Gaucho: The Man Behind The Myth

Anthropology: Special Studies in Latin American Cultures

Tracking down a folk hero is not an easy task, especially when sources are limited or in a foreign language. In spite of limited sources, I have tried to present the scope of the gaucho character and a synopsis of the events that led to his creation and evolution, for that is truly what happened to his character. I have shortened the historical information and focused solely on the gaucho in the Banda Oriental area.

When I began this search, I had a preconceived idea of the gaucho from a childhood song. He was a romantic figure much like our American cowboy. He was a free spirit, a man of strength and high ideals, content with what he could carry on horseback, and who yearned to return to his sweetheart. However, as the search ends, I find the gaucho of my childhood song differs greatly from the actual man.

In the beginning, the gaucho was called changador, gauderio, gauso, or gaucho. The origin of these names is unknown, and only the latter term stuck. [Nichols 1942:3] However, the term gaucho appeared around the middle of the 18th century in what is now present-day Uruguay. It usually referred to a man without fixed employment. To some, a gaucho was a "shiftless person, given to cattle rustling, drunkenness and disorder." [Encyclopedia Americana 1985:345]

Regardless of which definition you choose, society considered the gaucho the lowest rung on the social ladder, the '"scum of society"'. Yet, as his numbers grew, so too did the fear and admiration by society. He eventually is seen as a "dashing cavalryman, successful lover, singing minstrel of the plains, and noble defender of the unfortunate." Although the gaucho was in fact and fiction all the above, my search leads me to believe he resulted from a combination of time, events, place, and necessity. Although time has changed much about the gaucho, from his manner of dress to his character, he was unique. 

The clothes of the gaucho of the past differ significantly from those of the modern gaucho. Decoration seems to have been an aspect acquired over time. A wide silver belt, baggy trousers, bright scarf, shirt, vest, jacket, and poncho over one shoulder recall the romantic gaucho of story and song. [World Book 1988:68 Encyclopedia Americana 1985:345] Gauchos wore headbands topped by small, narrow-brimmed hats, held in place by a chin strap. The silk neck scarf they usually wore was used to keep dust out of their nose and mouth or as a strainer for water. [1942:13]   The modern gaucho has kept these particular items of dress. However, Nichols' account of gaucho dress is not as charming.

"Gauchos usually had neither shirts nor trousers ... never lacked a poncho, which was a piece of coarse cloth coming down to their knees and tied at their waists by a broad sash ...adorned with ... silver coins if our gaucho were wealthy. They ...wore boots ... coming halfway up their legs, and made of the skin stripped from the legs of horses or cows." [Nichols 1942:13]

The most important item of dress still utilized by the gaucho is the facón. This is a 14 inch razor-sharp knife worn behind and sheathed in leather and used for protection, killing, eating, as a tool in handling hides, and for shaving. It is forbidden ever to touch a gaucho's facón. [Nichols 1942:13, Laxalt 1980:490]  

Proper use of this instrument appears to be an art. Skill was required in duels, and marking one's opponent by slashing the nose or eyes was preferred to murder, not a pleasant thought to be confronted with if one valued one's looks. [Nichols 1942:14]  Laxalt cites an old gaucho on the use of the facón in fighting.

"'When there is surely to be a fight, you cannot hesitate. In the same movement, you must draw your facón and slash your enemy's face to show that you mean business. If it does not end there, you must fight to kill. Then your knife must wave in your hand like a snake. And when you strike, it must be like a snake, once, and mortal." [1980:491]

Nichols states that meat was put in the mouth and a bite sliced off. After a meal, it served as a toothpick. [1942:12] One is left wondering how quickly the gaucho learns to handle the facón deftly and exactly what their noses look like.

Not only was skill necessary in using the facón, but as horsemen they were expected to be unsurpassed. The gaucho spends most of his life on horseback. He must be able to ride any horse, and if it falls, he must land on his feet with the reins in his hand. [Nichols 1942:14]

The gaucho subsisted on beef roasted over an open pit and washed down with mate, a bitter herb tea.  He would spend many leisure hours playing cards and was also a heavy drinker.  The favored drink was aguardiente, a sugar brandy.  [Laxalt 1980:501 Encyclopedia Americana 1985:345]

Most gauchos were mestizos of Spanish or Portuguese and Indian, or Indian and Negro descent; however, anyone of any race could be a gaucho. It was not his race but his lifestyle that set him apart. Gaucho was not a race; it was a class. According to Nichols, this class "existed as a separate entity in society" during the hundred-year period between 1775 and 1875. Prior to this period, gauchos existed, but only the arrival of substantial hide shipments enabled this group's emergence as a class. The creation of this class depended on the horse, the cow, and the development of a contraband trade in hides. [Nichols 1942;4,7,17,26 35]

The Spanish arrived in Latin America, bringing with them the horse and cow. While Spain was busy exploiting the natural resources of Latin America, namely gold and silver, the horse and cow did what came naturally. I might add they did it very well. On the pampas of Buenos Aires, in Entre Ríos and the Banda Oriental, or present-day Uruguay, things were booming. The Spanish designed the Banda Oriental as a hunting ground for cattle and discouraged settlement in the area. [Nichols 1942:32]  It didn't take long for people to notice this untapped resource. Understanding the events that led to the emergence of the gaucho class is easier if you first understand the extent of society's dependence on the horse and cow.

