The Postmaster and the Spider

By John Draper

Spring, 1865. The Governor wants him for a spy. The President wants him for a Special Agent. And thinking his war is over, Sevier Russell returns to his home in East Tennessee to find Hawkins County in shambles. A guerrilla leader runs the town, night riders threaten his family, and a string of brutal murders points to someone who is using the chaos for their own ends. It seems that when the armies stopped marching, the killing got personal. To win through, Sevier must depend on wit, grit, and a pair of Remington New Model Army revolvers. The Postmaster and the Spider recreates the violent times after the end of the Civil War in East Tennessee, times when there "was war at everyone's door and it was neighbor against neighbor."

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Draper
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310980947

John Draper

John Draper lives in Tennessee. He is a graduate of King College, Bristol, Tennessee and the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. Although a scientist by profession he is a life-long student of history. And baseball.

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Prologue

June, 1863--There were clouds building up to the south and west and a chill breeze was blowing fitfully through the woods around the house from that direction. The tops of the trees were leaning and straightening, leaning and straightening in the fresher gusts above the wood. Even higher up, on the timbered slopes of Bays Mountain the wind was stronger and the tall trees there were leaning hard in the direction the storm was going and shedding leaves that flew along with the wind.

A young man trotted out of the woods around at the back of the house carrying a shovel. He was dressed in a uniform of light brown and wore a single embroidered star on his upturned collar and there was a brass badge pinned to the breast of his uniform coat. His hair was dark brown reaching nearly to his shoulders and he wore a long beard of a darker shade, prematurely streaked with gray. He slowed, and walked with a limp, his left knee stiffer than a young man's should be, and he was having difficulty moving across the patch of high grass between the edge of the copse and the back porch of the house.

A young woman watched him come. She was slender and pretty, with an abundance of untied wavy hair rippling down her back and loose around her face. She was buttoning a dress as she stepped through the back door of the house. Emmit, look! she called out, pointing to the south down the Greeneville road. Two columns of dark smoke were piling up under the storm clouds, appearing to merge with them as if sharing a kinship.

Raiders! Emmitt called. Get into the house! He hobbled onto the porch and into the kitchen at the back of the cottage. He passed through the front room, picking up a shotgun from behind the door as he went. He walked out of the front door and stood on the porch looking towards the road. The woman came out to stand by his side.

Run! he told her. A body of men was riding past on the road. The house was set deep back into a gap in the forest, a cove of cleared land surrounded by trees, and he had hoped the riders might pass but he saw the lead horses circle and mill, faces turned towards him, and the riders came up the path at a trot. There were perhaps ten of them but it was hard to tell in the failing light and leaves had begun to fly on the wind. They were wearing the same butternut color as he but did not seem to be in any semblance of uniform and none of them wore any insignia. A few heavy drops of rain pattered on the roof above him, as if someone had thrown a handful of beechnuts onto the shingles.

The young woman watched through the cracked door, unwilling to run as he had told her to do. She saw the young man step down from the porch with the shotgun at the ready. The riders stopped and stood their horses, and some words were exchanged but she couldn't hear them over the wind. One of the riders, the leader she thought, circled his horse around the young man as he faced the band, once, twice. More words were exchanged; heated words, she could tell from their posture and expressions. The young man raised the shotgun above his head in both hands, parallel to the turf. The lead rider circled him again and as he passed behind him this time the man pulled a revolver from his waistband, put it nearly against the young man's head, and shot him dead. His body collapsed into the dirt and the rider laughed.

The woman turned and sprinted out of the back of the house towards the woods. Hooves beat the grass behind her. A rider snatched at her hair, lifting her off of her feet by her tresses. The rider turned his horse and, carrying her by her hair, trotted her back to the front of the house. She clawed at his gloved hand to no effect.

Looky what I found, Bill! the rider called out, She bolted from the house when you drew down on the secesh officer!

Bring her on over here, Billy, the killer ordered the rider.

She was half-dragged and half walked to near where the young man's body lay. One of the raiders dismounted, took the shotgun from next to the body and tossed it up to another man. He found a LeMat revolver and tossed it up. He began going through the dead man's pockets. Another man had dismounted and was setting a sulphur match to a mass of dry grass twisted into a torch. When it lit, he carried it into the house. Flames began to flicker through the windows.

The man rifling the body turned his face to her. Looky here, misses, is this your man? he said, and turned Emmit's head so that she could see his face. It was covered with gore and where his nose had been there was a ragged, red hole.

