Giving up the Ghost: A Georgia Mountain Mystery

Prologue

August, 1878

It was hot on the surface. This summer was a real scorcher, so hot a person didn’t want to move around in the blinding sunlight, just lie in the shade and sleep. But down in the gold mine it was always cool—damp and cool and very, very dark. Edmund and Frank had been wandering around underground for hours, killing time , though ostensibly looking for color—something that would lead them to the discovery of the next glory hole. There hadn’t been a strike worth mentioning since before the war, but maybe today was the day. Both of them had heard stories of prospectors turning over rocks and finding a streak of gold, but none of those stories were ever first hand accounts. They always happened to a person somebody else knew or had heard tell of. Never to anybody’s daddy or uncle. Well, maybe today all that would change.

Times were hard up in the mountains. The war had been over for more than twenty years, but things hadn’t improved much for the mountain folks. Those who didn’t have much before the war, had even less after it. Only luck would keep these two from following in the dispirited footsteps of their fathers.

Each of them carried a lantern and flashed it up the walls of the tunnel as they walked along in the dense darkness. Occasionally the light caught a glimmer of something other than water, or there was a slight flash in the rock when the light hit something bright. But they knew enough to know pyrite and quartz when they saw it. Pyrite, fool’s gold. Well, maybe they were fools to hope that today’s work would be good for anything but killing time. There were rock piles along the sides of tunnel, places where someone had blasted a hole once and either found nothing, or been stopped from doing anything with it by the outbreak of the war. They had no reason to believe they would spot color some old prospector had missed, but if they didn’t find gold maybe they’d find a cache of jewelry or household silver hidden away during the war. There were plenty of those stories, too.

Frank put his lantern down on the floor of the tunnel beside a rock pile and started shifting some of the rubble to see if it was the same type of rock all the way to the bottom. Edmund left him to it, moving farther along the tunnel to another pile, pretending to himself that he saw something different about this pile from the one Frank had picked. Maybe there was.

As Edmund moved the top rocks that had formed a mound to the side of the tunnel, he got the feeling that they were piled up to cover something. He called to Frank to come and help, but Frank ignored him continuing to work away on his own pile. Edmund pushed up his sleeves and started moving the rocks in earnest, tossing them to the side and digging into the place where the mound had been erected. For the first time in an hour he actually felt warm.

The two had gone down to the second level in the mine and were probably about a hundred feet below the surface, but not yet deep enough to be bothered by ground water, even though they could hear it and smell it and feel it in the cold air. The walls of the tunnel dripped moisture and the piles of rocks were cold and slick to the touch. Water trickled down the sides of the tunnel walls and formed puddles around their feet. The puddles weren’t deep enough to cause splashes when Edmund tossed back the rocks, just deep enough to keep his feet wet. But he knew he was right. There seemed to be an opening a couple of feet square just behind the pile of rocks.

Frank, hey Frank, he yelled. Come over here. I think I’ve found something.

Sure, sure, said Frank continuing with his own pile and ignoring Edmund.

No really. There’s something behind this pile. Come here. Frank caught the excitement in Edmund’s voice and scrambled over to where Edmund was working. Together they started to shift the rest of the pile and in perhaps half an hour they had cleared what appeared to be the entrance to a low tunnel, a tunnel only big enough for one person to enter, and God knew how deep. It was slanted slightly upward and the mouth was not flush with the floor of the main tunnel, so what water there was on its walls ran out of the mouth of the tunnel and left its floor relatively dry.

At least I won’t have to crawl through mud, Edmund said. I’m going in. A shiver of excitement or maybe apprehension ran down his spine. Maybe this is a strike somebody hid when the war broke out. Or maybe somebody local or one of the Johnnie Rebs hid his loot in here. The two of them had heard stories of the marauding Confederate and Union soldiers all their lives. According to their mothers, one side was as bad as the other, a pestilence on the land as bad as any bole weevils. Their fathers had told them that soldiers sometimes hid their booty so they could reclaim it after the war because they might have been shot as looters if they’d been caught with it on them. Of course, no one had ever heard of anybody finding one of those hoards, but the stories still persisted.

