The Vaquero

Colliers, West Virginia

1863

John and Tom marched ahead of Ben and Joe. Turning off the main road into a muddy pock-holed corn field they stumbled under the weight of their packs and weaponry. The men had returned from battle only a few months prior. Returned to devastated farms and lean families. They tried to remember the habits of their former selves, but physical and psychological ailments changed them. If they thought the company of family and friends would remind them, they found strangers there too. John was prone to meanness before he had left to fight. He had itched to shoot a few men and he did, killed more than his share. Perhaps more than the others he had been afraid. And now he spent his days drinking and telling war stories to whoever would listen, mostly old men down at the tavern. Tom came back a shadow of himself. He had lost forty pounds, his eyes gaunt with haunted expression. Alone on his small farm, his days and evenings were spent on his porch watching the weeds grow with not much on his mind. Once opinionated on various topics, mostly farming and politics, his mind recorded not ideas, but vague feelings of tiredness, hunger, and thirst. Ben was the kindest of the men and possibly the most damaged. He slipped back into the Ben of old without anyone noticing the holes and scars that riddled his insides. Joe was the strongest. When he saw his run down farm he looked out on his land and thought, Virginia will once again be a beautiful country.  He tilled his fields and the sweat that rolled down his brow was his own for his own. And seeing the dark rows of  rich soil, he planted wheat. In the fall he had harvested the grain and delivered it to the miller, selling the surplus and taking home what he would need for the winter. And then the orders arrived. They were to march south toward Napier. Packing food, water, blankets, wintercoats, and ammunition they said goodbye to their families. They marched until dark and made camp under a grove of oak trees. They rolled out their beds and sat in the dark nibbling hard tack and salted pork. They listened and spoke in hushed tones.

“I thought we done our part.” John now preferred the tavern, regular meals, and a warm bed. Ben and Tom eyed each other with grim, resigned expressions. They slept huddled together through the cold night. In the icy pre-dawn they boiled coffee and then set out. They would hike 15 to 20 miles per day. Depending on the terrain and weather they’d make Napier in eight days or so.  It started to rain. They stopped to unpack their overcoats. Their brogans, or Jefferson boots, were starting to take on water.

“Hey, there’s that coal mine not far. Why don’t we stop, get dried up?” John said.

The coal mine had been abandoned two years earlier. None of the men replied, but as they neared the location they all turned towards it. Entering the mine it was dark and damp. The men lit an oil lamp and made their way deeper seeking a dry spot. A rumble started deep in the mountain above. The men straightened, hitting their heads. Stones tumbled behind them. They ran from the falling rubble. After the air cleared, they inspected the fall. 

“These boulders are too heavy.” Ben said, trying to move several.

“Could there be an exit?” John asked.

“Unlikely, but we have to check.” Joe started down into the mine.

The others tested the rocks. Not one budged.  They sat and waited for Joe to return.

“Nothing. It ends 100 feet in.”

“What about using a musket to leverage the stones?” John said.

The muskets were 56” of wrought iron steel and incredibly strong. Joe picked up one of the muskets and went to the blockage. John joined him. They started near the ceiling trying the rock. Nothing. They worked down. Not the slightest movement. The stones were too large and heavy. The men sat around the lamp. They were tired and scared. The mine walls were stone, so digging out wasn’t possible. 

“We need to conserve. Dump your bags. Let’s see what we have.” Joe said

The men spilled the contents of their bags. Soldiers often collected food along the way and they had only brought enough food for a couple of days. There was coffee, salted pork, hardtack, beef jerky, and beans. They each had a canteen of water and oil for burning. The first night none of the men slept. If not for Joe’s watch  time would have been impossible to track. They called out into the rubble and kept looking for weak spots.

“What if we use our gun powder, try to blast through?” 

“That’s an idea John. How much powder we got?” Joe asked.

The men gathered the black powder together. 

“The best place is up high. If we can blast a small opening we might be

able to leverage some of the rock, maybe squeeze through.” Joe said.

The men agreed that the top where the stones were thinner and the weight pressing down wasn’t as great was the best blasting location. Ben cut a strip out of a cotton shirt and cut rows into it to make a longer strand. He made several of those and tied them together. He repeated that with three more shirts making about 30 feet of wick. Ben dipped the strip in oil.  Joe set the powder with the oil soaked strand spooled out. The others were already well back. He lit the fuse and ran. The blast shook the mine, clouds of black powder filled the space. The men coughed and breathed through whatever material they had. When the gunpowder and dust cleared the men went to the cave in. The rock had cracked. They used their muskets to try and leverage the stones loose. They were able to remove some of the rubble but there was no gap. A solid wall of  immovable stone remained.

“That was all of our powder.” John said.

“It barely made a dent.” Joe said.

