Black Bill: A Novel Of Walker Valley and Tremont in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park

Black Bill

A Novel Of Walker Valley and Tremont in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park

© 2024 Catherine Astl

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35094-523-2

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35094-524-9

DEDICATIONS

To William Marion Black Bill Walker and families

To my most beloved son, Dean, and to my most beloved and supportive parents, Nick and Cathryn Abernathy

To Randy. For one of life’s most wonderful surprises

Also by Catherine Astl

Non-Fiction:

Behind the Bar - Inside the Paralegal Profession

Behind the Bar - From Intake to Trial

Fiction:

Three Gates

The Colonists

Historical Fiction:

Oliver’s Crossing - A Novel of Cades Cove

Gatlin’s Gateway - A Novel of Gatlinburg

Mountain Mulekick - A Novel of Moonshine in Cades Cove and Chestnut Flats

Home of the Soul - A Novel of the Walker Sisters of Little Greenbrier Cove

Contents

Chapter 1. 1859

Chapter 2. BEGINNINGS

Chapter 3. RELIGION

Chapter 4. THE CIVIL WAR YEARS - 1861-1865

Chapter 5. THE CHEROKEE BOY - 1865

Chapter 6. THE FAMILY GROWS - 1870s

Chapter 7. CHANGE

Chapter 8. TROUBLE

Chapter 9. 1888

Chapter 10. RESOLVE - 1892

Chapter 11. THIRD WIFE - 1892

Chapter 12. HARDSHIP & TRAGEDY

Chapter 13. SCHEDULES

Chapter 14. HERO

Chapter 15. A HOVEL OF LOGS

Chapter 16. MOONSHINE

Chapter 17. SCHOOL - 1901-1904

Chapter 18. LESSONS

Chapter 19. TAPESTRY

Chapter 20. LOGGING - 1908

Chapter 21. LOST

Chapter 22. STORYTELLER

Chapter 23. THE DOVE

Chapter 24. OL’ BERRY

Chapter 25. STRINGTOWN

Chapter 26. STROKE - 1918

Chapter 27. TRANSFER OF LAND

Chapter 28. DECEMBER 1919

Chapter 29. 1920 - 1922

Chapter 30. NANCY

Chapter 31. OUTSIDERS

Chapter 32. 1924-1926

Chapter 33. THE SINKS

Chapter 34. GIRL SCOUT CAMP GROWS

Chapter 35. COLONEL TOWNSEND - 1936

Chapter 36. BEAR HUNTER

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In researching and writing my other Smoky Mountain historical fiction novels, William Black Bill Walker’s name came up time and time again. Here was a man who could, apparently, do anything! I couldn’t wait to delve into his story. A hunter, a trapper, a man as comfortable in the mountains as if he were part of the peaks themselves. And, married to three wives…at the same time! Surrounded by deeply religious folk, some tried in vain to teach him the errors of his ways. But he wouldn’t have any of it. He shut them down at the first, or at least by the second, mention of his lifestyle, quoting Bible stories that he was sure God wanted him to follow.

I admire the man, for he was a good man. Everyone liked him, respected him, and I suspect, there were plenty who even envied him.

Such a complex life made for a very fun, passionate, but sometimes difficult story. It was very hard to ascertain the exact birth order, dates of birth, death, how many children he really had, and if he did, in fact, have a fourth wife. And what about all those illegitimate children allegations?

I tried my best to write in the most logical fashion and all happenings are based on real events; if there was conflicting information, I wrote as factual and rational as possible. But of course, this is a work of historical fiction, so there are creative licenses taken…and that was the most fun part! I imagined Black Bill sitting in a cane-backed chair, Ol’ Death leaning on his knee; what would he say? What were his patterns and how did he manage three homesteads, three wives, and countless offspring? What would he do every day? His life and legacy were a joy to research, and greatly sparked my curiosity.

Sometimes he’d appear in my dreams and tell me exactly what to write. Other times, he was silent. No matter. His legacy lives on, and I hope Black Bill Walker somehow understands how I’ve honored him, his family, and his fiercely independent and interesting life.