Just as the American cowboy needed his horse, so too did the gaucho, and the way the gaucho used the horse says much about his character. Horses were used to convey coffins to the cemetery by lashing the box crosswise to the saddle. They drew water from the well by tying a rope to the pommel and bucket and dropping it down the well. They sewed up criminals in a green hide and left them in the sun. Death was slow and certain as the hide dried and shrank. They also made butter on horseback, and it was quite simple. One began by placing the milk in a hide bag and attaching it to the saddle girth with a long rope. The gaucho mounted and rode at a hard pace while the bag bounced on the ground. After a suitable time, you had butter.  Bathing, I think, was the most telling sign of gaucho character. He would ride into the water, swim around his horse, remount, and ride out. [Nichols 1942:19]  The gaucho never exerted himself needlessly.

Obviously, the horse was more important alive, but the most important part of the cow was the hide, and it was necessary to kill the cow to get it. Saddles and bridles were of hide. The reins, traces, and lasso were twisted thongs. Bolas were stones wrapped in hide and connected by hide strips. Ropes and cords were strips of hide. Bags were hide sewn with hide strips. Hide cribs protected by hide shelters preserved grain. Boats were of hide. Corrals were stakes bound with hide thongs. Long wet strips strengthened the carriages, and they became nearly as hard as steel when dry. For the same reason, they covered all wooden parts of a carriage in soaked hide, and the springs were twisted hides. [Nichols 1942:18 19]

It's easy to grasp the importance of these animals after discovering the number of uses they were put to. Cattle, mules, and stock products provided the only commodities and served as the source of all that could be exchanged for manufactured articles or luxuries from Spain. [Nichols 1942:19]

In 1543, Spain established its fleet system, but before 1600, exportation of hides was hardly over 27,000 because of trade restrictions, poor transportation facilities, and Indians. In the beginning, Buenos Aires had little in the way of exports, but by 1618 she had a limited export in hides.  [Nichols:1942:27]

Any rancher who dealt in hides formed cattle hunts, called Vaquería, for lost cattle for hides to export and to increase his stock with strays. After obtaining the required permit, he would hire a band of men who specialized in hunting down cattle. Criminals and outlaws usually composed the band. While the Vaquería existed earlier, it reached its peak in the 18th century when the hide market was booming.  [Nichols 1942:22-25]

Of course, once they noticed that one could receive European manufactured goods in exchange for hides, it was only a matter of time before everyone was attempting to catch the same boat. Indians began to hunt as well. The army always has to have a cut of the pie, of course, and they were sending armed troops into the heart of Indian lands to hunt. [Nichols 1942:25]

With so many now hunting cattle, it became more difficult to find them in the usual places. This forced the Vaquería to range farther and farther to get the hides, and this usually meant into distant hostile lands. It was in these hostile lands that Vaquería members settled to be near their source of income.  It was here the contraband trade would begin and here the gaucho would evolve. [Nichols 1942:25]

It must be said here that the Vaquería served as a school for the gaucho. It was with the Vaquería that the gaucho practiced the use of bolas and lasso. He would learn ways of handling cattle, such as how to hamstring them, how to strip off hides, and prepare them for shipment. With the Vaquería, he would hear of markets where he could dispose of illegal wares in the future. [Nichols 1942:23]

If it were not for the hands of fate or of governments interfering in the lives of men, things might march along at a nice even clip. Unfortunately, someone always interferes.

The small size of the settlement in the Plata meant that few Spanish ships came to the region. Also, Spain was at war, as usual, and could not afford the necessary warship guard to establish and maintain an alternative route. She stuck to her northern route through the Antilles, Mexico, and Peru. So what could not be shipped directly from Buenos Aires could be sent through Peru and on to Spain. This would have allowed Buenos Aires to compete with merchants in Peru if a glitch had not occurred in 1622. At this time, a Royal Custom House was established in Córdoba, which required transit duties of 50%. [Nichols 1942:27]  Any profit the hide hunters may have realized was now cut in half. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out the solution to this problem. 

Smuggling is the obvious way to cut out the middleman, in this case the Royal Custom House. Because of the transit duties, the contraband trade became necessary, and with it the men skilled in the handling of cattle and schooled by the Vaquería. Thus time, events, place, and necessity now converged to create the gaucho, and these will continue to alter his character for centuries.

Although the gaucho's activities could be considered illegal, the Spanish settlers usually tolerated them, except where the settlers were directly harmed. They might not be the ideal neighbor but they were of value to the "local society". [Nichols 1942:33] Nichols description suggests a gaucho of all trades.