The air in the cave felt thinner now, but the men didn’t mention it. They had thought the black powder would work and were starting to feel desperate. They agreed that they would take turns tapping on the rock in case someone happened by. The mine sloped down into the earth, so to dig out from any point that wasn’t near the entrance seemed insurmountable. They searched the walls for weak spots, roots or soil, but there was only blasted, chiseled rock. They sat in a dry spot. Each man knew that fear must be checked. They had witnessed how fear could consume a person like wildfire. To comfort spirits, Joe told the story of Rip Van Winkle while they nibbled jerky. They conserved their energy now, using less oxygen, needing less food. Joe counted the hours and days with his watch. In the frenzy of that first day, he thought another may have passed without his noticing. And now the men asked him the hour and the day. Waiting.  Acknowledging it was death they waited for. The men ate and drank once per day. On the fifth day they ran out of food and water. There were pools of water in the cave. A man could go a long time without food. They had witnessed that too. The meanness in John began showing. He had hidden food he stole from Tom and Ben. To hearten the men Joe told stories. Ben asked if he remembered scripture. Joe spoke several uplifting verses he hoped would ease Ben’s spirit. John seethed and paced. When he had finished the stolen food, madness raged. Insanity that had laid in wait emerged, expressing itself in ways others would feel. Joe didn’t know it, but they were twelve days in. They had spent four days searching for a way out, trying to move rocks. Their situation seemed hopeless. Joe began writing notes with the paper and pencil he had brought to write home with. Guilt overwhelmed him. He should be on the battlefield with his neighbors and countrymen. In his heart, he knew that he had turned into this mine, had followed John, to delay their journey south. And fate had weighed his cowardly soul. He wouldn’t hide now. If his body was ever found, people would know why they were here in this abandoned mine. He would be judged without turning out lies. The truth would be told.

November 3, 1863

Should this ever reach the outside world, let it be known that we are prisoners here, owing to the cave in of the mine. We are deserters and were hiding here when the mine caved in. Food and water are all gone. We are doomed as no one outside is aware of our whereabouts. This is about the eighth day of our imprisonment.

John paced. The men were afraid to shut their eyes. They had all killed before. Men were capable in lesser circumstances and now they distrusted each other. Joe stopped telling stories as it brought the murderous glare of John. The men had gone this long without food before. There was something about being trapped in the dark that made it unbearable. Perhaps it was the knowledge that they were going to die there in that tomb. Maybe it was the dark after all. Men starving in prisons had been more humane. A dead man’s hand was unfolding and there was no way to bluff their way out. The lack of oxygen intensified the nightmare running through their minds. John had fed his psychosis and now it spilled over, could no longer be contained. Tom seemed more ghost than man. Being already thin, he was skeletal. His spirit seemed to have already left him. He followed John like someone lost.

November 4

John Ewing and Tom Ackleson have killed Ben Ayers: are eating him. I have already eaten my boot leg. The water in the mine is terrible. Our oil is getting scarce; air becoming foul. I only know the day of the month by my watch.

Joe didn’t know if he could have stopped it. He knew John was raving mad. With the quickness of a cat he leapt onto Ben and stabbed him. John and Tom bit into his still pulsing flesh and ate. Joe had seen horrors, was hardened by war. He looked away, his stomach sick. He thought of their decision to turn into this mine. It hadn’t felt like a decision. It was an action, a hand guiding them. And now he wondered if they were here for John. Perhaps this was John’s fate and to spare the innocent they too were sacrificed. He had seen men driven to lunacy, outrage and slaughter women, children, and the elderly. Joe wondered if these thoughts were to ease his own guilt. He examined his conscience. Ben lay there full of flesh, but John didn’t have enough. If this were hell he was reveling in it. Joe kept his eyes open and prayed. He spoke to his family. He would not die with human flesh on his lips.

November 6

Ewing has just killed Ackleson. Cut off one of his feet and is eating it, dancing around and flourishing his dirk knife like a maniac.

Ewing was covered in blood. His had eyes lost all humanity before he killed Ben, but Joe was sure he saw the devil in them now. Ewing lunged at Joe. The will to survive is great. People will cling to the smallest thread, the slimmest of hope. Joe fought for his life knowing that it may only be a life of days. Alone. In the dark. Dying of starvation. His thoughts were very clear now. Joe had experienced intensified clarity and self reflection. Perhaps it was the ease of taking a step into the afterlife. His final hours would be thought filled. He would not be tortured though he had suffered. He fought for those final hours.

November 7

I am alone now with the dead. I had to kill Ewing in self defense. I have just eaten my other boot-leg. Am sleepy. Good bye. I enclose this note in this flask to preserve it if possible. So that ever found, our sad fate will be known. 

Joseph Obney

The notes by Joe in italics are reprinted from the Pioche Record. February 27, 1896. The skeletons along with Joe’s notes were discovered 32 years after the four men’s deaths. The men were remembered in the town and thought to have died in battle. While the dates, names, and places are real, the story is entirely fictional.