Southern Hospitality

This is the transcript for the latest episode of my podcast, From the Mind of Maro, as of this posting. It's about a young soldier in the American Civil War, who finds himself in a most desperate situation. When he is offered respite from a pair of strangers, are things really as they seem?

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Excerpt from the journal of Corporal Calvin Herst, September 1914.



It was January 2nd, 1863. Not even two days into the new year, and already Kentucky was being ravaged by an ungodly blizzard. I was a young corporal in a union scouting regiment in the area, having been ordered out on a reconnaissance mission with my unit when the snow hit. I still can’t remember how, but I was separated from the rest of them, and found myself alone, blindly wandering through a frozen wasteland and being relentlessly bombarded by the endless downfall of snow.

I had only my horse for company. Of course, she just wasn’t built for brutal conditions such as this, and she soon collapsed into the snow, practically frozen as solid as a statue. Thankfully, I was uninjured. But now I was stranded, and had no idea which direction I was even going in.
Then, through the blizzard, I saw a tiny shimmer of light off in the distance. Where there’s light, there’s usually warmth, I figured. Faced with either taking my chances with whoever made that source of light or freezing to death, I choose the obvious course.

As I trudged my way through the ever-deepening snow, I silently prayed that whoever I was heading toward that they were friendly. Kentucky had never officially joined the confederacy, having declared itself neutral. But there was still the chance that the owners of the farm up ahead were confederate sympathizers, and wouldn’t be too happy to see a union soldier at their door. But that was a risk I had to take.

For what felt like hours, I waded my way to the front step of a cabin with a single candle glowing in its one window. By this point, I had practically lost all feeling in my feet, and my fingers weren’t far behind. I knocked on the door and waited for an answer. Once the door opened, almost immediately, I was blasted by the wonderful feeling of heat from inside the cabin, emanating from a blazing fireplace at the far end of the room.

But that relief was short lived, as the next thing I noticed was the twin barrels of a shotgun pointed directly in my face. The man holding the weapon looked to be in his mid to late forties, dressed in shabby clothes yet he seemed to be well fed. For a long awkward moment, he just stared at me with a gruff, unreadable expression, while I kept my eyes on the gun he currently had aimed point blank at my head.

Finally, he spoke. “What do you want?” He half growled the words, giving me the impression that this man was not the friendliest of people. Still, his company would be better than freezing to death, so I put on as best of an heir of politeness as I could and said “Good evening, sir. I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but my horse froze to death in this storm, and I have been wandering in the snow for a rather long while. Could I trouble you to wait out this blizzard in your home?”

I was barely able to keep my teeth from chattering as I made my request. To my surprise, the man immediately lowered his weapon and smiled warmly. “Why of course, sir! Please, come on in and get yourself warm. A man’s liable to catch his death on a night like tonight.”

I gratefully accepted his offer, stepping inside and basking for a moment in the warmth of the cabin, soothing my frozen extremities. “Sorry about the gun.” The man said as he returned his shotgun to its spot above the fireplace. “But one can never be too careful in times like this. Maggie, we have company! Get our guest some stew!”

The man extended his hand to shake. “George Gallowman, at your service.” I took his hand and shook it. “Calvin Herst at yours.” I could tell George had been a farmer his whole life, just by the calluses covering his palm. A woman of similar age to George entered the room from an adjacent kitchen, carrying a steaming bowl of fresh stew. “Hello, good sir.” She said as she set the bowl down at a small table by a couple of chairs at the fireplace.

“My wife, Maggie.” George introduced, as I gave the woman a tip of my hat and she curtsied in return. “Now then, I’d say we have quite some time until this storm withers out, so you may as well get comfortable, Mr. Herst.” George said as he led me over to the chairs with the stew in front of them. I took a seat across from George and ate a spoonful of stew.

I was most grateful to have something hot in my stomach after so long of living off hardtack and dried beef. But this stew in particular, it tasted like nothing I’d ever had before! I eagerly ate it, savoring its unique flavor.

“This is delicious!” I said, and the couple smiled. “I’m glad you enjoy it.” George said “It’s an old family recipe passed down from my grandfather. By the way, I see you’re a soldier of the union. Do you happen to know of a Private Philip Gallowman?” I shook my head. “Can’t say I do. Is he your kin?”

