1 Victorian Way

The Bed & Breakfast was better than they could have imagined. The brochure was great, the pictures were good, but the 1830 Victorian mansion was gorgeous. Gingerbread-trim decorated the exterior of the three story house.  Inside, thick crown molding lined all of the ceiling edges and chair rails ran the length of hallways. Intricate woodwork with carved foliage trimmed the molding throughout the house. Dark, rich wainscote panels covered three walls of the study with the fourth occupied by a floor to ceiling book case filled with vintage tomes. From the vaulted ceiling to the glass doorknobs, the ornate architectural designs that current homeowner’s want to replicate in their own homes were authentic here.  Nicole and Andrew Roberts carried their bags through the entrance hall, past a mahogany grandfather clock and into the living room where they were greeted by a massive marble fireplace and by the host, who also happened to be the owner of the house.  Clara Boynton stood next to her 17th century desk, handed the Roberts the keys to the house and offered them glasses of wine and plates piled with Murukku. Nicole felt that the Malaysian savory snack seemed out of place in the 17th century house. But Andrew gobbled up the spicy dish and dried baby shrimp that was served on top of fresh chopped ginger that expertly complemented the deep purple merlot.  Seated before the fireplace the Roberts enjoyed their snack while Clara, in the kitchen, prepared a special welcome dinner. 

“Andrew, a dinner is never part of a Bed & Breakfast. I don’t get it.”  

“I don’t get it either, but the food smells good.” Andrew poured another glass of wine from the glass decanter. Nicole began to rub her right elbow. A stiffness had developed, an ache that she couldn’t explain. She turned to Andrew, “I feel like there’s a pin or a knife stuck in my elbow.” She opened and closed her hand. Making a fist, then shaking it below her knee to usher in new blood flow, she added, “My fingers feel tingly.”       

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The mahogany grandfather clock had silently guarded the entrance way to the doll-house like structure for nearly 30 years.  The house, a three story gothic revival, sat on a plot of land fronting on a wide dirt road surrounded by a heavily wooded area of ancient trees near the railroad line that ran north and south.  Under the comfort of the warm blanket, Charity was sound asleep. Her husband, Ezra Evans was propped up in the canopy bed reading when he heard the bell chime once on their clock in the foyer one floor below signaling 10:30. The chime bounced through the house. It was a comforting sound. But it was the sound of artillery that shook the house and brought the war to their doorstep.  

At 10:30 pm on October 28, 1863, Col. John Bratton, of the Confederate Army opened fire on the entrenched Union forces in and around Wauhatchie, Tennessee. The Evans and their house were caught in the crossfire between the Union and Confederate Forces. 

Through the upstairs window muzzle flashes lit up the night sky. Volley after volley artillery blasts walked their way towards the road until the cannon fire hit its target leaving the road decimated. Trees burst into flames.  Columns of smoke blanketed the sky. Fires burned. Red lights flickered and flashed through the windows and reflected on the walls of the house while gray smoke poured through every tiny crack and seam. The fires raged on only to be obscured by the clouds of gun powder that hung low to the ground like an eerie autumn fog.  The Union Battery commander, Captain Charles Atwell, was hit with multiple bullets that struck his hip and spine. Four soldiers made a makeshift stretcher out of their rifles and jackets to carry Atwell out of the battle.  Pistol butts banged on the door to the Evan’s home. The oak door gave way and the ornate Victorian house was converted into a field hospital as Atwell and others were carried inside to receive treatment.  

The makeshift hospital was a place of confusion and chaos and suffering. A red hospital flag was tied to a lower tree limb beside the house to mark the location of the emergency field hospital and to help guide the wounded in.  

Inside the house the surgeons worked all night on the wounded on the oak dining room table. Operating by candle light, long amputation knives and bone saws were placed in bloody water between operations. From a pail, a nurse, dressed in a white gown splattered with red smears splashed water on the operating table washing the blood and tissue and bone fragments and water from the table and onto the floor in preparation for the next wounded soldier.  James Blair, a soldier with a gunshot wound to the elbow was brought in through the front door, passing the grandfather clock. A 500-grain lead Minié ball shattered Blair’s upper arm at the elbow joint. Leaning against the burgundy wall, he could not move his fingers or make a fist which signaled immediate amputation. Escorted to the dining room table, the surgeon grabbed the bone saw, wiped the blood off with his apron, while his assistant, a 17 year old nurse offered chloroform to Blair.  In a circular sawing motion, within minutes, the 18 year old soldier lost his right arm. 