"He collected Uruguayan livestock and drove it to purchasers on the Brazilian frontier ... hunted cattle for hides to be similarly sold; or ... he smuggled European goods to their local market .... He might work for some impresario from Santa Fe or Buenos Aires; or ... a Brazilian of similar interests, or the captain of some passing French, English, or Dutch boat. (He) ... was the means whereby the community received the goods it needed, and at pleasantly advantageous prices. [Nichols 1942:33]

In the beginning, my impression of the gaucho was that of a chivalrous cowboy. I learned he most definitely was not that. Nichols says that "a hearty dislike of walking ...led to an  ... inclination to steal horses. She goes further by saying that the cruelty of their everyday occupations had its general effect on their characters. They could cut the throat of a man as coldly and dispassionately as that of a cow. They placed no value on life, and equally, death did not bother them.  [1942:15]

This is not the picture of a man one would want to bring home to mother, and yet, the gaucho had some redeeming qualities. They were hospitable, willing to give food and lodging to any traveler, even though they didn't know who he was or where he was going or why. They were personally courageous and stoic in endurance of hardship or pain. They were highly independent men as well, working when they chose and leaving their employer when they chose. " It was possible to survive on the pampa without work and with relative comfort." [Nichols 1942:15]  He was a true vagabond.

Another aspect of his character was his competitiveness. Possessing special skills was not enough; one must also test them and prove oneself superior to all others. Nichols says this quality made the gaucho apt at war. [Nichols 1942:16]  And it was war which caused the first actual change in attitude toward the gaucho.

In 1809, Viceroy Cisneros "made direct and open trade with Europe" legal by decree. The gaucho suddenly found he had no way to make a "dishonest living" and he was no longer useful to society. [Nichols 1942:53]  Fortunately, fate again intervened.

In the Plata region, there was a period of war that existed during the first half of the nineteenth century. Nothing could have suited the gaucho more, and he embraced it wholeheartedly. This was his element and a game as well. He could use his skills to their fullest, and he had an audience. There was no need to alter his lifestyle because he already knew how to live off the land. He could find water and food where others couldn't. "With the sun for a guide, the ordinary tools of its work for arms, and saddle cloths for a bed, a gaucho army became as independent as any in the world."

After the wars for independence, in which he fought hard and dedicatedly, the term gaucho came to be respected. The appearance of hundreds of unkempt gaucho riders in their colorful ponchos, carrying knives lashed to poles and yelling obscenities, must have been terrifying to the opposing forces. Barbaric the gaucho armies might be, but with a competent leader they were highly effective. Then the wars ended, and once again the gaucho finds himself without a raison d'être. [Nichols 1942:53 57]

Rudolph says the "spread of estancias, appropriation of land and wild herds, hunting, and slaughter, regulation, and control of hides and tallow brought the gaucho life to an end. Eventually he is recruited to work on estancias." [Rudolph 1986:23]  And yet, the gaucho did not die. He simply changed his place of employment once more.

The Romantic movement, which started in Europe in the late sixteenth century, had spread to Latin America. The emphasis was on "individualism and nationalism" and stressed "artistic freedom to pursue new subject matter and fresh literary forms."  [World Book 1988:112]  The gaucho acquired a new position in society and, in fact, became a whole new man.  It's this movement that gives the gaucho his romantic nature. He became "a symbol of the national spirit and ... national achievement". [Nichols 1942:59]  The stories which result from this period show him as irresistible to women, an excellent singer, a defender of the downtrodden, and a man unjustly persecuted. [Nichols 1942:59 61]

This image of the gaucho became so popular that in the early part of the twentieth century in Argentina it became popular to "play gaucho". Nichols mentions clubs formed where members congregated to play the guitar, sing gaucho songs, read gaucho stories, write gaucho newspapers, and act in gaucho plays. [Nichols 1942:62]  No longer is the gaucho disreputable; now he is a hero.

The more I read of the gaucho, the more I wanted to understand how the forces which created such a man and changed him  and elevated him to the role of a hero. I think I found the answer, at least part of it, in these two quotes from Lehman's study of Carlyle's Theory of the Hero.

"A man's course of life is the road his environment forces him to follow; his education is the discipline and enlightenment which his environment affords."

"Thus, the pressure, the need, of a world of men diversifies the form which the essential Hero assumes." [Lehman 1966:58-59]

His environment molded the gaucho, but the "world of men" made him a hero.

Each time it seemed the gaucho would die out, he has survived.  Even today he still exists in the Pampa region of Argentina.  But civilization may finally do what the Spanish conquest and wars could not do. Once large estancias are now divided and fenced, and roads encroach into the interior. One gaucho cited by Laxalt said, "When the roads are here, the old gaucho way of life will be gone. No longer can we live untouched by the corruption of outside influences." [Laxalt 1980:500]  And yet, one must look back at another time when the outside world intruded. The forces that helped create the gaucho then are not so very different from the ones he faces today. Perhaps he will continue to survive. 

Bibliography

Burns, E. Bradford.  1980.   A History of Brazil. 2nd Ed.  N.Y. Colombia University Press. p. 84.

"Gaucho." 1985.  Encyclopedia Americana.  Grolier Inc.  Conneticut.  12:345.

