by Shane Phipps
The eastern sky at their backs was beginning to brighten, and the once-brilliant stars of the night sky were starting to fade. Cody watched as the sky changed from black to grey to a brilliant pink as the birds began to fill the silence with their morning songs.
It was still too dark to make out many details on the ground around them, but Cody could see the glimmer from the spring that sat at the base of this small rise. Occasionally, they could hear animals walking nearby. Cody gripped his rifle and waited in nervous anticipation. He had wanted to bag his first deer since the first time he sat in a deer stand. He wondered if he would be up to the challenge if the moment presented itself. He didn’t want to fail in front of Edward Sr. He quickly tried to forget his own father’s warning about buck fever, the ailment that attacks some hunters right at the moment of truth and makes it nearly impossible for them to hold their weapon steady enough to shoot.
After about twenty minutes of sitting in the exhilarating chill of the early morning, there was finally enough light to make shooting a possibility. Edward Sr. leaned in and whispered to Cody, “Steady now. Deer should be movin’ toward their beddin’ areas. Let’s stay real still. Remember what I taught ye. Scan with your eyes, not your head.”
Cody was on full alert. He felt that all of his senses were in tune with his surroundings, yet he wondered how long he would be able to hold this together. He didn’t have to wait much longer. Within five minutes of Edward Sr.’s coaching, Cody heard the snapping of a twig come from his right. He tightened his grip on his rifle and very slowly looked in that direction. He didn’t see anything at first, but after a moment he saw a flicker of movement as a fine young eight-point buck stepped seemingly out of nowhere. The animal seemed relaxed and unaware of their presence, and he was headed right for them. Cody felt his heart rate quicken and a surge of adrenaline rush through his system. It was all he could do to keep from jumping out of his skin, but he knew he must try to keep his movements imperceptible. The buck had made its way over to the spring just fifteen yards in front of Cody. When the animal lowered its head to take a drink from the spring, Cody realized that it was his opportunity to raise the rifle and take aim. As he raised the weapon, Cody was afraid that his thumping heartbeat must be so loud that it would surely frighten the deer away. He had never experienced such a rush of energy and emotion. Somehow he was able to calm himself. Just at that moment, he remembered a phrase his grandfather had taught him the first time he ever shot a rifle—
“Aim small, miss small,” Cody whispered.
He looked down the long barrel of the gun and placed the little bead at the end right behind the buck’s front shoulder. He let out a deep breath and gently squeezed the trigger, just the way his own father had taught him to shoot. SHHPOWWW! Cody heard the gun blast, but he couldn’t see anything. He had been temporarily blinded by a brilliant flash of gunpowder right in front of his face and the resulting cloud of thick white smoke. That was the one thing Cody had not been prepared for. He was shooting a flintlock rifle, not a modern gun. He quickly shook off the shock and blindness and tried to see what the result of his shot had been. He heard the deer bound off in the same direction from which it had come. Had he hit the mark or missed? Edward Sr. quickly relieved his apprehension.
“Good shot, my boy. He won’t be goin’ far.” Even as he heard these words, Cody could hear the buck crash about forty yards away.
He had done it! He had killed his first deer, and it was an eight-pointer at that! Then he came to the sobering realization that he would not have a trophy to show for his efforts. I finally kill a buck and I can’t even show it to anyone! he thought. Oh, well. Maybe the experience will help me when I hunt again for real.
Cody and Edward Sr. worked their way down the little rise and went after the fallen buck. As they approached the animal, Cody was flooded with a combination of pride, excitement, and sadness. He had not been prepared for the overwhelming emotional experience of the taking of life from such a large and marvelous animal. He began to shake uncontrollably.
