The Mountain Road Illuminated, May 2, 2013. Here Jackson fell wounded.

These are the first portion of the remarks I gave at the event marking the 150th anniversary of the wounding of Stonewall Jackson. More than 450 people gathered at the site in the fading light and eventual darkness. My purpose was to talk about the man and our collective historical relationship with  him. Greg Mertz and Frank O’Reilly brought visitors through the events of May 2, culminating with Jackson’s wounding at about 9 p.m.  It was a memorable evening.

It strikes me that one of the differences between our treatment of historical icons and our treatment of merely famous Americans is this: for merely famous people, we are satisfied to understand their deeds. For our icons, we seek a vision of the person, replete with personal details, almost all of them flattering. 

 Thomas Jonathan Jackson is an icon.  Not universally, but largely. You can visit his house, stand in his living room. Museums across the South are filled with items both military and personal, authentic and imagined.  One museum keeps a drawer full of items donated to them on the assertion that Jackson had them on his person the night he was shot—probably thirty pounds worth of stuff.

 Books on the Civil War, on the Confederacy, and on Jackson are full of stories that personalize him.  His Widow Mary Anna’s memoir was and remains one of the most popular books about Jackson, largely because it is full of stories large and small that paint an image of Jackson as a person.  Stories like this:

 Just two weeks before his mortal journey into these woods, Jackson for the first time saw his new daughter—6-month-old Julia–and took his first stab at parental discipline.  Julia had become fussy, stopping only when picked up by her mother.  When Mrs. Jackson returned the child to the bed, Julia started crying again. General Jackson exclaimed, “This will never do!” and instructed, “all hands off.”  Mrs. Jackson related, “So there she lay, kicking and screaming while he stood over her with as much coolness and determination as if he were directing a battle.”  When Julia ceased wailing, General Jackson picked her up; when she started crying again, he put her down, “and this he kept up until she was completely conquered, and became perfectly quiet in his hands.”

Jackson, taken at Belvoir just days before Chancellorsville.

 The perfect soldier is also the perfect parent. Anyone who has ever had a baby will recognize the immensity (maybe the impossibility) of Jackson’s accomplishment:  conquering in minutes what mankind has sought vainly to master for centuries—soothing a crying baby.  [I read this and think, okay, let’s see how he would have done when she was a teenager.]

 He has also been hailed the perfect Christian, the perfect husband, and even a reconciler among races, though he hired slaves himself and waged war for a government committed to perpetuating slavery. 

For our great heroes, for someone like Jackson, we presume, even demand, that the deeds that made them famous are matched by virtues that would make icons.  We want and presume universal excellence, virtual perfection—something that men like Lee and Jackson would have been the first to deny (and modern defenders the first to assert). 

 We gain a great deal as a nation by having and knowing our heroes.  But we lose something too when we forget that in more ways than not they were very much like all of us.  We are all a ledger book of virtues and foibles.

Without war, and very possibly without Robert E. Lee, we would not know Thomas J. Jackson.  Perhaps, in his hometown of Lexington he would be remembered, but then only as a common, pious, middling man of religious intensity, active conscience, and mild (often overstated) eccentricities who was largely deplored by his students at VMI, where he taught. 

Jackson, like most of our heroes, rose to excellence only when his particular form of excellence was demanded.  If Wayne Gretzky had been born in Florida, or Bryce Harper in Fairbanks, we would never have heard of them. Like Jackson without war, they both would be and perceived to be just like us.  And, of course, in most ways, our great icons are, though we insist otherwise. 

Here are my opening comments for the Chancellorsville 150th, given on the First Day’s battlefield.

The Chancellor Clearing. Courtesy Buddy Secor

We are a remembering people.

In this tumultuous world of trauma and turmoil, we insist not on forgetting, but remembering. It may seem odd to some people that we do so. But again and again and again, over weeks and decades and even centuries, we remember.

We are a remembering people.

A week ago Monday, much of America stood in silence at 2:50 p.m. remembering a moment of tragedy precisely one week before.

We remembered those who perished, certainly. We prayed for those injured and those left behind, their lives or families damaged. But we also recalled those who by their acts demonstrated the fundamental goodness of people. Those who aided the injured. Those who rushed to protect our people and our nation. Those who, caught in the midst of horror, showed courage enough to act not solely in their own interest, but in others’.

We are a remembering people, because in some way, in many ways, we know that remembering—though sometimes painful–makes us better. As a people we should remember far more and forget far less.

Today, this week, we come together at Chancellorsville to remember. We do this for many of the same reasons we paused nine days ago, though our personal connection to those who struggled here is separated by generations. We pay personal respects, convey honor, seek understanding.

But we do more than that. This week, on the 150^th anniversary of the Battle of Chancellorsville, we remember not just as individuals, but as a nation. We reflect not just on the acts and loss of participants—acts both noble and harsh, as war always is. We also reflect on our nation’s winding, complicated, difficult road to where we are.

