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Balkan Fascination
 American Musicspheres

Series Editor
Mark Slobin

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Mark Slobin

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Music and Identity in Contemporary Jewish Worship
Jeffrey A. Summit

Lydia Mendoza’s Life in Music

Yolanda Broyles-González

Four Parts, No Waiting

A Social History of American Barbershop Harmony
Gage Averill

Louisiana Hayride
Radio and Roots Music along the Red River
Tracey E. W. Laird

Polkabilly
How the Goose Island Ramblers Redefined American Folk Music
James P. Leary

Balkan Fascination
Creating an Alternative Music Culture in America
Mirjana Lauševic
BALKAN FASCINATION
Creating an Alternative Music Culture in America

Mirjana Lauševic

1
2007
 3
Oxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further
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Copyright © 2007 by Oxford University Press, Inc.

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without prior permission of Oxford University Press.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lauševic, Mirjana.
Balkan fascination: creating an alternative music culture in America/Mirjana Lauševic.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN-13 978-0-19-517867-8
ISBN 0-19-517867-X
1. Folk music—United States—History and criticism.
2. Folk music—Balkan Peninsula—History and criticism.
3. Music—United States—Balkan Peninsula influences. I. Title.
ML3560.B28L38 2005
781.62'918073—dc22 2005014887

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
To Luka and Anja
This page intentionally left blank
 Acknowledgments

I feel very fortunate to have a long list of people to thank for making
this work both possible and enjoyable. If it weren’t for Zabe I Babe
and Jerry Kisslinger’s invitation to a Balkan party in New York my encoun-
ter with the Balkan music and dance scene might not have had the impact
that ultimately led to this book. The patience, knowledge, and willingness
of all the people I have interviewed over the years to open their minds and
hearts to me elicits most sincere gratitude. Even if the direct quotes are
not included in the text itself, each person’s insight did contribute to this
work. I am also grateful to EEFC and to all the musicians and dancers who
have made my research so full of joy.
In the early stages of research I owe thanks to Dick Crum, Michael
Ginsburg, Christos Govetas, Ruth Hunter, Martin Koenig, Steve Kotansky,
Yves Moreau, and Ethel Raim, for their generosity, knowledge and direc-
tion. Special thanks are due to Lauren Brody, Margaret Loomis, Ethel
Raim, Jane Sugarman, and Larry Weiner for “Balkan” hospitality, and to
Bob Beer, David Bilides, Martha Forsyth, Ron Houston, John Kuo, Suzanne
Leonora, Rachel MacFarlane, Stewart Mennin, Cathy Stately, Judith
Verkvist, and many others for their helpful insights and support.
Thanks to Zabe I Babe, Lori Fraser, and Ansambl Teodosijevski for
making Drumovi. Many loving people and helping hands contributed to
this recording in different ways; Rani Arbo, Belle Birchfield, Neely and
Phyllis Bruce, Laura Cameron, Chaterine Foster, Jennifer and Peter
Hadley, Dora Hast, Kelly House, Peter Irvine, Edward Jessen, Scott Kessel,
Donna Kwon, Rob Lancefield, Ingi Loorand, Vesna and Senad Mehinovi0,
Becky Miller, Keith Moore, Tristra Newyear, Anna-Maria Nygren, Cath
Oss, Victoria Pike, Larry Polansky, Laura Risk, Matt Rogalsky, Stanley
Scott, Sarah Snyder, Michael Veal, Lisa Wolfe, and David Yih.
At the outset, Wesleyan University provided an intellectual and social
home in which I felt comfortable, challenged and inspired, while the Uni-
versity of Minnesota and my wonderful colleagues there supported me in
 the final stages of the book’s production. The American Association of
University Women granted me a yearlong scholarship when I could hardly
have survived without it. I am grateful that nothing but pleasant experi-
ences accompanied my research at Wellesley College Archive, various
branches of the New York Public Library, Library of Congress, Duquesne
University Tamburitzans’ Library, Trinity College Watkinson Library,
Wesleyan University’s Olin Library, University of Minnesota Libraries, and
the San Francisco Performing Arts Library and Museum.
Mark Slobin has been a consistent source of inspiration and friendship,
and a stalwart supporter. I cannot express enough gratitude for all I’ve
learned from him. For their work and their interest in my work I am grate-
ful to Ted Levin, Jeff Summit, Marc Perlman, and Mike Heffley. Jane
Sugarman, Carol Silverman, and Sonia Seaman provided valuable com-
ments and suggestions both as ethnomusicologists and insiders to the
Balkan music and dance scene. I am exceptionally grateful to Mark Levy
for his thoughtful and nuanced comments on an earlier draft of the book
manuscript that resulted in significant improvements.
Many thanks to Ziyia, Kitka, Pitu Guli, Zenska Pesna for letting me use
their recordings. Ljubo Zivkov went to great lengths to help me get the video
footage of Zlatne Uste from Radio Television Serbia. Donna Kwon and Kristin
Irving assisted me greatly in obtaining photographs from the San Francisco
Performing Arts Library. Michael Ginsburg, Carol Silverman, Mark Levy, and
Rachel MacFarlane have been kind to answer many questions. Margaret
Loomis helped me sift through thousands of her Balkan camp photos in search
of the perfect cover image. Steve and Annie Luttinen, Kim Bahmer, Julie Sabo
and Peter Baatrup, Lynn and Bob Dixon, Pat Solstad helped in many ways,
not the least of them being taking care of Luka and Anja.
Most important, this book would truly not be possible if it was not for the
love, support, and inspiration provided by my family. Cliff and Elsa Eriksen
beamed it from New Hampshire; my mother, Nadezda Lauševic, heroically
moved to a foreign land to take care of her grandchildren and our house-
hold whenever time was needed to work on the “book that never ends.” It is
truly difficult to imagine how this work would have been completed with-
out her help. My brother, Dragan Lauševic, relocated us all to Whistler in
the summer of 2005 so we could prepare the manuscript while he and mom
explored Whistler’s playgrounds with the kids. Thanks to Jeff and Jane for
letting us take over their house. My late father, Miroslav Lauševic, has al-
ways been a true source of encouragement. His enthusiasm and pride in
my work will stay with me forever. Thanks to Luka and Anja each day is
filled with loveliness and joy. Thanks for teaching me about life’s priorities.
The tender love, dedication, and steadfast support of my husband, Tim
Eriksen, have enriched my life and this work in the ways that cannot be
described. He is always the first to hear, discuss, and comment on my work.
His assistance in the final stages of this book makes it truly a collaborative
project. He helped me not only with editing, but also with choosing and
digitizing music examples. Thanks. What a joy and a privilege it is to be
able to share ideas, to inspire each other, and to work together!

