Moonlight at Settle's Bridge by riddleofsteel

Moonlight At Settle's Bridge
by
� riddleofsteel

Looking out across the road that day the air was shimmering in the hot Carolina sun. In the distance I could see the last of the this years crop being planted. A water wagon rumbled past on its way to quench the thirst of infant tobacco plants. On the front seat the dirty smiling faces of the darkies belied the troubled times that stirred around us. Uncomfortable, I shifted in my chair and drew the pistols from my belt. Laying them on the porch rail I looked at the worn ivory handles. It seems I remember thinking their light yellowish color seemed as warm as the day.

A Yankee census taker had been working the farms in our area and I knew he would get to me sooner or later. As he rode up the cut of his clothes and the awkward way he dismounted gave away his city background. The questions he asked were to the point and polite but I could not help but feel violated. I had given him the most basic of answers and invited him to ride on. Damn, the man was clearly a scalawag. One of the drove of northern opportunists that had descended on us after the war. Was there not a day that would go by that I would not think of that stinking war? Men like him had probably sat at home during the struggle, I thought. The way he had eyed my pistols on the porch rail. It was clear he was afraid. That was the one good thing the war had taken from me. Fear was for those not familiar with death. During those four years death had ridden with me. We had left North Carolina with over fifty men, only seven had returned. The rest had fallen on far away fields, not unlike the field across road from me now. Fields distant from me only in miles not in memory.

Shoving my pistols back in my belt, I stepped out into the bright sunshine. The water wagon raised a cloud of dust on its way back to the creek. I rode along enjoying the fine day. We reached the creek and I watered my horse while the boys started a bucket line and began to fill the tank. They sang as they worked. How much this day was like the old times. I was still in charge and the darkies were still doing the work. According to the damn Yankees these guys were free. Funny, I wonder what that word means? I used to think I was free. Free, yet beholding to every damn Yankee in the county. Free, still I had to leave all this and fight a war I knew we could not win. Free, sometimes the only freedom we have is to be born and die. What passes in between is the rub. Death is not the hard part, sometimes living is.

I would not say my politics had changed since coming back from the war but I had to be awakened to some very important realities. Locally, it was expected for you to be part of the "Good ole Boy" network and to try and continue fighting for "The Cause" in spite of the occupying Yankee army and the new federal reconstruction government. I had been asked to join the frequent night rides to put down uppity blacks and Yankees. Somehow I could not picture myself in sheets. Having spent so much time looking my enemies in the face I could not bring myself to hide from them now. I did know "The Cause" was not going to pay my taxes or feed the people looking to me for leadership and jobs. To do that I had been forced to get into bed with some of the same damn carpetbaggers I hated so much.

The wagon was filled and headed back to the fields and I rode in the other direction. I was satisfied that the planting at Hawks Nest Farm was going well but I had responsibilities elsewhere. The ride to Mulberry Island Farm would take well into the night. I would be there in time to get a little sleep and then supervise the mornings work. At a fork in the road a gentle tug of the reins turned my mount down the gently sloping road toward the Dan river and Settle's Bridge. In the gradually failing light the fields and forest along the road began to lose their details. Soon the moon would be up to light my way. The steady tattoo of hoof beats reminded me of the roads we had all ridden together from Sharpsburg to Gettysburg and everywhere in between.

Gettysburg, if it had not been for an impassable muddy road we would have perished there to. The thousands that died, damn! A generation of our finest had soaked that ground with their blood. For what, the possession of some Pennsylvania hilltop, the Southern way of life? What it came down to for most of them was bleeding in the grass. A .68 caliber minnie ball in the chest can boil down your politics to base level real fast. Like I said death is the easy part, living with the memories is a good bit harder.

I could hear the river now. Gentle current lapping at the wood pilings. In the new moonlight that old green snake of a river had gone silver now. Slivers of clouds raced by the moon in the darkening sky as the first few stars came out. Turning a bend in the road, I could see a large groups of men in sheets blocking the dark mass of the bridge. A few held torches, their white sheets almost glowing in the moonlight. "Damn fine targets." I thought to myself. In preparation I loosened the leather thongs that held down my pistols. Just outside of pistol range I stopped my horse.

"Hold it right there David" they called. " You won't be crossing this bridge tonight." I replied "This is open road and I will cross." The leader said "You have had your chance to join us. Malloy you are either in this with us or you are against us." At that point I said "Now, I know every man Jack of you and can name you right down the line. I am carrying two pistols and a sharp knife and you know I am not afraid to use them. I am going to cross here tonight and if one of you so much as lays the weight of a hand on my bridle I will shoot him dead as a stone." They all laughed and over the mumblings I heard one of them say "We know you a fine shot that is true. We are not doubting your shooting or your courage but we have a grave dug for you and there are ten of us and one of you. Do you think you can shoot us all ?" In the now bright moon light the robes were easy marks. Well, I thought, ten men one for each of the balls loaded in my big .44's. I know that would be a lot to ask but the alternative did not look that appealing either. Pulling and cocking my pistols it seemed like someone else was speaking when I said "Very well gentlemen, which of you shall be the first to die ?" After what seemed like a lifetime the group slowly parted and I rode through.
My horse's hooves thundering on the wooden planks of the covered bridge brought me back into sharp reality. It has never ceased to amaze me how much reason power cold steel can bring into a difficult emotional situation. You know the hell of it all was that two of those men on that bridge, in the moonlight, fought with me in the war. Yet there they were still ready to kill for "The Cause." Apparently they just were not willing to die for it. I can not blame them though. We all did enough dying during the war, even the ones that made it home.

This was based on a true story about my Great-Great Grandfather Col. David Morton Malloy. It is a story told in my family and passed on to me. Political commentaries and situations are based on family research done by my father and myself and documented by historical records of the time.