I hope you enjoy this woven tapestry of a life well spent in the heart of the Smoky Mountains. As with any story, it may be frayed, tattered, intertwined, intact, but isn’t that the charm of it all?

CHAPTER ONE

1859

He was not a beautiful bird. In fact, he was ugly as seven sins, but the Cherokee needed its large wingspan to fly over the muddy earth and dry it sufficiently so their own sunburnt men and women could drop corn seeds down into rows upon rows of readied land. Creepy and grotesque, the bird soon tired of flapping its wings in order to dry every inch of soggy ground, and landed, fatigued beyond his skinny bones. Here was the only place to touch down; he plunged and planted his clawed feet into the soil of the Great Smoky Mountains. So soft it was!

Black, fertile; he could smell it with the best of his senses; so keen as to detect even the newly dead, buried in leaves and dirt from over a mile away. Strength returned and wherever he landed, valleys formed. Soon, he was ready to rise again, and with the uplift of his heavy stretched wings, the mountains erupted from deep within, pushing, pushing, towards heaven. Suli, they called his type. Buzzard. It didn’t matter that some of the birds they called buzzards were actually vultures or even other types of carrion birds; all were called buzzards according to the Cherokee. A flying possession of powers and plumage that could ward off diseases and clean up the dead.

It was exactly the sight William Marion Walker and Nancy Caylor Walker wanted to see when they moved to the valley. The year was 1859 and the nearby communities of Cades Cove, Gatlinburg, and Little Greenbrier Cove were thriving. The young couple desperately wished to settle somewhere close, but far enough away so they could call it their very own. As they scouted the area and cut through thick and lush green growth, there appeared a semblance of a clearing, a place where the mountains cleaved, and a valley stood still.

Seems like a good place right here. William slowly walked, crunching leaves with his sturdy black boots, tapping at the soil to test the swampiness of the ground, taking in all the trees and resources that could be turned into a sustainable life. He nodded his head and smiled. I think I’ve found it…

The young couple crossed Schoolhouse Gap Road, really just a rough trail barely tamped down, and continued through Spicewoods and the West Prong of the Little Pigeon River, when the kettle of buzzards - must’ve been a hundred of them! - provided undeniable proof that this land could provide game and opportunity. After all, the Cherokee’s legend about how a buzzard made the valleys, and then the mountains, just by lifting its wings, was entrenched in their minds, and though they only read the Bible, the Almanac, and very few other books, the young Walkers had certainly heard all the Indian stories.

Mind all the buzzards, Will! Nancy’s excited voice reached her new husband. The Cherokee said if you see one, it means new beginnings. They sure are ugly, but they’re some of the most useful animals God created.

"There ain’t been no Cherokee here since the winter of 1838-1839 when they marched westward. Trail where they cried, they called it."

But they certainly left their stories and lore. Folk still talk about the Cherokee. I find it a might fearful to be honest, a way of life I just don’t understand with their spirits in the trees and all…yet just look at that buzzard…the one right there, swirlin’ in the air. They are the strongest of birds. Ugly, what with their gray heads and almost reddish eyes and whatnot. But they are survivors. Eat anythin’. Nature’s garbage cans. Keeps us from havin’ to smell a bunch of rotting meat. Or to see it. Reckon we’ve got enough to keep us busy tryin’ to settle ourselves ‘round these parts.

William nodded. If there were lots of buzzards, there would always be plenty to eat. It meant enough animals were around to perish and keep them fed. Eighty dead carcasses, one hundred chicks that barely made it out of their eggs, and three hundred other freshly killed or deceased animals were the spoils of just one month in the wilderness; such a haul kept this band of buzzards firmly in place within the walls of this quiet and isolated wedge of the Great Smoky Mountains.

Let’s see. How about here? For the house?

