Knight Passes, Unquenchable Flame

It was December 20th, 200 years to the day that our beloved South Carolina had taken a stand against tyranny. How appropriate that my grandfather was laid to rest on this day, as the work of our ancestors was almost complete. The ceremonies of the day and all those gathered to honor him were dedicated to something much grander than themselves. They had kept the fire started so long ago, and it had proven to be unquenchable.

After the events of the day, I was exhausted on every level. My spirit had been low, raised to euphoria, then low again as his coffin was placed inside the tomb and sealed. Sensitive to my state, my grandmother sought me out. Even though she had been very busy in her hospitality, this genteel Southern lady instinctively knew I needed her, I needed her to release me to a place of solace. Her gentle voice reminding me of where my grandfather would go to seek such a rest, so I escaped to the woods and a campsite he had so frequently brought me to.

Although the day had been perfectly pleasant, cooler weather was settling in, and a very rare and light snow was beginning to fall. Per her permission, I took my grandfather’s old pick-up truck, slowly making my way and reminiscing of all the wonderful moments we had together. It was almost dusk as I approached that peaceful place. Though what I discovered there would be restful, it would not be a place of solace nor quiet. 

Walking away from the truck and toward the site of my reclusion was silent enough, and the snow falling ever so slowly eased my mind and my soul. A small hill covered in wild blackberry bushes and a few trees that had not yet lost all their leaves had hidden my view as I approached my destination. Suddenly, my thoughts were disrupted when, out of nowhere, a man stopped me as I crested the hill. I had seen him earlier, he was one of the knights, and was acting as a sentinel to halt my progress. Although temporarily stopped, I could see past him, and noticed that there was a large campfire burning and a company of gentlemen standing and kneeling around it. The sentinel called out to the others, “He has arrived,” and when he said this, all heads turned my way. 

My uncle, now one of the Twelve, came to me and greeted me with a most curious salutation. “We have been waiting for you,” were his exact words. How did he know anything about my plans, as I had told no one, other than my grandmother, where I would be, and she was not prone to release any information given her in confidence? He proceeded to usher me toward the others, and though perplexed, I honestly was delighted with such fine companionship on this cold night. 

The fire was raging, there were twelve men gathered round it, and four others acting as sentries in each direction. Just south of the fire was a big rock, and I had convalesced there on many occasions with my grandfather, especially as he got older. It was his favorite place to impart stories, yet at the time, it was my belief that they were just the fantastical ramblings of an old man, but also how marvelous among grandfathers and grandsons was the telling of such fables. And there was more, he would teach me sayings and ways to say certain things, and I was meant to memorize all of them, as if they were to be recalled in some future dispensation. Today, for the first time, I understood my recollection of the rituals and the events that had transpired, and that they were all parts of the stories he had gifted me. 

One by one, all of the Twelve introduced themselves. They told me of how they had met my grandfather, not one introduction was the same, each of them having something special they held dear about him. One, who was now a governor, talked about the prayers offered up for his wife in a great time of need, and the solemness of a very windy and cold funeral to honor another fallen warrior. Another, now the Attorney General of the Republic of Tennessee, recalled a hallowed graveyard visit to show respect for a true son of our cause, and the hardships of many attacks in the early days. There were men of high office, but there were also men of what my grandfather would call “men of great necessity.” And, of course, there was the one they all called the “Tyrant,” who had compelled them ever forward. 

Each of the Twelve had suffered, been discouraged, fought from time to time amongst themselves, but all remembered they had been called to a greater purpose. As the night went on, old wounds were healed, all suspicions were laid to rest, and friendships that had waned over the years were made fresh again. Mortality has a way of reminding us of what is important, and in their memories, they all knew my grandfather was one to try and mend broken fences among brothers, especially over a few sips of Tennessee whiskey. 

There was plenty of whiskey to go around, and as the night went longer and got colder, the heat from the fire and abundant libations warmed all of our company. Then, one celebrant spoke directly to me, my uncle, asking if I could recall the story of the “Keeper of the Fire”? I nodded in affirmation, all the men grew silent and respectful, and I was asked to tell the tale as it had been given to me. The mood had changed, there was a seriousness now in the cold night air, and I focused on being exact in my recollection. What I had taken as mythology, these men thought to be something much different. There was gravity to the story in the hearts of these men, from the ghost like figure at the fire, the sword, grey coat, cavalier hat, and, of course, the man to which the flame had been passed. Each, to a man, affirmed the validity of the story, as it had been passed down. Each of the Twelve had received the story in succession from the one whom had experienced the event on a night just like tonight, yet many years ago. That man was my grandfather, and now it was to be passed down again. 

All the knights rising and all the sentries turning inward stared directly at me. They did not move for some time and were silent for what seemed an eternity, then the Twelve moved to encircle me. I had not noticed that all of them were dressed in grey cloaks, and each was outfitted with a lapel pin distinguishing their order, their clans. The oldest knight called to the others, “There must always be 12 knights per clan and there must always be 12 clans to complete in the Brotherhood.” The knights asked in unison, “Who is worthy?” And without hesitation, of pure instinct I yelled out, “None!” Then, immediately “I will keep the fire!” At that, one knight placed a grey coat on my shoulders, a cavalier hat in my hands, and I knelt before all the knights. The oldest knight whispered a secret name into my ear, only known by the other knights. My head bowed, he took the sword that had been passed down through the generations and affirmed me as one of the knights, completing once again the hundred and forty-four. 

They all stayed and welcomed me into the brotherhood but as the night lingered, they all dispersed, leaving my uncle and myself. Finally, we had time to remember a man as just a father and grandfather. We laughed and wept in his honor. It was some time after midnight when my uncle gave me a few instructions to possess my attention in the morning, then he departed. I spent the next hours in vigil to prepare my soul for the task ahead of me, then drifted off to sleep covered in a heavy woolen blanket next to the fire that was still rather large. 

As the sun began to break and the darkness relinquished its hold, a thick fog still resting on the campsite, I awoke suddenly. There was the sound of rustling around the fire, perhaps it was an animal coming close to warm itself, or my uncle returning to check on me, but it was not. 

A man suited in grey sat at the fire, added some wood bringing up the flame, tipped his hat to me, smiled as if he was pleased with the events of the night before, and walked away…

Deo Vindice! 

God save the South!