When last I left you, Fearless Readers, I had departed the
town of Strasburg on Sunday morning, heading north to venture into the late 18th
Century Virginia Planters’ world.
My destination was a plantation manor built in 1797 by Isaac Hite (there
are various other, more German spellings), whose grandfather, Jost Hite (ahh, there’s a good Deutscher name!), who was
the first recorded European settler in the Shenandoah Valley. In 1794 Isaac had married into another
local, Anglo-aristocratic family, namely that of Nelly Conway Madison, of
Montpelier – James Madison’s sister.
Clearly, the old man’s homestead was not going to do, so he sent his
architect to consult with Thomas Jefferson as to how to build a proper,
republican house. The result was
Belle Grove, right off of the Valley Turnpike (Route 11) about five miles up
the road towards Winchester.
Such was my plan, anyway. First house tour at 10:15. After a brief detour to (finally) find a large-scale map of
Virginia (my old one having been misplace somewhere), and another to buy some
beef jerky, I arrived punctually at the mansion, only to find the door to the Gift
Shop/Ticket Kiosk underneath the front portico shuttered (with an actual
shutter). I saw what I assumed
were “historical interpreters’ setting up on the lawn and wandering around the
grounds in 19th Century costume. Asking around and getting some puzzled responses I finally
determined that for some reason, the first tour wouldn’t be until after 1:00. (see
accompanying photo essay on the UpperShenandoah)
No biggie. Your
Intrepid Traveler is more than equal to such minor setbacks. I decided to head further north, to the
town of Winchester, where there is a Museum of the Shenandoah in which I
thought I might profitably spend the intervening time. I had barely turned left back onto the
Pike, however, when I encountered a vast, Civil War reenactment encampment by
the side of the road. They were
camped on the grounds of the Battle of Cedar Creek, a climactic battle in the
1864 Valley campaign. For those in
the know, this is the battle in October in which Jubal Early’s 14,000
Confederates surprised a much larger Union force of some 30,000 in a dawn
assault, catching the bluecoats napping and causing an initial panicked rout. This fight is best known for a dramatic
ride that General Philip Sheridan made from Winchester (11 miles to the north),
through his fleeing, demoralized troops, rallying them as he went, until he
arrived at the scene to direct a counter-attack that drove Early back and
turned a rout into a resounding victory.
This did Abraham Lincoln no harm in securing his reelection some two
weeks later, thereby directly contributing to the ultimate Union victory.*
Curious about the reenactor camp, I stopped to take some
pictures from the roadside (there was an entry fee to get on the field). There is a little museum across the
Pike and I asked what was going on.
As I began to hear the boom of cannon and the rattle of musketry (yes,
musketry does rattle, just like the books say), the museum attendant informed
me that they were re-playing the First Battle of Manassas, which I found odd,
as that battle took place near D.C., quite a ways away. Turns out that the big National Park
battlefields don’t allow reenactments anymore. Even play battles are hell on the terrain.
After watching some
blue soldiers and cavalry march and ride towards some grey soldiers and cavalry,
to the sounds of cheering and booming and rattling, I got back in my car and
resumed my northerly course. I
soon came across another site I had thought of visiting, that of the Pritchard
Farm in Kernstown, just a couple of miles south of Winchester. This was principally known as the site
of two (yes, two), battles that take the little town’s name, along with a half
dozen significant skirmishes throughout the war. The first battle was the opening salvo of Stonewall
Jackson’s 1862 Valley Campaign, on a cold March Sunday in 1862. ** Uncharacteristically
caught out with bad local intelligence that assured him the local Federal
garrison was heading out of the Valley to reinforce the defenses of Washington,
Jackson’s then tiny force instead ran headlong into a comparative host of blue
hidden behind a rise behind the Pritchard Farm, with cannon arrayed in front of
the woods on the crest. Long story
short, while the Pritchard family cowered in the cellar with shells whizzing
overhead and blue and grey soldiers charging back and forth across their
fields, Jackson suffered his only defeat as a commanding officer.
In the aftermath, the Pritchard family emerged to the blood
and gore of wounded and dying soldiers and horses strewn about their land. Their house became a makeshift hospital
and they began to deal with the inevitable destruction and detritus of war littering
their farm.
At this point I realized that, 18th century
intentions or not, the Valley was determined to draw me back into that damned
war. After driving down the little
rock-wall lined lane leading to the house, I found the visitors’ center parking
lot deserted. No doubt everyone
was off down the road enjoying the rattling and booming and cheering of the
blue and grey. The two ladies
inside, Jeanette and Rebecca, seemed happy to see a non-reenacting face, and we
chatted for quite some time about the farm’s history, the Pritchards and the
battles. When I asked if the house
was open for tours, she regrettably informed me that it was open on alternate
weekends, and this was an off week.