viii Acknowledgments
 Contents

Introduction 3

Part I. Ethnography of the Balkan Music and Dance Scene

1. The “Balkanites” 17

2. Why Balkan? 51

Part II. Folk Dancing and Turn-of-the-Century America

3. Folk Dancing and the Settlement Movement 71

4. Folk Dancing and the Physical Education and Recreation
Movements 91

Part III. International Folk Dancing from the 1930s to the 1950s

5. Dance and Be Merry 133

6. Emergence of the New Folk Dance Leaders:
Vytautas Beliajus, Song Chang, and Michael Herman 143
7. Folk Dance as a National Trend 169

Part IV. The 1950s and Beyond

8. International Folk Dance and the “Balkan Craze” 183

9. The Rise of the Balkan Scene 205

10. Conclusion 225

Appendix: Sample Questionnaire 243

Notes 245

Bibliography 265

Book Title ix
 Index 277

Key to Selections on DVD 297

Key to Selections on CD 299

x Contents
Balkan Fascination
This page intentionally left blank
 Introduction

L ike most important turns in my life, my introduction to the Balkan

music and dance scene in the United States happened quite unex-
pectedly as the result of a series of seemingly unrelated events. Soon after
leaving my native city of Sarajevo in the fall of 1991 to pursue graduate
studies at Wesleyan University, I found myself leading a ten-piece band,
later named Zabe I Babe, learning to play and sing traditional, rock, pop,
and newly composed folk songs from various parts of the former Yugosla-
via. For one of the group’s favorite songs we needed someone to play a
double-headed Macedonian drum called tapan. David Yih, an experienced
drummer, was willing to learn how to play tapan but, beyond explaining
how to hold the drum and what the drumsticks look like, I was not of much
help. It was clear that we needed instruction from an experienced tapan
player, but there aren’t very many even in Macedonia; finding one in the
United States seemed like searching for a needle in a haystack. I was proven
wrong as soon as I voiced my concern.
“There is a tapan player in New York. Jerry. Jerry Kisslinger. He lives
in the Bronx. I can get you his phone number,” said Becky Miller, one of
the band members.
“Jerry? What would be his real name?” I thought to myself, “Probably
Jeremija; an old-fashioned name, which must be why he Americanized it.”
“Is he a Macedonian? Or Serbian?” I asked, amazed at the swiftness and
ease with which this “impossible” task was accomplished.
“No, he is an American, he plays tapan in this great Serbian brass band
in New York called Zlatne Uste,” said Becky.
“Zlatne Uste? I don’t think it can be Zlatne Uste. That is grammatically
incorrect. It must be Zlatne Usne,” I explained, “or, maybe, Zlatna Usta.”
“No, I am pretty sure it is Zlatne Uste. I have their tape. I think they got
it wrong, and after someone told them that it was not grammatically cor-
rect they decided to keep the name anyway since they had already printed
the T-shirts and done the tape covers with that name.”