We recognize that the Civil War was not just an accumulation of milestones—rather that beneath the famous dates and places was a moving, massive transformation. We learn. We understand. And, I hope, we come to value our nation more than we already do.

We do this not as mere spectators, for though we may not realize it, we come here today and this week possessed of a responsibility. There is a connective thread between those who lived here, fought here, suffered here, and died here….and us. For they did what they did with the hope, even expectation, that those who followed would not forget what they had done.

We are a remembering people.

And our remembering is an essential and ongoing part of their drama. Over the next many days, we will walk many fields and many miles, stand at places famous, and some forgotten. We will share the words and stories of those who were here, soldiers and civilians alike—stories sometimes painful, stories often complicated, stories sometimes reflective of the best of our nation, sometimes the worst. We will evoke. And perhaps even provoke.

And, we will do so, I hope, mindful that our acts of remembrance help render our forebears’ hopes and expectations fulfilled. It is a debt repaid, and we repay it I hope mindful that our acts of remembering are in their own way helpful to our nation.

I thank you for coming.

In part 1 of this post, I introduced the story of William Hayden, who was enslaved upon his birth in Stafford County in 1785, and separated from his mother, Alcy Shelton, by their owner around 1790.  Hayden freed himself in 1823, and in 1846 published a memoir:  Narrative of William Hayden…Written by Himself.  Aside from his book’s extraordinarily rare, eyewitness-derived woodcuts depicting slave life the Fredericksburg area, I’m fascinated by its account of the long-term psychological and spiritual influences of a particular landscape:  Belle Plain plantation, Hayden’s birthplace in Stafford and his first home.

Sunrise, Potomac Creek at Belle Plain, 2013.

Anyone who makes a close historical study of a battlefield engages with the psychological history of terrain features.  I suspect that this aspect of landscapes, and of our historical efforts, is often so obvious that we’re unaware of it.  For instance, a pair of modest homesteads at Hazel Grove and Fairview assumed paramount importance during the battle of Chancellorsville.  The plans of commanders who suddenly found themselves tasked with the defense or capture of those places and the ground in-between would of course have real consequences for soldiers on May 3, 1863, one of the bloodiest days in the nation’s history. 

I suspect, too, that the constant interchange between specific, seemingly undistinguished collections of soil, water, foliage, and buildings on the one hand, and ideas, beliefs, or sentiments on the other—with profound consequences for people’s lives sooner or later—is even less apparent, at least at first, when we consider aspects of history that lack the broad drama of armies contending on a battlefield.

In penning his memoir, which is virtually unknown today, William Hayden located the earliest stirrings of his Christian faith at his mother’s cabin, and with his savoring during childhood of a view of the morning sun and its reflection in the waters of Potomac Creek.  The vista from the cabin and its immediate vicinity was bordered by the hills and flatlands of William and Alcy’s home-plantation, Belle Plain on the creek’s south bank, and by those of his father’s likely home-plantation, Crow’s Nest on the opposite bank.

New Sun in Potomac Creek at Belle Plain, minutes later.

William’s faith included what he termed “presentiment,” a confidence that he would serve as one of God’s instruments.  The first of the resulting, happy outcomes was William’s timely intervention while still a child at the onset of a fire at the Belle Plain cabin (illustration in pt. 1 of this post).  The same faith gave him the perseverance and optimism to eventually escape the enslavement that had begun on that very landscape, then return to the Fredericksburg area as a free man in hopes of rescuing his mother from enslavement as well (she having since relocated to Falmouth).  He planned to remove her from Virginia.  Ideally, the exodus would also include his brother, sister, her husband, and at least two of the sister’s children, all of who were evidently free people of color.  Likely prominent in William’s calculations was a state law, albeit one applied irregularly, that required persons legally freed to leave Virginia within one year or face re-enslavement. 

Our story resumes in the dark, early morning hours of a July day in 1828, with William arriving on the stagecoach from Belle Plain at a Fredericksburg hostelry kept by a “Mr. Young”—almost certainly the Farmer’s Hotel, managed by James Young.

The granite-fronted Enterprise Building was built around 1900 on the site of the Farmer’s Hotel in 1828.

Such was the prominence of Fredericksburg on coastal trade- and travel routes, and of the Farmer’s Hotel at the corner of Fredericksburg’s principal commercial thoroughfare—Caroline Street—and an extension of the Fredericksburg and Swift Run Gap Turnpike (the “Orange Turnpike”)—Hanover Street, that a number of Hayden’s slaveholding acquaintances from Kentucky and Mississippi happened to be guests of Young when Hayden arrived.  That night, he shared his story and mission several times with various hearers in the barroom, all of them sympathetic and supportive.  He quickly secured directions from Young, who had confirmed that Alcy Shelton still lived in the Falmouth vicinity.  A “Mr. Offord,” meanwhile, offered William cash to purchase Alcy’s freedom.  A “Mr. Ballard” offered credit with which William could acquire a wagon and horses “and whatever else” necessary for the reunited family’s journey from Fredericksburg.