 -------------. 1988. World Book Encyclopedia.  World Book Inc.  Chicago.  8:68.

"Latin American Literature." 1988. World Book Encyclopedia.  World Book Inc.  Chicago.  12:112.

Laxalt, Robert.  1980.  Gauchos: Last of a Breed.     National Geographic 158:478 500.

Lehman, B. H.   1966.  Carlyle's Theory of the Hero:  It's Sources, Development, History and Influence on Caryle's     Work.  New York.  AMS Press  pp. 58 59.

Nichols, Madaline Wallis.  1942.  The Gaucho. North Carolina.  Duke University Press. pp. vii 63.

Rudolph, James D. 1986.  Argentina: A Country Study. 3rd Ed.      Area Handbook Series. Washington, D.C.  U.S. Government Printing Office.  p. 23.

The Blessing of the Black Cat

 I watched Jet this morning as he did his usual “love me” routine of head butting and patting me with his paw. He’s such a beautiful cat and I get genuine joy just looking at him. However, it is his personality that makes everyone love him. He loves to be loved and get attention. Yes, it can get tedious, especially when I’m trying to write. 

I took a few photos of him and it struck again me how insane it is these animals were hunted to near extinction. Why would anyone do such a thing? This happened a few times in history because people considered them witches’ familiars or the devil’s tools. How stupid.

By no stretch of the imagination can I see Jet as evil. He is the most loving cat with a sweet disposition. I’ve never seen another cat like him in my life. I have an older cat, a tabby with a mixed coat, Chaz. He’s the alpha of my cat trio, and he’s grumpy. He attacks Jet frequently just because. Jet? He lies down on his back, exposing his belly, and reaches out with a paw in submission. Chaz doesn’t care. He’ll jump him and bite him. Jet runs. This behavior is almost daily. Jet never gives up submitting. Chaz never gives up his aggressiveness. I wonder who is the better feline?

As I write this post, Jet lies at my elbow on a small table I have for his use. Unless he is hungry or thirsty, he will stay there until I leave the desk. He’s never scratched, bitten, or growled at me. In 3 years, he’s meowed twice. He doesn’t tear things up or claw things. He tells me when I need to go to bed and he stays on the pillow next to me. If I lie down for a nap, he does, too. When I feel unwell, it is a great comfort to have him there. I don’t know what more you could ask in a cat. Every person I’ve run across, whether in person or online, who owns a black cat, tells the same stories.

Yes, he annoys me once in a while. I can only stroke his fur, rub his belly, or pet him so long before my shoulder and arm gives out. He’d let me brush him for an hour, but I barely hold out for 20 minutes. He pushed my phone down today as I took photos of him with his paw, a gentle push. I got the hint and gave him attention. 

Over a few years, I’ve seen videos of a handful of cats, in many colors, who are mean cats. They got that way because of the owners' handling, not the cat's nature. Training, kindness, and gentle treatment always results in gentle creatures. 

Despite this, people still torture and kill black cats for fun. Every year around this time jerks look for cats to “sacrifice”. Petty little minds with nothing better to do than kill animals for sport. 

Today, I brushed Jet’s thick, black coat until he was silky. He butted and licked my hands for pets. Brushing must feel wonderful because I get lots of kisses. I don’t understand how anyone could think evil of them or desire to hurt them. I don’t know how they’ve survived history and its cruelty. I’m just glad they did. No matter what history says, my beautiful black cat is a blessing. 

The Killing of Tom Browder

I am about to tell you a story I think is true. It's based on one fact that I discovered during my genealogy of research into the Browder line of my family. I’m a writer and a history major doing genealogy work on my family tree and things like this suck me in.

On December 10, 1911 Will Boswell fatally injured John Thomas Browder. That is the fact. It becomes a little sketchy after that. According to my grandfather, Willie Browder, his father Thomas was murdered (sic) in a fight over another woman. He was hit with a fence post. He never told me the name of the man who killed Thomas.

That's the bare bones of the story.

During my research, I discovered an obituary notice posted on Find A Grave that gave the name of the man who killed Tom. According to the obituary, Tom died when Will Bozell (sic) struck him in the head with a pole. This confirms the story my grandfather told me. The obit mentions no reason for the fight but they would not have mentioned a woman in this kind of story, at least not a decent woman. The obituary does not tell what happened to Will Boswell. More on that later.

To gather more information, I searched genealogy records for Will Boswell. In 1910 he lived in Crenshaw County in the same Precinct as Tom Browder, basically the same neighborhood. Pigeon Creek appears on a map in Butler County, next to Crenshaw County. The area they lived may have crossed county lines. I can’t be sure at this point. Remember, these were farms, so they were spread out a bit. Sometimes states also restructured counties.

Will was married to his second wife, Ellen Golden who was the same age as Tom Browder. Will and Ellen had been married about 13 years and had a bunch of children (some by Will's first wife).