Edward Sr. couldn’t help but notice what the boy was going through and attempted to comfort him. “It is a powerful thing, isn’t it, son? I know just what yer feelin’. You feel good, sad, and pert’ near everything in between. Well, son, that’s what a hunter should feel. The good Lord put the beasts of the field out here for our benefit. They are beautiful and noble animals. They provide for us and help to sustain us. We should respect them for offerin’ up their lives for us,” Edward Sr. said as he gently put his hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Indian folks say prayers to honor the spirits of the game they kill. I don’t know if that buck has a spirit, but I always feel like we owe them some respect. That’s why it is right’n proper fer you to feel the way you do now. I still feel it, too, and I’ve been doin’ this fer a long time.”
Edward Sr.’s words made good sense, and Cody began to calm down. He was glad to understand his mixed emotions, and he hoped he would feel that way again whenever he had a successful hunt. It was a good sort of feeling, almost like getting to know a part of you that you didn’t even know existed—an ancient part of you somehow connected to all of history.
“We better get to work. This job ain’t gonna do itself,” said Edward Sr. as he bent over the fallen buck and reached for the knife sheath strapped to his leg. He opened the sheath and pulled out the knife. It was no ordinary knife, but a beautifully crafted work of art. The fixed blade was about four inches long, and the handle was a little bit longer and very thick. The eye-catching handle appeared to be made of bone or perhaps antler. It was intricately carved with delicate images of deer, elk, buffalo, and bears. Cody had never seen a knife like this.
“Did you make that knife, Pa?” he asked.
“Good heavens, no,” Edward Sr. replied. He paused. “Have I never told you the story of this knife?”
“Not that I can remember,” Cody replied.
“Well, after we get back to the house and bone out this meat, I will tell it to you,” promised Edward Sr. “You might want to put that story in yer journal, too.”
When the job of preparing the deer was complete and they had returned to the Carter house, Edward Sr. and Cody sat on the front porch. As Cody looked out at the nearby town of Beaufort imagining what it must have looked like to see the Queen Anne’s Revenge stuck on a sandbar out in the channel, Edward Sr., having just lit his pipe, reached again for the knife strapped to his leg. He inspected the tool closely to make sure that he had sufficiently cleaned it and then handed it to Cody for closer inspection.
“You know, to this very day, I still don’t know who made that knife or even where it comes from,” Edward Sr. said. “But I can tell you the story of when I found it and why I keep it—if, that is, yer of a mind to hear it.”
“Sure I am,” said Cody, eagerly.
“I’ve been savin’ this story for a long time now, ’cause it ain’t the most pleasant story to tell, or hear. I guess yer old enough now that yer ready to hear it—after all, I was a bit younger than you are now when I lived through it,” said Edward Sr.
This sounds promising, thought Cody, as he settled himself in and braced himself for whatever he was about to hear.
Edward Sr. took a deep draw from his pipe, sat back, blew out a long stream of pungent tobacco smoke, and began to speak.
“Our family hasn’t always lived here in Beaufort, ye know. My parents came down into North Carolina from Virginia Colony about 1710, when I was just a lad of about twelve. My father built a fine farm near the mouth of the Neuse River, a few miles north of New Bern, which had been founded by some Swiss and German settlers. A whole lot of folks were comin’ down into North Carolina in those times ’cause Virginia was startin’ to get a little crowded for some people’s tastes. My pa had as fine a tobacco farm as you ever saw, I reckon. He raised a little corn and indigo, too. He worked awful hard and ’course, he had a few slaves to help him. I was still a little bit too small to be much of a farmhand. I’ve never owned any s
laves myself. I just can’t hardly justify it in my head to own another human bein’. But I can sure understand why some men, like my Pa, had ’em. A feller just can’t hardly compete with other farms if they have to pay their labor while others have slave labor for free.”
Men at work in a tobacco field in Watauga County, North Carolina, in the 1950s. The tobacco field that belonged to Edward Carter Jr.’s grandfather may have been similar. (Hugh Morton Collection of Photographs and Films, North Carolina Collection, University of North Carolina Library at Chapel Hill)
Cody had not known for sure that his family had once owned slaves, though he had suspected that it was a real possibility since his family had come from the South. He found some comfort in the fact that at least Edward Sr. had taken a stand against owning slaves of his own, however.
