Our historian shares the timeless tale of a hungry recruit
Every Chattanooga historian owes a debt to an unfinished manuscript left behind by a man named Henry Wiltse, which the Chattanooga Library has so finely preserved. Here we will show our respect to a peculiar tale found in the historical notes taken by Mr. Wiltse.
As the reader will soon learn, Wiltse recorded this story out of a sense of obligation to the protagonist of the tale and to preserve the simple truth the small story holds. Out of sincere respect for the unrecognized work of Mr. Wiltse and in dedication to a thief called Mr. Weathers, I feel equally obliged to make sure this shadowy piece of Chattanooga history is preserved and shared.
I considered rewriting this tale and phrasing it in a more modern language. Reading the story through, however, it became obvious that I could not improve upon it. For this reason, the tale is shared here as Henry Wiltse originally wrote it down.
All I feel compelled to add is a simple reminder. You, dear reader, will do well to remember that the point in recalling our history is to wisely plot our future.
Turkey Story: First one stolen.
By Henry Wiltse
This slight deviation from the conventional solemnity of history writing may seem frivolous, possibly digression, but it is neither. No, it is at the same time a record of an actual occurrence in history, and keeping a promise. Using a phrase more familiar than elegant, this story is “all wool”, but there is no yarn about it.
In 1905 I met Mr. Weathers, an affable and sprightly man of eighty-one summers who had become interested in some history notes of mine. On learning that I was the writer, he with deep earnestness inquired: “Do you know who stole the first Turkey here in Chattanooga?” Being informed that I had not yet got around to that particular branch of history and consequently did not know, he said: “Well sir, I am the man.”
Under the encouragement of several interrogatories and a cigar, he entered into details. He and a number of comrades had enlisted for service in the War with Mexico, and came down overland from Bradley County to join others and proceed by steamboat to New Orleans. The Bradley County boys were hungry upon arrival here, and stopped at a little eating house conducted by Mrs. Jenkins and her three daughters. While the fare was good enough, there was a dearth of fowls and their appetites made increasing demands for poultry. So Mr. Weathers and two others determined to go out foraging one night. Was this not a commitment to war; in truth a war measure of prime importance? To be sure.
They went, but neither saw nor conquered. Mr. Weathers, however, believed that he had discovered a fair prospect, good sign, as an Indian might have said. Excusing himself later he went out alone. Sure enough—he discovered a large, comely hen in the very act of going to roost. But the season did not seem to Mister Weathers fully ripe. The witching hour had not yet arrived. Mister Weathers returned to the Jenkins home and informed his friends of his discovery.
They held their first council of war. As a result, they built a pine-knot fire. Soon Mister Weathers went back to see how the turkey was getting along. She was still there and had apparently gone to sleep. Her awakening was a rude one. Mister Weathers grabbed her by her feet; grabbed her quite unsentimentally, grabbed her without her knowledge or consent, and with utter disregard of turkey dignity, ran, made off, “broke” as he phrased it, but in point of fact he ran away with the turkey.
The fowl theft did not run so smooth as Mister Weathers had anticipated. There was a disturbing element, an intervention. The owner of the fowl had discovered what was going on. He called a halt but Mister Weathers did not halt. The owner had a gun. He fired at Mister Weathers and Mister Weathers ran with the turkey all the harder. As for the wound from the gunshot, he had the same opinion of it that Mercutio expressed of his stab wound: “’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve.”
He felt blood running from every pore. He ran in every direction with the purpose of foiling his pursuer; in this he succeeded. When he reached the house—worn, breathless, spent and dying, as he believed, a discovery awaited him. The blood he had felt trickling down his person was a mixture of perspiration, fervid imagination and uncontrolled fright. He had not been shot. The wound was in his mind’s eye.
He ate none of the turkey. Indeed, he had never eaten any from that night in 1847 to the day in 1905 when we held our interview. His appetite for turkey went “glimmering with the dream of things that were” as he ran with the turkey’s claws in his hair and various parts of his flesh. He expected never to eat turkey again. After his story had been concluded, Mister Weathers insisted with childlike simplicity that he should be given credit for having stolen the first turkey ever confiscated in Chattanooga. Who could deny so reasonable a request?
So here you have the story of a man and a misdeed. Through his desire for something good to eat, our poor Mr. Weathers lost his taste for the fine holiday bird. The moral of the story is plain: Poorly fed folks are prone to bad deeds. Morality pivots around hunger, you see.
The anomaly, however, is that old soldiers have a strange propensity for taking pride in their bad deeds, especially those committed under the influence of a flag.
More than a hundred years ago, Mister Weathers demanded his confession be set down for the ages and I, like Henry Wiltse, can see no reason to deny such a reasonable request.
Especially considering that nothing has really changed.