3
 I recalled hearing interviews with second-generation Yugoslavian im-
migrants struggling with Serbo-Croatian and getting most of the declina-
tions and conjugations wrong, so I assumed that must have been the case
with this band name as well. Serbo-Croatian, with its seven cases and
three genders and all the possible declinations and conjugations, is a very
hard language to learn, and one cannot blame the children of immigrants
brought up in America for not getting it right. The possibility of these
people being “non-Serbian-Americans” and still having a Serbian brass
band was beyond the limits of my imagination at the time. After all, I had
come from a place where the importance of national, ethnic, religious and
regional identities and boundaries was, to say the least, being blown out
of proportion, and where self-definition, group affiliation, and cultural
practice were closely interrelated.
Only a few weeks after this conversation I found myself in Jerry’s apart-
ment in the Bronx, sipping turkish coffee, eating feta cheese and ajvar (a
roasted red pepper and eggplant spread my family and most others back
home would make every fall), while he was explaining the basics of tapan
playing to David. Jerry did tell me that he was not Serbian, and that his
parents were not Serbian either, but since we had come to his place for a
tapan lesson and did not have too much time for inquiry I stopped ask-
ing questions and simply assumed that in some way he must be “Serbian”
or “Macedonian.” Otherwise, why would he be offering šljivovica (plum
brandy) and turkish coffee, how would he know about ajvar and kajmak,
and why would he play tapan and Serbian brass band music? Before we
left, Jerry gave me a flier for the Zlatne Uste Annual Golden Festival, ex-
plaining that it was a big Balkan party with good food and many bands
playing all night long.
As the day of the “Balkan party” approached, I became increasingly
excited. After all, I had not spoken a word of Serbo-Croatian, except occa-
sionally over the phone, in a long time. I was anxious to meet some people
from my homeland and to spend at least one night in a familiar atmosphere.
I was in for a big surprise.
I remember climbing the stairs to the third floor of Context Studios in
New York (28 Avenue A), entering into noise and crowd. I stood in a nar-
row hallway connecting two rooms, wondering which way to go. People
were constantly passing by me, going from one room to the other. Differ-
ent Balkan-sounding music was coming from each of the rooms. I decided
to get out of the way and step into the room to the right of the entrance. In
the program that I grabbed at the door, I noticed that the room was called
Kafana, a word borrowed from Turkish and used in Serbo-Croatian to refer
to a pub, although the term can be roughly translated as “coffeehouse.”
However, I noticed that this Kafana was not fogged up by cigarette smoke,
as would certainly be expected in any gathering of people from the Balkans.
The room was very crowded. Some people were sitting around small tables,
eating, chatting, and listening to music; others were standing, coming and
going from one room to the other. A small Bulgarian ensemble was play-
ing in the center of the room. Along the sides were tables overflowing with

4 Balkan Fascination
food. There was ajvar and pickled peppers, baklava, japrak sarma . . . Here
and there I could smell šljivovica, and I remember seeing a pastry that
looked as if it just came out of my mom’s oven.
In the room to the left there was a band up on the stage. The walls were
completely covered with beautiful hand-woven carpets and tapestries. It
was hot and sticky in the room, which was packed with people dancing
circle dances. I began noticing that many of them wore some pieces of
folk costume, most often embroidered blouses and leather peasant shoes,
called opanci. From all I understood about Balkan immigrants to the
United States, this was not the scene I expected to see. The men should
have been wearing suit pants and dressy shirts, they should be all freshly
shaven, with sharp, urban, haircuts, and perhaps here and there I would
see a thick golden chain protruding from a loosely buttoned shirt. The
women should have been in tight pants or tight short skirts, high heels,
stockings, with lots of makeup and at least blow-dried hair. I tried to make
sense of what I was seeing by guessing people’s life stories and how they
“came” here. They must have been here for a while, I thought, since they
had lost touch with current fashion in the Balkans. I was surprised that I
heard only English around me, except for the people on the stage. It looked
as if older people were dressed in folk costumes, rather than the younger
ones, which made me imagine that they had immigrated as peasants and
kept their costumes for occasions like this. It took me a while to start talk-
ing to people, always starting with:
“Hi. Where are you from?”
“From New York, Boston, Philadelphia . . .” were the common answers.
“Oh, where are your parents from?” would be my second question.
I was expecting to hear, “Bulgaria, Serbia, Croatia, Macedonia . . .” But
I never got such an answer that night. Instead, I learned the term WASP
(White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), as some people would, with a smile, try
to explain to me their family origins. I finally realized that the great ma-
jority of the several hundred people joyfully dancing to Balkan tunes
(played and sung, not by hired immigrant musicians, as I later learned,
but by Americans) had no ethnic ties to any of the Balkan countries. It
took me much longer to explain to myself what I was witnessing. Who were
they? Why were they there? Why did they play, sing, and dance those tunes?
Why were they wearing folk costumes and opanci? Where did all these
kilims and tapestries come from, and where did they find ajvar in New
York?
That night turned out to be the first night of my research. Much like
these Americans who had stumbled upon Balkan music and dance at some
point in their lives and became enchanted by it, I stumbled upon them
and found their enchantment puzzling and fascinating. Had I known more
about American culture and lifestyles, had I been better prepared for what
I was witnessing, perhaps the whole event would not have been as star-
tling to me as it was being caught by surprise. This was a world in itself,
different from anything I had seen in the States up to that point, and cer-
tainly far from what I would have expected to be called a Balkan party.