Based on my family oral history Tom Browder was a womanizer. This from his own son and he never ever talked about his father but one time—that was the time I asked him directly what happened to his father. Based on the genetics of the Browder men I've known all my life, Tom probably was a very good looking man.

Now, here's what I think occurred. And remember, I write fiction.

Tom Browder was married with six children and his wife Alice was pregnant with a little girl who would be born in May, after his death.

At some point in time, Tom Browder became involved with Will Boswell's wife. Whether she was a participant, or he was just sniffing around the henhouse, we’ll never know. Either way, Boswell wasn’t having it. I suspect he went to Tom Browder’s home. It was a Thursday so Tom would probably have been working his farm. I can see Boswell demanding that Tom stop messing with his wife.

“If you don’t stop coming by and accosting her on the street, there’s going to be trouble. I know your reputation but that’s my wife and you are to leave her alone.”

Maybe Tom blew Will off. Or maybe he laughed at him and said “I’ll do what I please, Will Boswell. Get back to your farm before you get hurt.”

Let me just say here that Tom Browder was 33 years old. Will Boswell was 43, an old man by the standards of the day. I’m sure Tom thought he could handle him. He miscalculated. Tom Browder died of his wounds on Friday leaving his wife with 7 children.

There is no evidence or family history to any of that. But something happened that escalated into a fatal fight. At some point, Will Boswell picked up a post and struck Tom Browder in the back of the head. This suggest Tom was not facing him or he was moving away from Will. Maybe Boswell was on the ground and Tom figured it was over.

Perhaps Tom was working when Boswell arrived and Will saw his chance to kill the man he believed was messing with his wife. He picks up the post and strikes him. Was there actually a fight? My feeling is there was a fight. I think Browder was probably cocky and walked away and in a rage, Boswell picked up the nearest thing to hand and hit Browder.

But that’s just my writer’s imagination.

Will Boswell was alive and well in 1920, still with his wife and children. He died July 3rd, 1925 and is buried in Pleasant Home Baptist Church Cemetary in Butler County. I could not find any record of a trial or investigation. He obviously didn’t get a long stretch in prison. Was Tom Browder’s reputation so well known that they brought no charges? Perhaps.

We’ll never know what happened without more documentation. I’d have to research the newspapers in Crenshaw and Covington County and the court records to find out. Maybe I’ll have time on a trip future trip.

But in the meantime, it sure is an interesting story.

*Please note. I ascribe no blame to either Browder or Boswell. I don't know the circumstances or facts of the case other than those told by Tom Browder's son who was 2 at the time of the murder, and the obituary in the paper at that time. Browder may have deserved what he got. Boswell may have imagined the flirtation or it may have been true. I don't have enough data to make an assessment. But I can speculate. And I bet I'm close to the truth.

Happy Thanksgiving!

George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation

[New York, 3 October 1789]

By the President of the United States of America. a Proclamation.

Whereas it is the duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits, and humbly to implore his protection and favor--and whereas both Houses of Congress have by their joint Committee requested me "to recommend to the People of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many signal favors of Almighty God especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness."

Now therefore I do recommend and assign Thursday the 26th day of November next to be devoted by the People of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being, who is the beneficent Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be--That we may then all unite in rendering unto him our sincere and humble thanks--for his kind care and protection of the People of this Country previous to their becoming a Nation--for the signal and manifold mercies, and the favorable interpositions of his Providence which we experienced in the course and conclusion of the late war--for the great degree of tranquillity, union, and plenty, which we have since enjoyed--for the peaceable and rational manner, in which we have been enabled to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national One now lately instituted--for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed; and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge; and in general for all the great and various favors which he hath been pleased to confer upon us.

and also that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech him to pardon our national and other transgressions--to enable us all, whether in public or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually--to render our national government a blessing to all the people, by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed--to protect and guide all Sovereigns and Nations (especially such as have shewn kindness unto us) and to bless them with good government, peace, and concord--To promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the encrease of science among them and us--and generally to grant unto all Mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as he alone knows to be best.

Given under my hand at the City of New-York the third day of October in the year of our Lord 1789.

Go: Washington

RE: Thanksgiving Proclamation

The Tunnel

The road leading up the mountain twisted and turned back on itself so many times I had begun to think we would end up where we started. There were few houses and these perched precariously on steep hills. One tremor would surely send them tumbling down. It was a surprise the cows didn't topple over.

Driveways appeared suddenly around curves but were quickly swallowed up in the trees, brief indicators that someone passed here regularly. The nearest town was miles away, although there were small roadside stores. Most of them probably served the needs of the locals and the tourists.

Oaks, pines, maples, hickory, dogwood, and rhododendron covered the mountain. Their leaves were just beginning their change from green to flaming shades of orange, yellow and crimson. Sunlight filtering through the leaves made the day blaze around us. A small stream ran down a steep rocky slope, chuckling and skipping over sharp, jagged boulders and whispering across smooth, glossy stone sheets.

It was there, set into the mountain, a black mouth, frozen in a huge, toothless yawn where the heart had been. A set of tracks lay abandoned a short distance away, a testimony of the plans that fell short. An ornamental metal sign said the tunnel was carved during the Civil War with the help of slaves.