“Yes. He’s our son.” Maggie answered with a slight frown. “He went off to join the union army about a year ago. Against our wishes, mind you.” “I take it you’re not for the union, then?” I asked. George just scoffed in response. “Union, Confederates, it makes no difference to us. No matter who is president, or what the government calls itself, they’re really no better than the other.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. What has the government ever really done for people like me and you? Nothing, that’s what! They only really care about themselves and their friends. No matter which side wins this war, we’re still going to be in the same place we’ve always been: Poor and breaking our backs just to survive. I told Philip it was pointless to get involved for either side, but he refused to listen. At least the boy has the decency to write home to us every so often.”

Not wanting to wear out my welcome too quickly by starting an argument with my host, I decided to steer the conversation in another direction at that point. “So, you said this stew was created by your grandfather. Was he much for cooking?” George smiled “That’s actually quite the story. If you’d like, I can tell you.”

I figured we had plenty of time to spare, so I motioned for him to continue. “Well, as I said, this stew is an old family recipe passed down from my grandfather, Thomas Gallowman. He was a minuteman in the continental army, even fought alongside Washington himself in a battle or two, back before the revolution started. It was the winter of 1780. The snow was deep, and the wind was merciless, much like this very evening. Thomas and his unit had been separated from the rest of the patriot army and were forced to seek shelter from the storm.”

I couldn’t help but notice a couple similarities in George’s story to my current predicament. But somehow, I doubted that his grandfather and his men would have stumbled across a welcoming farmhouse to keep themselves warm. George continued “Fortunately, they managed to find an inhabited cave, and just barely managed to get a fire going. Unfortunately, however, they had very little rations left and knew that if they didn’t find something to eat, that if the cold didn’t kill them, then starvation would. They drew lots to see who would be the one to venture out and find food. As fate would have it, Thomas was the one that came up short.”

I listened intently, enthralled by George’s tale. I had to admit, he had quite a talent for telling stories. Perhaps if he had been a writer instead of a farmer, he could live a more comfortable life. “By this point, the storm had calmed down somewhat, just enough that Thomas could go out and not be buried alive in the snow.” George went on. “For hours, he wandered the wilderness in search of game. Deer, turkey, rabbit, at that point he would have settled for a skunk if he could. But there wasn’t a single sign of life amongst the frozen landscape.”

“Then, just as he was prepared to give up, and go back empty handed, he heard a twig snap from behind him. He turned to see a lone, young redcoat approaching him from behind, a knife raised and ready to plunge into my grandfather’s flesh. Thomas never found out why that single redcoat was out all alone, away from the rest of them. Perhaps his situation was exactly like Thoams’s own, and he had been searching for food for his company. Maybe he had gotten lost from his unit as well. Either way, it didn’t really matter. A soon as my grandfather turned to face his would-be attacker, the redcoat charged and slashed his dagger at Thomas, barely missing him as his target ducked to the side. As the young redcoat turned to face him and try again, Thomas swung his musket like a club, hitting the redcoat in the side of the head.”

“The young man’s body immediately dropped like a rock, his body sinking into the snow. As Thomas stood over his assailant, he searched the redcoat for any food he might have had on his person and found only a few strips of dried beef and a half empty canteen. Then, he had an idea. An inspiration, as he would later call it. He had been hunting for hours and seen not a single animal he could bring back to his men to eat. Nothing…except the redcoat who had attacked him.”

It was then that I suddenly got a queasy feeling in my stomach. Not from the stew, but from a sense of dread at where Geoge’s story was headed. “Taking the redcoat’s dropped dagger, he plunged it into the man’s heart for good measure, before dragging the body all the way back to the cave with his men. I remember my grandfather sometimes would joke that was why the British soldiers wore red coats, to hide the bloodstains from any wounds they incurred in battle.” George chuckled to himself before continuing.

“ At first, his men thought him a madman at the mere idea of what he proposed. But he said to them “If we don’t do this, we will surely meet our end in this cave. In war, one must do what one must in order to survive.” His words, combined with their growing hunger and desperation, convinced them to do what was necessary. That night, they feasted on a stew of redcoat, which much to their surprise, tasted better than any beef, chicken or venison they’d ever had. Eventually, Thomas and his men were able to regroup with the patriots. They had agreed to never tell anyone else of what they had done to survive that night and would take it to their graves. But Thomas, however, couldn’t help but develop a taste for the meat had partaken of that frigid night. He knew he couldn’t have it too often, or people would grow suspicious.”


