The hunter had been following a sparse blood trail for over two hours and it looked as though his greatest fear might be realized. The scant blood sign was beginning to peter out even more. John Forrest feared it might disappear altogether. Although he was sure he had made a lethal shot, serious doubt—the enemy of every competent bowhunter—was beginning to creep into his mind.
As always, John had been hunting with a recurve bow and, as always, he had been shooting instinctively, with no sights. Despite the difficulty of hunting this way, he seldom had to travel more than 100 yards to recover a deer he’d arrowed.
It was mid-September in northwest Georgia. Archery season had just opened the day before. John had taken more than a dozen deer with his 54-pound Hoyt recurve. Being a purist at heart, he had even taken two mountain gobblers with the old recurve, aided by a handmade wingbone turkey call.
Ever since first light on this second day of the brand-new archery season, however, the woods had become increasingly strange. All morning long John had heard an odd rumbling sound off in the distance, much like far-off thunder. Although the weather report had indicated patchy fog in the area just west of Chickamauga Creek where he was hunting, the skies were supposed to clear by late morning with little to no chance of rain.
To heck with the weather report, John had told himself shortly after first light. That rumbling has to be a thunderstorm, and it sounds like it’s headed my way.
Now, as he painstakingly followed the blood trail across a series of rolling hardwood ridges, the curious thunder was getting louder. What’s more, a peculiar mist began to roll in and fill the woods around him. It was like no other fog John had ever experienced, and it seemed to bring with it a strange odor, a powdery smell that permeated the woods.
Could there be a fire in the woods somewhere off in the distance? he wondered.
John rehashed the events of the morning over and over again in his mind. Having scouted these woods several weeks earlier, he had found a series of rubs and scrapes on a well-used trail that crossed a gap between two steep hardwood ridges. He had built a primitive brush blind on the downwind side of this natural saddle. He had hunted here the day before, opening day, with no luck.
The eerie noise had begun on this second day of archery season about an hour after daylight. It had continued all morning long, but the woods around John had remained quiet.
Around 10:30 a.m., three does came over the saddle. An hour later, the buck appeared. It was a nice eight-pointer with fairly long tines and a good spread, and it was walking rapidly down the trail. It kept looking back, as if something were following it. Being well hidden, John waited until the buck was within 20 yards. Then, quietly coming to full draw and aiming carefully behind the buck’s shoulder, he released his arrow.
The shot appeared to be right on target. The arrow passed through the buck’s mid-section just behind its shoulder. The buck turned inside-out and quickly bounded back over the saddle in the direction from which it had come. John recovered his blood-soaked arrow. Then, after waiting about 15 minutes, he began following a fairly good blood trail. Two hours later, the blood trail had all but disappeared.
Better find him soon, John thought. That thunder’s getting closer, and it’s really starting to get hazy in these woods. If it rains, I’ll lose the trail for sure.
John decided to take a short break as he passed a large outcropping of rocks. He sat down on one of the high, flat rocks and carefully rested his bow across another.
It can’t be a forest fire, he thought. But it sure does have a strange smell to it.
John pulled out a large chocolate brownie that his wife had made and started eating it. Just as he was finishing up, he heard another strange sound. This time it was very close. The noise appeared to be the distinct clanging of steel. Someone, or something, was coming through the woods toward him.
Must be some greenhorn squirrel hunter, he thought. No one else would make that kind of racket walking through the woods.
John was surprised to see three men with rifles emerge from the rolling mist 40 yards away. They were walking three abreast, and they were coming straight toward him. One of the men was limping slightly. As they drew closer, John’s mouth fell open. Two of the heavy rifles the men carried were topped with long bayonets, and all three men were wearing the soiled, homespun uniforms of Confederate soldiers.
They must be reenacting a battle today over near the battlefield, John thought. Maybe that’s where all the noise is coming from. But they sure do look real . . .
One of the men suddenly spotted John. Stopping dead in his tracks with a startled look on his face, he halted his two companions. All three men stared at the lone hunter sitting on the rock.
“Howdy,” John yelled. “What brings you men out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“You from around here?” one of the men asked in a challenging tone.
“I don’t live too far from here,” John answered.
“What’re you doin’ out here,” another asked.
“I’ve been following a wounded deer,” John said, nodding toward his bow. “A buck. He’s headed in the direction you boys just came from. You haven’t seen anything, have you? I’ve been following him quite a while.”
“Nope,” one of the men said, staring at John’s recurve bow. “A wounded buck’s about the last thing we’d expect to see around these parts today.”
“Are you huntin’ with that bow and arrie?” one of the men asked.
“That’s right,” John said. “An old Hoyt recurve.”
“It’s a good thing you’re deer-huntin’,” the oldest of the three men said. “We thought you might be a Yank.”
“No, I’m not a Yankee,” John said, smiling. “I’m a pure-blooded Georgia cracker through and through.”
As the three Confederate soldier look-alikes stepped closer, they continued to size up the strange man with an even stranger weapon. John was wearing a dark green wool jacket that had belonged to his grandfather. It was ideal for bowhunting. He also had on an old pair of brown corduroy pants and old, western-style leather work boots. On his head he wore his favorite weathered felt hat with a copperhead skin hatband. To any stranger, he might easily have looked like a 19th-century homesteader, except for the modern bow.
The recurve bow with its attached quiver of arrows seemed to baffle the three strangers.
“Are you an Indian?” the oldest of the three men asked.