"There's an abandoned town a couple of miles on the other side of the mountain. To reach it you have to climb that 50-foot cliff near the stream and hike a path for a couple of miles. No one goes there much. Workers who had helped carve out the heart of the mountain had lived there," a tall dark man said.

"Germans," someone else said.

A man wearing a gray Stetson trimmed in gold braid spoke up, "If they had finished this the war might have been different."

I studied the entrance and wondered. Longer, maybe? More blood, more death. How much more would the nation have suffered? How much deeper would the nation have gone into depravity? The sound of screams and smell of gunpowder drifted across my imagination. I shook my head to push away the images of headless bodies on fields of blood.

The park charged no admission, had no guards. There was just this gaping black hole with people going in or coming out. This day there were dozens. The flashlights they carried were no match for the darkness that surrounded them. Standing in the opening, one could see the tiny points of light bobbing in the darkness. There was no beam or reflection, just white dots, like glowing balls. Darkness swallowed everything else.

Jim and I walked in the slightly raised center of the path. It sloped on each side and water stood in the trough-like areas between us and the walls. We could hear the steady drip, drip, drip as the water seeped from the walls and ran into the standing water.

“Strange how that water sounds,” I said.

If you held the light just right, you could see where the water ran down, leaving shining streaks on the face of walls of tortured granite, chipped and carved by man. “Reminds me of tears. Maybe the walls are crying."

Voices echoed in the tunnel. The visitors laughed and chattered and children squealed in delight at the darkness. Over all of this, quietness lay, as if a blanket were draped across the sounds.

I heard singing and surely, that was the ringing of steel-on-steel. The gravel beneath my feet sounded like leather rubbing against stone. I looked back at the mouth, now etched against the day. How bright it seemed in here, where the darkness lived, in the heart of this mountain. You could not tell where the tunnel ended.

I said,  "I heard that they once stored cheese here because the temperature is a constant 55°. Surely they had some kind of lights."

Out of the darkness, a light bobbed toward us. A man penetrated the blackness ahead. He wore white shorts and a tee-shirt. A little girl rode his shoulders. They appeared, slow and subtle as if coming into focus rather than entering a field of light.

We stopped and peered into the depths of that blackness. There was nothing to see. People walked around us, toward the dark, and faded from view, while others reappeared, slowly coming back into focus. A cold breeze seemed to wrap around us, tugging at our clothes and skin, pulling us toward the dark end of the tunnel. Negative pressure, I thought. I could still hear those other voices. The ring of tools still resounded in my ears. The sound of clothing as it brushed stone was clear.

"I don't want to go any further," I said, "Our lights aren't strong enough."

"Oh, just a little further, Liza," said my husband.

 He continued on and, after a moment's hesitation, I followed with reluctance. The sounds were growing stronger. I could still hear someone singing and it sounded familiar. I strained my ears to catch the words but they froze in the air, never really reaching my eardrums. A muffled oath followed a dull, bruising sound. I gasped, drawing the cool air into my lungs. Swing low, sweet chariot, yes, the song was an old spiritual. I looked around, my eyes straining to pierce the blackness. Surely, surely only a black man could be singing. The voice was rich, mellow and deep and the words drawn out with that soul wrenching melody that only black singers seem able to summon. But where was he? The darkness had grown thicker and the light at the entrance was now dim and no bigger than the beams of the flashlights had been when we entered.

 I reached for Jim’s hand but he was too far ahead. Then, he disappeared into the blackness ahead of me and as I looked frantically around, the light at the entrance disappeared as if someone had blown out a candle. I cried out and rushed ahead to where Jim had disappeared. The darkness pressed in on me and seemed to envelop me like a heavy cloak. The cold seeped into my bones and made my back hurt. Then, just as quickly the darkness lifted and I broke through into growing light.

 All around me, glowing, yellow lights flickered and the walls glimmered with wetness. The sounds of singing, laughing and swearing were loud but they had to be to be heard above the clanging, clamoring, ringing of steel on stone. Great pools of light with smaller areas of darkness filled the tunnel. Men moved up and down ladders and around great boulders. Some carried smaller stones toward what appeared to be another entrance. I saw wheelbarrows and wheeled carts loaded with stone and debris. Leather scrubbed against stone as one of the workers moved around a large boulder.

 I turned toward a dull, bruising sound and watched as a man dropped the hammer he held, grabbed his hand and swore. Blood, dark in the lantern light, dripped from his broken fingers. Several men rushed to help him and in the yellow glow, I saw they were all black, their skin shining with sweat, in spite of the cold. I followed them toward the light at the end of the tunnel.

 Light rushed at me and surrounded me in a warm embrace as I stepped from the mouth of the tunnel. Men were everywhere, running, walking, squatting, sitting, standing, eating, drinking. Several dozen men worked a short distance away, laying track. Wagons loaded with supplies stood in a clearing beyond. Someone shouted for help and a man hurried over with a bucket of water from the nearby stream. I stared at that stream.

