CHAPTER 13

Captain Knight’s Strategy

Some of the officers of the Confederate army from Jones County, assigned to the deserter chase, were Captain Worsham, Captain McGilberry, and Captain McLemore. These officers knew more about the swamps in the county, and more about how to proceed with the undertaking of capturing the Knight Company, than did the officers sent in here from other parts of the South.

There was Captain Gillis and his company, Miller’s cavalry, Col. Lowry’s company, Forrest’s cavalry, and Lieutenant Wilson’s infantry.

After the big battle on Rocky Creek, Wilson’s men and volunteers, upon discovering that the impostors’ uniforms were not measuring up to specifications, and noting the horns, which were a dead giveaway, did not relent the chase, and from that day forward, until the end of the year, the Knight Company was in for a continuous fight, or inevitable capture.

Realizing this, the Captain of the Knight Company sought first to kill the Jones County officers, as it was by them, and through their knowledge, that the other officers were led into the swamps and hideouts.

Headquarters were at Ellisville, and as a special courtesy, the officers were invited to occupy the Deason home.

McLemore was a guest there, where the men, after hard days in the woods, trailing the deserter band, could come in to hot food, a warm hearth, and a good feather bed.

McLemore was a hot-headed young fellow, who took the task upon himself, against the advice of close friends, to go into the neighborhoods where the deserter captain had friends and endeavor to learn from them things necessary to aid the Confederate cavalry’s campaign.

He was warned that he was treading on dangerous ground but he refused to heed the warning.

Now that the conflict of the county officials at Ellisville was over, or, as a matter of fact, lay smouldering silently, for the time being, the Confederate headquarters, recruiting station, and the general activities of the people were carried on as in the manner of any other typical Southern town.

But McLemore had plans of his own. He went from Ellisville to the old recruiting station which he had opened on Big Creek in the old log house, and not too far from the old Pinion post office, and directly along the established travel route of the Knight Company. The one most frequently used by them when they came over from the Covington County side of Leaf by way of the Welch Landing, and headed on up through Cracker’s Neck and hit into Big Creek swamp below the old burying ground and on up to the Salsbattery camp.

With Captain McLemore were several old men who were too feeble to serve in the regular army. These men were sent by him on the pretext of making a survey of the beef cattle and hogs, obtainable over the county, whereby they could gather other information.

Soon it was known at Ellisville just which families were giving aid and comfort to the deserters.

On the other hand, Captain Knight was fully informed of McLemore’s tactics.

“His is the first name I’ve got carved on my gunbarrel,” angrily commented Newt. “I have sent him word that I will tolerate no meddlin’, but if meddlin’ is what he wants to do, then I can stop that.”

He stroked his gun stock fondly, as he twisted his mouth and sank his teeth into his lower lip.

That very night a small band slipped into Ellisville, with the intention of apprehending McLemore on the trail. But instead of taking the route he usually followed, the young Captain returned to Ellisville by the upper road, over Buffalo Hill, and the plot to kill him just before he gained the town failed.

But Newt’s obstinacy knew no bounds, and when the time passed and the expected riders did not appear along the trail, he beckoned his men to follow, for he knew that he had missed his victim by taking the lower road.

The three men approached the Deason house, and outside the fence that inclosed the grounds, they paused in whispered conversation.

“We had better not lift the latch on the gate, for in so doing we might be discovered. There might be the clink of metal, or the screeching of a hinge,” said one. “We shall scale the fence, and creep up to the window.”

There they had a good view into the room occupied by Rebel officers. The dark silhouettes of the three moved cautiously into obscurity, fearing the light from the window, so against the outside wall they stood, immovable and breathless, waiting.

It had been a wet dreary day, and on the hearth a bright fire blazed. Before it were boots, caps and coats drying. The officers had eaten a good supper, and were conversing in pleasant relaxation.

Outside the three men huddled closer as one whispered,

“Which one is McLemore? He looked different when I saw him last,” as Newt pointed in toward the smooth haired young officer.

“That’s him all right. The one sittin’ with his back toward us,” answered another.

“Which of you wants the honor?” asked Captain Knight.

Neither answered.

