Saint of the Wilderness

Saint of the Wilderness

Jess Carr

Copyright © 2018 Jess Carr

All rights reserved

First Edition

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Christian Faith Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64140-400-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64258-377-9 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64140-401-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to the memory of my paternal grandparents, George and Sallie Carr, whom I never knew; and to my maternal grandparents, Esca and Minnie Mitchell, who helped inspire this story; and most of all, to my own dear Mother and Father, without whose love and guidance this story would have held no importance at all.

Introduction

The birth of this book, viewed in retrospect, seems almost a circumstance of fate. The chain of events leading to the final writing, viewed singularly, at first appeared of no particular consequence; but viewed as a subject that seemed always to be unfolding before the author’s eyes over a period of forty years an element of continuity is present, which rightfully denies dismissal.

I heard first of Robert Sayers Sheffey at the feet of my maternal grandmother and grandfather. At the same time thousands of other children like myself were hearing the same story, just as our own mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers had before us. How much this old saint of the wilderness captured my imagination! How I longed even as a child to meet him, rejecting every thought that for nearly half a century he had lain rotting in his grave.

The subsequent years of my growth were spent in part by trying to grasp the person and personality of a man reputedly so kind that tears were known to drip from his cheeks at seeing the broken wing of a bird. And what must someone be like who stayed in the saddle twelve months of the year, in all kinds of weather, doing good at every opportunity? Every child could understand this man’s great love of humanity, learning, further, that his favorite sheep of earth’s great flock were the poor and downtrodden.

Not even in Sunday school had I been exposed to a lesson that taught a greater message than this true story of a person who not only preached and taught, but who lived the example of what he preached and taught. That he demanded of others to put the teachings they allegedly believed into practice was a thing later to be marveled at.

A man usually becomes a legend in his own time only if he deserves it. Talleyrand’s statement that The reputation of a man is like his shadow—gigantic when it precedes him, and pygmy in its proportions when it follows, is true only if the subject has failed to do a greater good for humanity than was sought for himself.

In spite of having grown up on the stories of this man who became a legend in his own time over an area of four states, or parts thereof, I nevertheless came to a point in life when I viewed all I thought I knew and believed about him with pseudo-intellectual skepticism. Even if most of my schoolmates and fellow citizens of the ensuing years had also heard and believed—so what? What difference did it make, if the world was made up of good and bad people that at least one man who had lived and worked among us stood head and shoulders above the crowd? Perhaps this old Methodist circuit rider was really crazy after all. Plenty of people thought so. It wasn’t normal for even a white-bearded old itinerant to stop his horse and get off to help an upturned turtle back on its legs again; or to take his own socks from his feet and present them to another more needy than himself. And it certainly wasn’t normal to make the statement when confronted with a problem or decision that: I must talk to the Lord about it. Or to pray and believe that that which is asked for not only can be forthcoming, but under the right circumstance will be forthcoming, is a dangerous philosophy, one that has put its practitioners behind bars countless times throughout history. Even in a less complex era, when simple faith went largely unchallenged, too much demonstration of such a principle, frightened the wits out of more sinful men, or provided at least a small measure of discomfort. Being a good Methodist was never reputed to keep a man or woman from sin, but it was claimed to keep enjoyment of such wrongdoing to a minimum. This eccentric servant of God who had found his way into the most remote hollows and nearly impenetrable hills insisted that the true way of Christian living was neither to think, practice, nor enjoy sin, for in so doing the real purpose of life was missed altogether.

The day had not yet arrived when conservation, ecology, civil rights, awareness of natural resources, and similar contemporary problems held any major importance. The world of mostly rural America in the period of 1840–1900 was one of survival of and recovery from three wars. To Robert Sayers Sheffey, however, conservation, ecology, civil rights, and a simple awareness of the goodness that surrounded every man was not visionary wisdom or political foresight; it was, to him, the way God intended mankind to live. Every single thing to which man was exposed was a gift of God to be used if needed, and, if not needed, to be preserved with infinite care until somebody did need it. Man ought to love and cling to one another because God intended that, and to do otherwise was really the unnatural thing.

The matter of Robert Sayers Sheffey never left my mind during the ensuing years. In reality such was impossible—the very historic presence of this legendary human being seemed a part of the atmosphere to be breathed.