Hands on hips, she looked around with a critical eye. Nodded. It’s got its slopes, but seems flat enough overall…

A rushing river carved its way through the hollows of the valley, as bushes upon bushes of pink and white rhododendrons faced the newcomers. Birds sang out and rustlings in the woods stopped for just a moment as a ray of light fell where the young Walkers stood. Their two horses and one cow plodded along, walking over to a calm indentation in the riverbank where they dipped their heads and tongues to slurp mouthfuls of water. The saddlebags were stuffed full, adorned with anything and everything one could drape over or hang on its sides: skillets, kettles, pots, furs, ammunition boxes, coats, sacks of flour and sugar and coffee…

Ah, yes. God has blessed us by stopping us right here and now. Just look, Nancy…

It was a place of spectacular beauty, morning dew still bespangling every object, and every leaf glittering in golden light. It was the perfect spot for the couple, married earlier this year. William Marion Walker was twenty-one years old and wielded his six-foot two-inch frame and 190 pounds of hard muscle around the mountains like a boulder crashing down the craggy spine of the highest peak.

Nancy, all of nineteen years old, was pretty, sweet-natured, and as strong of mind as her husband was in body. She had a quiet confidence, a serene and motherly nature that had captivated Bill and made him feel safe. She lets me be exactly who I am. Fool, don’t let her get away! And he didn’t. Married her very quickly, after realizing he’d never have to trade away his true nature with such a woman. After all, what does a man have if he must trade away a shred of his pride, a part of his dignity, a section of his soul, as if they were just measly flaky nuggets of the entire gold medallion?

He roamed, slowly, touching the trees, white oaks, birches, poplars. Felt their strength, measured the girths, knew these would make great sturdy logs to build a home. Hefty winds swayed the trees, first one way, then the other; sometimes knocking trunks, weaving leaves together so when he looked up, he couldn’t tell where one tree stopped and the other began.

Everything is so green! Lush. Fertile.

Yes, I’ve found it. Here is our home.

William Marion Walker grew up in Rudd Hollow in Tuckaleechee Cove; the Cherokee word, Tuckaleechee, means peaceful valley. But to young William, it was more than just a peaceful site. It was home. A place where the entirety of God’s nature and beauty, animals and heritage, was a chest of drawers, pulled out and emptied onto the floors of the smoky mountain range.

That mountain right there looks like a stack of winter livestock fodder. See how it’s like a pile of hay? Kinda broad and stubby? I’m going to live at the foot of that mountain someday. There was little doubt amongst his fourteen siblings and numerous friends that he would do anything he set his mind to, for William Walker, even at a very young age, was known as a boy, then a man, who could do anything, build anything, make anything happen. He inherited such competencies from his father, Marion Walker, a Covenanter Saddlebag Preacher, who traveled on horseback to small towns and isolated flocks to preach the journey with Jesus. Along the way, this fighter/preacher learned all the skills needed to be a miller, cattleman, orchardist, bear hunter, and could hunt, trap, and fight off both man and beast. William’s mother was of the old McGill clan of Scotland, established in the mid-1300s and sporting their own, very green, very proud, tartan.

Scots-Irish were proud of their heritage and rightly so. Hearty stock they were. They fled Huguenot persecutions, famine, fought with soldiers of George III, and came to America with a stomach full of hate, ready to fight to the death for freedom and independence. After all, they had enjoyed the same fiercely individualistic lifestyle in the highlands of Scotland, with just a few nuisances from the Romans and then the English with their lack of economic opportunities and their forcing clans to abandon their Ulster Protestant beliefs. Suspicious, set in their ways, and almost brutally independent, the Scots-Irish transported those aspects of their culture across the ocean to America, running their lives based on their own interpretation of a famous Bible verse, with just one small tweak: Do unto others as they threatened to do unto you.

William’s parents were both leaders of their communities and William had an innate desire to take over that role within a community of his very own. John Oliver over in Cades Cove had done it. So had the Ogle family in Gatlinburg. A distant relative, his double first cousin, John Hairy John Walker, would, in the next few years, move to Little Greenbrier Cove and sire eleven children, seven of whom would become the famous Walker Sisters. And here, in this valley, as the buzzard circled just once more before landing on a thick and sturdy branch, something snuck into William Walker’s soul; a feeling that he was settled, could be the ruler of a brand-new community, would be a vessel to serve God inside a lush slice of heaven spread thickly with a shining sun.