However, she immediately offered to show me around anyway. First, however, Rebecca took me out
back to show me the grounds and get me situated as to the battles. Rebecca was an enthusiast and an
excellent raconteur and I was grateful for her orientation tour from the back yard,
gazing southward from which the Confederates came both times, and northwards,
towards the hills that the Federals held.
She also confided in me, almost conspiratorially, that she had her own
theories as to which part of the mansion was built first. Her uncle’s house in
the Valley, it turns out, had similar characteristics, and she explained her
reasoning. I left her convinced
that the now-demolished rear “addition” was, in fact, the original big house.
Jeanette, in her turn, was an excellent and gracious tour
guide of the house. I have had
other, impromptu, often unsolicited special tours of historic homes that I have
visited, mostly in the south. I
think that when the docents find out I am a Yankee teacher of History who
actually knows his stuff, they are eager to get out the keys and show off their
own piece of the past. Jeanette
fit this pattern. (She did not,
however, seem to think much of her colleague’s theories about the house. This was her domain, and she politely –
this is the South, after – all declined to take up the gauntlet Rebecca had
thrown down when I mentioned it).
 |
| The Pritchard House, with the stone wall in front of the lane behind which Col Mulligan and his Chicago boys made their stand. |
I shan’t burden you
with the whole story of the house’s decline, the wanton arson of the original
log cabin in a Halloween prank just after the property became officially part
of a trust in about 2003, and so forth. (See the Kernstown Battlefield website for the details) Suffice it to say that since the war,
the homestead has had a run of bad luck.
Instead, I want to talk about James Mulligan and Helen Pritchard and the
vagaries of the post-war years in the South.
The property has been a working farm for over two-and-a-half
centuries, starting with a 140,000 acre grant to Hans Yost Hite (there’s that
name again) and another individual in 1731. Part of the grant devolved to a William Hoge a few years
later and in 1756 it was sold to Rees Pritchard; the Pritchards would farm the
land for 120 years, until after the war in 1876. Now, one doesn’t normally think of good Germans being slave
owners and masters of plantations, but some were, of course. Interestingly, my hostesses informed
me, in 1850, just before the extant house was built, the family owned 15
slaves, but by 1860, the census lists none. The theory that
I like is that the son at the time, Samuel Rees Pritchard, had the house built
to accommodate his new bride Helen, whom he married late in life (for both of
them: he was in his 40’s and she was a 28 year-old spinster). She was from a prominent New Jersey
Quaker family and, as Quakers tend to frown on the enslavement of other
creatures of God, I think Samuel got out of the bondage business to lure his
inamorata down to Virginia. At any
rate, they started a family and no doubt would have lived a quiet, productive
life in the Valley. And then the
War came.
 |
| Helen Jonston Pritchard, a Quaker who married Samuel Pritchard at the spinsterish age of 28 |
Towards the end of that
war, in July of 1864, Jubal Early was striving to fill the rather large shoes
of Stonewall Jackson in chasing the bluecoats around the Valley. A reduced Union army – part of it
having been, once again, sent back to protect D.C. – encountered Confederates
at dawn on the 24th south of Kernstown and the Pritchard farm. Once again, the family huddled in the
cellar as battle raged around them.
This time, the Federals were pushed back and outflanked and a good
portion (including the command of one Col. Rutherford B. Hayes) was threatened
with encirclement and capture. At
this point, a Chicago Irishman turned Colonel named James Mulligan made a stand
at the stone wall beside the lane in front of the house. He and his men, including his 19
year-old brother-in-law, managed to hold off the onslaught long enough to avert
disaster. In the process, the
young brother-in-law, Lt. Nugent, was killed while carrying the regimental flag
– a coveted position of honor that meant that every opposing soldier was
gunning for you – while Mulligan was cut down, mortally wounded, by riflemen
from a Confederate Sharpshooter Brigade.
His men tried to carry him from the field, but he told them to “Lay me
down and save the flag.” Or so the
romance of war would have it.
 |
| Col. James Mulligan, of Chicago, who died with his head cradled in Helen's lap (pre-war photo) |
Mulligan was eventually
carried into the Pritchard’s home, now once again a scratch hospital, where the
Union-sympathizer Helen helped care for him and other wounded. Mulligan’s wife had followed close
behind him on campaign, and hearing of his wounding, rushed to the scene from
Cumberland, Maryland. Unfortunately,
James died a few days after the battle, before Mrs. Mulligan (NAME?) could
arrive. She no doubt took comfort
in the fact that he died peacefully, his head cradled in Helen Pritchard’s
lap. He even managed to pen a
farewell on the back of a family photo he carried with him. Such a death scene – one of peace,
acceptance, and readiness to greet the almighty in heaven – was an ideal
greatly valued in those days, and took away some of the sting of loss for the
survivors. The war was so
traumatic for the nation in part because so many families – so many grieving
mothers and widows – were bereft without any knowledge of how their son died,
if their husband was surrounded by familiar and loving faces in his last
moments, whether their brother had had time to prepare to meet his reward.