One of the surgeons opened the tall narrow lancet windows of the house to dissipate the sweet smell of chloroform. Another surgeon threw Blair’s amputated arm out the window.  By morning amputated limbs were stacked up in the front yard of the house. Others died that night as well. Captain Atwell died from his wounds in a dark walnut bed in the master bedroom on October 31, 1863. Three days after the first shots were fired the battle was over leaving 828 Americans either dead or wounded in or around the Evan’s ornate gothic revival house.  

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The Roberts had dozed off in front of the marble fireplace when the grandfather clock, which stood like a sentinel in the foyer and greeted every guest when they entered with a silent glare for over 180 years, began to chime. The house, converted into a bed & breakfast retained the victorian charm with modern luxuries like air conditioning, walk-in glass showers and hot-tubs. Period authentic antique furniture decorated the living spaces. The front living room was papered in a thick ocean blue covering and the foyer, where the clock stood was remodeled in an emerald green wall paper.  At midnight each chime on the clock mournfully signaled the end of one day and the commencement of a new day. Midnight was the precise moment when one day ended and the next one began.  On October 30th, as the clock struck the twelfth chime halloween began.   That’s when Nicole and Andrew Roberts noticed an odd smell, a slightly sweet taste in the air just before the chandelier in the living room started to shake. It shook, then swayed back and forth as if it heard a waltz. The chandelier danced gently, before the tempo picked up. Light crystals that hung suspended from the chandelier’s branches shook and bounced in rhythm. Near the grand staircase, just off of the living room, an odd scraping noise could be heard. They approached the staircase and found that the grating sound grew louder. It seemed to emanate from the floor above them.  Switching the lights on, they crept up the stairs, past the landing and on to the second floor where the noise seemed the loudest. They stopped at a white door where the sound was the loudest.  The door, edged by intricate crown molding had an ornate glass knob on it. The knot in Andrew’s stomach grew larger as the sound grew louder. The hair on his neck rose as a shiver raced down his spine. Rubbing his hands together, Andrew slowly, hesitantly grabbed the knob as if it might be electrified, while Nicole looked on. He turned the knob. The door opened.  Looking inside, the room was shrouded in black. A silhouette of a canopy bed was the only thing visible. The noise stopped once the door was opened.  

“It’s an old house. Probably a lonely mouse looking for a midnight snack.” Rubbing her elbow, trying to smooth out the pain, Nicole didn’t believe Andrew’s words. He didn’t believe them either.    

They stood at the threshold. In the blackness of the bedroom a misty shadow appeared near the bed and vanished but the shiver running down their backs didn’t disappear. 

Walking quickly, almost at a run, they headed for the stairs. Andrew felt the shiver in his spine turn to a sharp pain and then another piercing pain hit deep in his hip. He wobbled. Like someone who was drunk he could barely keep his balance. Reaching out, he grabbed the railing in a vain attempt to keep from falling down the steps. His hip gave out. His hands slipped. He dropped. He slid down 8 steps until he came to a stop on the landing.

The house started to fill with red lights. At first the lights were faint. Then they grew in intensity as they danced on the walls and filled the house. Large repeated bangs were heard at the front door.  Without a response the door flung open. Two Marion County police officers stood in the doorway scanning the house with their flashlights.  

“Marion County Police!” one officer shouted as they breached the foyer.  The flashlights illuminated the front room while the police car lights continued to light up the house. 

The police found Nicole and Andrew on the landing clinging to each other. Steven, the taller officer who looked like he lived in a weight room asked them what they were doing in the abandoned house? With his flashlight aimed at the couple he said, “We received calls from neighbors and people driving by about strange lights in the house. The house has been closed, abandoned for 40 or more years. What are you doing here?”

Nicole reached for her purse on a table next to the fireplace. Opening her purse she showed the officers the receipts for the night at the bed and breakfast. Steven showed the receipt to his partner.  He stared at it before he said, “It is dated October 31, 1863. The recipe is signed by Clara Boynton.”

“Clara Boynton,” Steven said, “was a nurse. She was a nurse during the Civil War. During the Battle of Wauhatchie she served as nurse in this house. She died in 1885.”