From his pocket Newt drew a piece of broom straw. He fumbled in the dark, then held out to the two others his damp hand, which was faintly visible from the window’s light.

“The man who gets the shortest straw shoots,” he whispered.

The straws were drawn, but for some reason, the Captain did not trust the aim of the man who did draw the shortest straw, so he remarked, “I have waited a long time for this, so it would only be fair to me to just drop the straw, an’ let me shoot his brains out.”

The other two crept back to their mounts, and sat astride them, holding the Captain’s horse by the reins, with his saddle stirrup turned toward the building, in order that he would lose no time in making a getaway.

Knight would have followed his usual procedure of shooting a man in the back, but another man, a stranger whom he had no desire to kill, was in the way, and there was no way to get a good aim on McLemore’s head without also hitting the stranger.

As silent as a cat, he crept around the building, keeping his body close against the wall, until he reached the front porch. He pulled himself stealthily up over the banisters, without making a sound, and felt his way along to the darkened door. He tried the latch. Gently, it gave. He turned himself in, inch by inch without letting a hinge creak.

Once inside he froze to the wall of the deserted hall, and before there was a sound to warn the men who were laughing and talking, Newt stood in the doorway leading into the room, his aim on McLemore.

Some of the men said later that Newt stood there in the doorway, like a figure stepping out from a hideous nightmare, working his mouth, and before a gun could be reached, there came a terrible blast, and a fog of gun smoke filled the room.

McLemore half stood, clasped his hand to his heart, and screamed, “Help me!” He never knew who shot him or what happened.

The other officers rushed out of the house, some without shoes or hats, but before they could mount their horses and give pursuit, the murderer and his henchmen were well on their way to a hideout.

McLemore crumpled forward into a pool of blood, hot dead. In the confusion which followed such a brazen deed, the blood was allowed to remain too long on the floor where it became cold and set, before there was any attempt to remove it.

The superstitious claimed that it could never be removed because it was spilled by a man whose spirit was to live forever. The stain remained there on that old heart flooring for years and years, despite the fact that hours were spent through the years in a vain effort to remove the trace of McLemore’s tragic death.

Servants scrubbed the wood thin with sandstone rocks, and apparently the job was well done until there would come a wet, rainy spell, and then the blood-stain would again rise like grease to the surface.

Many generations later, the spot was covered by a heavy coat of paint, and it is no longer visible, but the story still goes that the house is haunted.

When the hands of the clock reach the hour, 11 PM on the date of McLemore’s death, the door to the doorway in which Newt Knight stood, swings open and promptly closes, as if by an unseen hand.

After McLemore’s murder, the cavalry sent for more bloodhounds, as that was about the surest way to track down the Knight Company. There were more than a hundred bloodhounds brought into Jones County and delivered to Ellisville from other sections of the country, as feeling ran higher with news of Knight’s atrocities.

Ellisville was seething with excitement, as the wagon trains lumbered in bearing such unusual and spectacular freight. The people had never before witnessed such a sight. Never had there been in this part of the country such dogs as were arriving, escorted by soldiers displaying all of the pomp and splendor of the Confederate army. Soldiers riding beautiful horses, decked out in fancy tassels, beside the army mules, hitched to the wagons laden with dog crates. Never had the people of the town experienced the excitement created by the howls, the yelping, the whimpering, that came from a hundred cooped up and restless canines! Each trying to express his emotions as an individual, each seeming to realize that he was important and was therefore deserving attention.

The dogs were beautiful. Their dark red coats glistened and shone from brushing, yet to many they appeared funny-looking, with their short legs supporting long bodies, and with their long velvety ears almost touching the ground.

It was the nose which counted, and these dogs had “trained noses,” long and keen, and were supposed to be able to pick up a track hours after the quarry had passed.

In every garden in the country there grew herbs for seasoning, as every family prepared meats for the table at home. In the corners, or planted along beside a row of pansies and candytuft, there grew in the old paled-in gardens, beds of mint, garlic, clumps of sage, which had to be handled carefully, lest it crumple up and die, should a pregnant woman, or a woman during her “period” touch it. And there were a variety of peppers, peppers to be pickled, to be eaten fresh and green along with other summer vegetables, and all that was not used in that way was allowed to remain in the garden to ripen into brilliant reds, with various degrees of hotness.