 I walked over to the edge of the rushing water. For the length of time it took an orange leaf to be swept away on the surface of the stream, time seemed to jolt to a halt and then with increasing speed, rush backward. The world felt tilted, off-center.

 The stream was a little larger, the water a little clearer, and there was less debris but it was just the same, chuckling over stones, whispering over glossy stone sheets. Turning slowly, I surveyed the area. No fathers rode laughing daughters on their shoulders. There was no ornamental plaque, no laughing children, no mothers tugging reluctant toddlers into the gaping mouth. I saw no picnic tables, only men, rushing as madly as ants with their tools. Gradually, I realized there were white men present. They stood as sentinels, with rifles slung over their arms or across their laps. They smoked with eyes narrowed, scanning everything. Other white men poured over rolls of paper and sketched in the air or moved around, directing workers.

 My heart felt heavy, my mouth tasted dry as the dead leaves that blew along the ground at my feet, and I was so very cold. I reached out and placed a trembling hand against a huge oak. The bark felt rough against my palm. Every nerve in my body jerked at the exploding sound in the distance. I felt the ground tremble beneath my feet but no one else seemed to notice.

 A man stumbled and fell beneath a load of rock he carried in a sack on his back. No one moved to help him and he groaned as he struggled to rise. For several minutes he lay there until finally, one of the guards motioned to another black man. The second man removed the sack of stone and gently helped his fellow to his feet. He led him over to a boulder and seated him there.

 Again the ground trembled at the thunderous sound in the distance. Again, no one noticed. I moved up to one of the guards and stood in front of him.

 “Excuse me. Can you tell me what is going on here? My husband and I went in the tunnel and got separated. I didn’t know there would be a program going on. No one told us,” I laughed, “in fact, we didn’t know the tunnel had a back door.”

 The guard looked right through me, at least, if felt as if he did. He continued to scan the moving, miserable mass behind me, blowing smoke right in my face. Blue smoke, with a sharp pungent smell, drifted around my head. I reached out and touched the hand that lay across the barrel of the rifle. It was warm. He jumped, jerking his hand back as if he had been burned. He looked around, his eyes shocked and filled with fear. He took several steps backward and turned in a slow circle.

 Another guard approached, a puzzled look on his face. He touched the other’s shoulder. “Blue?” he said.

 The man, Blue, jumped again and whirled around. “Good God, Jim. You scared the daylights out of me.”

 “What’s the matter with you? You look like you seen a ghost,” Jim said.

 Blue continued to look around him, his face white, his eyes bulging. “I didn’t see nothing but I swear someone touched me. It was icy cold.”

 Jim laughed. “You been on duty too long, boy. You need to get in out of the sun for a spell. The only spooks around here is us.” 

 Blue didn’t laugh.

 I watched the entire episode standing less than three feet from the two men. Not once did they look at me. Blue had looked through me several times but his eyes never caught mine. I turned and looked again at the dozens of men hurrying to-and-fro. I was the only woman among them but not one man there looked at me.

 I looked down the road that ran along the track they were laying. What lay beyond this place? If I took that road would I catch up with Jim and my own time? Or would I find fields of dead and dying soldiers in uniforms of blue and gray? Would I hear the squeals of modern day children or the screams of wounded men, calling for their mothers? I moved toward the road. No, this was 1990. If I continued along this road I would pass the toilet facilities provided by the federal government in this and all national parks.

 A scream echoed behind me from the gaping mouth of the tunnel and I turned. A half dozen men hurried into the light, carrying a man in their arms. He screamed in pain. They gently lay him on the ground and someone placed a rolled up coat beneath his head. Two guards bent over him, questioning the others.

 “Boss,” one of the blacks spoke, “he’s wukin’ on dat ladder and of a sudden like, a great piece o’ that mountain jump out and knock him down. He fall hard and dat stone rat on top o’ him.”

 The guard shook his head and moved away. “He‘s done boys. Get him back to town. Try and keep him comfortable.”

 “We cain’t move him rat now,” another black man spoke up, anger in his eyes. “He’s hurtin’ bad.”

 “Well, boy, we cain’t hep him here,” the guard replied.

 I moved toward where the group of men knelt and stood around the groaning man. Several men moved away and went back toward the tunnel. I knelt beside him and looked into the black face, shining with sweat. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and his nose. He was young, certainly not more than twenty. He opened his eyes and for a moment, they were glazed in pain. Then, he looked at me. His eyes widened and fear pushed the pain from them. He groaned something and one of those who remained nearby knelt on his other side and took his hand.

 “I heah Gabe. I gone stay rat heah wit you.” He looked up at the guard, questioning, and at the guard’s nod he relaxed. “The boss done say it be all right. I gone take you home, Gabe.”

 Gabe continued to stare at me and I knew he saw me. Whatever reason the others could not did not apply to Gabe. He saw me.

 And he heard me. I spoke soothingly, “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. Everything will be all right.” I gently stroked his forehead and then took his hand. It was as cold as mine and rough as the stone he worked.