He winked at his wife and began talking through his ambitious vision.

I am as hardscrabble as they come, Nancy…you’re like to know that by now, though we ain’t been married long. We’re sure to make it here, though the terrain is a bit rough and demandin’. But don’t wanna merely survive. Uh uh, no ma’am. I want to make my own community. Walker Valley, I’ll call it. And it will be known throughout the region, throughout Appalachia even! And we’ll fill it with family, friends, a special breed. We Scots-Irish are no weaklings. Nope. No ma’am. We’re hard workin’, can make just about anythin’ with our hands and the materials of the mountains. Can figure out how to make a tool or repair a chimney or fence, plant a garden and some crops, or tame a mule. Hunt, fish, trap, trade. Heck, we’re as tough as a well-seasoned piece of hickory! Tough it is in these parts, but we’re tougher. And we’re gonna thrive.

There were waterfalls, plentiful creeks, and springs, thick and thriving vegetation, and game everywhere. Why, there were two rabbits just over there! Squirrels chasing each other’s tails round and round a tree. A bear was spotted down by the creek, a bit far away, but certainly within the range of his rifle, Ol’ Death. Bear meat was strongly flavored, tough and grisly; he preferred deer meat or rabbit, but any frontiersman knew that meat was meat and to take what you can get, along with the valuable brown and black furs. Even the buzzard wasn’t choosy, grateful for the tell-tale iron-fleshy aroma that led to a satisfied belly.

Nancy walked alongside William, thankful for her new husband’s abilities. So far, they’ve eaten very well; never knew one day of hunger. And thank goodness, for she thought she was in the family way already. Still uncertain though, and thus, a secret to be revealed in another few weeks, God willing. In the meantime, she looked at her husband eyeing the land and what she saw, she’d likely never see again.

For there was an awe in his eyes that flowed like the river; from his childhood, to the present, and even into the future, isolated ponds and puddles suddenly coming together into a cascade. A shining darkness caving in, then light spilling out. An obvious love affair had just begun, and it was begotten by the roaring waters, the poplar trees, the bear right over there by the creek, and even that huge buzzard who today wasn’t circling, sniffing for decay. He was quiet, standing still on a thick branch, knowing that for most of his life, he’d be surrounded by death, and needing, desperately needing, a full breath of life to keep the doom away.

William Walker would be that breath, that zestiness and lustiness for a life well-lived, deep in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. The bird had already heard distant neighbors, especially those who knew him growing up in Blount County, Tennessee, describe him as a special kind of man. More than just another solid frontiersman or everyday mountain man, William Walker, with his strength and innovative mind, his humor and storytelling, and with an emerging and considerably different evaluation of the Bible contrasting with most other solidified Baptist beliefs, was already becoming a legend.

CHAPTER TWO

BEGINNINGS

B ill? Come ‘ere a moment. I got to tell you something.

He walked over to the rocking chair he’d recently made, and stood before his wife, who looked up at him with a knowing smile.

Our first blessing will arrive in about six months, give or take. And God willing. She beamed at him, wide-eyed and excited, patting her stomach, knowing this was what her husband wanted most of all.

He stared for a moment as if letting the news sink in; took her hand, bent down, and kissed it. Ah! Nancy!! God has blessed us! Oh, that is the best news I ever heard! He swept her up from the chair, still rocking from the movement, and twirled her around in front of the fire.

My word, Bill! She laughed at her husband’s sudden and delighted gesture. This is why everyone calls you ‘the man who can do it all’. You can grow a potato uphill and tame a bobcat, yet you can still romance me right here before the fire! No wonder our kin over in Blount County are callin’ you Big Bill nowadays!

Big Bill. Yep, I hearda that; they been callin’ me that for about a year or so now. I like it. But I have a feelin’ it won’t stick. Seems to me another nickname will come by me in the next few years.

