“My father has related many times how he fashioned that blazon with only his pocketknife.”
They found the occupant of the old inn very kind and courteous, just like all mountain people. The lady showed them about the place, telling many interesting things—stories of the war, incidents that happened before and after the Gray Dragoon was there, and often in detail, corroborating things they had heard many times before. They spent an hour or more listening to the aged and interesting woman tell of her personal experiences in the area during the wartime days. She was ninety-three and a widow. Her husband had been killed in a railroad accident several years before. She had lived in the area all her life, and before we departed, the man whispered confidentially with her, but what they talked about, we did not know.
We heard her say “The place was called the Pines then, and it’s still there and still known by the same name. You’ll find Molly’s grave in the family cemetery. Her daughter, Pearl, lives there with her son. We used to refer to Pearl as little Molly, but she is very unsociable because of that son[6] of hers. They say the Gray Dragoon came back. Black Nanny saw him but did not recognize him at the time. She’s long since been dead, of course. But she did recognize Black Demon, Molly’s horse. Black Nanny said when he found that his wife had died, he was so heartbroken that he rode away without knowing anything about the little girl. He’s never been heard of since. That’s the story, mister, or as we’ve always known it here.”
“Did anyone try to find him and let him know he had a daughter?” asked the man.
“Oh yes. Every effort was made at that time to locate him, but they ran into a blank wall. There was no one in Chicago by the name of Jack Yates. It was learned later that he enlisted in the dragoons under an assumed name. Even the address on his enlistment papers was fictitious. The whole matter has been forgotten here years ago. Why do you ask, mister? Do you know a Jack Yates?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “The story is so intriguing that it is interesting. I assure you, it’s only a passing interest.”
He laughed lightly, turned, walked out onto the porch, looked up at the blazon, and I heard him, under his breath, exclaim to himself, “My God—it is true—God, take me away from this place as far as possible, today.”
He was joined by the others. He and the elderly lady stood looking up at the plaque. They talked as we moved toward the old turnpike. I saw him remove from his wallet a ten-dollar bill and hand it to her. She pulled a long wooden bench across the door on which he stood and removed the blazon.
He lapsed into silence and for a moment was lost in his own thoughts as he held the plaque. He smiled lightly, and after shaking her hand heartily, he bid adieu, turned, and joined the others, who had already returned to the car.
Before entering his auto, he turned to my father, put out his hand, and said, “All this time I have not introduced myself. My name is Jack Wainwright.[7] My father was Jack Yates Wainwright, one of the Gray Dragoons that camped here in ’61.”
My father introduced himself, gave his name, and then introduced me. Then we were introduced to the man’s wife, daughter, and the chauffeur, George. Then Mr. Wainwright said, “You have been so kind and taken so much of your time, I would like to pay you.”
My father refused.
By this time, George started the car and was preparing to leave when Becky, their daughter, put up quite an argument and insisted on seeing the Pines.
Once again my dad agreed to show them where Pearl lived. We turned around and drove several hundred feet, turning into the lane that led to Molly’s home.
We soon stopped in front of the two large hemlocks, got out, and were greeted by Pearl as we walked upon the porch. After introductions, everyone talked at once.
Becky asked to see the springhouse. A young man from Gauley Bridge was visiting there that afternoon, offered to show her around the old place. The others walked slowly through the house, exiting through the back door. Then out the wood walk, by the barn, and started their walk toward the spring. As we approached the little springhouse, Mr. Wainwright slipped, falling against a tree. There was some concern that he had injured his ribs. He assured everyone that he was not hurt.
“It is dangerous around here,” Pearl said. “Black Nanny told me long ago, before the springhouse was built that my mother, a mere girl of fourteen, came here to dip a bucket of water only to be challenged by a large black bear. She promptly set her pail down, retreated back to the house, where she obtained my grandfather’s rifle, returned, and killed him. A few years later, she killed another one up on the old turnpike, with a pistol, while some Yankee watched.”
We were at the springhouse when Mrs. Wainwright spoke, “I know Jack would love a drink of that cool water and I would too.”
Pearl picked up a dipper that hung on the side of the springhouse, dipped it full from whence the water flowed out of the ground, handed it to Mrs. Wainwright.
Gasping, she exclaimed, “Oh! This is really cold. It’s like ice.”
All took turns sipping from the one and only long-handled dipper before Mr. Wainwright asked, “Can we see the family cemetery?”
We crossed the ravine walked up to the little family burying ground. Silently we stood looking and reading the headstones. Pearl broke the silence by saying, “My mother married one of the Gray Dragoons while they camped at the old Tyree Inn. His name was Jack Yates. He was also from Chicago. Do you know any Yates in Chicago, Mr. Wainwright?”
“Yates? Yates? Yates?” he answered questioningly. “No—no—no. I do not believe I ever knew anyone with that name.”
“I have his picture—also hers. Would you care to see them?” asked Pearl.
“By all means. I surely would. It would be a pleasure,” he answered.
“I have them here in my apron pocket. I took them this morning to Gauley Bridge to show an old Civil War veteran—a friend of the family.” She fumbled in her pockets and produced three old tintypes.
“Those are rare old treasures,” he remarked, as she held them up before him.
“They were made on their wedding day, only a few days before they left with General Lee’s army as it retreated to the Valley of Virginia,” explained Pearl.
“Here they are together. He’s in a gray suit and Mother in a beautiful white dress. And this one is of her. She was only nineteen then.”
“Oh! How beautiful!” Mr. Wainwright interrupted. “Look at that wonderful face! You can see the courage, devotion—determination in that beautiful face.”
“This one is of my father taken in his Yankee uniform that he wore when he came here with the Gray Dragoons,” she explained, as she handed him the picture.
He gasped in astonishment, and his face grew ghostly white when his eyes fell on the picture.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Wainwright?” asked Pearl. “Are you faint?”
“It’s nothing,” he replied. “Just a slight dizziness—maybe from the fall. I’m all right—now.” Then he turned and looked out over the beautiful mountains to the west.
The others had started walking back toward the house. I lingered off to one side, picking flowers, waiting to be the last to depart. My heart leaped up in my throat, and I froze when I heard a low, soft voice, sobbing and muttering. Turning, I saw Mr. Wainwright standing there as if rooted there, gazing at the tombstones, sobbing until his sides moved in and out. I could hear him saying, “And this is the little mountain wife that Daddy has told me about. This is where he found her when he came back. Oh God! And—and her brother—that, that he killed. Oh, how he cried when he told me—what a tragedy! What a tragedy!”
6
The neighborhood talk was that Pearl had an affair with a black man and the one referred to as the Nigger was her son. Because of this, she was an outcast in the community.
7
I remember the name as Wainwright, but it could very well be Weighbright or some similar name used, as I remember.