 I stayed there and watched as he relaxed and the fear left his eyes, replaced with something else I couldn’t understand. He tried to talk but the only sound he made was the horrible rattling of blood and breath. He must have been crushed all to pieces inside. Finally, just before the light faded from his eyes, he looked at me and smiled. Then he was gone.

 They lifted him, placed him in a wagon, and covered him with a tarpaulin. Only then did I realize I was weeping. I watched the wagon disappear down the road and the ache to follow was nearly unbearable. The sun was going down and I knew that I had to go back, back to the tunnel, through that smothering darkness. I didn’t want to see the battlefields or hear the screams of death.  

 I turned and moved quickly to the entrance and hesitated, remembering the cold and the dark. I looked to where Blue was still standing, gun still resting across his arm. Nothing had changed for him. He probably didn’t even remember his brush with the ghost. I waited until his eyes drifted toward where I waited. I lifted my hand, waved and gave him a sad smile. His eyes widened and he went fish-belly white, then he fell over in a dead faint.

 I moved into the tunnel and walked carefully toward the darkness. All around me, glowing, yellow lights flickered and the walls glimmered with wetness. The sounds of singing, laughing and swearing were loud but they had to be in order to be heard above the clanging, clamoring, ringing of steel on stone. Great pools of light surrounded by smaller areas of darkness filled the tunnel. Men moved up and down ladders and around great boulders. I continued on until I felt that cold, heavy blackness surrounding me. I looked back for one brief moment and watched as the tunnel entrance disappeared as if someone had blown out a candle.

 I hurried forward. Or was I going backward? Somewhere I had crossed a line but I was no longer sure if I had come from the future or from the past. That was the most frightening thing of all. Where was I headed? Where were we all headed?

 “Liza, Liza!” Jim shouted. “Liza, what is wrong with you? Answer me!”

 Jim was there, in front of me, holding, no gripping me by my arms. I could feel the warmth of his palms through my thin cotton blouse. I could feel his heart beating beneath my hands, pressed against his chest.

 “Jim? Oh Jim,” I sobbed. What to say? “Jim, did you see them? Did you see?”

 He looked at me with his lips clamped tightly shut.

 “Jim, please tell me what happened.”

 “Liza, we’re leaving. You scared me to death. I thought something happened to you. When I turned around and you weren’t there I went nuts. The place is black as Hades anyway and I didn’t think I would find you. My God, the darkness is absolutely physical the farther in you go. I finally turned back and found you leaning against a wet slimy wall, sobbing.”

 “Jim, what year is it?”

 He looked at me but not as I expected him to look. He said very carefully, “1990.”

 “Take me home.”

 We turned eagerly back toward the light. I glanced behind me to see more lights disappear. Our feet made scrunching sounds on the gravel as we neared the entrance.

 Light rushed at us and surrounded us in a warm embrace as we stepped from the mouth of the tunnel. The stream sang and called to us. I breathed deep of the fall air and felt a breeze tug playfully at my hair. I never realized how heavy darkness was until now.

 As I looked back into the dark entrance, I thought I heard singing. The voice was rich, mellow and deep and the words drawn out with the soul-wrenching melody that only black singers seem able to summon. “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.” I looked around and saw a black man seated at a picnic table, his skin was shiny with sweat and his clothes tattered and dirty. For a one brief moment we looked at each other and then, he smiled and waved. I shuddered. I followed Jim to the car. I refused to look back.



History of “The Tunnel”

  During the late 1980’s we lived in a small town in South Carolina. We often took our small sons on day trips to the foothills in the western part of the state, particularly, Highland, S.C. It was during one of these day trips that we ran across a national park area where a tunnel was carved out of the mountain. It was the fall of the year and the area is as described. It was used for a variety of purposes through the years, storage for cheese being one.

 The story, told by a man in a gray hat with gold braid and seated on a rock near the creek, was that the tunnel had been intended to open the supply lines for the Confederate Army. Lee’s surrender changed everything and it was never finished. The quote in The Tunnel is what we were told that day -- “if the tunnel had been completed, the war might have gone differently.”

 I have no evidence that slaves were used in the construction of the tunnel. In fact, my information while visiting the tunnel was that Germans were the builders. The village mentioned was a bit of a walk away and to visit that location we would have had to climb a 50-foot cliff. We were younger then and would have been game but we had two small boys with us. We did start into the tunnel but I became uncomfortable about halfway in and, despite numerous people coming and going, I elected not to complete the journey. Imagination is a very powerful instrument.

 This story arose from my very vivid imagination and the comments from a very loyal southerner who, for some reason, still felt the insult of a war long over. I, too, am a loyal southerner, and therefore, with perhaps a greater understanding of his point of view which has nothing to do with slavery. The poor white majority of the south did not own slaves and were not helped by its continuation or its demise. However, his comment struck me. It began a process of thought and was probably the final catalyst that started me toward a B. A. in history. It was the cost of human suffering and the potential to continue that suffering that the tunnel represented to me, and it was this which played on my vivid imagination and resulted is “The Tunnel”.