But in spite of this lingering aura of such a dynamic personality, my own increasing worldly wisdom and fast-growing urbanity began to demand of me that I discount the implied importance attached to this man. He was now a relic of the past. How could any importance be attached to him now? And anyway, for all the multitudes of twice-told tales about the eccentric old Methodist renegade, half of them at least had to be pure fabrication, and another quarter had probably grown monstrously in the telling and retelling. So for me, Robert Sayers Sheffey was gradually put in mothballs, if not into oblivion.

After my own slow growth into adulthood and a tour of duty in the United States Marine Corps during the Korean War, I came back to Virginia, married shortly thereafter, and entered civilian employment. That first job after marriage was a sales position requiring constant traveling. Once on a northeasterly journey from my office I chanced to take a short cut through a section I rarely passed through. In the course of the journey I came to one of the most picturesque rural churches I have seen anywhere in this country, and to the south west of the church building was a well-kept hillside cemetery. I noticed only half consciously that a small group of people stood at a grave, but gave no further thought to the matter until I had driven several miles down the road, where I stopped at a country store for a Coke break. I mentioned to the storekeeper (more to make conversation than out of any real interest, I must confess) the funeral I thought I had noticed in progress. He questioned me about which church and reaffirmed its location, finally telling me that there had been no funeral in the neighborhood on that day. I asked the reason for the entourage of visitors to the cemetery and was told that the grave of Robert Sayers Sheffey was there and that individuals and groups both large and small visited his gravesite all the time, year-round.

I did not go back to the cemetery, although I had the strongest inclination to do so. My appointment hour was set and I traveled on company time and expense. Driving away, I was immediately aware that the ghost of childhood legends and bedtime stories had been not so successfully cast into oblivion. What manner of man is this who still commands even small pilgrimages to his grave one hundred and fifty years after he came into the world? Such were my thoughts as I sped away.

A few more years passed and this subject continued to worm its way into my brain by the most ingenious methods. A friend told me of being stationed in Germany after World War II where he was asked by an elderly German civilian if he had ever heard of a godly man whose name was Herr Robert Sheffey and who rode about the countryside of the southern United States, doing good. The German man had all his facts straight except for the belief that Brother Sheffey still lived at the time of World War I! Here it was again: oral history that had spanned the ocean and come to people who spoke a foreign tongue. Is there something so universal about a good man—a man who demonstrates a profound love of humanity—which commands the love and appreciation of men everywhere? I started asking myself.

At the time I had never written anything, nor had I had any such desire. Nevertheless, I made some halfhearted inquiries as to what had been set down about this old circuit rider, finding that almost nothing in the way of definitive material had been written.

Again the matter slipped away without further conscious pursuit. In 1966 I began to do a little creative writing, mainly because a job with a commercial printing-and-book-publishing firm had inspired my interest. I had no qualifications at all as a writer. College was not one of the advantages of life I had received, and it is doubtful that I could have passed a high school grammar test at the time. Nevertheless, I published my first short-story collection in hardcover in 1970. The next published book was a work of non-fiction entitled The Second Oldest Profession, a major work on the illicit-liquor (moon­shining) industry in America. It was here that I unexpectedly met Robert Sheffey again. No revenue officer in the entire United States, at any period of history, wrecked more whiskey stills than Robert Sheffey did, or even approached him in the unique methods he employed to get the job done. (As a matter of interest to history buffs, Sheffey destroyed distilleries at periods of history when they were not illegal. His destruction was based on moral grounds; the depths of degradation brought on by whiskey making he could see with his own eyes and wished to eliminate.)

But even this new encounter with an old codger who in my mind’s eye now carried an ax in one hand and a Bible in the other did not convince me that I should undertake a work about him that I knew would be difficult, if not impossible—a lengthy process involving assembling never-ending bits and pieces of information, or, at the other extreme, finding little information at all.

Again fate dangled a morsel in front of my eyes, showing me the true magnitude of the character no one would allow to die. A young woman mentioned to me one day that one of the highest-ranking officers in the Pentagon, where she worked, had asked her to tell him all she knew about a godly old man who in Civil War times had ridden about the Virginia countryside, devoting his life to doing good. The young woman was a Virginian, a fact which possibly precipitated the question, but the heart is warmed to know that overseers of America’s military empire might pause for a few fleeting moments to inquire about a humble itinerrant who had somehow accomplished things greater than the questioner had, in spite of all the money and sophisticated machinery at the latter’s disposal.

Finally the day came when I took my aging father to Sheffey’s gravesite and was told by a custodian of the church who lived nearby that the streams of visitors seemed never ending—usually small groups or single families. What manner of man? The question kept repeating itself. And the words so moving upon the tombstone seemed a magnet, holding one fast and demanding a pause to consider. I was fast becoming hooked, and I began to pick up a fact here, an assortment of facts there, until I found out that my subject had grown up amidst great wealth at the home of an uncle. Again, What manner of man? would willingly, gladly, leave the promise of wealth and social position to flush out the most remote frontiersman and remind him that there was no wilderness so deep where man could hide from God.

All that then remained for my interest to be goaded into action was the moving and unique story of Robert Sheffey’s own conversion. From that point on, there was, for me, no turning back.

Rediscovered was the man who believed and practiced a total integration with every facet of life—a man who showed a unique appreciation for every gift bestowed by a loving and very personal God. The tiniest bug and the most gigantic tree were friends who breathed a very special breath and paid a very special tribute of living testimony.

This St. Francis of the wilderness carried his message and lived the example of his life for sixty-three years after his own conversion. Although the extent of his own travel throughout his life was confined to parts of four states, his spiritual stepchildren still oversee the missionary posts of the world and sit in the highest councils of government. He was only one of many who helped to shape the real character of the American frontier. No American may with impunity disregard the dynamic influence of the pioneer circuit rider. No American can disregard Robert Sayers Sheffey as one of the great chiefs among them. And now step back into history and ride in the saddle with the man who was called The Saint of the Wilderness.

JC

So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my lambs.

He saith to him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep.

He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep.

—St. John 21:15–17

Chapter I

The streets of Abingdon, in Virginia’s far southwest, were deserted on a predawn morning in July of 1838, except for the two dozen or more Negro servants who scurried about, doing their assigned tasks. They worked in semi darkness; first, sweeping the walks or stepping stones leading to their masters’ houses, then gradually working their way out toward the brick sidewalks. The results of their work would be short-lived. Each servant had done this task before and knew full well that at dawning visitors from every direction would be coming into Abingdon for the two days of celebration, bringing fresh dirt and dust with them. The next task—watering down the macadamized street would be short-lived also. By an early morning hour, or by the time one hundred sets of wagon wheels had passed over the oak-lined street, dust would again be the victor.

No sooner had the final bucket of water been drunk up by the compacted stone-and-red-clay thoroughfare when full day­light and the first wagons arrived together. Sounds of activity about the impressive houses of Court and Main streets could be heard; human voices, too, penetrated the early-morning hour as windows were raised to combat heat already in evidence.

By the time the breakfast hour was nearly over, traffic on Main Street, all the way to the front of Colonel James White’s home, was heavy with travelers on foot, on horseback, and in hacks and wagons. Colonel White sat at the north end of the long dining-room table and gazed past the row of younger people on each side of the table, over the head of his wife, Elizabeth, and through the window facing Main Street. He watched the steady stream of travelers for a minute, then commented to his wife, Elizabeth, Abingdon isn’t going to hold them all today. They’ll be sleeping on the rooftops and roosting in the trees if they keep coming.

I don’t mind if they use the rooftops, his wife replied, but our trees and shrubbery have too noble a history to die an unheroic death.

Big Edmund will keep the people out of our yard, Milton, the youngest child, said.

All of the slaves get to go to the celebration today, except for the kitchen help, Elizabeth White reminded her family.

Colonel White still looked beyond the window. He liked a celebration. He liked people. He liked seeing people together, laughing and talking and telling stories. He watched the scene for a moment longer, until a wagon stopped in front of the window. It was heavily laden with a large family and all the belongings needed for a one- or two-day sojourn to their county seat. The mother of the group sat rigidly beside her husband, holding an infant in one arm and a small child in the other.

Poor little fellow is tuckered out already, the colonel said absently.

The others at the table looked again to the window, in an effort to make sense of the older man’s statement.

They’ve been up since before daylight, Elizabeth White speculated. Likely as not none of them could sleep last night thinking about today.

I didn’t sleep good last night either. Robert Sheffey spoke almost timidly.

All eyes focused on him immediately, but his aunt and uncle did not need to ask the source of his discomfort.

Elizabeth White saw the flush on her husband’s face, but quietly took the prerogative of speaking first. Robert, I know our discussion of last night upset you, but we believe our counsel to be wise.

