Wherever my home is, I wish that you and Andy will bless me by your visits—please make them often.
He is waiting outside to be the special messenger to deliver this letter to you. May God richly bless you and Andy.
It saddened me to read Lee’s letter because I only wished they could have had a life together, but the fate of war demolished a strong love of two lovely people.
Rachel and Rubin raised Pearl, provided her with everything possible within their means—a good education, a loving home, and she was theirs. No one ever had better hurt the child, or the wrath of Rachel and Rubin was fierce.
Pearl was in her late teens when Rachel gave birth to a little black boy, and that’s the Nigger they all refer to. The boy was nearing eight or nine years when Rachel died. Rubin had been killed a few years before by some drunken whites. Pearl gave Rachel the same promise that Rachel gave to Molly a few years before. Believe me, Pearl has fulfilled her promise, through great sacrifice of suspicion, mockery, and hate. But she has never faltered, even though the road has been hard.
She loves the Nigger as her own brother, and the nasty things said about her have never been true. Very few of her own relatives have anything to do with her. That is why your mother is so good to them, and Pearl can depend upon her friendship.
My great-grandmother’s story ended here about Pearl and the Nigger, but three years later, a different life was offered them.
CHAPTER XXIII
In the summer of 1933, my father and I were in front of the Lee’s Tree Tavern on the newly built Midland Trail (US 60) when a big black touring car bearing Illinois tags pulled up beside the gasoline tank and waited their turn to fill their gas tank. There was only one pump, and when Dad got gasoline, I liked to operate the lever that pumped the gas up into a large glass container on top. You always pumped only the gallons that you were purchasing into the large clear glass container that had the gallon markings numbered on the side.
The occupants in the car turned out to be a man, his wife, his daughter, and a big black man, dressed in a dark blue uniform, who did the driving. My father informed me he was the chauffeur. The man had in his hand a road map and a descriptive small pamphlet of West Virginia that gave a brief history of the Midland Trail. He studied the map a moment. Then referring to the pamphlet, he turned to my father and spoke.
“Mister, my map tells me that I am at or near the tree where General Lee camped in 1861. Am I correct?”
“Yes, sir,” my dad answered. “It is that large oak standing up there on the hill,” Dad said, pointing as he spoke.
The man bent forward and addressed the woman in the auto. “That’s it, Mother. You remember Father is always telling us something about Lee’s tree, and how—”
“Oh, yes, yes, Daddy,” cried the teenage girl. “We must walk up to that tree, by all means. We must see it. I remember Grandfather told me about the tree and General Lee and the soldiers. Come on, everyone, we must go up to the tree.” She sprang out of the car, ran across the highway, and began to climb a steep bank toward the wood rail fence on top.
Her father called, “Becky, we can’t go up that way. Come back. We must find a better way.”
My father informed them that I would show way. We walked eastward, around a small curve in the road where some steps led up to a schoolhouse. We walked up the steps, turning at the top, and walked through the field to the big tree.
The father walked around under the tree, stopping looking upward, surveying the countryside with his eyes, then he stopped. “Here is about where General Lee’s tent stood. Can’t you just see him and his famous horse here in the shade of this tree?” he asked.
“I can, Daddy. I can,” said the daughter. “Isn’t it wonderful! We can stand where Grandfather must have met General Lee when he came here as a prisoner and was taken back with the Army to Virginia. Daddy, let’s not go back home just now. Let’s go to Culpepper and visit that old mansion and see the place where Granddaddy had such an exciting experience on that eventful night and the next day escaped on that little Confederate girl’s horse.”
“I wish we could, honey,” he answered. “But it is out of the question to think of covering all of Father’s trail in the war. I promised to bring you to the famous White Sulphur Springs resort, where we would rest a few days. Then, if the places were nearby where your grandfather met the beautiful mountain girl and where he met General Lee, we would stop. Now if we don’t hurry, we won’t see the mountain home of the girl or the old inn.”
“Shhh! We’d better let that subject rest, Mother,” the husband interrupted. “That, you remember, was always a delicate subject with my mother, and for some cause, Dad never would tell us the girl’s name or talk much about her—but when he spoke of her, it was always with tears in his eyes. Maybe we should go on and not try to locate the Pines.”
“He did talk about her once, Father,” interrupted the daughter. “Remember the time he was so ill and—and—delirious?”
“Yes, Becky,” admitted the father. “That’s true. He talked about many absurd things at the time he was ill.”
“Some very strange things, Jack,” replied his wife. “You know, he talked of a first wife—that I have always wondered about—the little mountain girl. The little wife of the mountain, he called her, and—and how she assisted him to escape at Culpepper. He called her name. Her name was Molly. Yes, Molly! Molly somebody. Remember Molly, Molly, Molly—yes, Molly Campbell of Gauley. That’s it, Jack.”
“Oh, hogwash, I tell you,” the man nearly shouted. “It was the mere wanderings of a delirious mind. Don’t you dare speak of her in the presence of any of these people. Just don’t mention it. It’s better that we don’t. I don’t know what it might lead to. I never believed it for one moment, and Father had no recollection of any of the stuff he talked about after he got well. He branded it as just a story after I confronted him with what he said when he was ill. Forget it.
“But, Daddy!” Becky blurted, nearly crying. “You promised.”
“Now look, you two, let me do the talking to these people here about Father’s war career, and I mean that neither of you say anything. That’s what I think best. Come on, let’s go,” demanded the man.
Upon returning to the auto, I called to my dad, saying, “These people are looking for where Molly Campbell lived and the old Tyree Inn.”
The man blushed and headed toward the car when my dad asked, “Are you interested in the Pines and the old Inn?”
“Why, er—er, yes, we are,” answered the man.
“We’re going from here to Ansted. Why don’t you just follow me?” my dad asked.
Everything agreed, we climbed into our autos and rolled away down the mountains through Lookout, over Spy Rock Hill, and then into the outskirts of Ansted and then onto the old turnpike, soon stopping in front of the old Tyree Inn.
The man stepped out of his car. Looking at the old inn he turned to my father and said, “I’d know that building if I’d see it floating in Lake Michigan. My father has described it so many times that it is as if I am looking at a picture. Could we go in and examine the interior?”
My father bade them wait until he spoke with the lady who at present occupied the old inn. She extended an invitation for all to go in.
When we walked onto the porch, the man cried out excitedly, “Look! Look, up there!” as he pointed to the inscription over the door. “See that? See what it says?” And he read out loud: