffee. After I ate some decent biscuits and gravy, two eggs over easy and a small ham steak, I paid the waitress and went out on the front porch of the hotel to relax.

  I sat in a rocking chair and looked out at Shenandoah Street. Farmers’ wagons were now adding to the traffic. Man, this was sure different from the traffic jams I experienced each morning going to work. I began to think about my situation and experienced the depression that accompanied the feeling of helplessness. An idea of how futile this thinking was surged through my mind and I immediately said, “No more. I will not be sorry for myself and whine anymore.” Anger flared to the core of my being. Through gritted teeth I vowed, “If I ever find out who made me go through this, I will make them pay for it.”

  It took me a long time to bring my breathing under control and get my mind back under the influence of the wisdom mind, as the Taoist call it.

  Once I had accomplished this feat, I was able to concentrate on the beautiful fall colors of the trees on the banks of the Potomac River. The red, yellow and orange leaves were brilliant and the trees seemed to pop out at me from their three dimensional forms. By that I mean, each tree just individually stood out and said, “Look at me.” I looked at first one and then another. Each had its own shape of foliage and height. Some were like tall slender masts on a sailing ship with just a few limbs and angled toward the river. You just knew they would be blown into the river with the next big wind. Others had thick trunks and balloon-shaped foliage with large leaves that completely obscured the limbs. I don’t know why they never appeared that way back in my universe. These trees seemed more alive and worth noticing.

  I finally stirred back from my oblivion and went to the hotel clerk’s booth. He was busy checking out a few overnight boarders. I waited my turn and asked, “Is there a barbershop in town?”

  “Oh, yes sir. Turn right and go to tha end of tha street. Turn right again and it’s located on tha right,” he directed.

  “Thank ya,” I responded genteelly.

  I traversed the two blocks to the barbershop and entered the abode of the 19th century rumor mongers and information dispensers not unlike our 21st century media talking heads. This was a two-chair establishment and one was empty.

  I was directed to the vacant chair. The barber was a tidy person with long sideburns and closely
cropped slicked-down hair with enough oil that it probably made his mind slip. The aroma of rose water aftershave generously applied to his person wafted through the establishment.

  I took my life in my hands and ordered, “I’ll have a shave and a haircut. I don’t need any oil for my hair or aftershave.”

  The barber nodded readily, affixed the proverbial barber’s cape to my body and jacked the back of the chair down so I was almost parallel to the floor. Then he applied a hot, and I do mean hot, towel to my face. It felt like a hornet’s nest had landed on my face. I braved the scalding cloth and gradually the volcanic heat subsided. Thank goodness my nose was left unfettered so I wouldn’t be asphyxiated.

  I remained in this position for about a good five minutes, after which, the towel was removed, the chair was jacked back to a perpendicular position and foaming lather was applied to my two-day beard. He definitely was a better performer than I with a straight razor. He had me completely devoid of facial hair in about two minutes without any lacerations.

  Being the essence of economic movement, he armed himself with a pair of clippers and began a rapid fire snipping around my head hardly touching the hair. He finished and the barber’s cape was removed. I was given a mirror to inspect his handiwork. I nodded my affirmation of his work, smiled and asked, “What do I owe ya?”

  “Fifty cents,” was the reply.

  I paid the man and asked, “Where’s tha nearest outhouse?” He gave me directions.

  After utilizing my handy newspaper in the aforementioned abode, I slung my bags over my shoulder and went to retrieve Beau for the back-breaking return trip to Shepherdstown.

  Beau was contentedly munching on hay when I arrived at the livery stable. I swear, when he saw me, he turned and walked farther back in his stall. I know he was hoping I didn’t see him and that he didn’t have to put up with me again so soon.

  I had decided to take the River Road straight north from Harpers Ferry rather than going west to Halltown and then north on the Shepherdstown Pike. I understood that it wasn’t as good a road, but it cut off about two miles from the trip and any less time riding Beau was appreciated.

  I didn’t owe any additional money for his upkeep, since I paid up front and only had to leave him at the livery one night. The livery owner saddled Beau and I got directions where to enter the River Road. I mounted a very truculent excuse for a horse and began the sacroiliac-destroying ride back home.

  I had learned from the livery owner that the River Road to Shepherdstown was mostly used by the local farmers, while the main road from Harpers Ferry to Halltown and then to Shepherdstown was mostly used by the traveling public.

  I stopped on the way out of town at a local mercantile store and purchased some bread and cheese for lunch along the way.

  We, meaning Beau and I, had proceeded about four miles and were about one and a half hours into the ride when I saw a troop of cavalry riding toward me. They were covered in dust and from a distance it was hard to ascertain if they were Confederate or Union.

  The leader halted the troop of about thirty men in front of me and asked where I was going. I answered that I was going to Shepherdstown. He wanted to know if there were any cavalry in Harpers Ferry and I answered truthfully that I hadn’t seen any.

  I kept looking into his eyes, but in the periphery of my vision, I saw that he didn’t have any insignia on his collar. Instead there were two insignia stripes on his shoulders. This was a Yankee Captain with a detachment bent on some mischief in or near Harpers Ferry. He bid me good day and I touched the brim of my hat to him. They rode off in a hurry and I sat there wondering how to alert the Confederate garrison in Harpers Ferry.

  The fastest way would be by telegraph, but there were no cities on this road that had a telegraph. Also, there were no nearby Chesapeake & Ohio Canal locks on the other side of the Potomac that I could contact to send a messenger. Lastly, there was no railroad in the vicinity that I could flag down to send a message. Even if I was able to contact a boat on the Potomac River, which ran close to the River Road, and give them a message, it would take too long to arrive at Harpers Ferry for any Confederate response.