Edmund got on his hands and knees and crawled into the small tunnel. Yeah, it was fairly dry, but awfully cramped. Even in this uncomfortable position, there was barely enough room for his back to clear the tunnel ceiling, but he was grateful he didn’t have to snake in on his belly. He pushed his lantern ahead of him as he crawled, its faint glow illuminating the area immediately in front of him. The tunnel didn’t go in very far, not more than twenty feet. It had probably been blasted and then abandoned when it was found to be barren of gold. But there was something there—something other than rock. There was a bundle wrapped in cloth that had been rubbed with paraffin to keep moisture out. It was hard to make out what could be in it from its shape.

He called back to Frank, There’s something here! I’ll pull it out. Boy, it’s heavy, he gasped as he inched it along, pulling the lantern and the bundle towards him as he wormed his way back to the main tunnel. When he was completely out of the hole, he started to look around for Frank, but before he could straighten up he felt a hot, sharp pain in his head. Everything went black; he fell to his knees, then onto his face and then knew no more.

Frank Fisk pulled the bundle out from under Edmund Russell’s body, expecting to find money or jewelry hidden in its folds. He needed a break. Nothing ever seemed to go right for him here. He had to get out of this backwoods town and find a life. It was too bad that Edmund had been the one to find the bundle. But Frank had worked just as hard on his pile of rocks as Edmund had on his. It should have been his find, not Edmund’s. But Frank didn’t feel any remorse for what he had done. He didn’t care about Edmund. He didn’t care about anybody. All he cared about was getting some money and leaving town. He planned to be long gone before Edmund came to.

He lifted up the bundle and carried it toward his lantern. It was heavy, much heavier than he had expected. It must be something awfully good. He held his breath as he folded back the oilcloth that covered the find. And then he saw it. Shit, he said under his breath. It was just a piece of metal junk, some kind of machinery that had been used for making coins when the old U.S. Mint was operating. It wasn’t worth anything now. Why in the world would anybody have bothered to hide it here in the mine? Damn! he said aloud, wondering what in hell he was going to say to Edmund when he woke up. He looked over at Edmund, who hadn’t moved since he hit him. Edmund lay awfully still. Frank went to him and kneeled beside his motionless body, rolling him over. Edmund was as limp as a ragdoll and his head flopped to one side at a funny angle. Wake up Edmund, he said, slapping the unconscious man’s face. There was no response as Edmund’s head lolled back. Frank Fisk’s luck was still running true. Edmund was dead.

Frank had always had a cool head and he knew what he had to do. He figured he’d just hide the body, push it down a shaft, and tell Edmund’s brothers that he had gone to look at something down one of the tunnels and never come back. He tried to pick Edmund up, but the dead weight was more than he could handle. The sweat broke out on his body and he felt hot and cold and sweaty and clammy all at the same time.

He looked around for somewhere near to hide the body and decided to push him back into the hole he had just come out of. It wasn’t easy to shift the body enough to get it back into the tunnel, but that was the closest place where he could conceal it. It took a lot of time and effort because he had to back in first and pull the body in by its feet. It didn’t move easily, but at last he had Edmund’s body completely inside the tunnel. Frank snaked his way over Edmund’s lifeless body and climbed out of the tunnel. He had thought about going through Edmund’s pockets to see if there was anything he could use but decided against it, partly because he was tired of handling the body and partly because he had a superstitious feeling that he was being watched. Anyway, if he took anything, maybe Edmund’s brothers would recognize it. He began the laborious task of replacing the pile of rocks in front of the opening. His muscles screamed at the exertion.