The long pods were a beautiful scarlet just before frost, and were fairly smoking with heat, to be used in souse-meat and sausages.

Beside every kitchen fireplace, or out on the porches hung strings of these red peppers, dried and ready to be pulverized for seasoning.

On the big plantation that lay up on the high ground between Leaf River and Mason Creek, the preparation was the same, except the planting was more extensive. For years preceding the Civil War, ample provision was made for a multitude of people, slave people, by the good planter.

Each family was permitted to own personal property, a cow to milk, and was permitted to kill and cure meat for the tables in the quarters.

But now, with the master dead, and most of his family, there was no one to hold together these people, and the slaves who had not been given to relatives of the old man lived almost as a free people in the quarters where once old Jim’s word was law.

The big house was crumbling, and the grounds were growing up with weeds, and behind the house on a hillside above a spring, there were many vacant cabins.

Rachel and her children remained. Accustomed as they had become to big gardens, when there were many mouths to be fed, a surplus was grown.

Rachel harvested the surplus, and she and her children hung long strings of red peppers about the doorway, giving it an air of festivity.

The Knight Company, realizing that their chances of being caught were increasing, with an army accompanied by bloodhounds, knew that something would have to be done to save them.

The Captain had a plan. He knew of one woman to whom he could go for advice. He sought Rachel in the dilapidated quarters.

Rachel had told tales of having helped slaves escape by the “underground railroad,” and somewhere, in the back of Newt’s mind, there lurked a faint recollection that he had heard her tell of helping to keep dogs off the trail of the fugitives.

Believing fully that the Captain’s intention of organizing a band was to free the people, Rachel trusted him implicitly, and her exultation was evidenced by her eagerness to aid him. Her slick tongue clattered away, without fear of divulging secrets which she had kept from other men, out of fear of harm to her race.

It was not necessary to keep secrets from this great benefactor. All her knowledge was at his disposal, and if there could have been any other way in which she could have aided his men, she would have been happy in making the sacrifice, even if that sacrifice had meant giving her life.

The Captain had never been foolish enough to go, in person, to Rachel, as he knew that he would be expected to go near his old home, but he had waited while others of his men had crept into her quarters, under the cover of darkness and had given her the signal that he was near.

The call of a whip-poor-will brought the woman to her feet, and soon she was swiftly on the way to the appointed place, in answer to the Captain’s request.

From late autumn until spring, the call of a whip-poor-will would have been unnatural, and would have excited suspicion, but the ginger colored woman was wise enough to foresee that, and so, the in-between months slipped by with many numerous hoot-owl cries.

No matter how late at night, or how bad the weather, rainy, or bitter cold, a “Who who who cooks f’r yu All?” brought Rachel out into the night.

So it was on the night after the Captain had heard that many dogs were coming into Jones County to catch him. There was no light, not even a flickering star, and all was pitch dark in the woods, but the woman knew that the call was urgent, so she quickly ran over the familiar path, unafraid in her great anxiety. The call had been repeated, three times in succession, and that meant that she must hurry.

“Did you tell me once, woman, that you knew how to keep dogs off the trail?” Newt asked, as she rushed up, breathless from speeding over the ground between this meeting place and her cabin.

“Give her time to catch her breath,” demanded one of the men.

“Yes, Sir,” her bosom heaved with labored breathing, “they’s lots a’ ways to choke a dog ’sides on butter!” replied Rachel.

The Captain’s men laughed at the woman’s pert reply.

“So you’d catch ’em an’ choke ’em,” they laughed, making a great joke of the Captain’s belief in this strange half-breed.

A grunt from the leader silenced them, and they were all attention.

“Go ahead,” Newt commanded.

“Well there’s ways to do eny thing you wants,” began Rachel, “they’re things a houn’ dog jes cain’t stand. Pole cat musk, red pepper, an’ it helps to wipe the bottoms o’ yo shoes on garlic. Garlic confuses ’em, but pepper is what stops ’em. They cain’t smell fer coughing and sneezin’ when a handful o’ red pepper, powdered fine, is dropped behind you in yore tracks.”

