In the shadow of a true Southern rebel
The route to get to where we built our new home is Manse Jolly Road. I figured this Jolly fella was a former civic official or rich guy, the kind who usually have roads named after them. Turns out Jolly is one of those figures that reminds me that I am in a Confederate state that was bound and determined to split from those Yankees and form their own nation.
Manson Jolly was a young man from Anderson who went off to fight for the South in the Civil War. So did five of his brothers. Manse was a member of the South Carolina cavalry and made it through the war. None of his brothers did. Four died on the battlefield and the fifth by other means. Manse returned to Anderson to find his family decimated by the horrors of war. To make matters worse, those Northerners were occupying his hometown. Times were tough for Southern families who routinely had whatever crops or animals they raised taken by the Union soldiers. Manse didn't take kindly to that and became a trained horse soldier bent on revenge.
Manse's success is the stuff of legend around here. I talked to one native Southerner who heard that Manse trapped and killed three Union soldiers not far from our current home site. Could be true. Could be fable. What's known is that Jolly killed more than a few Union soldiers. The final number depends on how much legend you accept as truth. The final tally might be more than a hundred if you believe stories about Manse racing his trusty steed right through a Union encampment with both of his guns blazing. Most reject that story, as do I. I can't imagine a Southern renegade being able to gallop his horse through such a group without some battle-tested Union soldier having the wherewithal to grab a rifle and kill old Manse. It is the kind of story, however, that would be told and retold by Anderson folk as they sit in rocking chairs on their front porches and recount the gallant work of a local boy.
What is known is that it got too treacherous for Manse to stick around these parts. He left Anderson with a few like-minded Confederates and went to Texas. Tragedy befell Manse not long after when he tried to lead his horse across a stream turned into a torrent by a sudden storm. Both man and horse perished. Manse is buried somewhere far from his hometown, but his legacy lives on. There are T-shirts with Manse's image that tout his heroism in fighting for the South. There also is at least one road dedicated to his memory. You see, enjoyment of Manse's deeds dies hard around these parts.
That road winds past an arm of Lake Hartwell, and there are some comfortable homes on land that borders that lake. One of those homes is ours. I get to sit in my home office, the center of my writing universe, and take breaks by looking through trees and seeing that beautiful lake, and I take in the fact that I am maybe sixty yards from that road named for Manse. I wonder exactly where he bushwhacked those three Northern boys. Could be right around the corner.
Manson Jolly was a young man from Anderson who went off to fight for the South in the Civil War. So did five of his brothers. Manse was a member of the South Carolina cavalry and made it through the war. None of his brothers did. Four died on the battlefield and the fifth by other means. Manse returned to Anderson to find his family decimated by the horrors of war. To make matters worse, those Northerners were occupying his hometown. Times were tough for Southern families who routinely had whatever crops or animals they raised taken by the Union soldiers. Manse didn't take kindly to that and became a trained horse soldier bent on revenge.
Manse's success is the stuff of legend around here. I talked to one native Southerner who heard that Manse trapped and killed three Union soldiers not far from our current home site. Could be true. Could be fable. What's known is that Jolly killed more than a few Union soldiers. The final number depends on how much legend you accept as truth. The final tally might be more than a hundred if you believe stories about Manse racing his trusty steed right through a Union encampment with both of his guns blazing. Most reject that story, as do I. I can't imagine a Southern renegade being able to gallop his horse through such a group without some battle-tested Union soldier having the wherewithal to grab a rifle and kill old Manse. It is the kind of story, however, that would be told and retold by Anderson folk as they sit in rocking chairs on their front porches and recount the gallant work of a local boy.
What is known is that it got too treacherous for Manse to stick around these parts. He left Anderson with a few like-minded Confederates and went to Texas. Tragedy befell Manse not long after when he tried to lead his horse across a stream turned into a torrent by a sudden storm. Both man and horse perished. Manse is buried somewhere far from his hometown, but his legacy lives on. There are T-shirts with Manse's image that tout his heroism in fighting for the South. There also is at least one road dedicated to his memory. You see, enjoyment of Manse's deeds dies hard around these parts.
That road winds past an arm of Lake Hartwell, and there are some comfortable homes on land that borders that lake. One of those homes is ours. I get to sit in my home office, the center of my writing universe, and take breaks by looking through trees and seeing that beautiful lake, and I take in the fact that I am maybe sixty yards from that road named for Manse. I wonder exactly where he bushwhacked those three Northern boys. Could be right around the corner.
Comments
Post a Comment