Not surprisingly, Hayden’s memoir would recount a pragmatic, selective approach to describing his hope for a lasting reunion with his mother, brother, and sister.  That July night, he spoke to his listeners about being “taken from that neighborhood when quite a child” and his hope to “alleviate the bondage of my mother.”  Yet the bluntness of the terms with which his 1846 memoir would portray life under slavery—“clanking chains,” “unjustifiable bondage,” “malignant gratification of my fellow man”—was saved for that future book.  In the barroom in 1828, he drew mainly upon his long-sustaining faith and emphasized his goal of a lasting reunion of believers “devoted alone to God, and looking upon the past as so many trials which the Lord had strewn in our pathway, to teach us how much we are bound to thank and adore him.”  Evidently, Hayden also mentioned his sister and his confidence in a chain of happy outcomes foreordained during the cabin fire of their childhood:

This sister I had always loved as the apple of my eye.  It was she whom I had snatched from the burning building, and it was she, whom I felt almost as great an anxiety to unite with me in one family, together with her husband, as the release of our poor mother.

The landscape of William Hayden’s final journey to reuniting with his family at Falmouth (upper left). By the time of that 1828 trip, the Chatham Bridge at the foot of William Street had replaced the “New Bridge” (far right), at the foot of Wolfe Street, in this detail from an 1817 map. But the basic setting and landmarks of Hayden’s 1828 journey otherwise appear accurately on the map. Courtesy Library of Virginia.

Armed with the directions and pledges of help, Hayden departed for his mother’s before dawn, navigating by moonlight from Young’s hostelry to a bridge over the Rappahannock.  The memoir describes the emotional turmoil of the hike, of Hayden’s being “wracked with anxiety” over imagining his mother’s present and future prospects but also buoyed by the hope of securing her “freedom and a home, where her declining years should be supported” (the italics his own).  He walked over the bridge, probably Dunbar’s, northwest of Fredericksburg and connecting directly to Falmouth.  His memoir would describe the location of Alcy’s house only generally:  two miles beyond the approaches to the river-crossing that had been used by Hayden’s Belle Plain stagecoach—either the Chatham (Coalter’s) Bridge at Fredericksburg or the Ferry Farm/Fredericksburg-wharves ferry.  Alcy’s dwelling, then, was likely in Falmouth’s northern- or western outskirts. 

Hayden reached there after having to ask directions twice.  Of the sensations that followed, he later wrote, “my heart has never since been blessed with so much happiness.”  First came confirming his identity for his half-believing mother, and shortly thereafter a reunion with his sister, who lived with her family within earshot of their mother’s doorway.  William’s father, James, was “sent for” the next morning and joined William and Alcy:

There was no[o]ne else present, and as I sat and witnessed the tears as they trickled down the cheeks of them both, and found a response with myself, I felt that the words of God had been fulfilled, and that one moment of my presence now added more to their happiness than many years had tended to give them previously. …thus did the Lord prosper my actions as a son.  All the praise be His.

The jester’s costume in which Hayden raised the balance of the funds for his mother’s freedom in the Fredericksburg area. Detail from woodcut in Narrative of William Hayden, f. p. 134.

The encouragement of the reunion and of the easy recruitment of sympathizers in Young’s barroom helped offset challenges that crowded-in almost immediately.  Hayden, it turned out, would face between two and four months of “much trouble and many trials” before his mother could emerge from the Stafford County Courthouse with her freedom papers in hand.  Mr. Offord’s pledge of financial assistance and the efforts of many other “kind friends” notwithstanding, her son finished raising her purchase price only by begging in an elaborately humiliating jester’s costume of his own design.  It featured an old petticoat, layers of grease and tar, and a tricorn hat adorned by sprigs of greenery.  (For other examples of area residents meeting the challenges of fundraising for freedom, see John Hennessy’s posts here and here.)

The area’s well-established transportation corridors carried and sustained a thriving trade in people, among other commodities, which perhaps exacerbated William’s difficulty.  Possibly, the value of Alcy’s quarter-century of experience as a midwife offset considerations of age (she was around 60 in 1828) to elevate her purchase price.  More than a few of the slaveholders who lent William assistance—visitors and area residents alike; his memoir alludes to the help of “many” sympathizers besides those whom he met at Young’s barroom—were likely buying or selling enslaved people that same year.  The Farmer’s Hotel was itself an intermittent but longtime center for slave dealing:

Fredericksburg Virginia Herald advertisments for slave hiring (Dec. 19, 1818) and slave buying (August 24, 1833) at the Farmer’s Hotel.

When Alcy Shelton’s joyous day finally came, she “retired” from the Stafford Courthouse overwhelmed by emotion.  “Some time” elapsed; her son eventually found her behind the building.  He later described her conversion of a nondescript public landscape into a place of worship, however temporary:

Never can I forget that scene!  My mother, bathed in tears, and clutching the certificate of her release from bondage in her hand, as if it would leave her grasp, and praying to Got to still shield her through life.  My heart felt heavy as I witnessed her distresses—and my soul still felt elevated as I kissed from her cheeks all traces of her sorrow, and prepared to lead her from all her trials to a land of freedom.