Introduction 5
 However, the biggest surprise of the evening was yet to come: “Ramo,
Ramo, druze moj” (DVD 1 “Ramo, Ramo. . . .” Filmed at the 1995 Men-
docino Balkan Music and Dance Workshops). It was the end of 1992 in
New York, and within these walls covered with Balkan carpets and tapes-
tries several hundred Americans were packed tightly, holding hands, danc-
ing a circle dance while singing in Serbo-Croatian “Ramo, Ramo druze
moj.” I had a flashback to a time when I was little, spending the summer
with my family on the Adriatic coast, in a syndicated (government- subsi-
dized) vacation resort. We were dining outdoors on a concrete porch
shaded by a grape vine. “Ramo, Ramo, druze moj” was the hit of the sum-
mer, played during every meal on the stereo, and then live during dinner.
I was six or seven at the time, and it was the first time I remember being
deeply affected by a song. I was very intrigued by the story behind the song,
trying to understand who Ramo was and why the singer with the crying voice
was so sad. Much later I learned that the song had its origin in a Hindi film
that was very popular in Yugoslavia in the early 1970s1, which explains why
it sounded so unusual to me. Numerous local musicians and restaurant
bands had their versions of the song, but how did “Ramo, Ramo . . .” make
it to the States? Why would Americans in New York more than twenty years
later be singing, of all songs, “Ramo, Ramo, druze moj” in Serbo-Croatian?
What kinds of images came into their minds when they heard this song?
Did they understand why the singer was so sad?
I left the Golden Festival with a clear sense of the many questions I
wanted to ask, but with little idea of how to pursue answers, and no prepa-
ration for the century’s worth of historical research that lay before me,
detailed in parts II through IV of this book. But first, I shall outline the
conventionally ethnographic material. I had learned that there were Balkan
bands in most major cities and many small towns across the country, that
there were numerous concerts/dance parties throughout the year, that
there were many Balkan dance classes where, in the absence of live bands,
people would dance to recorded music, that there were at least two an-
nual Balkan music and dance summer camps where one could spend a
whole week learning various music and dance styles from the region. I also
learned of the many people who danced Balkan dances in the context of
“international folk dance,” a related scene that was to have great signifi-
cance to my research. All of these things were completely new to me, and
with such widespread activities and locations to investigate, it was hard
to determine where my “field” of study would actually be. The commu-
nity I became interested in was tied neither by the expected shared ethnic
heritage nor by a particular location. The existence of this “village” was
due almost entirely to a shared interest in a particular music/dance reper-
toire. In this sense it differed greatly from most traditional fieldwork situ-
ations in which the very location of the “field” is, at least, not in question.
One of my first discoveries was that these “Balkanites,” as they often call
themselves, were extremely active on the, then nascent, Internet. Before
most Americans even had a home computer, they were already fostering
musical community through Web sites, chat rooms, and especially through

6 Balkan Fascination
an e-mail list serve. The EEFC (East European Folklife Center) list serve
became one of the first “sites” for my research. I had access to daily read-
ings on what members of the group had to say about Balkan music and
dance, about their involvement in the scene, about particular performing
groups, and about song and dance renderings. This helped me recognize
a particular sense of humor, learn the in-group jokes, lingo, and general
issues of concern, and get a better sense of the group I was working with.
I conducted especially thorough monitoring of the “conversations” on the
mailing list in the period from 1995 through 1997. I was able, almost im-
mediately, to get a large number of responses to questions that were of a
particular interest to me, and to follow discussions that arose on the net-
work without my instigation.
As my research progressed I gradually became involved in the Balkan
music and dance scene on several levels: as a researcher, teacher, student,
performer, and audience member. At the same time I began conducting
ever deepening historical research into the origins of this scene. Since 1993
I have taught Bosnian traditional singing at Balkan Music and Dance sum-
mer camps organized by the EEFC (Buffalo Gap, West Virginia 1993;
Ramblewood, Maryland 1994, 1995, 1998; Mendocino, California 1995,
1997, 1998) as well as at other privately sponsored summer camps and
music workshops in the United States and Britain. This teaching has been
very helpful in learning about the expectations, aims, habits, interests,
abilities, ethics, and esthetics of the Balkan music and dance enthusiasts.
Attending camp classes was equally valuable to my research. Among other
things, it provided insight into the kind of knowledge camp participants
acquired, and how they acquired it.
Beginning in late 1992 I attended various Balkan music and dance events,
not only as an observer, but also as a performer with Zabe i Babe.2 This
helped me to see which aspects of Balkan musical culture are appreciated
by which audiences, how events are organized, and what the criteria are
for selecting performing groups. Videotapes of concerts, dance parties,
rehearsals, and classes became handy tools for analyzing social interac-
tions, bodily practices, and music and dance behavior within the group.
The groups’ verbal, visual, and acoustical representations of themselves
and of the Balkans, through liner notes, packaging, and repertoire choice,
have yielded many interesting insights.
It has not been a goal of my work to evaluate or judge Balkan musical
texts rendered by Americans, though comparative analysis might be a fas-
cinating undertaking. I became much more interested, rather, in getting
a picture of the phenomenon as a whole within the context of American
culture and history. What’s more, I wanted to avoid evaluation of the
musical material produced within the subject group because of the dan-
ger of taking on a role of authority, often assigned to me by the very fact
that I am a native of a Balkan country. Indeed, in the beginning stages of
the fieldwork I was not perceived as a “scholar” who was there to learn,
but rather as a “native” who must be there to teach, criticize, judge, and
evaluate. My actions were often interpreted as reactions to the music and