Well, it’s sure nice to spring ahead in the mind and make happy plans. But let’s talk in the here and now. For instance, when you got time, can you make me a cradle? I still got months to go ‘fore I’m at my time. And I feel great. I’m gonna begin that kitchen garden and push some more clay into the remainin’ cracks in the walls. Got to sew a sling or two for the baby, and some clothes. Socks. Hats and mittens. Blankets. Make a few more rags for spit up and whatnot.

William and Nancy had built their home and were well-settled. It wasn’t easy work, but Bill made it seem so. Most men didn’t stand over six feet tall and so their cabins weren’t as high. But William, called Big Bill more and more as the months went by, on account of his stature and abilities and strength, could throw a thick yellow-poplar or oak log a bit higher than most, and so their home stood six inches taller than most cabins. Six extra inches may not seem like much, but it allowed for more ventilation, more light, and an airier, bigger feel. It also meant he could stand up in his own home and not have to duck or mind the ceiling, and when smoking meat, an extra ham or side of smoked venison could be hung higher, without dangling too near the mantle, and in the way of the young couple and their everyday lives. Kept at least some of the critters away too; an extra six inches deterred some of the smaller creatures who tried in vain to sneak into the constantly open doors of mountain folk.

Immediately upon arrival in the beautiful green valley, Big Bill axed his way towards the finest notches he could make, and then he fit them all together. It took him twelve days, but in the end, the Walkers had a sturdy and tight home. All that was left was for Nancy to go to the creek, mix the packed dirt that could only be found by digging deep, along with a bit of dry sand thrown in to make the clay, and pack it into the smaller holes and cracks in the walls.

Between all the dirt and leaves and such coming into the house, they’d try with all their might to keep the salamanders and bugs and flies and small birds and rodents out of their home.

After all, the Bible said about cleanliness: wash and make yourselves clean. Isaiah 1:16. And the Bible was very, very important to the couple. Of course, the Bible’s meaning of cleanliness speaks mainly of the impurities and dirt of the soul, but a clean heart along with an orderly house surely lands you squarely in God’s good graces, Nancy would exclaim as she deterred the flies by covering the milk and biscuits with a rag and swept the floor for the umpteenth time just this afternoon.

Once the house was built, and the cracks packed with clay, Nancy set about sewing some curtains for the lone window, one that had shutters that closed and latched at night, or during severe weather. When the front door was open, which was pretty much all the time, the breeze was allowed into the home, and the gentle swaying of blue fabric on either side of the interior window frame made it all feel softer. Like home. While William hacked and whittled and sawed logs for a kitchen surface and a cabinet or two, chairs and a table, and finally a bed, she made sure it was covered with a quilt she had brought with her. It was faded to be sure; had been in her family for at least fifty years, but it was the softest quilt she’d ever felt, and decades of memories kept the young couple warm during the long smoky mountain nights.

Bolts of cloth, with subtle prints used for summer clothing, filled a large basket by the hearth, and carded wool lay in another basket ready for Nancy’s expert hands to sew heavier winter coats and shirts. Both Walkers wore men’s black shoes; they were sturdier and lasted much, much longer. Pegs stuck into the chimney and over the hearth held kettles and pots; plenty on hand to hold the ever-present green beans, potatoes, and corn cooking over the fire. Nancy was a good cook and her husband, having an exceptionally hearty appetite, appreciated anything and everything put in front of him. Specialties included squash soup with rosemary and plenty of sage, fried morel mushrooms, and fried chicken and dumplings, everything served with flaky biscuits and cornbread, and she could squeeze a paw-paw better than anyone. Adding just the right amount of sugar, she made a refreshing drink rivaling any lemonade in the valley and beyond.

Whispers curved this way and that through the tall trees that her husband, and perhaps a neighbor or two with whom she shared her paw-paw juice recipe, added a bit of moonshine every now and then. It was mostly because of the very short shelf life of a paw-paw; they were in season for only about one month every September. But Nancy paid little mind to such talk, and in any case, that was man’s business. She’d just stick to the paw-paw juice and add only sugar. If she begged for some mountain mulekick, as they sometimes called moonshine, well, it would be for childbirth only; one of the few times God condoned the drink. And her special paw-paw mix was just what she was making when she felt something jump deep inside her lower belly. Smiling in wonder and awe, hands gently pressing on her middle, she realized her husband’s jug of paw-paw mountain mulekick, the one he stashed inside the springhouse, may come in handy a bit sooner than she thought.