“How much pepper can you git?” asked Newt.

Rachel scratched her head, and turned the thought in her mind.

“Well,” she answered, “there’s several long dry strands a’ hangin’ in the old Jim house, that wuz never used atter he died, but hit ain’t lost hits strength yet, and’ on down three cabin below, on the gallery, there’s more, an’ some gourds full that wuz never strung. An’ I never did git all that that wuz left in the garden rows, an’ hit’s not hurt, ’sides what’s in my house, an’ what’s in the Big House, where yore ole Aunt is too feeble to know er keer what she’s got. I’ll git you that, too, Sir,” she promised.

It was arranged that a single call was to be the signal.

“Don’t you be trust’n’ too fer, these owls,” warned Rachel.

“If’n them cavalry had a’ ben a’ list’n’ tonight—,” she paused, “why, eny fool could a’ tole that warn’t no owl!” exclaimed Rachel, shivering, not from the cold, but with the fear of what would happen should they all be caught.

Early morning found the hearth in Rachel’s house covered by a thick layer of red peppers, drying and being readied for powder. All morning long she kept drying and powdering pepper, powdering it in the ancient pestle.

That morning the Captain did not blow upon the black horn, and he forbade any man to blow a single note.

“We must lay low, an’ let things cool off,” he warned.

But he sent the men, singly, back to three neighborhoods in quest of red pepper, and an order for a large supply was left with their women folk. Soon the women who were friendly with the Knight Company were equipping their men with the fiery stuff that would stall off a hound.

In Rachel’s cabin, before the hearth, squatting, were three children. A hungry-eyed, lanky white boy, with sandy hair, straight, and close-cropped and clean.

An even lankier and taller black girl, with soft black eyes that were sad and expressionless. And the third child was a delicate-featured little white girl of about eight, who appeared not to belong with these strange people. A beautiful child, but she was also at the task of turning peppers. Her fair face was reddened by the heat from the hearth, as she worked, but all day long, she assisted her Mulatto mother, pausing only, to wipe the tears, and smother a sneeze which this pepper toasting job brought on.

Now and then the monotony was broken by the appearance of a black grinning face at the window.

“Go on ’bout yo business, nigger,” Rachel would command, “an’ keep yo big mouf shut,” which admonition was entirely unnecessary.

The Captain was informed that McGilberry was in command of an entire army of trained hounds, at least fifty, and possibly more. So he gave instructions to his men to try to kill off a dog every time they could get a shot at one, as killing off the dogs became more important than killing off the Rebels.

“But kill every man that attempts to corner you. Be it your own brother, or your closest neighbor. The color of his uniform makes no difference, blue or gray, or homespun. Hit’s the color uv his eyes you’re to be lookin’ fer,” instructed Knight. “Divide, and scatter!”

“Two more names are yet carved on my gunbarrel, an’ I’ve got to work ’em off. Me an’ ole Sal is out fer McGilberry and Worsham. I hate to kill old Worsham, but he’s got to have it.”

He wheeled his horse and was gone.

It was breaking day, and the earth was wet with the dew, but the hour of the day was never taken into consideration when it became necessary to get a message across the country.

The Captain was beginning to lose faith in the ability of his men, and he trusted no man any more, as he felt that he had been careless in letting his men in for trouble on the Covington side of Leaf, and now, with the latest developments, he was not sure that any of the men, away from the hideouts, and without benefit of his leadership, could meet the situation.

It had bothered the Captain’s conscience that he had left some of his very best friends up in the edge of Jasper County, with only three pickets. He worked his mouth and licked his lips, perplexed that it could have happened.

Salsbattery was located in one of the most desirable sections, and he had stationed R. H. Valentine on picket near the Knight’s Old Water Mill in Jones County, and up above Salsbattery, in a thicket, guarding the approaches to the swamps, he had stationed J. M. Collins and James Ewelen, to keep a lookout for the rest of the detachment.

By smart maneuvering, the Lowry Company had moved in from each direction and had captured the pickets, simultaneously, before they could warn their comrades by blowing upon their horns.