Introduction 7
 dance content of an event. For example, during one dance party I was sit-
ting on a bench watching the dance. A person I had met earlier that evening,
and who knew that I was “from the Balkans,” approached me with the
question:
“Did we make this one up?”
“What do you mean?” I asked
“Did we get the steps wrong? Is this one authentic? Why aren’t you
dancing?”
“I don’t know the dance. I have never danced Greek dances.”
Similar exchanges happened several times during my fieldwork, but
mostly with people who were, themselves, new to the scene. Those with
more experience were more likely to know that “the natives,” in the best
case, know only a couple of circle dances. But even in situations where
my participation, or lack of it, was not understood as approval or disap-
proval, my very presence in the room made some participants attempt to
view themselves through my eyes: “Oh, this must look funny to you! What
do you make out of this? Do you think we are all nuts? I guess we sound
American, don’t we? You know, we are doing this just for fun. . . .” I could
not escape being perceived as an embodiment of the “Balkan culture”
before which the “Americans” needed to justify and explain their actions.
Over the years of my research and participation in the Balkan music
and dance scene I have gotten to “know” so many individuals currently
involved in the scene who do not know me. What might have been a sixty-
minute interview for them became months and years of listening and think-
ing about their words for me. I know their biographies, where they live,
who they socialize with, what instruments they play, what music they like
and dislike, and what they think about issues related to the Balkan scene.
I carry in my head the intonation and rhythm of their sentences, and
whether I agree with their content or not, they have shaped my thoughts
on the subject and, in the end, shaped this work as well. I have established
many friendships and meaningful ties with lovers of Balkan music and
dance in the United States and have grown to understand and appreciate
their endeavors.
Over the course of four years I conducted about sixty formal recorded
interviews and talked informally to many more people associated in one
way or another with Balkan music and dance events in the United States.
I have continued this research less formally in the years since. Among the
people interviewed were key individuals in the field: founders of the Balkan
Arts Center (precursor to the Ethnic Folk Arts Center), the East European
Folklife Center, and prominent Balkan dance and music teachers whose
activities were crucial to the development of Balkan music and dance in
the United States. These interviews helped me to grasp the development
of the scene and its institutional policies. Interviews with many other music
and dance teachers and students, as well as leaders and members of promi-
nent or lesser known performing groups, have generally provided for an
understanding of the process of transmission of music and dance forms,
selection of repertoire, personal insights into Balkan music and dance

8 Balkan Fascination
forms, and people’s motivation for learning and performing them. Musi-
cians and dancers from various Balkan countries who have been involved
in teaching and performing in the United States offered interesting insights
into issues of representation and cross-cultural learning. A two-page ques-
tionnaire, distributed at Balkan camps, enabled me to acquire grassroots
responses to the most pertinent questions and to gain statistical confir-
mation of data culled from numerous interviews. (See appendix.)
While the above-cited methodology was extremely useful in gaining an
understanding of the current Balkan music and dance scene, it clearly
showed its limitations in recovering the oral history of the “village.” As is
true of most villages, I discovered that most of the members of this “vil-
lage” were more interested in tending the grounds and maintaining the
house, so to speak, than in understanding when, why, and how the village
came into existence, how it got its present- day shape, what it was built
for, and who inhabited it before them. Most “villagers” considered the scene
to have emerged from the 1960s folk movement and imagined that their
ideas and feelings about experiencing “Balkan tradition” were wholly their
own or had evolved in recent decades.
Early in my work I did discover, however, that one man, Michael
Herman, was widely considered to be the father of this movement and,
what’s more, that at the age of eighty-four, Herman was still living and
leading a folk dance class for elderly people near his home on Long Is-
land. This, I thought, was the person I had been looking for to answer all
my questions, at least about the history of the scene if not its significance
to American culture and an ethnomusicological study of meaning and
identity. But while my meeting with him was fascinating, it left me with
few answers and many new questions. I got the distinct impression that
Michael Herman was part of an older American tradition, the origins of
which were unclear even to him. The beginning of international folk
dancing in the United States could not be limited to the enthusiasm and
activities of one man, nor could it be explained by him alone. Thus my
ethnomusicological study became, in large part, an historical study, de-
manding that I peel back layer upon layer of history, music, and meaning.
My research quickly went in multiple directions, across a wide time span,
and across a range of social groupings. I began my investigation of writ-
ten sources with the “house library,” i.e., various types of in-group mate-
rial written by and for participants in the scene. These included a long list
of folk dance periodicals, magazines, and newsletters from all over North
America (Viltis, The Folk Dancer, Traditions, Ontario Folk Dancer, Folk
Dance in Baton Rouge, etc., as well as the more recent Balkan Tunes and
Kef Times), dance and music instruction manuals, songbooks, class syl-
labi, record covers and liner notes, posters, fliers, photographs, several
unpublished papers and a masters’ thesis, all done by insiders, and the web
pages of various Balkan folk dance and music groups. While extremely
valuable as ethnographic documents and analytical material, these sources
did not offer much in terms of approaching a history of the movement.3
Both the content and time frame of these sources corresponded with,

Introduction 9
Exploring the Variety of Random
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 THE

PRISONER OF THE MILL;

OR,

CAPTAIN HAYWARD’S “BODY GUARD.”

BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL HAZELTINE.
Author of “The Border Spy.”

NEW YORK:
THE AMERICAN NEWS CO., PUBLISHERS’ AGENT,
NO. 121 NASSAU STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864,
by Sinclair Tousey, Publishers’ Agent, in the
Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
 THE

PRISONER OF THE MILL.

 CHAPTER I.

Brother and Sister—Forebodings—Nettleton.