The rear of the Stafford County Courthouse, no less nondescript with today’s parking- and utility areas than was the case in 1828, when the then-courts building occupied a smaller site under the current building.

Reaching that land of freedom, however, required still more expense, effort, and humiliation.  In Fredericksburg or Falmouth, William purchased a horse and wagon on Mr. Ballard’s credit.  William’s party departed Falmouth for Natchez, Mississippi, evidently in early November 1828.  William, his mother, his sister, and, additionally, “two young ladies and a young gentleman” whose status with regard to enslavement is unspecified in the memoir, composed the group.  Likewise uncertain is whether the brother, and the sister’s husband and children accompanied them (although the woodcut illustrating the journey, in Narrative of William Hayden, depicts at least one child).  William once again packed away the dignified clothes of his own choosing and donned his jester’s costume for the trip.  Begging while thus attired, he later wrote, proved sufficient “to gather from the sympathizing people along the road…support for my family and the other inmates of the wagon.”

Hayden’s party en route from Falmouth to Natchez, November 1828. From Narrative of William Hayden, f. p. 134.

William, his sister, and their mother—presumably accompanied by the sister’s family—would reside in Natchez until 1835.  They then moved to Cincinnati, where Alcy Shelton died in 1842.  William published his memoir in Cincinnati in 1846; I leave to researchers with more time and space a recounting of other details of his life.

Aside from presenting parts of William’s story through art as well as text, his extraordinary book exacts a measure of retribution for the wrongs done his family.  The memoir conveys William’s view of Alcy’s liberation without the circumspection that had been necessary to its accomplishment in 1828:  “I succeeded in breaking her chains, and setting her free upon the broad basis of…freedom, which acknowledges no distinction between the human family.”

Narrative of William Hayden appeals for its complexity as well as its vividness.  The book, in my reading at least, essentially equates enslaved people, male and female alike, with a universal but beleaguered womanhood.  Its luckiest representatives are epitomized by Alcy Shelton.  She suffers under slavery yet never falls entirely outside a sheltering Providence, whose instruments include her son.  God’s protection enables Alcy to garner broad respect and “success in her line of business” as a midwife, even while enslaved.  William’s book includes a special appendix presenting written praise of her professionalism—testimonials signed by Dr. and Mrs. James Carmichael and other leading citizens of the Fredericksburg area.  Yet the main body of Hayden’s memoir concludes with a long, 14-verse poem, “Narrative of Woman in the Slave World,” illustrating very different and more common outcomes:  jealousy, lovelessness, the “work of God to mar,” and “No shield…and no guardian.”  Providential landscapes in places of enslavement, Hayden argues, are few and far between.       

Noel G. Harrison

Special thanks to D.P. Newton, Director of the White Oak Museum, for a moving excursion at dawn to his beloved Belle Plain.     

At the Gettysburg conference a couple weeks back, Dennis Frye and I got into a bit of a public conversation. By way of background, both of us entered the NPS at about the same time way back when, and while we have followed differing paths, we have ended up in the same place. He is the Chief Historian at Harpers Ferry NHP. I am the Chief Historian at Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania NMP. Dennis possesses a brilliant mind. I have always considered him to be the rabbit this sorry hound is chasing.

Donald Pfanz presents a program in the shadows of the Catalpas at Chatham.

The exchange we had revolved around what should be our purpose when giving public programs. Dennis–who is a superlative interpreter and historian (and there is a difference)–offered that when giving public programs, his purpose is not to provide answers, but to provoke questions. I suggested that when I go on a tour with Dennis Frye, who knows as much about Harpers Ferry and Antietam as anyone on earth, I want to know what he thinks about the key questions that surround those places–what has he learned, and how does he use that information to ANSWER the great questions. I don’t want him merely to point out those questions to me.

Reflecting back on that exchange, it occurred to me that we were really talking about two different roles we play before the public, often obscured or merged. Historians seek answers to questions–help build our knowledge and understanding. Interpreters provoke questions, bidding others to further inquiry, to become historians themselves. And those who are both historians and interpreters–if they are any good–meander back and forth between the two roles with ease.

The NPS is full of fine historians–people who have done original work that has expanded our understanding of the Civil War. The staff at Fredericksburg & Spotsylvania NMP, for example, has written something approaching a dozen books, some of them standards in the field. There is little doubt that some of our staff know more about the events around Fredericksburg and elsewhere than anyone on earth and can relate those events to the larger themes of history with ease. “Subject matter experts” get a bad rap in the NPS, for there is a presumption that immense knowledge equates to poor interpretation. Simply not true.

The NPS is also possessed of many outstanding interpreters–people who don’t just educate, but provoke people to question and learn. They are an incredibly valuable part of what we do. But not all interpreters (provokers of questions) also assume the role of historian (seekers of answers to those questions). And to be good at what they do, they don’t necessarily have to. Most park programs include a mix of pure interpreters and historian/interpreters.