His aunt’s voice was calm and quiet, as always, and the softness of her dark eyes reassured him of the sincerity of her statement.

Colonel White’s approach was not so gentle, and his fingers continued to drum on the table. Robert, you would not have such an aversion to education if you could visualize the future growth of this infant nation as I envision it. There is a fortune to be made in most any enterprise a man would undertake…but the country needs smart men, not slackers.

Yes, sir, you told me that, Robert Sheffey said with no intent to mock. He knew better than to try mockery and he also knew that up to a point he was being given a choice.

Then why not believe me? The colonel’s voice was raised slightly. I have tried to treat you like my own sons and my counsel is for your benefit and not for mine.

I just don’t have the feeling of needing a lot of learning, Robert Sheffey replied, and I don’t care about gettin’ rich either.

The colonel did not answer his nephew, for he had heard the same weak defense before. The older man’s massive chest heaved slightly in response to his rejection of so stupid a statement. Presently he excused himself and pushed his muscular bulk from the chair. He stood towering over the family table, authority magnified, but his voice was calm. Robert, Professor Collins and Professor Wiley will be at the celebration today. We will seek our opportunity to talk to them. Perhaps their wisdom will put fresh thoughts into your head.

Robert said, Yes, sir, and stared at the massive back of his uncle until, with giant strides, Colonel White had cleared the room.

The formal atmosphere at the table lessened somewhat with the exit of the master of the house, and Robert Sheffey felt contemptuous eyes falling upon him from both sides. Seven of the eleven White children still sat at their father’s table, and Robert was aware that the older ones, at least, must feel contempt for his apparent ungratefulness. But how could he tell them more plainly than he already had: education was fine for some people, but he did not feel inclined in that direction. In his own heart he waited for something. He knew not what, but he did not feel that it was higher education. His own brother Lawrence, who also sat at the table, understood, or at least Robert felt that he did. For Lawrence, education was a good thing. The right thing. For in Lawrence there was the hunger of the scholar, the fascination in exploring the known and the unknown. Lawrence looked sympathetically across the table at his brother but continued eating in the near silence he had maintained throughout the course of the meal. The two of them understood each other—respected each other.

Robert’s face saddened as, finally, the others resumed more lighthearted chatter about the things they would do on this Independence Day and about the horde of guests who would come and go over the threshold of the stately frontier mansion. He excused himself; sure that no one remembered the second reason that this day was important.

Happy birthday, Robert! Elizabeth White called behind him. He returned the smile on her olive face and made his way to the front door.

Upon reaching the front steps he stretched his arms and swallowed a deep breath of morning air. All of the other slaves working on the lawns and sidewalks had finished except for Big Edmund, who wielded a grass rake.

They tromped the grass down a-carrin’ water acrost it, Big Edmund said. He labored for a few moments, raking the sickle-cut stubble back to an upright position. Robert watched him closely; he found the servant’s approach to the job almost comical. That looks good, Big Edmund, the boy said.

But the Negro would not concede the accuracy of this observation until he had lain flat on his belly, surveying with one closed eye, across the top of the grass blades to make sure that all of them stood at even height.

Yas, sir. But de visitors won’t take no mind of that stubble now.

Big Edmund stood up, and Robert was conscious, on this day more than any other, of his own physical size in relation to that of other men. Big Edmund stood over six and one-half feet tall, while Robert’s own height was almost six inches under six feet. This feeling was the same in the presence of his uncle, for the colonel stood three inches over six feet tall, his abundant gray hair with a tendency to curl, making him look even taller.

But these were not matters to worry about, he told him­self deceptively, even on his eighteenth birthday. Sometime after his sixteenth birthday—he didn’t remember just when—he had partially reconciled himself to his lack of physical attractiveness.

Big Edmund picked up his tools and started to exit from the yard.

Are you going to do it again this year? Robert called to him.

Big Edmund tried to look serious, as if he didn’t know what Robert was talking about. But when Robert grinned, the tall slave did too. If’n theys a new horseshoe ’round here that ain’t too thin I might, he said.

Every homesteader from here to Wytheville will have a horseshoe for you, Robert assured him.

Big Edmund walked away, with Robert’s eyes following him. There would be more people on hand than he who could hardly wait to see this Herculean Negro take a newly forged horseshoe and bend it double with his bare hands. That amazing demonstration all by itself would bring two hundred men to Abingdon on the Fourth of July.