She covered her face with her hands and began weeping. Here now, put down your hands, let's us see what kind of a thing you are! the lead rider exclaimed.

The dismounted man stood, strode over to her and, grasping her dress at the collar, ripped the fabric of her dress and the shift under it down to her knees. That's what kindy thang, Bill! he exclaimed. The riders guffawed.

The young woman swayed on her feet and wept through her fingers. The rider let go of her hair and she fell to the turf. Two other men dismounted.

A rider left out on the road shouted above the storm, 'ware Cavalry! Coming hard! He turned his horse and galloped south.

The dismounted raiders bolted to their horses and took to their saddles. The man who had torn her dress bent over and slapped her ass hard, saying, Another time, missus! Another time! and swung onto his horse. The men thundered away from the house in the stormy half-light, riding back down the Greeneville Road. Flames burst through the roof of the house just as the rain began to come down hard. The young woman huddled where she'd fallen, clawing her torn dress to her and covering herself. She put her face in her hands and pressed into the warm ground with the cold rain falling on her back, shaking and weeping. She was still there when the Confederate cavalry found her.

Chapter 1

The General

April, 1865--John Sevier Russell, First Sergeant, Company D, 1st Tennessee Volunteer Cavalry was standing on a slight rise two yards uphill from where two men in dirty shirts were digging a trench whose lip was at their waists. It was April but it was a warm day with bright sunshine not impeded a tad by the few thin clouds. It occurred to Sevier that a sensible sergeant would have had this trench dug 100 yards or so further downstream where there was a good copse of old-growth trees in who's shade said sergeant could stand more comfortably.

By rights this was Nichols' job but these men had challenged his authority directly and he had decided he'd supervise the punishment directly. Both already sported an assortment of bruises about their faces and that was as it should be. But he wanted this particular trench dug deep even though the company did not really need the latrine. He'd also specially picked a place to dig it where there was no shade.

He was contemplating whether after the trench was dug deep enough for the men's heads to be below grade he would conclude that the meadow was useful for exercising horses and the trench should then be filled back in. Before he could come to a decision, Sevier heard his name called, formally and in parade ground tones. First Sergeant Russell, General Brownlow requires you attend him in his tent! The digging men looked up and Sevier told them, You have struck some luck this morning, fellows. Now fill it back in before I get back.

Sevier came to attention and did an about face. Frank Hybarger was standing at attention under a scrawny dogwood tree twenty yards away. Sevier marched up to the man and came to attention. They were much of a contrast. Frank Hybarger was of medium height but heavy. He had the look of incipient strength one finds in a brown bear. He was dressed in a new, clean uniform with the thick sergeant major's chevrons boldly yellow on the sleeves. On his head he wore a new kepi with a bill shined near to a mirror. Sevier was above average height and though not slender himself, gave an impression of lean quickness, even standing still. He was dressed in a shell and trousers that clearly had seen much campaigning and were devoid of ornamentation, and he had on a sweat-stained and much worn slouch hat. Hybarger was clean shaven. Sevier wore a Napoleon, the goatee a bit longer than was fashionable.

Sevier addressed Hybarger in his own parade ground voice: Sergeant Major Hybarger I am at the General's pleasure! And then lowering his voice went on, But you, sir, may kiss the boils on my hindquarters. What's he found out about, Frank?

Hybarger smiled and replied in the same low tone. "And you, sir, are a horse's ass. Damned if I know Sevier, what have you done lately to be guilty about?'

Sevier grinned back at him. Why, I'm a model of soldierly deportment, Frank. You know that. But what really is this all about?

I'm being honest with you, Sevier. I have no earthly idea what he wants with you. I will tell you this, though, and it may be related: we're to muster out. And there's been much of a much, with comings and goings from that tent you're directed to attend. And he's not just a brevet general of volunteer cavalry, he's the governor's son. Much big powwow in that wigwam these days.

Well, what's a little feller like me wanted for, then, in the brevet governor's son's wigwam, you reckon? mused Sevier. I'll pass by my tent and dress for the soiree directly.

No sir, Parson, the General told me specific, 'And if he's in his usual slovenly state more the better, bring him direct' and that's the God's honest truth about it.

Brevet Brigadier General James P. Brownlow was seated at a camp desk in his tent when Hybarger announced him and Sevier reported himself. Sevier could see no ill effects of the wounds he'd taken at Franklin. Brownlow was respected in the rank and file, a rare political officer who fought well and without overmuch foolishness. Sevier had seen his father once, giving a speech, and son resembled father a good deal. They had the same intense eyes but the General's chin was much stronger than the Governor's. Sever remembered the Governor looking rather unfortunately like a great angry toad.