Frank had no way of telling the time. It was always night inside the mine. As he worked he made up the story that he would tell Edmund’s brothers; those two and a sister were the only family Edmund had left. He’d point them in the direction of the main shaft. They could look forever and never find him there, even if the story had been true. As for his find, he’d just hide the useless piece of shit until he figured out what to do with it.

Chapter One

I never expected that moving to a quiet college town in the mountains would be a life changing event. It nearly became a life ending event—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I came to Dahlonega in the fall to start a graduate degree in history and made the acquaintance of Dr. Margaret Jordan who was preparing an oral history of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She had gathered a group of people from the town to help with the taping of interviews of elderly people who had grown up in the mountains, and was explaining to the volunteers what she needed for them to do.

There is a knack to telling a story, a special way of drawing a picture with words, and some of the people in the mountains have that knack. They can sit for hours and spin out stories of the way things used to be when north Georgia was rarely a destination, more frequently a corkscrew route from somewhere far away, down to Atlanta, or more often, Florida or the Golden Isles. Trains came through some places, but for the most part these people were isolated and insulated. Change came to them eventually, but slowly. She stopped talking for a minute and looked at the little group in front of her, mostly young women like me who didn’t know much about the mountain community or its culture.

"Wars, hot and cold, were the main instrument of change. Young men left the mountains to go to war and either never came back or came back changed. They brought new ideas back with them and these changed their way of life. A way of life as alien to modern children as the cowboy movies on the television has passed away without their ever having been touched by it. Your parents may have known something of this way of life if they visited their grandparents in the country when they were children. But even if the farms remain, the way of life has changed without people outside of the mountains really being aware of it. The pace of living has quickened and there is little time left to look back and realize what has been lost.

It may just be nostalgia, she continued, or it may actually be of some social or historical value, but whatever it is, we’re trying to capture those memories on tape and keep an oral history of them before they are completely gone. She went on to tell them the procedure and what would be expected of them, and I sat back and thought about all that I had learned since I’d started working with her.

I remember the first time I visited a subject in her home, rather than at a church or in an assisted living facility. Mrs. Sarah Satterfield, although she introduced herself as Mrs. James Satterfield, lives in a grand house called Glory Hill which was named, as I was to find out, for the biggest gold strike in the north Georgia mountains—the Glory Hole. The house was a white two story Paladian building, set back from the street with beautiful grounds surrounding it, quite unlike the other homes in the area which were Victorian monstrosities of painted wood and gingerbread. This house belonged to someone who was Someone. It had a balcony that overlooked the massive grounds and a tree lined drive with a porte cochere. I could almost envision the carriages pulling up to the side of the house to let the ladies out under the shelter. There was something classic about it. Its proportions were lovely, and there was nothing overdone. It was simply beautiful.

I walked up the three steps to the slate verandah, crossed it to the front door and pushed the doorbell hoping that the old lady wouldn’t be hard of hearing or senile or something. Some of the people Dr. Jordan interviewed just rambled on and never focused on anything. Dr. Jordan told me Mrs. Satterfield was over ninety, but that was the only information she had given me.

The door was opened by an elderly black man who looked as if he might have been a hundred years old. He was thin as a rail and straight as a stick.

Yes? There was more than a hint of suspicion in his soft voice, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was a salesman, a flim flam artist, or a Jehovah’s Witness. Perhaps he didn’t see well.

Good afternoon. I’m Anna Sherman. I talked to you yesterday, I think. At least, I guess it was you. Dr. Jordan from the college wanted me to interview Mrs. Satterfield. I had tried to make a good impression and had dressed in a suit because I thought it made me look older, and I thought that a stately lady from another generation would probably be more approving of a girl in a skirt than in pants.

Yes ma’am. She’s expecting you. Won’t you follow me? said the old man as he turned and walked quietly ahead of me down a long hallway. The house seemed dark because the overhanging trees, and the late autumn afternoon brought little or no sunlight in through the glass panes that bordered the sides of the door. The wood paneling of the walls of the foyer was mellow, but it added to the gloom.