But, the best historical interpreters I know are also historians. By that I mean they seek answers, they expand the world’s knowledge, AND they have the ability to engage the public in creative conversations about such things. Dennis Frye is such an animal. So are Frank O’Reilly and Donald Pfanz and Scott Hartwig and Peter Carmichael. Sometimes they act as pure interpreters. (Catch Dennis sometime talking about John Brown; it’s interpretive art). Sometimes they are historians, speaking to some of the great historical questions of the day, applying all that they have learned….and generally to the audience’s great benefit.

People like Dennis apply those varied skills to different audiences, in varying admixtures. The best historian/interpreters have an unerring instinct for recognizing the time and place for each and to move back and forth without anyone noticing. Not everyone can.

William Hayden was born into slavery in 1785, at Belle Plain plantation on Stafford County’s Potomac Creek and near the Potomac River.  His owner separated William while still a child from his mother.  William returned as a free man decades later in an effort to liberate her and perhaps his sister as well.

William Hayden at the time he published his memoir in the 1840’s.

Hayden stands out not only for attempting this prior to the Civil War, without the new paths to liberation that the war would open for other enslaved people, but also for publicly condemning the system that had devastated his family, in a memoir published in 1846.  The Narrative of William Hayden…Written by Himself also traced the origins of his faith as a Christian.

Looking east along Potomac Creek and then across the Potomac River, from a point near the site of the main plantation house at Belle Plain—the basic elements (modified by reforestation and bank-erosion) of William Hayden’s beloved vista. Lowest shoreline, appearing blue-gray in far distance, is Maryland on opposite side of the Potomac River. Closer, two-level shoreline at left is Crow’s Nest, in Stafford County, Virginia and on opposite side of Potomac Creek from Belle Plain. (In 1864, as shown on the map linked in my text below, Union wharves were situated along the right bank of the creek: one just upstream, to the left of the camera-position here, the remainder downstream.)

Along with written descriptions, the memoir includes wood engravings, or woodcuts.  These are stylized and doubtless reflect the imagination of a non-eyewitness engraver to one degree or another.  Yet several of the artworks may represent the only pictorial illustrations of enslaved people’s lives in the Fredericksburg area, prepared at the direction of someone who was once held in bondage in the area and who returned to again witness slavery there firsthand.

Narrative of William Hayden opens two years after the end of the American Revolution, with the author’s birth at Belle Plain to Alcy Shelton, a slave of “George Ware,” and James, a slave of “Mr. Daniel.”  Judging from background information on the estate, in historian Jerrilynn Eby’s 1997 county history, They Called Stafford Home, William Hayden’s memory over half a century had modified some spellings slightly:  Alcy’s owner was actually George Waugh, who shared occupancy of the 1,500-acre Belle Plain plantation with his brother, Robert Waugh.  George and Robert’s father, John Waugh, had died in 1783 in possession of at least 39 enslaved people, Alcy Shelton probably among them.

William Hayden’s own father, James (with whom he evidently never lived and whose minimal mention in the Narrative does not even include a last name), was perhaps the property of Travers Daniel, who owned Crow’s Nest plantation on the opposite side of Potomac Creek from Belle Plain.

Since the Belle Plain plantation house survived until the Civil War, this detail from an 1841 plat reflects the basic landscape of Hayden’s childhood decades earlier. The exact location of his mother’s cabin is unknown; it may have been situated, along with other dependency structures, in the area marked “barn” here. The steamboat landing was not present during Hayden’s childhood, but by the 1820’s it was operational and likely the point where he disembarked when returning to the area as a free man. Copy courtesy of the White Oak Museum.

William’s first recorded memory was of savoring the morning scenery from the door of the cabin he shared with his mother, brother, and sister.  The cabin afforded views of both Potomac Creek and the Potomac River, occupying a location on or near the main road from Fredericksburg.  The plantation’s frontage on Potomac Creek adjoined the sites of a Colonial-era wharf and public warehouse for tobacco shippers, and would gain national fame during the Civil War.

(For my GoogleEarth overlay map of the Federals’ Belle Plain wharf-sites in 1864 click here and scroll down to fifth illustration; for John Hennessy’s account of Charles Dickens’ visit to Belle Plain in 1842 click here.)

The sun and its reflection in Potomac Creek, with the cabin of Hayden’s mother at left. Although this woodcut from Narrative of William Hayden obviously exaggerates the topography of Crow’s Nest plantation across the creek, Civil War soldiers would comment on the steepness of the area’s heavily eroded ravines.

Thinking back to childhood mornings in that cabin doorway in the 1780’s, William Hayden recalled the origins of his faith, and his being struck by the twin heralds of

The Day God as he peered from the chambers of the east, and cast his reflection from the clear bosom of the Potomac, appear[ing] to my infantile mind like two suns–the one in the heavens, and the other in the body of the waters; and every morning, it was my desire, and indeed, my first employment, to repair to the door and witness the rising of the two suns.  …witnessing with joy, the beauties of Heaven, and Heaven’s goodness.