Horse and wheel traffic were coming closer together now. Most of the people waved or called to Robert as they passed—people who on other occasions would be more restrained. He looked to the south of town and beheld a dust cloud coming from the direction of Black’s Fort and another to the west. It was a sure bet that every mountain road, including the remotest ones, would be filled with the movement of buggies and surreys headed for the town square, where festivities would officially begin at the eleven-o’clock hour.

Now he himself was getting caught up in the festive atmosphere and anxious to see the final trimmings of the public square. He had stepped toward the street when a hand re­strained him.

How does it feel to be eighteen? his brother Lawrence asked.

Robert stiffened his body and threw back his head of strawberry-blond hair. I’ve still got a way to go before I reach you, he said.

Every litter has a runt, Lawrence said jokingly. Robert didn’t smile. He might have any time except today. I was just joshing, Lawrence assured him. It doesn’t matter what size a man is—it’s what’s under the top of his skull that makes a man different from a mule.

Robert remained in thought for a moment and said, What if a man don’t have muscles or brains either?

You’ve got brains—as good as any man. You just need more practice and schoolin’ to use them. Uncle James and Aunt Elizabeth are both right. There’s no reason why you can’t go to Emory and Henry with me in the winter, when we’ve helped Uncle James with the last of the crops.

Let Uncle James and Aunt Elizabeth stop worrying about the orphans in their house and brag on their own sons. You recollect he didn’t say anything about us going to Princeton like his own boy did. He wants us to go to Emory and Henry and do farm work.

It won’t hurt us to work a little for our books, but we can’t earn it all and we might as well own up to being beholden to Uncle James and our own brother. Besides, Princeton isn’t the only place honors can be won, and Francis isn’t the only one who can win them.

I told you—I’m not going to college. I’ll work or do something else, Robert insisted.

Do what? You didn’t get rich working in Greenway’s store, and you said you don’t like working for Uncle James. Would you rather move to the slave quarters or start boiling salt for somebody?

I’d just as soon work with the slaves as anybody. I’m not too awful sure they aren’t ahead of the people they work for in some ways.

"Oh, Robert! There’s nothing wrong with poor people, but our future is bright as the sunrise. Look what Uncle James has amounted to—and we have a lot better chance than he had."

Robert reflected for a moment, and then said, I don’t know what I want to do…I think about it a lot, but…

If Father and Mother had lived they would have wanted you to go to college and do the best you could.

You don’t know that, Robert said. "You weren’t but four years old when Mama died and I wasn’t but two. And Father didn’t live but four years longer than Mama. How do you know Mama would think that?

Mother was Uncle James’s sister, and he knew her as well as anybody.

Robert lowered his head for a moment as though he sought the communion of the spirits that the will of his unremembered mother might be made known to him.

Lawrence took advantage of this moment of reflection. We should be grateful to Uncle James as well as to Aunt Elizabeth. Not every uncle and aunt would take in three orphan boys and give us the chance they have given us.

I can’t deny that Aunt Elizabeth has been like a mother to us, but Uncle James and most of his children don’t let us forget for long that we never belonged there.

That isn’t altogether true, Robert. Uncle James has a pretty stiff spine most of the time, but he’s a busy man—an important man. Our cousins did remind us a few times we were orphans but that was only to be expected.

Robert said nothing by way of rebuttal and Lawrence hesitated a moment before uttering the statement he felt needed saying. Robert, you are doing the kind of reflecting today that a young man just turning eighteen shouldn’t be doing.

Then I’ll do all my thinking by myself, Robert said and headed out onto the street.

He walked westward from Colonel James White’s house and stopped to look at the flags fluttering from the houses on either side of him. The smell of lime and salt from the whitewashed fences still hung in the air. He ran his fingers along a top pole on a fence as he walked and thought how foolish the landowner was to whitewash his fences when they were already covered with dust. He turned the corner at the second block, noticing that already the large crowd had nearly obscured the speaker’s platform—and the hour was not yet ten o’clock. Regardless of the time, a festive gaiety was electric in the air.

Come have a little snort o’ brandy with me, Robert! a heavyset man called from the open door of a woodshed.

Robert recognized the man as a worker at the tanning yard and said, My breakfast hasn’t settled yet.

The man took a long swig from his demijohn and dried his mouth with one quick swipe of the back of his hand. You ain’t been down at the yard lately. That lye and dead hide smell a-gettin’ the best of you?

