CHAPTER XXXI.
RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE.
There is another sad death, which, by some, is attributed to the whipping of old Mrs. Breeden. And we deem it proper to relate it in this connection. About a year after this whipping, William Furgason was found dead one morning in his father-in-law’s barn. He had a bullet hole in his temple and a pistol was found lying by his side. As to how he came to his death, opinion seems to be about equally divided. His relatives and close friends say he committed suicide. While many of his neighbors take a different view of it, and say that he was killed in a White-cap raid. How this is, the writer is unable to say, but will give both versions, and leave the reader to draw his own conclusions. William Furgason was a bright young man, but unfortunately, was somewhat addicted to drink. After the whipping and death of Mrs. Breeden, it seemed as though life held no special inducements, and death no terror for him. His once happy life now seemed to be shrouded in darkness. His smiling face ceased to be so bright, and the gay, merry life of the blithe young man, had seemingly, come suddenly to an end. His life was overshadowed. He was living under a cloud. He was down-cast and down-hearted, carrying a secret in his bosom, the concealment of which was torturing him, yet he dared not reveal it. He was sadly in need of sympathy. To enlist the sympathy of his friends he must reveal his secret, and disclose the facts that would unveil the mystery surrounding the whipping of a helpless woman, and connect him with that fatal Saturday night tragedy. This he could never do, as it would not only incriminate himself, but also a violation of the White-cap oath. To violate the White-cap oath meant certain death. Thus the young man was held in almost breathless suspense. He must go through life with his lips sealed forever, guarding a secret that was rendering his life almost intolerable. The dreary months went by, the clouds overshadowing his life grew darker and darker as time slowly dragged along. Yet he still guarded his secret, hoping for relief from some source, until finally hope became a torturing suspense, suspense deepened into despair and despair darkened into death. He at last ventured to tell a friend that he could no longer endure life in this country, that the image of old Mrs. Breeden was haunting him day and night. When he would close his eyes at night for sleep, instead of that quiet gentle repose wafting him into dreamland, there came floating upon the breeze the image of old Mrs. Breeden, her horrible shrieks and piteous cries would arouse him from an unquiet slumber, and he could see her careworn face just as it appeared to him on that fatal Saturday night when she begged them in the name of high heaven to spare her life. There are times in a man’s life when it seems as though all the sorrows and grief’s of a life time are condensed and crowded into a single moment. Such was the life of William Furgason. He suddenly disappeared. His friends knew nothing of his departure. In a few days, however, he turned up at his brother’s home in Texas. He did not tarry long in Texas , only remaining a few days. The same pitiful cries and hideous screams that had haunted him around his old home had followed his wandering footsteps on his long journey to the Lone Star state, and were still overshadowing his life. As stated heretofore, his stay in Texas was of short duration, and no one knew of his intentions to return to home until he was found dead in the barn of his father-in-law. His father-in-law, Mr. Gilreath, who was not in any way connected with the White-caps, naturally supposed that he had committed suicide, which, perhaps was true. But other who stand in a position to know, say positively that such was not the case. They say that no blood was found, and that his face was not black with powder, and his hat, also, could not be found. All of which went to show that he had not committed suicide. On this very identical night a White-cap raid was made into Nunn’s Cove in the neighborhood of Fair Garden, on the south side of French Broad river, and some twelve or fifteen miles from the Furgason home. It was customary with the White-caps when any one was to be whipped living on the south side of the river, that the raiders come from the north side to do the whipping. And the same rule applied, as far as it was practical, when a whipping occurred on the north side. It is a well known fact that James Furgason, brother of William, was captain and leader of the band on the north side of the river. And it is said that they were out in full force on the night of the whipping referred to in Nunn’s Cove. For several years there was very little known about this raid except that Catharine Allen was whipped and that the White-caps were fired upon while standing in her yard after the whipping. The White-caps could not afford to divulge anything concerning this affray, neither could the parties who had fired upon them. It was during the palmy days of white-capism, and they realized the fact that their lives depended on a still tongue. They, therefore, guarded their secret like a miser would guard his gold. But after the White-cap band was broken up and their organization had gone to pieces they were no longer afraid to talk, and the writer was made acquainted with all the facts and circumstances by a detailed account from both the men who participated and by a visit to the scene of the conflict. Catherine Allen had been notified by the White-caps that she would be waited on in the near future. Accordingly, Dr. J. A. Henderson was notified of the fact and preparations were made to intercept, and, if possible, capture the whole band. The spy in the White-cap camps, was also, to go along in order that he might not be suspected, and to fall behind at a certain point designated by Dr. Henderson. Two hundred yards from Catherine Allen’s home, the road is dug out from the side of a hill. On the east is a number of large trees standing close by the roadside, large enough to conceal a man behind each one of them. This was the point selected for the battle ground. Every man was to stand quietly behind a tree, gun in hand, ready for instant action, until Dr. Henderson gave the command to the White-caps to halt. In the event the command was not instantly obeyed they were all to fire upon them at once. This plan failed because the spy had not been notified until late in the evening of the same day that the whipping was to take place. Too late to notify Dr. Henderson who lived ten miles away, he did, however, notify T. O. Caughron who lived at Fair Garden , in the neighborhood where the whipping took place. Caughron was a man who did not fear a racket, and although he sometimes came out a little bit disfigured, he was never known to back down. He had long wished for an opportunity like this, and when it came, determined to not let it pass. So in company with only one other man, armed with winchesters, they stealthily slipped along through the dense forests, avoiding all public roads, and finally arrived at Catherine Allen’s. They secreted themselves in a little clump of bushes near the house and, in breathless silence, waited patiently for the attack. It was their intention to fire upon them when they attempted to batter down the door, but the White-caps came in from the other side of the house. When they took Catherine Allen out to whip her, they came out at the back door on the side where Caughron and his companion were waiting. But they could not fire upon them then for fear of killing the woman. They finished the whipping, which was an unmerciful one, and then took her back in the house and returned to the back yard to rejoin the balance of the band. This was Caughron’s opportunity and at the same instant two guns fired simultaneously. A number of shots followed in quick succession. The White-caps were taken completely by surprise and fired only one volley, and then fled from the scene in great haste. The two men concealed in the bushes lay flat on the ground, and it was well they did so. Although the night was dark yet the White-caps had located them by the flash of their guns and took good aim. The bushes just over their heads were literally cut to pieces with buckshot. The White-caps, some twenty-five or thirty in number, having been put to flight by only two men, the firing ceased. Early the next morning Catherine Allen picked up a hat with a bullet hole in it which was found lying in the back yard. She still has possession of the hat to this day, and it is believed to be William Furgason’s. Hence the bullet that went crashing through his brain was not fired from a pistol in his own hands but from a Winchester in the hands of a deadly enemy. There is one more theory, however, offered by those who believe in this version of the story. They say that his relatives living south of the river were making preparations by sun-up next morning to attend his funeral, long before it was known in his own neighborhood and, therefore, must have been notified the night before. |