War! Oh! how much of misery is expressed in that one word! It

tells its own tale of woe, of blood, of broken hearts and desolated
homes, of hopes blighted, of poverty and crime, of plunder,
peculation and official tyranny, of murder and sudden death. In
short, it develops all the baser passions of the human heart,
changing a peaceful world to a world of woe, over which the
destroying angel well might weep.
Come, oh, thou angel, Peace!
The “Army of the Mississippi,” as it was termed, had been
unsuccessful in their pursuit of the rebel General Price. A portion of
it, or rather the division commanded by General Sigel, had advanced
from Springfield, Missouri, upon the Wilson creek road, as far as the
famous battle-ground rendered immortal by the death of General
Lyon, but finding no enemy, it had encamped upon Grand Prairie, a
few miles to the west of the bloody field. All in camp was upon the
“tip-toe of expectation.” The lovely scene spread out before the
view, was sufficient to inspire the heart of man to great and glorious
deeds. The broad, rolling prairie lay there, like heaven’s great carpet.
The long grass waved in the breeze, presenting the appearance of a
deep-green sea, undulating in low swells as if Queen Mab’s wand
were wafting over it; the autumn’s frost had changed thousands of
the delicate emerald blades to purple, yellow, and scarlet, while,
intermixed with these, was the white prairie flower, lending to the
scene an almost fairy-like aspect. The large “Fremont” tents were
arranged in rows, in a tasty manner; flags were flying; bands were
discoursing sweet strains which echoed far and wide; squads of
soldiers in vari-colored uniforms were lounging lazily on the grass,
while those detailed for mess or guard duty, were busily prosecuting
their assigned tasks. To the east of the camp appeared a wall of
forest-kings, their verdure, also, touched by the frost, presenting a
variety of colors, and glistening in the sunlight.
Few in that small army had witnessed the horrors of the battle-
field; but, like all “green” troops, conceiving that there was much of
romance connected with the deadly field, and that heroes were
created by a single brave deed, the mass of Sigel’s men were eager
to meet the foe. It had been given out that the entire army was to
join this division on the prairies, and that an advance was to be
made at once against Price, who was then at Cassville, some forty
miles distant, to the southward.
“I think we can safely count upon a desperate battle by the day
after to-morrow,” exclaimed one of a party of five, seated within a
captain’s tent—four of whom were at a table, with cups and wine
before them. The fifth person was making himself generally useful,
acting in the capacity of a servant.
“You have fleshed your maiden sword at Springfield, and I did not
suppose you would be anxious for another fight. I confess I can not
gaze upon such scenes without a shudder, and, if duty would permit,
I would willingly sheathe my sword forever.”
“Captain Hayward, you are low-spirited to-day,” answered the first
speaker.
“I am, indeed, Lieutenant Wells. And can you wonder? My sister is
here!”
“I only wish mine was!”
“That is a rash wish, my friend. She would be exposed to much
danger, and I never want mine to gaze upon a battle-field. No!
where men cut each other’s throats, delicate, sensitive women
should not be near!”
“Could you find no way in which to send her from Springfield to
St. Louis?” asked Wells.
“I could have done so by the mail coach but, you know, the entire
distance of one hundred and thirty miles, from Springfield to Rolla,
or to Tipton upon the other route, is infested with guerrillas, and I
feared to send her. I preferred she should brave the dangers of the
camp or even the battle-field with me.”
Captain Hayward bent his head upon his hands and was silent. It
was some moments before any one ventured to speak. All appeared
to be oppressed with a strange sadness. At length one of the party,
Captain Gilbert, slapping him familiarly upon the shoulder, and
endeavoring to speak gayly, said:
“Come, come, Harry, this won’t do! you must shake off every
vestige of blues. You are suffering still from the wound you received
in the Warsaw skirmish, and it makes you low-spirited. No doubt
your sister will be perfectly safe, and I know she had much rather be
with you, to assist you should you need her aid, than to be safe in
St. Louis, enduring the tortures of suspense.”
Hayward made no reply. At this moment, a female, delicate and
fair, came tripping lightly into the tent, her face wreathed in smiles,
and her eyes sparkling with delight; but, as she caught sight of
Hayward, she paused, and gazed upon him for a moment, exhibiting
the most intense interest; then advancing, and placing her hand
upon his shoulder, she spoke:
“Brother!”
Hayward started, and clasping her in his arms, he pressed her
close to his heart for a moment. But, gazing into his eyes, she
asked:
“What is the matter, dear Harry, you appear ill?”
The countenance of Hayward underwent an instant change, as he
replied:
“Not ill, but somewhat depressed in spirits, perhaps, in view of
what a day may bring forth.”
“Oh! Harry,” she said, “I hear there is going to be another fight.
Will you have to go into it and leave me?”
“Should there be a battle, I shall endeavor to protect you, dear
sister.”
“But, you will be in danger; perhaps wounded—perhaps killed! Oh!
what would I do, then? Don’t go, Harry!” and the gentle girl threw
her arms around her brother’s neck and wept. After a moment, he