“No,” John smiled. “But I take that as a compliment. The Cherokees and Creeks that used to live around these parts were great hunters.”
John noticed that two of the men were extremely young, practically boys. Probably still in their late teens, he thought.
The third man had a heavy beard and was probably in his 30s. Their odd gray uniforms were all strikingly different in appearance. All three men looked as if they had just walked through a burning forest. Their uniforms and faces were smeared with dirt and grime. Only the oldest of the three wore a hat.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve done any huntin’,” one of the youngsters reflected. “I’m a sandlapper from Lower Carolina. We used to hunt the swamp country with buckshot and hounds when I was a boy. I’ve heard tell of people huntin’ with a bow and arrie like that, but I’ve never seen it with my own eyes.”
“Hell, you look like you still are a boy,” John said in a friendly tone. “You don’t look a day over eighteen.”
“I’ll be seventeen on December 20,” the boy announced. “I been away from home a right long spell.”
The second youngster spoke up. “You reckon you could spare a drink of water, Mister? We’re plumb parched.”
“I’ve got a little here,” John answered. “You’re welcome to it. I’ve also got a couple of apples if you’re interested.”
John held out his leather water bottle as the men stepped closer. Then, knowing that a good-size creek flowed into the much larger Chickamauga Creek somewhere just ahead, he added, “Didn’t you boys just cross a big creek back there?”
“Oh, we crossed it, all right,” the bearded man said. “That water ain’t fit to drink, if you know what I mean.” He made a strange face.
John had no idea what the man’s comment was supposed to mean.
“You boys really look convincing,” John said. “I didn’t know anything like this was going on today. Where’s the battle taking place?”
Just over the ridge, yonder,” the bearded man answered with an incredulous look on his face. “Less’n a mile away. It was pretty rough out there today, but we give them bluecoats a run for their money. We got separated from our outfit early on, but we heard tell our boys sent ’em skedaddlin’ all the way back up toward Chattanoogy. We done our part today, though. So we just been takin’ it easy through these woods. We ain’t in no hurry. I reckon we’ll ketch up with our outfit ’fore the sun goes down.”
“I haven’t seen a soul in these woods all morning,” John said. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “It’s a good thing you’re doing today. I had a lot of kinfolk who fought in the war.”
“Which side?” the older man asked.
“The South, of course,” John answered.
“They all dead?” one of the younger men asked.
“Why, yes,” John answered. “They’ve been dead quite a while.” Then, addressing the bearded man, John asked, “Where’re you from?”
“I’m from east Tennessee,” the man answered, putting the emphasis on the first syllable. “Ike, here, he’s from Alabam.”
The young man with the limp nodded. “We’re with the 23rd Tennessee Volunteers,” he added.
“Are those new Springfield rifles you boys are carrying?” John asked.
“Yep, we got ’em off a couple of Yanks,” the man said. “They weren’t needin’ ’em any more.”
“You men are bein’ pretty hard on the Yankees, today, aren’t you?” John asked kiddingly.
“Actually, they were pretty hard on us,” the boy from Carolina answered, taking a swallow of water, “til we got the best of ’em, that is.”
“We better be gettin’ along,” the Alabamian said nervously.
“Okay,” the older man said. He looked at John. “Say, you mind partin’ with one a’ them-there apples?”
“Not at all,” John said. “Here . . . ”
John reached into his jacket and pulled out two red apples. The men took the apples.
“We hope you find your buck,” one of the boys said.
“Me, too,” John said. “I hope you find your outfit.”
“We’ll ketch up with ’em somewheres hereabouts,” the Tennessean repeated. “You better be careful your own self, though. They’s lots of stragglers roamin’ these woods today.” He smiled oddly.
The three men clambered off through the woods and disappeared.
What a strange encounter, John thought. They sure looked convincing. What a crazy day!
Thirty minutes later John found his buck. It was stone dead, partially submerged in a shallow pool in the big creek. Oddly enough, the entire pool had turned a dark crimson color.
My buck couldn’t have had that much blood left in him, John thought. Then he noticed that the red-stained water seemed to be coming from upstream.
John spent the next two hours dragging his buck out to the nearest dirt road. He then pulled his truck around and loaded the deer in the back. Just as he reached the paved highway on his way home, he noticed a historical marker near the intersection. Pausing at the stop sign, he read the inscription on the marker.
“The Battle of Chickamauga”
Near this site on September 19 and 20, 1863, Confederate troops under General Braxton Bragg defeated the Federal Army in the bloodiest battle ever fought on Georgia soil. Over 30,000 men perished during the intense fighting. Much of the battle took place just east of this point along the banks of Chickamauga Creek, which, along with several smaller streams in the area, were said to have flowed red with blood for several days.”
It suddenly dawned on John that he had heard somewhere the old Indian word Chickamauga meant place of death. In almost a panic, he quickly glanced down at his watch. Cold chills shot down his back. The date was September 19.
This intriguing tale is among 43 stories in Jim Casada’s “The Greatest Deer Hunting Book Ever.” The book’s 465 pages showcase a stellar lineup of outstanding authors, including William Faulkner, Robert Ruark, Archibald Rutledge, Gene Hill, Jack O’Connor, Gordon MacQuarrie and many others. Signed copies are available in both Collector’s and Deluxe editions. Visit www.sportingclassicsstore.com to order yours.
“Strange happenings at Chicamauga Creek” also appears in the Sporting Classics Autumn 2018 Guns & Hunting issue. Look for it on newsstands, or visit www.sportingclassics.com to begin your subscription.