“Anyhow,” Edward Sr. continued, “Pa had built up a fine farm. He had a little over three hundred acres with some fine bottom land and a big plantation house. Our future looked mighty bright—until the awful Tuscarora War.”
Cody quickly scanned his memory, but could not recall ever learning anything about an event by this name.
“What was the Tuscarora War, Pa?” Cody asked.
“It was in that dark year of 1711,” Edward Sr. replied. “North Carolina Colony wasn’t very strong. In fact, there was a whole mess of political squabblin’ goin’ on about who was the rightful governor. People took sides and were fightin’ against one another. The town of New Bern had been built over the site of an old Indian town called Cartouca, and in 1711 the Indians decided they wanted it back. The man who had surveyed the site of the town of New Bern was named John Lawson. He was lookin’ to expand the region and open it up for more white settlers comin’ down from Virginia. The Tuscarora Indians saw this as a big threat to their huntin’ grounds, and they didn’t like it one bit. I can’t say as I can blame ’em, really. It seems like the Indians have been gettin’ pushed out of their lands every time the white settlers take a notion to spread out some more. I’ll tell you, son, I have known a few Indian folks in my time, and some of ’em are as fine a people as you’ll ever meet, but you don’t want to make an enemy out of ’em. Some of the things I saw Indian warriors do keep me up nights all these years later,” said Edward Sr. with a slight tremble in his voice.
He paused to relight his pipe and shift positions in his chair. Cody could sense a little uneasiness in the man, as if he dreaded telling the rest of the story. Edward Sr. cleared his throat and resumed his tale.
“I’ve told ye of course, that yer grandparents died when I was thirteen years old. Well, this here is the story of how that happened. I didn’t want you to hear it ’til I was sure you were old enough to handle it, and I reckon today is that day. The Indians captured that Lawson feller and another man that he was showin’ some land to up the Neuse River. They executed Lawson, and the stories spread of how gruesome they did it. They say they burned him alive, real slow like … drawin’ it out as long as they could. It makes my stomach turn to think of it. I don’t know if it is true or not, but that is the story that went around. The Indian chief in these parts was called King Hancock. He organized all the local tribes to go on the warpath against the white settlements and take back their land. Hancock gathered up most of the Indians in the lands between the Neuse and Pamlico Rivers … the Coree, Matchapunga, Pamlico, Bear River, and Neusioc Indians were among them. They struck their blow at sunrise on September 22, 1711. That is the date that is etched into the grave markers of my parents, and you and I are both lucky that my own tombstone isn’t right alongside of theirs. When it happened, my ma was fixin’ breakfast, and my pa was out gettin’ a team of horses ready for workin’. I was awake, but still lyin’ in my bed. I can still remember smellin’ the bacon Ma was cookin’ when I heard the commotion outside. That bacon smell is one of my last memories of my parents alive, and I still think of ’em whenever I smell bacon fryin’ to this very day.”
This image is reputed to be of John Lawson (1674–1711), explorer and surveyor, who helped lay out the towns of Bath and New Bern in North Carolina. In 1711 he was captured and executed by the Tuscarora Indians. (Image courtesy of Mrs. W. Keats Sparrow, Greenville, North Carolina, and Special Collections Department, East Carolina University)
Edward Sr. seemed now to be almost in a trance. His eyes appeared glazed over. Cody got the impression that he had shifted into autopilot just to be able to get through this story.
Edward Sr. resumed his grisly tale.