Hayden’s predawn awakenings proved of worldly benefit as well:

One morning, on rising from my straw pallet, to seek the door of the cabin, the bed was discovered to be on fire.  A sense of danger was even then apparent to my young mind, and through exertions and persuasions, I was enabled to be the instrument of God’s holy wisdom, to save the lives of my sister and brother who slept in the same room.  …God’s beauties were before my mind; his hand was over me, and leading me on; he made my soul, even at that early age acquainted with the fact, that I was to become an instrument in his hand….

The fire at the Belle Plain cabin. From Narrative of William Hayden.

Around 1790, William’s owner separated him from Alcy, and sent him initially to work at nearby properties.  William managed to escape and rejoin his mother, although the reunion lasted only a week before he was discovered.  William was afterwards sold at auction; his new owner soon moved him to Kentucky.  William later wrote movingly of Alcy harboring a “presentiment” during the few years they had spent together.  She had foreseen that she was not to be “the one designed by Providence to rear me.”

Presentiment was an essential part of William’s own faith as a Christian.  He would later note that his sale at auction and subsequent separation from other slave children whose temporary company had calmed and diverted him brought home the cruelty of his situation more than any previous event:

No mother’s smiles were decreed to welcome me—no maternal words to soothe my pains, no kind and long known home to yield me sustenance and repose—naught but the clanking chains of slavery—the roof of a stranger, and my own sad reflections….

Yet, Hayden added, “My liberation from bondage was promised me by my spiritual guide…when the chains of slavery were first riveted upon me….”  This consoled him right up to the moment “in which I was to become a free man…whilst toiling in servitude, and abject misery for the malignant gratification of my fellow man…it was this knowledge which supported me through nearly forty years of unjustifiable bondage.”

Kentucky would become William’s long-term home and site of experiences that included his obtaining an education, living for a time with a white woman who treated him on an equal footing with her own child, and suffering fraud by various hirers that deprived him of agreed-upon income and delayed his freedom.  Hayden persevered, however, purchasing his liberty in 1824 in Paris, Kentucky.

While still enslaved, he had worked for a time as a servant for a slave trader who travelled widely.  On one of these trips, around 1813, Hayden arranged to have his mother journey from Stafford County to meet him in Baltimore, their first time together since the forced separation years before.  Alcy Shelton was by now a practicing midwife and a resident of Falmouth.  Heartbreakingly brief, their time together reinforced her son’s determination to free her.

Once free himself, Hayden travelled to Stafford in 1828, alighting from a steamboat at Belle Plain on Potomac Creek and directly into the setting of his childhood memories.

View looking southwest from the bank of Potomac Creek and the site of the main Belle Plain plantation house (area of paved driveway-entrance at right), and along the main road to Fredericksburg in William Hayden’s day (and ours: County Route 604). If indeed Alcy Shelton’s cabin was in the vicinity of “Barn” marked on the 1841 plat, the cabin may have stood near the roadside at the rise of ground in upper left background, an elevation that would have enhanced William’s childhood view of the creek.

William and the other passengers boarded a Fredericksburg-bound stagecoach.  Almost immediately it passed  the “charred and blackened” ruin of his childhood home.  He gave vent to “loud sobs and many sighs” and visions of where

I had in infancy sat and watched the rising of the two suns…there, too, was the old apple tree, [to] which when but a sapling, my mother has often taken her chair and leaning against which, she has entertained me with some juvenile tale, as she gave nourishment to my little sister.  

(Hayden’s Narrative is unclear as to whether his mother’s cabin had been destroyed or only damaged in the fire of his childhood.  She was living in either the repaired cabin, or a replacement, when he had briefly escaped and rejoined her at Belle Plain around 1790.)

Returning in 1828, Hayden was so excited to reach the stagecoach stop nearest his mother, a Fredericksburg hostelry kept by a “Mr. Young”—probably James Young’s Farmer’s Hotel—that the Narrative would note the exact time of his stage’s arrival: “one o’clock at night, on the 2^nd of July.” 

Next: can William Hayden, having arrived “penniless” in Fredericksburg in 1828, free his mother?

Noel G. Harrison

Special thanks for research assistance to D.P. Newton, Director of the White Oak Museum.

This post is prompted by an interesting discussion over at Robert Moore’s Cenantua’s Blog and a  Christmas Eve Washington Post article about the declining interest in and increasingly dire condition of house museums. The Post article notes that visitation at most sites–excepting mega-places like Mount Vernon and Monticello–has dropped dramatically in the last decade or two. The article pays particular attention to Stratford Hall, Lee’s birthplace. Its thoughtful and resourceful executive director, Paul Reber, has watched visitation there drop from 80,000 per year in 1976 to 51,000 in 1991 to 27,00o last year.  Some sites, like Carter’s Grove and Lee’s Boyhood Home in Alexandria, have closed altogether, morphing back into private homes. A painful trend.