raised her, and pressing his lips to her forehead, said:
“I wish to speak with these gentlemen a moment. Go to your
friend Alibamo’s tent. I will come for you, soon!” The sister cast back
a look of fond solicitude, and left the tent.
Hayward gazed after her a moment, muttering audibly:
“Poor child, what would you do if I should fall. You would indeed
be alone!”
“Now, captain, I don’t think that’s half fair,” exclaimed the one
spoken of as being the servant. “Do you think I am such a darn
skunk as to—if you was killed—the darn—not to fight for my capt’n’s
sister—the skunk—no, I mean, if you die—if she—darn me, if I don’t
—I—I—” and the speaker, as if unable to express what he did mean,
suddenly left the tent. All present smiled broadly, and good-humor
was thus, for the moment, infused in all hearts.
“Nettleton had a sudden call!” said one.
“He has gone to the sutler for a dictionary!” added another.
“His heart is in the right place,” remarked Hayward.
“That’s so!” responded all, with emphasis.
“You are safe, with such a ‘darn skunk’ for your body-guard,
Captain Hayward,” Gilbert declared, with comic seriousness.
William Nettleton was in height about six feet. His general
appearance was very singular. His hair was nearly white—naturally
so; his eyes of a light green and large; his carriage very loose—
indeed, when he walked, one would almost expect to see him fall in
pieces. His feet were huge in dimensions. He had the appearance of
a half-witted, illy-formed person; but he was, withal, neither one nor
the other. Having been detached from the company to which he
belonged, to act as servant to Captain Hayward, he soon became so
greatly attached and devoted to the captain, as to be styled his
“body-guard.” This attachment was not fictitious, nor did it proceed
from a spirit of military sycophancy or subserviency; it was felt.
Nettleton had evinced more than ordinary courage on several
occasions, and had, also, displayed so much judgment with his
intrepidity, that he had received offers of advancement; but these he
declined, preferring, as he expressed himself, “to stay with my
capt’n, the first what promoted me.”
It will also be well to explain the presence of ladies in the camp.
Miss Mamie Hayward was the sister of Captain Hayward, who,
having received intelligence that her brother was wounded, had
visited Springfield for the purpose of ministering to his wants. At the
time of her arrival Fremont’s “Army of the Mississippi” was marching
upon that place, and the journey from Rolla or Tipton was safe. But
soon, those roads were infested with guerrillas, and, as they were
poorly guarded, it was not thought prudent that the ladies who had
reached Springfield should attempt a return. Miss Hayward,
therefore, remained with her brother. This same reason will apply to
all the ladies in camp, of which there were several—conspicuous
among whom was the wife of Adjutant Hinton, one of the officers of
the well-known “Benton Cadets.” She was usually addressed as
“Alibamo”—her name when a captive in Price’s hands. She was very
beautiful, and of that daring, determined nature which has
immortalized so many women of the West. In company with
Alibamo, was a young lady who acted in the capacity of waiting-
maid, but who really appeared more like a companion. This female
possessed the not particularly euphonious name of Sally Long.
“I must join with Nettleton in my reproaches, Captain Hayward,”
answered Lieutenant Wells, in a subdued tone. “You forget my
conversation with you last night!”
“No, Wells. You informed me of your affection for my sister, but
you have never addressed her as a lover. How do you know that she
will return your love? If she could return it, I confess, lieutenant, I
do not know any one to whom I would more willingly see her united;
but, if she can not, how could you assume to become her
protector?”
“If such should be the case, and the fortunes of war should
deprive her of a brother, rest assured that, not only myself, but every
man in camp would willingly shed his blood in her defense, and care
for her as a sister!”
“Thank you. I do feel a foreboding of evil. I believe I shall be killed
in the coming battle. If this should be the case, I commend her to
your care. But, my nerves are excited. I will walk into the open air.
No! I would be alone!” he added, as one of the officers arose as if to
accompany him.
As he left the tent one of the party, a Captain Walker, exclaimed:
“Well, I hope things are all right, but I have my doubts!”
“Your doubts of what?” asked Wells.
“Humph! well, no matter. You are too directly interested to listen
to the explanation. But, perhaps you will find out some day.”
“Do you intend, sir, to cast any slur upon Captain Hayward?”
Captain Walker did not reply, but left the tent. An hour or more
had passed, and Hayward did not return. It was now quite dark,
when suddenly the assembly was sounded, and, all anxious, the
troops fell in. The order was read:
“Pack knapsacks, and have every thing in readiness for a move at
daylight.”
All was excitement, and every preparation was made for a forward
movement. But soon it began to be whispered that the orders were
to return. In a short time it was officially announced that the
movement was, in reality, back to Springfield, and from thence to
Rolla and St. Louis. Many were the expressions of disappointment
and regret, and some even ventured to denounce the policy.
Fremont had been superseded in the field, and General Hunter, his
successor, had abandoned the campaign, then on the very eve of its
final consummation.
 CHAPTER II.