Brownlow dismissed his orderly, sat back in his chair, and looked Sevier head to toe. He asked Sevier,Why, sergeant, are you always the most poorly dressed man in this regiment? Your company officers long ago despaired of making you look the least bit military.

Sir, my men know my face and my voice. They have no need of chevrons and a diamond. Wearing what I do makes me less conspicuous to rebels who know how to shoot, replied Sevier.

Less conspicuous? You are a large man who rides a large horse and you ride with a blue jacket in a body of other men wearing blue jackets. You can hardly be inconspicuous, sergeant. The rebels can hear us coming, surely, too far in advance for your clothing to make you difficult to see.

Sir, it is an issue of standing out in that blue crowd. Rebel sharpshooters know to fire on shoulder straps first, chevrons second, and men who look like all the other men last. It's only sense. Our tree frogs do the same, as you know, sir.

The General frowned. What about inspiring, about leading by your example and your presence?

That only works, sir, if I remain vertical, sir. As I say, my men know me. They are at least familiar with the shape of my back, having always seen it out in front of them.

The General smiled at the boast. An interesting if unconventional idea. He asked another question. Captain Willoughby tells me your fellow sergeants call you 'Parson' but he doesn't know why. Satisfy my curiosity, if you will.

No great mystery, sir. I do not myself use profane language, for one thing. For another, they accuse me of preaching to the men.

Preaching? You preach the Gospel?

My gospel, sir. Keep yourself clean, keep your arms and tack cleaner, keep your mount cleanest. Mind where you pitch a tent. No tent with only recruits. Fetch no water downstream of a latrine. Other things. A camp gospel, sir, not a Camp Meeting Gospel. I can be very insistent on some points, sir.

No tent with only recruits?

Yessir. New men make foolish mistakes. New men learn from the veterans. Put a veteran in a tent with recruits or put a recruit in a tent of veterans and the fresh fish are better faster, sir.

Perhaps we should set you to writing a field manual rather than asking you to do what we have in mind.

Sevier didn't ask what that might be. The general would tell him when the general told him. That's the way it worked in Hannibal's army, likely.

Sergeant, you are from St Clair, I know. The Post Office there has been defunct for some years as there has been no Postmaster appointed to it. My father has suggested, and the President has agreed, that the want deprives your village of an important institution.

Post Office? thought Sevier, the hell?

You are an educated man, I understand. Two years at Greeneville College? Studying for the ministry?

Partly, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir.

Brownlow frowned. Care to elucidate, Sergeant?

As I only completed two years, I consider myself only partly educated. Sir. Yes, it was at Greeneville College. Sir. Definitely not the ministry. Sir.

Brownlow's frown deepened but then the corners of his mouth twitched. A bit. This regiment has a reputation for insubordination, Sergeant. Within this insubordinate regiment, you are one of several sergeants who have reputations for insubordination.

Sevier thought that no reply to that was called for, either by military etiquette or plain common sense.

After a moment, Brownlow went on, Did you tell Captain Willoughby, at Franklin, that he was about to 'commit an act of deadly foolishness not seen since Murat charged the squares'?

Yes, sir. I did. In my defense, sir, I was angry. I realized my mistake at once and I was mortified. Of course it was Ney who charged at Waterloo, not Murat. Sir.

Brownlow lowered his head and his hand went to his mouth. He contemplated his desk for a long moment, and then raised his head to look at Sevier. Perhaps we should return to the topic at hand. Have you plans for after the War, Sergeant?

None, sir. I have been too busy trying to wade through this infernal hailstorm to consider what might happen after, sir. Seemed a bit premature to have plans.

I may be able to help you with that issue. The Post Office in your home village needs a postmaster. You are from St. Clair, you are educated, and you are of a loyal family. You yourself have ridden well for the Old Flag. Your uncle is not a political man but spoke out against secession prior to both referendums. He was arrested by the rebel authorities. You knew that?

Sever nodded. He heard about it but it had nothing to do with politics. A rebel commissary agent had come to buy his uncle's remaining horses at the government price with Confederate scrip. Uncle John had chased him down the road with a pitchfork. The agent came back with some cavalry and they took away the horses and his uncle.