“When I heard the ruckus the horses were makin’, I bolted up from bed and looked out the window. I saw Pa spin around to face an oncomin’ Indian. I saw the Indian raise his rifle and fire, and I saw my pa crumple to the ground. I don’t think Pa ever knew what hit him. Then I saw the Indian take out a knife and grab Pa by the hair, and I turned away. I didn’t want to see what he was goin’ to do, but I knew he was about to scalp my pa. I am just glad he wasn’t alive fer it—some folks weren’t so lucky. The other Indians in the war party set fire to the barn and outbuildings, and then I saw them headin’ fer the house. My ma had run outside with one of Pa’s rifles. I saw her blast one of the Indians as they were approachin’ the porch, but there were just too many, and they overran her. I knew there wasn’t a thing in the world fer me to do to help, so I did the only reasonable thing left to do: I ran fer my very life. I went through the back door and ran as fast as I could go. It was about three miles into New Bern, and I knew it would be the safest place fer me. When I made it to the town, I saw there were a lot of other people there at the little fortification that was built fer just such an occasion. Some of the folks that gathered were townsfolk, and some were from the surroundin’ farms like me. We learned later that there were many small Indian war parties like the one that hit our farm all up and down the Neuse and Pamlico valleys. The attacks lasted only about two hours but left 130 dead colonists in their wake. The stories of the attacks were heart wrenchin’. Some of the settlers had been tortured horribly. Many of the dead bodies had been desecrated. The less fortunate ones had been taken captive, and God only knows what happened to them. The rest, like myself, ran for their lives, leavin’ the bodies of their loved ones at the mercy of the savages or the scavengers.”
Cody’s heart ached at hearing these words. He had read accounts of Indian wars in books, but they never truly seemed real until now. Here was a member of his own family who had witnessed atrocities that probably were unimaginable to anyone living in Cody’s time. Cody felt the need to say something comforting to Edward Sr., but nothing seemed to come to mind. The only thing he could think to say came out before he had time to stop it.
“So where does the knife come in?” Cody asked, worried that it seemed too trivial in light of the heavy story he had just been told.
“Ah yes, the knife,” replied Edward Sr. “Well, we all stayed pretty close to New Bern for a day or so. When it seemed safe to venture out, some of the men decided to make a sweep of the surroundin’ homesteads to search for survivors, bury the dead, and salvage anything that could be saved. I went along with a family friend by the name of Martin Mackenzie. He helped me rummage through what was left of my parents’ place. It pains me considerable even now to recollect the images of my parents’ bodies as we cleaned them up and made them as presentable as we could. We gave ’em a Christian burial on a lovely spot overlookin’ the Neuse River a few hundred yards east of the burned-out house. We returned to the home site and started lookin’ through the rubble for anything that might be salvaged. There wasn’t much of anything left. The only thing I found worth pickin’ up was this here knife. I don’t know whose it was. I know it wasn’t my pa’s. I reckon it was dropped by one of the Indians. I didn’t rightly know if it was Indian made or if it was somethin’ they had plundered off of another farm somewhere. I really didn’t care. I only knew that it was all I had left to show fer the farm my parents had built together. I have kept it ever since as a reminder of all that was taken from me on that bloody day.”
Edward Sr. appeared to be spent from reliving those terrible events from his childhood. Cody handed the knife back to him as he finished his tale.
“My parents’ land and slaves were sold to pay off debts. I went back to Virginia to live with my uncle William. I didn’t return to North Carolina until after I married yer ma when I was seventeen. We came down here to Beaufort, and you were born about a year later,” said Edward Sr.
As soon as Edward Sr. had finished speaking, Cody felt light headed, and a curtain seemed to open in front of him again. Everything went black for a moment, and then he found himself back in his own bedroom. He felt very tired and very sad.
Part Two
The Journal of Ethan Carter
Yadkin Valley Settlements, North Carolina, 1757
Chapter 3
At least Cody was now certain of something: What had been happening to him while reading the journal of Edward Carter was certainly no dream. It had now happened more than once, and he had experienced the same sensations each time. But there were still lots of unanswered questions swirling in Cody’s head. Was the Edward Carter journal the only one that was magic? Would he go through this when he read some of the other journals, too? He knew there was only one way to find out. He set aside Edward’s journal and looked into the box to find another. Cody always liked to do things in the correct order, so he had already planned to go through the journals chronologically. The next book in the time line was labeled The Journal of Ethan Carter 1757. He sat the old book, which looked very similar to Edward’s journal, on his desk. He decided he didn’t quite feel up to starting it just now. “I will look at you tomorrow after church,” Cody said, staring at the journal.