Oh yes, Nancy! You make me one happy man, he said to her that evening. A fire was roaring in the hearth, logs were stacked at least five feet high outside the home, and a hearty rabbit stew with carrots and potatoes was steaming on two plates. The couple was sitting at the kitchen table, Nancy’s belly noticeably filled out by now.

Glad we got the corn crop in when we did. Spring seems a long time ago, but it was great timin’ this year.

Mmm hmmm. A good one it looks to be. Got it in exactly two weeks after the last frost. Perfect timin’. Nothin’ is stunted or distorted. All the stalks were standin’ nice and tall when we harvested.

Been thinkin’, Nancy. With our first little one on the way - pretty soon from the looks of it - and the corn growin’ itself, I’ve got some time on my hands. I think I’m going to keep some bees.

Yeah? Looking up from the table which held some of her sewing, she gazed at his face.

Why bees, Bill?

Think on it. I can keep lots of bees easily. Sell the honey in Maryville and even at some of the general stores all over these parts…Metcalf Bottoms, at Mr. Gatlin’s store over in Gatlinburg, and even in Happy Valley.

How you gonna catch the bees and start? How do you keep ‘em together to gather the honey? Nancy had no idea how to keep bees, and despite the admiration she had of her husband’s ability to do anything he set his mind to, she proffered the questions of just how he would handle the homestead, the fields and crops, the garden, the repairs, the outbuildings, the animals, not to mention their first child, and now, bees.

Ha! I can do anythin’ I set my mind to! Ain’t never met anythin’ yet I can’t handle, Nancy. Don’t worry. I can do it, and then some. As for the bees, well, first, got to find a nice and sturdy gum or basswood tree. Then, I’ll take my ax and my chisel and hollow out a section of the trunk.

You been makin’ more chisels in the shop?

Yes, I have, in fact. Got a sharp one…likely the sharpest and thickest one I made yet.

She nodded. He spent a lot of time in his blacksmith shop too. One more enterprise he had added to an already busy lifestyle. Did he ever use up all his energy? She hadn’t seen it yet, she thought, sighing deeply, smiling to herself. I’m lucky I got such a man…

So after I chisel and ax out the hole, I slide a cross stick through a bored hole that I hacked out near the bottom. When I’m out huntin’, I find beehives all over the place. And I’ll try to take some of those hives on Tuesdays, right after your Monday wash day. You get my clothes smellin’ all fresh and the bees are calm with me smellin’ like nothin’. Sweat smell makes ‘em all crazy. Once I come across a hive, I’ll hold my breath ‘cause the smell of our mouths also makes ‘em go after you. Otherwise, I plan to just be calm and not swat around like a dyin’ duck havin’ a fit.

Nancy laughed a little, her belly tightening up and then easing right back. Something that’s been happening more often lately. Almost every day now.

In any case. After I find a beehive, I’ll carefully take it and walk to the tree, and put it into the hollowed-out trunk, leavin’ an entrance at the bottom - just a little hole, the one I bored at the bottom- so they can come and go. Still gotta get the bees to pollinate the flowers and come back and make honey. So then, I cover the hollowed-out trunk with a solid wooden lid, sealing it airtight. Probably gotta fill it in with mud and clay to make it completely tight. Then, in August, after the sourwoods have their bloom and the bees built up the honey, I’ll take a long-hooked honey knife - I’ll make that knife myself in the blacksmith shop - and I’ll break the sealing. Then, it’s just a matter of lettin’ all the bees out and cuttin’ out the squares of light golden comb. I’ll fill some ten-gallon tins real full and then sell ‘em. Can you make me a few pairs of leather gloves so I don’t get stung too bad?

"Yes, Bill. Of course. Try to trade for a goat so I can get the skin for makin’ gloves. Goatskin makes the