There was a pretty hot battle for a few minutes, and then a mad scramble for cover, when Elisha Welborn and R. J. Collins bolted for the reedbrake and made a swift escape. Together, the two made their way to New Orleans and enlisted in Wolfe’s regiment.

Seeing that they were greatly outnumbered and were in for a sure death by hanging, the remaining came out with hands raised in surrender. That incident practically took the Collins men out of the war, as half their number were captured, along with all the Welches who participated in the guerrilla war, and also all of the Valentines, except one. M. M. Coats and two of the Welborns were also taken in as captives on that same day, April 25, 1864.

The Captain resolved to take revenge on the Confederate cavalry, following this wholesale capture of his men.

This daybreak mission was to warn the few remaining that they must stick closer together, and fight until death, with never a thought of surrender.

Banded together in the cause of their self-asserted freedom, freedom from either army, this group of blood-thirsty men set out for Ellisville, by the lower road, and it was again at Rocky Creek that the cavalry was openly attacked, taken entirely by surprise.

Lowry knew that the surface was just beginning to crack, and he wished to get the situation under control and be about the business of fighting the Yankees instead of loafing here in Jones County, waiting most of the time for the Knight Company to come out and offer battle.

The Confederate soldiers were riding along in high spirits, when suddenly, up out of the creek, arose a host of men shooting down horses and riders, before the Rebels knew what was happening.

There was a place where the water was about shoulder-deep, and the rocky bottom slanted into sandy shallows. Old fallen logs jutted up here and there out of the water, offering excellent camouflage.

Taking advantage of the natural barriers, Knight and his men hid in the stream, where after getting in a good sure shot, a man could duck down behind a log, or duck beneath the water and save his own life.

Without a single loss to themselves, the company killed and wounded many of Lowry’s men, and three of their finest horses.

Thinking that they were outnumbered, and unable to ascertain how many men were hidden beneath the cover of the bank of the stream, the cavalry retreated hastily, and returned to Ellisville to rally more horsemen.

After the battle was over, the women and children who lived near came up to salvage the dead horses.

Many families were happy over the prospect of eating a steak from a slain horse, while others sought only to gather the hides for leather, and the fat to cook up into soap, as there were no provisions made for civilians, and the populace was entirely without shoes and soap.

The Knight Company did not follow the retreating soldiers into Ellisville, but dripping, they emerged out of the creek and followed its course on up to a point near the old Wheeler settlement, where they felt that they would be safe enough to build a fire to dry out their garments.

When the new detachment of soldiers reached the scene of the battle, there was not a man there, except the slain Confederates, who were buried on the site.

There were the remains of the horses, which had been haggled in a ghastly manner, to be burned, because the cavalry begrudged even a dead and decomposing horse to an enemy of the South, and these unfortunates who were gathering the hideous remnants of battle were possibly members of families who were with the deserters.

Before their clothing had time to dry, a picket sounded a horn, a faint signal, which was to warn the men around the fire that the enemy was coming, but at a considerable distance.

The camp was broken, and the fire extinguished by Knight’s men throwing the burning wood into the stream, where there would be no smouldering remains to bear evidence of their presence in the vicinity.

They were on the run again. This time, they completely outwitted the cavalry, by taking to the reedbrake near the Jones House, waiting until the coast was clear before they proceeded on up to the Salsbattery hideout.

The Jones House was a long low log structure that nestled against a wooded hill, along an infrequented path. In front of it was a level patch that bordered the stream which trickled over the strange rock formation, that had mystified men for ages. There was not a more picturesque or peaceful habitation than this in Jones County. Yet the men did not tarry, for the enemy was not far away.

Riding past the Jones House, they spurred their horses, and were soon ascending the high ground, which is Pleasant Ridge.

From this high point, their eyes commanded a broad view of the outlying lands, shrouded in a blue haze that appeared to be smoke settlings, or a misty rain while the sun is almost shining. Behind them were the lowlands and gently rolling hills and the hollows that separated the two great ridges, the highland of Covington, known as “Nigger Ridge,” and this fertile plateau, over which, in time past, had roamed countless herds of buffalo, stalked by Indian hunters. In front of them were other small creeks and the marshy lowland, overgrown by laurel bushes. In the late afternoon, it became, by tricks of light, a broad and mysterious purple valley, a fairyland out of which arose a painted steepness, where the underbrush, the gentle knolls, dotted with a riot of color, blended into the background of tall timber, which was etched in mystic blackness against the azure horizon.