This was not like any of the places I had gone with Dr. Jordan. Those had been conducted in church meeting halls or retirement home common rooms—brightly painted rooms full of noise and people. This whole set up was practically Gothic. In my experience, which admittedly is limited, it’s only in books that people have elderly retainers.

I followed him, nearly tripping on the Persian runner because I was so busy looking around me. Then he ushered me into a room that could only have been a parlor. The furniture was of a wood that shone in the light of the lamps and there was a fire in the fireplace. The brass fire screen shone and the whole room had a warm, cheerful glow to it. Even the old lady sitting on the sofa had a welcoming look on her face.

Hello dear. I’m so glad you could come. Why don’t you come and sit over here beside me, if it isn’t too warm for you. I find I am always a little chilly, said the surprisingly firm voice as if I were a guest invited for tea rather than a student hoping to get an interview. Thank you, Amos, said the old woman, addressing the retainer—could he really be a butler? Did they still exist? Would you ask Bess to bring us tea? Do you like tea or would you prefer a Coke or some lemonade? She turned inquiring eyes to me.

Tea would be fine, thank you, I said and smiled back at the elderly woman who was nothing like I had expected. I had been concerned because of her age, but there was nothing doddering about this old lady. The only word that could describe her was chic; from the top of her beautifully coifed head to the tip of her Gucci clad foot she was elegant. She wore a pair of dark silk slacks and a coordinated sweater with a large scarf draped elegantly off one shoulder. Her hair was white, but thick and beautifully cut. Surely that hadn’t been done in Dahlonega. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkling. If she needed glasses, she wasn’t wearing them or maybe she wore contact lenses. For a few minutes we talked about the fall colors and other trivia until the elderly butler (Yes. He really was a butler.) returned with a tea cart complete with silver tea service, a plate of small crustless sandwiches, one of iced tea cakes, and another of cheese straws. Mrs. Satterfield handed me a cup and saucer that were so thin I was afraid they might break, and I took a little sandwich from the plate she offered. I don’t know what was in it, but it tasted wonderful, so I took another one. She had poured a little milk into the bottom of the cup before she poured in the tea, but the milk did nothing to cool the beverage. I took a sip and felt it sizzle all the way down my throat, so I set the cup aside to cool and concentrated on the sandwiches.

Please help yourself, dear, she said placing the plate of cheese straws at my elbow. I know young people are always hungry. I smiled; she smiled. But my experience is mostly with boys. All my children have been boys. But I expect girls get hungry, too. Well now, she said as if getting down to business, you want to know how things used to be up here in the mountains, she said with a smile. Truth to tell, these days I find it easier to remember how things were back when I was a girl than to remember what I wanted from the Piggly Wiggly. She chuckled and then sipped her tea. When she put her cup down on the table at her elbow, she turned to me and asked, Where would you like for me to start?

Chapter Two

I took a micro recorder from my purse and set it on a table between us. Anywhere you like. Do you mind if I tape you? We make transcripts of what our subjects say and their stories will appear in the book in their own words. I moved the little voice activated recorder nearer her elbow and hoped that it would be strong enough to pick up everything she had to say.

No dear, that doesn’t bother me at all, said Mrs. Satterfield settling herself more comfortably in her chair. There are lots of stories that are part of mountain lore. Do you want things I actually remember or stories that I heard when I was growing up?

Either is fine with me. Dr. Jordan didn’t give me any guidelines. She just said she’d set this up, and turned me loose. Why don’t you tell me about your family? I was enjoying this. This charming nonagenarian had exploded all my preconceptions about old people and I intended to sit back and enjoy whatever she had to say.