No, I’ve been gone for a spell, that’s all. Went down on the stage to visit my brother James and his wife in Marion.

He’s the one what married Colonel John Preston’s daughter, ain’t he? Big lawyer now, I understand.

He’s the one. He says he’ll help pay my college expenses to Emory and Henry if I’ll go.

Nothin’ wrong in book learnin’ if you’ve got a need for it. It wouldn’t help me none a-scrapin’ hides.

Between my brother James and my Uncle James, I don’t have much say-so but to go—but my mind’s not made up yet.

You listen to Colonel White, the other admonished. He’s nigh the biggest man in Washington County, and there ain’t nobody what don’t listen to him. Maybe he’s fixin’ you up to take over one of his farms or salt mines. Got a big interest in the lead mines down in Wythe County too, I understand.

He’s got plenty of his own sons to look after his money. I don’t think that’s going to be any worry of mine.

Again the demijohn was held out to Robert and again he declined. I’ll have a dram with you later, he said. I’ve got to get on to the speaker’s platform and see somebody. Won’t have a chance to after all that oratory gets started.

And bless Providence if it ain’t hot enough already, the other said, mopping his brow with his shirt sleeve.

Robert pushed his way toward the large, stage like speaker’s stand. It was built the same way every year and had stood in the same place for as long as he could remember. It looked like the front porch of a house, complete with railings at the front and sides, and was entered by steps coming from the rear. It had no roof, but the ladies who sat by their important husbands always brought their parasols anyway, so what was the need? Red, white, and blue banners were intertwined in the platform railing, and where the hewn pine framing of the porch wasn’t covered, resin dripped from the cooking of the hot sun.

Robert had not worked on the platform, as some of his friends had, but he thought it looked just right. Good enough, in fact, for the President of the United States to stand on. But President Van Buren would be speaking from a much bigger platform at the Capitol or somewhere else, he imagined. The turnout in Abingdon was bigger than usual, not because President Van Buren was expected, but because citizens from Washington and surrounding counties felt that Governor David Campbell would be the next-best speaker they could expect to hear, and he was a native son, to boot.

Robert ascended the platform, where chairs were being readied. More elbow room was being given the center chair, and Robert supposed that the governor would be seated there. He would speak before the noon hour, and other dignitaries in the afternoon.

Under a shade tree on the ground to the rear of the platform stood Robert’s uncle, who, upon meeting Robert’ s eyes, motioned the younger man to join him. Robert, I want you to meet Reverend Ephraim Wiley. Reverend Wiley is professor of ancient languages and literature at Emory and Henry College.

Robert shook hands after being himself introduced.

I have already spoken to Reverend Wiley about you, Colonel White said, and I want you to speak with him frankly. I will leave the two of you now and help with some of the program arrangements.

Reverend Wiley leveled at Robert the most piercing gray eyes he had ever seen and lost no time in pursuing the subject obviously under discussion before Robert had arrived. So you place no value on learning? the older man began, accusingly.

I just don’t feel the need…

Pray tell me why not?

I reckon it just goes against my grain, sir. Robert tried to face his elder unflinchingly.

What do you hope to become someday?

I don’t know, sir.

Surely you must have some inkling? A lawyer? An engineer or surveyor, perhaps?

I like to walk in the woods and talk to people, Robert said. Maybe fish a little, too.

Those might be all right as pastimes, but your uncle tells me you would hang around the tanning yard or dangle your feet in the Holston most of the time if you were free to do so. The type of men who hang around the tanning yard and grog­shop are not the best kind of men to cultivate.

I don’t stay with them in the tavern very much—Aunt Elizabeth never would hear of it—but I’m eighteen now.

That’s the perfect year to stop wandering about the meadow and to start thinking about your future, Reverend Wiley bore on. Robert, your uncle is a very wealthy man, probably the wealthiest man in the county. Someday, if you prepare for it, there will most likely be a place of great responsibility for you. Few young men are so lucky as to have family-owned lead mines, salt mines, vast farmlands and extensive mercantile interests to lure them with a promising future.

Uncle James’s sons and daughters will be looking after all that, I ’magine.

There can still be a responsible place for you if you prepare for it. And even if you don’t want to be employed by your uncle, you’ll be better enabled to work for yourself or somebody else.