After enduring four years of soaking up the blood of both
sides and having its woods ravaged, its fences used as firewood, and its fields
torn up, the Pritchard Farm’s run of bad luck continued. In spite of Helen’s Union sympathies
and the family’s unquestioned service to Federal wounded in the war, the family
fortunes declined in the aftermath.
Extensive damage to the farm, combined with the economic chaos in the
post-war period, led the Pritchards to the brink of financial ruin. Samuel petitioned the Southern Claims
Commission for restitution for damage caused by the Union army, but was
rebuffed due to his supposed Confederate sympathies during the war. Broke, the family had to sell out,
thereby ending over a century of stewardship. Thankfully, the decline the house
underwent in the 20th century has been halted, and the mansion and
house are stabilized, with plans, once money becomes available from somewhere,
to restore the old girl. (See my photo essay for some photographs of the
mansion)
When I emerged from the tour, after I had spent some money
in their bookstore and made a small donation to the house fund, it was after 2:00 and there was a line
of clouds, dark blue underneath, coming up the Valley from the southwest. I drove back south on the Valley Pike,
into the rapidly cooling, moist air of the coming storm. By the time I reached Belle Grove
Plantation, some fat raindrops had already begun to fall.
If you are in the area and have an hour to spare, this house
is well worth the visit. The house
is grand in a modest way characteristic of what they call down here the
Jeffersonian Style. The original
edifice is perfectly symmetrical and balanced, built of light-colored native
limestone and, while Jefferson might have disapproved of the southern wing
added on later, the overall effect is pure eye candy. Hints of TJ’s aesthetic abound, including the cruciform
floor plan and the careful sitting in the landscape with glorious views from
the front portico of the Blue Ridge and from the rear the Alleghenies in the
west. I also noted that the
building mimics the characteristic way in which he incorporates the service
areas (kitchens, servants’ quarters, etc) in such a way so that they can
accommodate and pamper the inhabitants of the main floor but are almost
entirely hidden from casual view.
The entrance to the ground floor is hidden under the portico, while
inside the house you would have to hunt a bit to find the stairway downstairs
and to the attic, since it is a tiny spiral staircase tucked behind what looks
like a closet door. Jefferson took
this ideal to the extreme at his own Monticello, where the enslaved servants
downstairs put dinner courses in a dumbwaiter that opened on the dinning room;
guests might eat a multi-course meal with old Tom and never see a black
face.
Having finally fulfilled my main goal of the day, I pointed
my faithful Jetta wagon southeast towards my final destination, James Madison’s
Montpelier, near the town of Orange, Virginia. The drive, through intermittent thunderstorms followed by
dazzling sunshine breaking through the clouds, was the most beautiful motoring
thus far on my trip. I skirted the
northern tip of the Blue Ridge and on down the eastern flanks, through rolling
hills and horse country, whizzing by any number of hysterical markers
commemorating this or that Civil War cavalry skirmish, such and such old
settlers’ homesteads, and the founding of various old towns. I think the Shenandoah, the Blue Ridge
and the Virginia Piedmont comprise some of the most glorious country in this
great country, and I drank up the landscape like a fine vintage wine. I was coming to the end of my week-long
road odyssey and looking forward to spending two weeks digging in James
Madison’s plantation. And that,
dear Fearless Readers, is what I have been doing since, and about which I shall
soon post photo essays and travelblogue reports.***
____________
* This was the campaign during which Sheridan spent the
summer months ranging up and down the valley in a scorched earth campaign. The idea was that if the Union couldn’t
keep the Confederates out of the Valley, Sheridan would make it untenable as a
resource for the CSA by turning it into a wasteland. Hence Sheridan’s famous comment that he would make it so
that a crow overflying the Valley would have to bring its own provender…. In the larger picture, as Sheridan was
laying waste to the Shenandoah Valley, Sherman was making his infamous March to
the Sea, during which great swathes of Georgia and the Carolinas were similarly
made victims of marauding bluecoats.
Sherman’s comment, possibly apocryphal, was his famously terse “War is
Hell.”
** The very fact that the battle was fought on a Sunday is
testament to Jackson’s getting caught with his pants down. A devout, church-going man, General
Jackson never sought battle on the Lord’s Day.
*** You might be interested to view my photo essay from last
season’s dig, in the Domestic Servants’ Quarters of Montpelier.
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