The General continued, It would be appropriate to reward you for your service. My father suggested your name to Mr. Johnson and he has seen fit to make the appointment, if you will have it. Brownlow pushed a paper across his desk. That is yours, should you decide to accept. I am afraid it is only a fifth-class position and the pay is not generous. He paused a moment.

No. No suh, this is not it, thought Sevier, one more shoe left to bang on the floor. Big 'un.

Brownlow went on, We, I mean the administration, have other friends in that county and have had for several years. Unfortunately the Eastern Division and Hawkins County in particular have suffered grievous injury from the war. Guerrillas on both sides, simple bandits, neighbors settling vendettas as they please against the context of general lawlessness. I am not telling you anything you do not already know. I suggested to my father that another man there, a man of demonstrated loyalty and courage, as well as independence of judgment, and the corners of his mouth twitched again, might serve us well in that post. Especially as the demands of postmaster in a small community are not so onerous as to prevent other useful activities. He paused a moment. You are a Tennessee man. You know my father and the President are not the closest of friends, to put it mildly. But in this case they were able to come to an agreement. The position is yours, if you will.

It seems a fine offer, sir, and one not commonly extended to a sergeant of volunteer cavalry.

Brownlow frowned. Indeed. But we think you may be uniquely qualified for this particular post. And I have one more thing for you. He pushed another sheet of paper across his camp desk. This is a commission as captain in the State Guard. The Guard will be a force to combat lawlessness and maintain our State's proper reconstruction of free institutions destroyed by the rebellion. You will not take the field with the regular Guard and this should not be open knowledge. It does, however, provide bona fides of your authority from the Governor if that should prove necessary. The necessity should be dire for you to reveal this. He paused and glanced down at the commission. This will provide you with some legal authority to do more than simply gather information for the Governor. Brownlow's eyes returned to Sevier's and he waited a moment to for Sevier to consider the addendum to his duties.

Oh, shit, thought Sevier, a militia with Parson Brownlow to command it. And with officers enrolled secretly. He wondered how many.

Will you accept this, as well? Brownlow asked. We need a good man there, Sevier.

Who exactly is 'we', Sevier wondered. Of Brownlow, he asked, There is to be a State Guard, sir?

It will prove necessary. My father is certain of it. We must establish a community that shall be thoroughly loyal and we shall start in East Tennessee where our party is already strongest. The Middle and West Divisions can be dealt with after we establish that foundation. Will you accept the commission? And the responsibilities contingent upon it?

Now, thought Sevier, didn't that sound awfully like a politician? Sir, he said out loud, I will, sir. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, flashed through his mind. It troubled him that he was thinking in clichés but he excused himself on the grounds of discombobulation.

Sevier picked up the document and read it. General, there is no date on this commission.

There is no State Guard. As of yet. Captain.

Sevier maintained a neutral expression but grimaced inside. He asked, And in that capacity what will be my specific duties, sir?

Russell, rebellion has no right or privilege of citizenship whatever. That is the legal status brought about by secession. To say that we will now hand over to a people conquered with arms in their hands their own reconstruction is absurd. My father is working to guarantee that these people will be disenfranchised until such time as he judges they are fit again to be citizens. He is certain to succeed. That will cause ill feelings. You will observe and report correspondence coming through your Post Office between rebellious men. I suggest you not attempt to open and read the correspondence yourself as that raises the risk of discovery but I leave that to your discretion. That will be your primary mission, to observe and report on seditious and rebellious activities so that the Army, as long as it remains in Tennessee, and later the Guard may act to put these people down. In addition, you will observe and report efforts to retard the work of the Freedman's bureau in your county. You will observe and report on the activities of the Sheriff, who has not yet fully recovered from his wound or his captivity, so that we may be certain he is performing his duties or if he needs another more vigorous man to aid him. You will observe and report the activities of night riders and discover their identities, if that is practicable. Where you are able you will intervene, discreetly, to thwart the plans of these enemies of our State and Nation.

Jesus Christ!

So much for profane language.

It was a prayer, sir.

It occurred to Sevier that the setting was all wrong. The sun was shining and a breeze was causing the sides of the tents to undulate gently. Were it a novel or a play this conversation would be happening at night and there would be torchlight flickering and casting odd shadows. A Gothic tower would be in evidence, not a meadow by the side of the river.

Sevier thought of a detail the General had not mentioned: Sir, to whom do I report and how?

"We are putting another man, a very trustworthy man, in Jonesborough in somewhat the same circumstance as you. He will be visibly a friend of ours where you will be less obviously so. Among his duties is collection and collation of information from other men like yourself. You may