Robert was listening in earnest, and the professor continued. We feel that we have a good plan at Emory and Henry. We’re only a few miles away and our young men work part of the time and study part of the time. You will be given credit for your work. The rate of pay is five cents per hour. All the young men study from five o’clock in the morning until one o’clock in the afternoon. After the noon meal, field or barn work is assigned until five o’clock. Each person then has two hours to rest, change his clothing, and prepare for the supper hour. From seven o’clock to nine o’clock is the final study period of the day.

That doesn’t leave much time for walking in the fields and fishing, Robert observed, unsmiling.

Our young men see all of the fields they care to. Their fishing is for knowledge, in preference to the scaled variety.

My brother Lawrence is going to sign up for the winter term. I just might come with him, Robert said.

Let me hear when you and your uncle have decided. We like to know our expected enrollment in advance. I will also be talking with one of your former teachers. I want to learn what I may expect from you. McViccar taught you at Abingdon Academy, didn’t he?

Yes, sir. And if you’ve a mind to, you can talk with Mr. Gillenwaters. He taught me drawing and penmanship. Said I was right good at it, too.

I want you to do some serious thinking about this, Robert. I must go now and join Colonel White on the platform. We want everything to be in order. Robert said a thank you and wandered off into the crowd.

By the hour of half after ten the entire White family (excepting the colonel and his wife, who would be among the honored guests on the platform) were taking their places on the reserved benches to the front. Robert watched his brother Lawrence join them, but he himself elected to mill about in the crowd until the presence of the governor would bring the people to silence.

He was not aware of the approaching entourage of dignitaries until all the onlookers had risen to their feet, clapping wildly. A long line of finely dressed men and women made their way from Findley House, across the street, to the platform.

Finally, with the invocation and a series of introductions out of the way, Governor Campbell was on his feet. Robert marveled at how much more austere-looking the gentlemen had become since he had left Abingdon as clerk of the county court to occupy the governor’s mansion.

The governor looked long upon the crowd and kept silent until they themselves did likewise. The stiff collar of his shirt rose high against his cheeks and seemed to hold not only his velvet bow tie in place but his head as well.

He was a good speaker, Robert thought, but he was going on too long. Sure now that he had been wise to hang back to the rear of the crowd, Robert crept from the view of the speaker’s platform and hoped his retreat was not witnessed by the colonel. He could still understand the governor’s words but somehow, being now more distantly removed, and sprawling under the shade of a large elm, the whole affair seemed more tolerable. He got out his knife and began a lone game of mumblety-peg, safely distant from the family who shared the shade of the same tree. Presently a slender young woman with long black hair, and dressed in dotted linsey, obscured his view of the speaker’s platform.

She hesitated with her question until their eyes met. Could you tell me where the town spring is? We need to fill up our demijohn, she said.

He started to point, but there was something about her dark brown eyes that compelled him to maintain the close distance now between them. I’ll take you there, he said, rising more rapidly than he had reclined.

She was taller than himself—not much, but enough so that it mattered—and he attempted to walk on the balls of his feet, until he thought how peculiar it must look. He glanced at her sideways from the corners of his eyes, and when she shifted the demijohn from one hand to the other, he offered to carry it. Before she removed her finger from the jug, he held it so that their hands touched. Her forearms were firm and red, like a man’s, and sunburned. There was no hardness in her pretty face, however, and as they walked, the sun danced in her hair until they passed under a shady area again.

What did the governor mean when he was talking about the schools? she asked.

I think he wants all the counties to have schools for everyone. The state would help pay the tuition, I believe. Now he wished he had listened more closely so he could impress her with his knowledge of state affairs.

There wouldn’t be no more private teachers or church schools, then? She pressed him further.

I think that’s right, he said as positively as possible. Uncle James’s brother said it wouldn’t work, though. He said not everybody could be educated.

Is your uncle James’s brother one of the talkers? she asked.

No. Uncle James is on the speaker’s platform. Colonel James White. You don’t know him?

No. My family lives in Wythe County. I’m just visiting my kin during the celebration.

I didn’t even ask your name, Robert remembered.

It’s Elizabeth Swecker. What’s yours?

Robert Sheffey.

They both seemed to run out of words at the same moment, and he removed the corncob stopper and filled the demijohn to the top. He purposely did not offer her a drink.

Would you go to the cider wagon with me? he asked.

The faintest smile crossed her lips. If we’re not gone too long a spell, she said.