The Tragedy of the Stream. Who was Guilty?

When Captain Hayward left the tent, he proceeded to the stream

which skirted the woods. Bending over it, he bathed his fevered
brow. Then he seated himself upon the bank of the river, and,
resting his head upon his hands, was, for a long time, absorbed in
his thoughts. A human form flitted lightly past. Hayward raised his
head and listened, but all was quiet again, and, in the darkness of
the night he could distinguish nothing.
“I was mistaken!” he said to himself. “If I was not, and a human
being is around, I will wager it was Nettleton, who, anxious for my
safety, has followed me.”
The captain was again silent for a moment, when the breaking of
a twig betrayed the presence of some person. Hayward raised his
head and called:
“William! William Nettleton!”
“Sir!” answered a voice but a few feet from the captain.
“Why did you follow me, William?”
“Cos I’m a darn skunk,” drawled the person addressed, as he
emerged out of the darkness. “And——Curse you!”
The person speaking was before him. In an instant Hayward
sprung to his feet, but, with a cry of agony exclaimed: “Great God,
Nettleton—why have you—oh God, save me—you’ve killed me—I
die!” And, falling heavily forward, the words died upon his tongue.
The murderer bent over the murdered for a moment; then, with
some haste, rolled the body into the water, and turned from the
spot. He paused under the shade of a tree, and listened for the
tread of a sentry, that he might enter the camp unobserved. With a
half-suppressed laugh he uttered his thoughts:
“I have done it, sure; and now that it is done, I must progress—no
retreating now. I think I’ll win. Good-by, captain, and give my
respects to my friends as you float downstream.”
He proceeded with caution toward the camp, and was soon lost in
the city of canvas.
The tattoo soon sounded. Lights were extinguished, and all was
quiet, save in a few tents, which appeared to be those of officers.
Yet, there were aching hearts within that camp, and, as the night
progressed, many were the anxious inquiries as to why Captain
Hayward did not return.
In a large tent, near that occupied by Captain Hayward, were
seated three ladies. One was Miss Hayward; another was Alibamo,
or, as she is now a wife, she should be called Mrs. Adjutant Hinton;
the other was Miss Sally Long, the waiting-maid of Alibamo. Before
this tent paced a special guard; beside it was a tent of much smaller
dimensions, occupied by Nettleton and his servant, black George, or,
as Nettleton used to call him, “Swasey’s nigger.”
“I fear something has befallen my brother. He does not return,
and it is now twelve o’clock!”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Alibamo, in a soothing voice; “your
brother is most likely at the head-quarters of General Sigel. He may
be detained on business. Come, let us retire.”
“No, not while my brother is absent.”
At this moment the guard came to the tent entrance and said:
“Ladies, if you have not yet retired Captain Walker requests the
pleasure of a few words with Miss Hayward.”
“Oh, Alibamo, I fear that man; he looks at me so strangely. But
perhaps he brings news of my brother. I will see him. Bid the captain
enter.”
As Walker entered he appeared agitated, but controlling his
emotions, he said:
“Ladies, you will pray excuse me. I feel that I must speak now, as
it may be my last opportunity. We—or, I should say the army—will be
separated at Springfield, and I shall see you no more.”
 “Do you bring news of my brother?” asked Miss Hayward.
“No! His disappearance is very strange. But I came to speak of
myself.”
“What would you say?”
“This, Miss Hayward. I have loved you long and dearly. To-morrow
we may be parted, and I would ask you, should the fortunes, or
rather the misfortunes, of war deprive you of a brother’s love and
protection, will you not permit me to seek you out and become your
future protector?”
“Captain Walker, these words surprise me, and I think propriety
demanded that they should have been spoken in the presence of my
brother.”
“Pardon me, dear lady. I have waited until this hour for your
brother’s return, and at last, fearing I should have no other
opportunity, I ventured to visit you now. You have a friend and sister
in Alibamo, and surely you will not fear to speak before her.”
“I can not answer your question—it refers to the future.”
“Then for the present. Let me speak plainly, and I beg you will do
the same. Can you not at least regard me now as your friend and
protector, and give me a friend’s privileges?”
The timid girl turned toward Alibamo, and in an inaudible voice,
spoke a word.
“She answers promptly, no!” replied Alibamo, somewhat sterner
than was her usual manner.
“You love another, then?” asked Walker.
Miss Hayward did not reply.
“Is the favored one Lieutenant Wells?” again asked Walker.
“You are impertinent, Captain Walker,” replied Alibamo. “I must
request you to retire. How can you thus, in her brother’s absence,
address her in this manner?”
At this moment there was a commotion in the tent of Nettleton.
The voice of the negro was heard, exclaiming:
“I he’rd you, massa Nettleton. There ain’t no use in you denyin’ it.
I he’rd massa cap’n say, ‘Oh, Nettleton, ye kill me!’ Oh Lord, if eber I
get out ob dis scrape, ye’ll neber catch dis chile in such another
one.”
 “Is the nigger crazy? What is the darn skunk talking about?”
“Oh, you needn’t make b’lieve ignoramus on dis ’ere question. I
he’rd ye.”
“Now, look a here, you unconscionable dark; if you have got any
thing to say, spit it out. Don’t make a darn skunk of yourself.”
“Oh! won’t I fotch ye up in de morning? Yes, sah!”
“Are you going to speak, and say what you mean?”
“Oh, golly! You go back on de cap’n dat way!”
“What cap’n? Out with it, or I’ll break your head and every bone in
your body,” exclaimed Nettleton, in a state of undisguised
excitement.
“Serve dis nigger as ye did de cap’n, and den put his body in de
riber!”
The negro had scarcely uttered these words when Nettleton seized
him. He set up a terrible howl, which brought Captain Walker to their
tent.
“What is all this fuss about?” asked Walker.
The negro went on to explain as follows:
“Why, ye see, massa cap’n, I went ober to dat yar house across de
riber, to see Miss Julia, a col’d gal dat used to be my sweetheart.
Well, I see’d de Johnnies comin’, and I ran down to de riber to come
on dis side, but dey come so close to me dat dis chile hid behind a
big log. Den dey stop right by me, and say, ‘Golly, we can’t cotch
nobody.’ Den I he’rd some one on de oder side ob de riber say, “Oh,
Nettleton, you—”
“Silence this stuff! You have been drunk. If you speak upon this
subject again, I’ll cut your black throat.”
“I’se dumb, massa cap’n.”
Quiet had now been restored, and all parties retired for the few
hours that intervened before morning. But it was evident all were
not asleep. Several times a stealthy step was heard, and a shadow
flitted past the white canvas tent, dimly seen by the pale starlight.
Morning came at last, and all was astir. Captain Hayward had not
yet returned. The inquiry was made if any one had seen him.
“I have not seen him since last evening at twilight,” replied Walker,
“at which time he acted very strangely, and talked about the
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