I never had the pleasure of actually talking with Ches McCartney (Goat Man), but back in the late ’50s I watched as he and his goats made their way west on Hwy. 74 in Rockingham. Ron Goodman and Joe Lyerly said the Goat Man camped just off Mill Road in Rockingham and other folks said he made his camp behind the old Rat Market in Ellerbe at different times. Joe Ussery said he saw the Goat Man in the early ’60s going up the hill at Moss Brothers, while Ms. Nancy Dewitt Daugherty remembers her daddy, Mr. L.G. Dewitt, telling her, “The Goat Man is on his way up the road.” As she waited in her yard, she heard what sounded like bells ringing. Then an old wagon being pulled by goats appeared slowly making its way around the curve at Dewitt Junction. Walking alongside of the wagon was the Goat Man, dressed in bib overalls and wearing an old railroad cap.
No matter where the Goat Man managed to park his team of burly goats and makeshift wagon he would draw in a crowd of people — and mind you, Ol’ Ches knew how to work the crowd. While some looked upon his goat herd, others took notice of his iron wheeled wagon and some brave souls even braved the tire smoke just to listen to Ches’ stories.
Ches made his living by selling picture post cards and booklets about himself and his goats. Why, he would sell you one for a quarter, two for fifty cents or three for a dollar. A lot of people thought they were getting a deal at three for a dollar until they got home and thought about it.
Ol’ Ches wasn’t a well-educated man. He was a self-taught sort of fellow, but somehow he always came up with the right things to say. Seems at one of his campsites, a well-dressed gentleman walked into Ches’s camp wearing a three-piece suit. After a few minutes of looking around, he says to the Goat Man, “If you would take a bath and clean up, more people would come out to see you.” The Goat Man sorta looked up at the man without raising his head and said, “When was the last time you took a bath?” The man replied in a bragging voice, “Well I had a bath this very morning.” The Goat Man then replied, “How many folks have come to look at you today?” The man replied, “Well nobody has come.” The Goat Man then lowered his eyes back to the campfire and said, “I haven’t had a bath in twenty years, and over 300 people have come to see me today.”
The embarrassed gentleman’s face turned as red as a beet and he hurriedly walked away. The rest of the crowd roared with laughter while the Goat Man never cracked a grin.
Mr. McCartney professed to being an ordained minister and always said: “All the money I have over my expenses goes to mission work.” He told of having a mission in Jeffersonville, Georgia and a church in Savannah. Every chance he got he told people about the gospel of Jesus Christ and at 4 p.m. on Sundays he held a service and preached about his savior even if’n his goats were the only ones listening. “Don’t put no frills on my preaching,” he says, “I just put the truth right out there.”
Folks don’t realize it, but McCartney and his team of goats also hold the world record of being the fastest goat team to circle the old Atlanta speedway in Rome, Georgia and that’s the gospel. I don’t believe anyone has ever tried to break that record since then.
The long-bearded, self-proclaimed preacher claimed to have traveled over a hundred thousand miles in his lifetime. He said he had visited 49 states, all except Hawaii. The only reason he didn’t cross over the big pond was that he thought his goats would eat them grass skirts right off those island women.
Life on the road wasn’t always good for the Goat Man and his team of goats. Tragedy struck on a cold and snowy Christmas night when the Goat Man and his herd were camped in a rural area with not a house in sight. Ches had fed all his goats and as usual tied his favorite goat, Ol ’Billy, to one of the iron wheels on the wagon. You see Ol’ Billy was, well, what you might call the flagship, watchdog and roadside companion to Ches for all the years he had been on the road. Why he thought just as much of Ol ’Billy as he did his own son.
Ches had had a rough day and after taking care of all the goats, he turned in early, and went fast asleep as the snow was still softly falling through the trees.
When Ches awoke just before dawn, he took his old kerosene lantern to check on the goats. To his amazement, there lying in a pool of blood in the snow was Ol’ Billy. You see, sometime during the snowy night someone had shot Billy with a cruel hunting arrow.
“I thought he was a goner for sure,” said Ches. “Why Billy, he was all limp and unconscious; just lying in the snow beside the wheel, barely alive.”
The Goat Man was just as upset as Santa Claus would have been if’n somebody had shot Rudolph with an arrow.
As dawn came, Ches removed the arrow from Billy’s side, shoved a rag in the wound and tearfully stood by the road hoping some passerby would stop and take Ol ’Billy to a veterinarian; but none stopped.
The next few days, Ches doctored on Billy the best he knew how with axle grease and whatever else he could find to put on the wound. After a week, Billy seemed to perk up. Why, Ches even let him ride on an old coat in the front wagon.
As time went by, Ol ’Billy’s health started going down. Without proper care, Ol’ Billy died from complications and infection the following April. Ches buried his beloved friend on a hillside close to Rome, Georgia.
A part of Ches McCartney’s soul left when Billy died, for he had been a true companion. Ches said, “When my soul crosses over to Jordan, I‘ll start a looking in that eternal field for Ol’ Billy — grazing among the beautiful green Highlands, just above Heaven’s sweet shore.”
Folks, there are many more tales about the Goat Man and in my next column, if’n the Lord’s willing, I’ll try to end it on a happier note.
J.A. Bolton is a member of the N.C. Storytelling Guild, the Anson Co. Writer’s Club, Anson and Richmond Co. Historical Society and the Story Spinners in Laurinburg.