We have certainly noticed this at Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania NMP. While use of the sites has been relatively flat, people walking in the door of our visitor centers has declined steadily the last two decades.  In 1994, visitation at Fredericksburg VC was 117,000.  Last year it was around 73,000, and that represents an increase over the few years before that.

It’s a common thing to attribute declining visitation at historic sites to their inability to keep pace with emerging media and the demands of a public that has broken free of traditional forms of interpretation.  The Post reporter constructs such an argument, using Paul Reber’s words as the crux:

“These places are designed to tell a story for a demographic that doesn’t exist like it did decades ago,” [Reber] said. “We still deliver our stories to visitors with a guided tour, walking through the house with them. We hit them over the head with it, because that’s the way we’ve always done it.

“But people have the Internet in front of them now and can find anything they want and create their own narrative and explore the things that interest them. We have to adapt.”

Nothing that Paul or the reporter suggest here is untrue (though I would argue that the human voice well wielded is still by far the most powerful interpretive medium out there, bar none). There is no arguing that adapting how we deliver interpretation and understanding to modern audiences is critical. I’ve spent a good deal of my career trying to do just that, and there are vast mountains yet to climb on that account. Click here for some discussion of digital media and interpretation.

But it seems to me that something vastly greater than a simple mismatch of media and audience is going on here. We like to think that while society has changed, historic sites have not. That’s simply untrue, and in fact it may well be that the changing nature of historic sites and their place within American culture have more to do with declining public interest than does historic sites’ rigid resistance to change.  [Please note I use the term "may well be" in launching this argument; I am not entirely certain I believe all that I am about to write myself, but I do think what follows is worth considering and discussing].

Not long ago, historic sites were a refuge–places without real controversy, bastions of nostalgia, remembrance, and even idolatry. They were places of stability and constancy amidst a world changing, someplace we could go to reconnect with our collective (often incorrect) vision of what America once was and the people who built it. Then, most historic sites were a product of America’s insistence on a single, shared understanding of American history. [We explored this phenomena in this post back in 2011.]

Now, as power and influence in our society has become more diverse, so has our view of history. As we demand more from our historic sites, they have become vastly more complicated. They are now intellectual battlegrounds. Historic sites are far less comfortable places than they used to be. While that engages and excites many of us, should we also not be surprised that it has put some people off? Today, to many eyes, the Civil War is seen as the domain of a bunch of crazies, “still fighting the war,” waving flags, asserting righteousness, and denying much along the way. I don’t know how many times I have had people tell me that they want nothing to do with the war; it’s such a bubbling cauldron in American culture.   Is it possible that the intellectual mayhem that surrounds our sites renders them less appealing to many visitors?

Of course the great example that belies this assertion is Monticello, which has seen visitation rise in the face of–and perhaps because of–the fierce controversy over Jefferson and his lineage.  But is this the exception rather than the rule?

All questions honestly asked….

As we ponder and recognize the profound statement that was the Emancipation Proclamation–changing irretrievably the government’s relationship with slavery–it might be helpful to look at emancipation from the ground up.  And so, John Washington, a Fredericksburg slave.  We have written of John Washington before.

Washington wrote of the arrival of the Union army in April 1862. At the time he was working as a barkeeper in a busy hotel on Caroline Street.

April 18th 1862. Was “Good-Friday,” the Day was a mild pleasant one with the Sun Shining brightly, and every thing unusally quite, the Hotel was crowed with boarders who was Seated at breakfast A rumor had been circulated amoung them that the yankees was advancing. but nobody Seemed to beleive it, until every body Was Startled by Several reports of cannon. Then in an instant all Was Wild confusion as a calvaryman dashed into the Dining Room and said “the yankees is in Falmouth.” Every body Was on their feet at once, No-body finished but Some ran to their rooms to get a few things officers and soilders hurried to their Quarters every where was hurried words and hasty foot Steps.

 Mr Mazene Who had hurried to his room now came running back called me out in the Hall and thrust a roll of Bank notes in My hand and hurriedly told me to pay off all the Servants, and Shut up the house and take charge of every thing. (p.76) “If the yankees catch me they will kill me So I can’t Stay here,” “said he,” and was off at full spead like the wind. In less time than it takes me to write these lines, every White man was out the house. Every Man Servant was out on the house top looking over the River at the yankees for their glistening bayonats could eaziely be Seen I could not begin to express my new born hopes for I felt already like I Was certain of My freedom now.

After crossing into Union lines, he reflected on his new-found freedom.

A Most MEMORABLE night that was to me the Soilders assured me that I was now a free man ….They told me I could Soon get a Situation Waiting on Some of the officers. I had alread been offered one or two, and had determined to take one or the other as Soon as I could go over and get my cloths and Some $30.00 of My own. Before Morning I had began to fee(1) like I had truly escaped from the hands of the Slaves Master and with the help of God, I never would be a Slave no more. I felt for the first time in my life that I could now claim every cent that I Should work for  as My own. I began now to feel that life had a new Joy awaiting me. I might now go and come when I pleased So I wood remain With the army Until I got Enough Money to travel farther North. This was the FIRST NIGHT of My FREEDOM. It was good Friday indeed the Best Friday I had ever seen. Thank God – 

Enough said.