(On this spot, Laurel, Miss., was much later established.)

To the right of them was Ellisville, just over, and beyond Buffalo Hill, where legend tells us that these animals by the name maintained a sleeping ground, bedded down beneath the scrubby slash, whose short needles growing from low-hanging branches provided them with shelter from the weather. Where ancient skulls scattered about attest to furious battles fought for herd supremacy by great and vicious bulls, long extinct. But the hill has always been a Jones County landmark.

To the left of them the ridge continued, broadening into the country that was fast becoming known as “No Man’s Land.”

Not far up the ridge lived the Corleys (Cawley). One brother was a Confederate soldier, while the other had sent word that he was ready to come in with the Knight Company.

“If he’s a’ aimin’ on joinin’ us, his folks will know about it, and mought be, we orter ride up that way an’ find out. Might be we’d run right into a good cooked meal,” said the leader.

So they headed their horses in that direction.

Newt’s brother Albert was in the group, and his wife was a sister of the Corleys, so it was agreed that Albert should ride up first and find out if they were welcome.

They were. When they left that part of the country, they had established another place where a saddle-worn deserter, sick or in need, could find shelter and protection, and a place where they could all get a good meal, provided they brought along the provisions.

This place also became known to the Rebel officers who were trailing the Captain, as information leaked rapidly, through unexpected sources.

So it is not surprising that after a few days Captain Worsham was leading a small party of soldiers up the Ridge over Buffalo Hill from the post, in search of the elusive leader of the band.

The Corleys were noncommittal and refused to answer the Confederate officer when he asked them if any of the Knight Company had passed that way.

The fresh hoof-prints, and the sign that hitched animals had pawed impatiently in the lane, bore out Worsham’s suspicions that this family had had recent visitors, so he ignored their protests and directed his men to search the surrounding woodlands.

However, they soon returned to the lane to report that there was no evidence of anyone in hiding in the thickets.

Worsham was not entirely satisfied and decided before leaving to take one last look for himself.

The house was erected on a high knoll, facing a deep hollow. The top of the knoll was in cultivation, a little patch about the house and barn, from which there led a path to the wooded pastureland, cut by gullies, and sloped steeply down towards the hollow.

The pasture was overgrown by sparse shoemake, sweetcedar weed, bitter-tops, and here and there clumps of briars, not thick enough to afford concealment.

Separating the lot from the patch was a rail fence, with the gateway a barred gap. The posts were square-hewed, heavy heart pine, the tops of which were smooth, and adequate shelves for placing the milk peggin, out of reach of the dogs and cats, while the milk hand separated the cows and calves.

Worsham walked to the gap on the high open knoll, and stood there, resting his hand upon the smooth shelf-like surface of the gate-post. Unconsciously, he thrust his thumb upward, his attention centered on the rough terrain below. His sharp eyes scanned the gullies, and one by one, he carefully examined the clumps of brush, but there was no sign of a human figure.

Just as Worsham was beginning to think that they had followed a false lead, there was a shot fired at close range from the wooded slope in front of him. He spun around, shocked and giddy. He knew that he had been shot at. The hand that rested on top of the post was numbed and feelingless, and there was a tingling in his shoulder. He looked at his hand, and to his horror, the thumb was missing! Torn entirely off.

A few hundred yards off down the hollow, there came the long, drawn-out note of the black horn. There was no mistaking it. Further over the ridge there came an answering horn, and then another, and another.

The soldiers were confused, and although Captain Worsham insisted that he was not hurt, he was bleeding to death, there before their surprised eyes. A tournequet was fashioned, and he was placed upon his horse and started for Ellisville, leaving the outlaws to their mischief and pleasure.

After that, Worsham hated Newt Knight with a passion, especially after hearing that the sly Captain had purposely taken his thumb for a target, while lying flat on his belly in the weeds.

The hopes of capturing Knight alive seemed to be out of the question, and Worsham soon gave up.