The constable set a limit as to how close the cider wagon could be positioned to the speaker’s stand, and he kept it at a considerable distance so the activity and noise would not displease the notables who occupied the places of honor. In spite of the distance from the stand, the cider seller was not short of business. He looked at Robert and, when Robert failed to produce cups of his own, as was the custom, hesitated to take his order. Finally, the cider seller reached down into the wagon and produced two pewter beer steins that he filled and admonished the users to wash out for him after use.

Robert allowed the girl to drink first and when she didn’t slurp, he tried not to also. He was not successful, and he wished silently that he had listened to Aunt Elizabeth as to how it was properly done.

It’s good and cool, the girl said.

He likely as not soaked the rocks all night, Robert said.

He done what? she asked.

The way he keeps the cider cool in the barrels is to soak large limestone rocks in a cold spring all night. When he takes them out and puts them in the cider barrels they keep the cider cool for several hours.

When her cup was empty she remembered her errand. We’d best get this water back to my kin. Robert agreed but reminded her that they would need to go back to the town spring and wash out their cups. Neither reminded the other that the washing could be done with water from the demijohn.

They walked by way of Valley Street this time and turned the corner at Court Street until once again they were back on Main and near the front of Colonel James White’s house.

That’s where I live, Robert said with a mixture of pride and humility.

I’ve never seen such a big house, Elizabeth Swecker said as she surveyed the three stories of brick. Is it a new house?—it looks well-nigh new.

It was built the year I was born—1820. You want to hear some tales about it?

She nodded.

Daniel Boone was one of the first people to see all this land around the forks of the Holston River. One night he fought off a pack of wolves on this very spot. In fact the wolves came out of a cave to the back of the house. Abingdon was first known as Wolf Hills—did you know that?

No, I never heard it before, the girl said.

The very street we’re standing on was first known as Boone’s Trace.

Robert proceeded to tell Elizabeth the story of James White: how he had been a young clerk in a mercantile firm in Baltimore and had come to southwest Virginia and found success beyond his wildest dreams; how in the War of 1812 he had been commissioned a colonel, and how before that, in 1799, a captain, in the state militia. Before Robert had finished telling of the family holdings, which reached into four states, he was ashamed of himself. It was wrong of him to try to impress this girl, who might well be poor, with another’s splendor. It was the first time he had spoken to anyone with such a sense of pride about his uncle. He didn’t understand it himself. He suddenly felt very foolish and embarrassed.

Fortunately he could not continue, even if he had wanted to. The hour for dinner had arrived, and great throngs made their way toward the fashionable houses along Main and Valley streets. The speaking and festivities would resume after bellies were full, and that was the prime consideration of the moment. I can’t ask you to break bread with us, Robert said. Aunt Elizabeth is entertaining more people now than we’ve got plates.

It’s all right, Elizabeth Swecker said, lowering her head. We brought a spread to have in the shade.

She wanted to walk back by herself but he refused to let her go unescorted. Aunt Elizabeth had taught him that much.

When they reached the town square again, a large throng was still gathered near the speaker’s stand, and Robert could not understand this, since the dinnertime recess had been called. He was confused only until he could see the head of Big Edmund nearly a foot above anybody else, could see the slave’s gritted teeth and the neck muscles standing out like individual spider webs with sweat running down the gullies, indicating correctly that between the Negro’s vise-like hands a horseshoe crumbled under superior strength.

When he returned to his own house one half of the aristocracy he had seen in the public square seemed to be there. In the rear yard, under the trees, sweating kitchen slaves hustled back and forth until the tables labored so heavily under their burden that Robert doubted their ability to sustain another loaf of bread.

He headed for somewhere near the front of the line. The glance Elizabeth White gave him would have frozen a ghost in its tracks. She brushed close and whispered, Wait for our guests to be served first!

He moved away and joined the circle of men who had the governor captive among them.

Why is the Lynchburg and Tennessee Railroad running behind schedule? someone asked. What’s taking the improvement of the turnpike road to the Kentucky line so long? another wanted to know.

Robert slipped away from the men and into the kitchen. He stuffed a pants pocket full of trimmed onions and with both hands helped himself to biscuits and fried chicken. Then he made his way through the house and out the front door.

He decided not to go back to the public square lest he need to explain his presence to Elizabeth Swecker after he told her of all their guests. She would want to know why he hadn’t stayed to entertain them, and he wasn’t sure he could define it. There was something false about important people. They just didn’t ring true. They were not like