At the conclusion of Sunday’s culminating ceremony at the Sunken Road, we asked those who had carried flowers from the riverfront to the road place them on  ”that small but immense barrier between men Union and Confederate,” the stone wall.  Doing this didn’t come into the program until relative late in our planning, but it turned out to be one of the most compelling aspects of the day for many people.

The flowers represented those who fell at Fredericksburg; one out of ten was red, to represent those who died. We were all awed by the sense of responsbility people took in placing the flowers. Clearly, having the chance to physically express themselves in this way meant a great deal.

Yesterday I recieved a note from one of our former law enforcement rangers, now retired, Lyne Shackelford. With his permission (and our thanks), I share with you what he wrote about the program, the wall, and the flowers.

Everything was great: the participants, Rangers, reenactors, crowd, speeches, cannonade, Sunken Road wall program, but for an ex law dog like me, you really got my attention.  Here’s the nub of what I’ll carry:  The idea of placing carnations on the wall was truly transformational…a gesture symbolic of all who suffered and died during the battle for Fredericksburg, or the war for that matter.  Until the anniversary yesterday, and ever since I came to Fredericksburg over 20-years ago, I’ve always viewed it as an inanimate objective, as some ancient artifact where so many men died as part of a fruitless, dirty, and bloody campaign.  The carnations we placed there yesterday seemed to sanctify the wall as a living body and memorial to those soldiers, whether they died there or not, embodying their spirit and those terrible times when they lived.   Steven Foster knew what he was talking about when he wrote “Hard Times Come Again No More” and you’ve helped me realize that this wall still represents that part of our condition today.  It’s not just a wall any more.  We take these memorials for granted sometimes…I grew up with them, but I think after this anniversary, I’ll begin to look at them just a little bit differently.

Last night I spoke on the experience of Fredericksburg’s civilians at St. George’s Episcopal Church, a historic and beautiful setting largely filled.  I ended  with a bit of a commentary on public history and the war.

At Fredericksburg, sacrifice, sadness, hurt, destruction, and death came in a fashion and in forms not seen before, affecting soldier and civilian alike, challenging the will of all. 

Many of you, perhaps, see the Civil War in a singular way.  A war for Union.  Or a War for Freedom.  A war for independence.  Resistance against aggression.  An effort to end oppression.  An effort to sustain oppression. 

Take your pick.  You are all right. 

Some of you see historical Yankees as vandals…invaders…   

You’d all be right again…. They sometimes were. 

But they were also ultimately agents of freedom….saviors of the Union of the United States. 

Southern soldiers and civilians were noble defenders of homes—courageous, devoted, beset by hardships. 

Many also owned slaves, and they waged war for a government committed to sustaining slavery.  They waged war in an attempt to dismantle the American Union. 

Some of you–with good reason–see the arrival of the Union army opposite Fredericksburg in 1862 as the darkest day in Fredericksburg’s history. 

The slave John Washington saw it as the greatest day of his life. 

Fact is, our history, our story tonight is all these things.  And that’s okay.  We needn’t succumb to our mania for defining people and events in a singular way, as good, bad, evil, or noble.  To do that requires us to assert the primacy of one story, one perspective over another.  To do that requires us to pretend history isn’t complicated. 

History is seen and understood differently by different people.

That fact doesn’t diminish our history—it enriches it.

Instead, I ask you to step back and look at these events, this place, as part of a great tide of history—a tide of many swirls and eddies, crosscurrents, and a good deal of flotsam—broken, discarded, ugly things we might wish were not there. 

But ultimately it is a tide that leads to our very doors. 

It teaches us and inspires us—the price paid, errors made, devotion demonstrated, and triumphs gained on our path to this place at this time as we continue to strive to shape this great nation. 

When next you are in town, look at the clock on the steeple of St. George’s Episcopal Church.  That’s the town clock, overlooking Market Square, keeping time for everyone to see for more than 160 years–laborers and lawyers, slaves and soldiers, mothers and middlemen.

 That clock measured Abraham Lincoln’s visit to Fredericksburg in May 1862.  It signaled time for the church’s bells to ring on the hour and half hour—even in the darkest days of war–which in turn begged passersby to look up (we still do).  It marked the appointed time for auctions of slaves at the corner of Charles and William and for school in Jane Beale’s schoolhouse on Lewis.  It counted away the last minutes of thousands of lives. 

 On December 11, 1862, several Union cannoneers, their view of town obscured by smoke, chose to fire at the one thing they could see above the chaos below—the steeple with the clock on it.   At least one of them claimed to have hit it.

 The clock may have stopped. We don’t know. If  so, it, like the war-torn rhythm of Fredericksburg’s days, soon started again. 

 Nothing more tangible than the turns of that clock, accumulated one-by-one over days and years and decades, separates us from Fredericksburg’s most tumultuous days. 

[From part of Sunday's culminating program.  We hope you'll join us.]