  So I finally decided that the only way to quickly get word to the Confederates was to ride to Harpers Ferry myself. I would have to ride like the wind and somehow get past the Union troops. However, I surely wasn’t going to accomplish this on Beau.

  I looked around for the nearest farm house, but none was in site. I kicked Beau like the dickens and got him into a fast trot headed north. As we came around a bend in the road, a two story house loomed in the distance so I kept Beau moving hurriedly until I entered the front yard of the house.

  A lady in a homespun dress came out on the porch to see who I was and asked, “What cha doing, stranger?”

  I hurriedly answered, “I gotta get word to tha Confederate command in Harpers Ferry. There’s a Union Cavalry patrol headed thata way. I just met ‘em a few minutes ago and something should be done to get ‘em out of this area.” Abruptly, I asked, “Do ya have a fast horse I could ride back to alert Harpers Ferry command?”

  The lady eyeballed Beau and saw my dilemma. Then she looked me up and down and let out a huff. I reassured her, “I give ya my word I am telling tha truth and I promise to return yar horse as soon as I have alerted tha Confederates.” As further proof of my good character, I added,” I am tha new school teacher in Shepherdstown and Mr. Throckmorton, tha local banker, will vouch for me.”

  I guess the latter statement sort of swayed her in my favor because she said, “Thar’s a black stallion in tha barn, but ya gonna have to saddle him yaself.”

  I thanked her and kicked Beau into another fast trot to the barn. I didn’t have as much trouble with the stallion as I thought I would. He was in a stall and, although we weren’t on a first name basis, allowed me to put a horse blanket and saddle on his back and cinch it up tight. Thank heavens I remembered how to thread and tighten all the straps from my horse riding days as a youth.

  I tied up Beau and mounted the stallion. I headed back to the house and the lady came out on the porch. I queried, “What’s tha name of yar horse?”

  “Sampson,” she called out. Then she asked,” Ya gotst any firearms?”

  When I shook my head no, she motioned me to come near the porch and handed me a six-shot Colt pistol. She explained, “If’n ya wanta get past tha Yanks, ya need to skirt to tha west or right side of tha road. The east or left side of tha road is too steep and drops off toward tha river.”

  I yelled, “Thanks for tha help and wish me luck.”

  Sampson was a very appropriate name for the stallion. I headed him toward Harpers Ferry and, when I kicked him, he took off like a rocket. I was almost thrown backwards out of the saddle. However, I was able to catch hold of the front of the saddle and pull myself back to a controlled seated position. The stamina and strength emanating from this black galloping machine made me feel like one of the Pony Express riders of long ago running from a band of Comanche Indians. It was all I could do to hold him from running straight out, which would tire him too quickly. I pulled back on the reins to slow him to a gentle gallop.

  I had decided to keep on the road until I approached the end of the Union Cavalry column and then veer off the road to the right. I would circle around the Yanks and back to the River Road and then hightail it for Harpers Ferry. All of this was with the hope that the Yank column wouldn’t catch sight of me during all my maneuvering.

  After a few minutes of travel, I reined in Sampson to a steady lope to further contain his strength. I figured the Yanks were about one mile ahead of me and I hoped they had slowed down to do some reconnoitering.

  It seemed like forever, but it must have been only about twenty minutes when I spied the backs of the last two troopers of the Yank column disappear around a bend in the road up ahead.

  I tugged on Sampson’s reins to bring him to a halt, but he still wanted to run. I was forced to stand in the stirrups and pull for all I was worth to
get him under control. Luckily we didn’t raise enough of a ruckus to alert the Yanks so we didn’t get a sudden visit by any of the band of raiders.

  Keeping a firm hand on Sampson, I walked him to the edge of the bend in the road, dismounted and tied this son of Pegasus to a tree. I stroked his forehead for a few seconds to calm him down. Then I approached the bend and peered through some underbrush to see what was ahead.

  The Yank column had slowed to a walk on the River Road. I returned to where I had left Sampson. He was breathing hard, but the wild look in his eyes told me he hadn’t had a chance to run like this in a long time and he was really enjoying it.

  I mounted and walked Sampson up the road from whence we had traveled to get well out of site of the Yanks. Then I directed Sampson off the road to the west. We preceded about one hundred yards through dense woods which harbored not much undergrowth. This was good because Sampson wasn’t cut by any bushes or low tree branches. I thanked heaven for that. I went west another fifty yards or so and then turned south toward Harpers Ferry to parallel the Yank column.

  Sampson had about gotten his wind back so I kicked him into a trot. The leaves in the woods were apparently damp from a rain because Sampson’s hooves left only a muffled sound.

  We had traveled about fifteen minutes dodging trees and skirting a few thickets when I heard a horse whinny up ahead. I reined Sampson to an abrupt stop, dismounted and put my hand over his nose. I had seen it done a hundred times in the cowboy movies and hoped it would keep him from answering the phantom horse up ahead.

  Squinting to look through the thick woods, I could barely make out a horse and rider about fifty yards ahead. Abruptly, two horsemen rode toward the unknown rider. There ensued a conversation and the three riders rode back to the River Road. I had a hard time holding Sampson’s reins with my hand over his nose. He was really acting up because he must have felt an insatiable desire to call to the three horses. I was able to walk him around and settle him down, but it was a hard job. I did get one good look at the riders as they headed to the road. Two were Yanks and the third was a woman. One of the Yanks had her reins and was leading her horse toward the main body of cavalry.