By Wayne Goforth
It was just before dawn when Peter tumbled out of bed to start his day. He moved as quietly as possible so as not to wake his four children sleeping in the loft of the small cabin. He and other men of the settlement had worked hard to complete the cabin before the cold winter weather set in.
Situated near the Clinch River, on the side of Lone Mountain, and neighboring the Sharps Station blockhouse, it was an ideal location for raising crops in the warm months and hunting in the winter.
Rich river bottom soil stretched out in three directions; the newcomers enjoyed a bountiful summer harvest as the crops had provided most of what the settlers needed. It was a mild day in mid-November, the crops were laid by, and it was an ideal time to hunt along the river and the ridges for wild game to supplement the families’ diet during the coming stark cold winter days.
Peter worked diligently to fill his haversack with the necessary items he would need for the day's journey. He filled his bag with his self-made lead balls, a strip of linen, and his small knife, small and large powder horn, and his large hunting knife.
He cocked his rifle and pulled the trigger to check his flint. Sparks flew from the gun and lit up the cabin walls. Just then Peter heard movement above as his oldest son Jober John leaned over the side of the loft and let out a low moan. “Go back to sleep” Peter said in a slight whisper as his eldest son withdrew into the loft. He was hoping he would not awaken the rest of the children before leaving.
By this time Peter’s wife Lucy roused from her sleep and began to stoke the fire from the small parcel of leftover coals.
It would soon be time to heat up last night’s leftover victuals for a meager breakfast for Lucy and four of the children. Of course, three-month-old, beautiful Betsey, lay asleep in her hollowed-out pine log crib. All she needed was momma.
Peter reached up to a high shelf adjacent to the fireplace and broke off a hunk of pemican to place in his bag. This, he hoped, would provide him enough sustenance throughout the day as he could not spare the time waiting for breakfast.
Climbing the ladder to the loft he looked on with gentle affection at his four children, Jober John, Bostian, Caty, Christian, and Betsey. He wondered in his mind if they would enjoy their day going about their daily routines.
With a bound down the ladder to the dirt floor he went and quickly turned to the crib. Baby Betsey was in peaceful sleep. He bent down and lovingly inspected her angelic face and blew her a goodbye kiss. Quickly raising up he grabbed Lucy from behind, held her for a moment and said “I’ll be sure to bring home fresh meat for your supper tonight.”
With a twist and a jerk, he slipped on his linen shirt and hunting coat, picked up his gear and rifle, placed his wide-brimmed fur trade hat on his head and slipped out the door. The sun was just breaking the horizon when he stepped through the log threshold.
Taking the path along the river past the Henry Sharp blockhouse he began his ascent up the ridge trail. As he ambled along, he remembered that the Cherokee people were encamped not far away on the other side of the river at the confluence of the Clinch and the Powell River. Early on, they had viciously warned the original settlers to keep off their side of the ridge or risk death. Nevertheless, Peter felt confident he could defend himself if the situation called for action.
Just then a sound came from high on the ridge above the settlement. He could barely make out the sound of a turkey gobble. Climbing up the ridge toward the sound, Peter quietly journeyed onward. He turned around slightly north to the opposite direction. He could see the river winding in the valley below like a blue helter-skelter ribbon. Cautiously, he emptied a charge of black powder into the barrel of his rifle. Then he carefully cut a small patch of linen and placed a ball over the top. With the handle of his small knife, he punched the ball down the barrel. And removing his tamping rod from its placement, he plunged the ball and patch down against the powder charge. Next, he pulled out his small powder horn and charged the snaphance with priming power. He was ready now for a quick shot should the turkey raise his head.
The longhunter cautiously approached the crest of the ridge. “Strange, no turkeys yet,” he thought. Vigilantly and almost silently he crept along the trail so as not to crunch the leaves and alarm the wildlife. Just ahead he could see the large outcropping of boulders which lay along the trail. As he reached the rocks he heard the distinct sound of a slight rustle of leaves. A shot rang out behind him! The shot was at such point-blank range that it nearly took off the back his head. Peter fell to the ground with a dull thud.
Shiny knives and Cherokee hands did the rest.
His desecrated, mutilated body lay motionless on the ground.
Peter Graves was dead.