Now I was beginning to feel a wave of nausea at George’s words. It took all my strength to not vomit as he continued. I wanted to stop him, but morbid fascination made me want to hear how this story ended regardless. “After the revolution ended, Thomas returned to his life on the family farm. Whenever times were hard, such as droughts, bad crops or harsh winters like this, he would leave a candle in the windowsill, to draw in weary travelers. It didn’t always work, mind you. Sometimes visitors would draw too much attention if they were to just disappear. But, through God’s will or just plain luck, we always made it through thanks to him and his survival method.”

There was a long pause as George finished his tale, with only the crackling of the fireplace breaking the silence. Then I burst out laughing. “A fine joke! Very good, indeed! You really had me there for quite a while.” George smiled in response. “I’m so very glad you enjoyed my story, and our family’s secret stew. But I’m afraid I’m not joking.”

I could only stare in horror as I realized he was dead serious. “You mean you really did…?”
George nodded “Yes, I’m afraid so. For more than eighty years now, my family has done what we needed to survive. We’ve had all kinds of visitors for dinner. Whites, negros, Indians, Federals, Confederates…they all taste the same, really.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! “Then why are you telling me all this? Why feed me human meat? What’s to stop me from telling anyone else about the crimes you’ve committed?” George smiled again, but this time there was a gleam of malice in his eyes. “Nobody should die in the south without knowing a bit of southern hospitality first. Right, Maggie?”

“Right, George.”

It was then I noticed George’s wife's shadow, looming behind me with an ax raised above her head, ready to bring it down on my skull. Operating purely on instinct, I lunged forward and rolled out of the way as the ax came down on the spot I had previously been sitting in. Maggie raised the ax again and came charging at me with a murderous look on her face. Quick as a flash, I drew the colt I kept at my hip, took aim, and I fired!

Maggie and the axe dropped to the floor. She hadn't even had time to blink before the bullet hit her square between the eyes. George let out a cry of rage as he ran to grab the shotgun he’d threatened me with before from above the fireplace. His mind must have been overcome with grief at the death of his wife and unable to think rationally, because I easily put two more bullets in him, one in each kneecap, sending him tumbling to the ground as well.

I stood and went over to George, never taking my pistol off him as I approached. “Go on, shoot me.” He spat “Get it over with!” I stared him down for a long moment, tempted to pull the trigger and end him then and there. But I holstered my weapon and turned to leave. “What are you doing?” George demanded

“I’m no executioner.” I said, “Your wife I killed in self-defense, but you, I think I’ll let the proper authorities deal with you.”

“No!” George cried “Please! Kill me! Just shoot me now!” I ignored his pleas and stepped outside the cabin. At least it had stopped snowing by then. The light of the full moon glistened on the seemingly endless field of snow. It would have made for a beautiful sight, if I had not been more preoccupied with emptying my stomach of its vile contents into a nearby outhouse. Seeing a stable nearby, I commandeered a horse and used the stars to make my way to the nearest town.

I reported the Gallowmans to the sheriff, who quickly formed a posse to storm the Gallowman farm. The last I heard, they found George still lying helpless on the floor, crying at his approaching fate. Upon checking the cellar, the sheriff and his deputies found all the proof they needed to verify my story. Piles and piles of bones from the poor, unfortunate travelers that had fallen victim to the Gallowman’s family recipe.

George was hanged the following day. I had requested to remain anonymous when the story eventually hit the papers, which the sheriff made sure to uphold. But I am old now, and I don’t know how much longer I have on this earth. So, I thought it was only right that I confess what really happened that night. It wasn’t a month later that I lost my leg in battle to a rolling cannonball and was medically discharged. Despite losing a limb and needing to walk with a crutch for the rest of my life, I considered myself fortunate. There were plenty of other men who lost far worse than I had in the war.

Sometimes I still think back to that night, and remember what the Gallowmans said, that their son had been away at war back then. I sometimes wonder if he ever found out about me and what happened between his parents and I. And if he did, did he ever try to find me for revenge? I’ll probably never know. But one thing scares me the most. If the Gallowman’s son is still out there, he’s probably carrying on their little family tradition.

So, to whoever finds this journal, if you find yourself wandering the southern states, lost, hungry and alone, if you see a home with an inviting candle in the window, be very careful about knocking on the door. Because there’s always a chance that the residents of the place will be all too willing to show you their own sick brand of southern hospitality.