Well, let’s see. I could tell you what I know about the mines. Will that do? I smiled and nodded to her. She cleared her throat and began, I grew up in a mining family and my parents both came from mining families, too. So I know a good bit about the history of gold in these hills; it was a major part of our lives. Do you know anything about the Georgia Gold Rush? I said I didn’t. "Well, most people don’t realize that gold was found up here in these mountains more than twenty years before the Gold Rush in California. Actually, there were recorded strikes in North Carolina in the late seventeen hundreds. There’s gold all up and down the east coast, following the mountains. These are old mountains, worn down by time. And as they wore down, the gold eroded and washed into the rivers. The discoveries of gold sort of worked their way south, first in North Carolina, then into north Georgia and as far east as the Atlantic Ocean.

In truth, the Cherokee knew there was gold in these hills long before the settlers found it and they found gold deposits of their own, long before the settlers moved in. That’s probably where the legends that the Spanish heard had come from and why they searched for gold in Florida and into Georgia. There’s a historical marker over by Helen that speaks of DeSoto visiting this area, but it may never have happened.

She asked me if I knew anything about the history of this region and I said, Not much. I learned a little about the discovery of gold in my Georgia history class in high school, but not as much as I’d like. She suggested several books to me that were available at the Gold Museum that was housed in the old Court House building. Some were histories and others were memoirs; all of them sounded more interesting than my history books.

Did you ever hear the stories of Joel Chandler Harris when you were a child? she asked me, reaching for her teacup. "He’s the one who wrote the Uncle Remus Tales about Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox."

Sure, I heard those stories when I was a little girl, I said, remembering Walt Disney’s Song of the South. Those were another thing that had passed away since they were no longer considered pc.

"He was a journalist and also wrote stories about Georgia. In one of his stories he wrote the words to a song that went like this: All I want in this creation/Is a pretty little wife and a big plantation/Away up yonder in the Cherokee nation.’ That’s another story, and a sad one. If it hadn’t been for the gold the Cherokee might have been left alone. But you can find people over at the college who know the details of their history and will give you a much more accurate tale. I just remember being told that gold was found here and the state of Georgia claimed the Cherokee land and the Cherokee were moved out to Oklahoma. Their move to Oklahoma was called the Trail of Tears and a great many of them didn’t survive the trek. That was all long before my time and doesn’t belong in this story.

"But I was talking about gold. That’s what Dahlonega means. It is the word for the color yellow in the Cherokee language or at least it is the way the settlers and traders spelled the word they heard the Cherokee say."

The afternoon went on and the shadows lengthened as I listened while the old woman told me the history of the town. She told me that the first mines had been right here in this area, and about John C. Calhoun, the Vice President of the United States, who bought the land from the second or third mining company that owned it. At that time the town was called Nuckollsville and he was very supportive of a move to rename it.

Legend has it that Calhoun suggested the name ‘Aureola’ to counter some jokester’s suggestion of ‘Chuckluck City.’ Personally, I rather like Chuckluck City, she said with a laugh. Calhoun was responsible for getting the Federal Mint located in Dahlonega, and that’s where they struck six million dollars in coins before the mint was closed because of the Civil War. She said that people continued to work the mines up through the discovery of gold in California and the start of the Civil War.

And then, of course, they left. Some went west to look for gold in California; others left to avoid the war and others to fight in it.

I was surprised to hear the door open and an old black woman bustled in. Now don’t you think you been talkin’ a bit much Miz Sarah? You can save up some of those tales for later, she huffed in Mrs. Satterfield’s direction before she turned a cold stare toward me. She was small and as lean as her husband—I assumed the butler was her husband—but she still gave the impression of bustling. She was old, too, but she had an enormous vitality and seemed to crackle with energy. I wouldn’t have been able to guess her age.

All right, Bess, all right. Anna, this is Bess, my family tyrant. She and Amos and I have been together forever, but she’s always been the one to boss him and me. We’ll have to talk about that some other day. I must admit I’m getting a bit tired.

I was appalled at my own lack of consideration in keeping her talking so long. I had been interested in what she had to