It’s October. How about a spooky story?
It’s a lazy Fall day at the Gurley-Mason Mill and as you can see, I can’t find a very dramatic photo for this post. Built right smack during the Revolutionary War, the historic site is protected by Joshua’s Trust, and its rare up-and-down sawmill is in the Smithsonian. Now reposing peacefully, it’s only a series of low rock walls and a sluiceway by the river that was its raison d’etre, shaded by probably the third or fourth growth of hardwoods in its history. I repose peacefully, ignore the mosquitoes, and close my eyes. The sounds of Rt. 44 slowly slip away.
When I open them, it’s a dark, dismal dawn. Frost glitters on the grass. Mist drifts over the Fenton like gunsmoke, and a low gray sky hints of sleet. Improbably, it is Monday, November 9,1789. The clip-clop of horse’s hooves coming down the hill disturbs the silence as George Washington’s travel party comes into view. The stagecoach stops and steam rises from horse nostrils in the cold. He’s instantly recognizable stepping down, with the hat and the nose. Washington has just been elected that April and he is riding through on a tour of northern states.
The driver dismounts, and dust settles slowly on Middle Turnpike. In the stillness, a door creaks. I smell pipe tobacco as Zebulon Gurley peers out at the President. Gurley has permanent sawdust in his hair and beard, blisters on his blisters, and a short fuse. A long dangerous day in the unheated sawmill awaits him.
“Good day, friend”, says Washington, “By your leave we’ll stretch our legs a bit. And perhaps you’d have coffee for your President?” The party spent the previous two nights at a tavern in Ashford and will ride as far as Brigham’s in Coventry before they get any breakfast. Yesterday, there being no travel on the Sabbath, Washington survived a sermon as long and boring as a Thomas Jefferson speech. And this morning he’s already paid a turnpike toll.
“You swamp Yankees must be a stubborn lot around here,” says Washington, “These roads are hilly, rocky, and disagreeable.” The Fenton River plunges unheeding over the mill dam. Gurley doesn’t say a word.
The far from happy President has a sore rear, cold feet, and the sniffles.
He’s looking right through me now. That pasty face, thin lips, pinched eyebrows. The high black boots are muddy. He wears a double-breasted coat, ruffled silk shirt, and his sword hangs at his side. That instantly felt charisma is so thick it’s annoying, confidence close to arrogance. Pastoral Virginia is a long way from here, he appears to think. A horse relieves itself, a large manure pile in the road in front of the mill and house.
Zeb Gurley hasn’t moved. A thick wool tunic conceals his never washed miller’s outfit, tight sleeves and waistcoat. Hungry children call out behind him. He gives the President a bitter stare and a short negative shake of the head. White knuckles grip the door jamb, the other arm out of sight. His dark eyes scan the group until they all regain the stagecoach. Washington is the last to climb aboard. Caught off-guard by Gurley’s demeanor, he gives an imperious look over his shoulder. “And you, sir, are as disagreeable as the countryside.”
From behind the door Gurley’s left arm appears with his muzzle-loader. He aims at the back of America’s commander-in-chief. “Aye, we’re stubborn”, Gurley whispers, “stubborn enough to still support the Crown.” I duck. Somewhere nearby in a chestnut tree, a crow chuckles. The wind picks up and sleet begins to rattle on the roof.
Happy Halloween!
(Thanks to Rudy Favretti for a chance to reimagine “Mansfield Four Corners”)
~George Jacobi
I love this possibility. Great story!
Wow!! Good story. And you know how I feel about old cemeteries/markers!
Gurleyville…who knew it was named for a Tory who perhaps had such dark thoughts and animosity toward our revered George Washington? Your take on the first president was thought-provoking. Was he a hero, or just another arrogant white entitled slave owner who accepted the mantle of savior during our break with the master nation, England? So many ways to look at our history that we were unfortunately, but understandably, unaware of back in high school. Happy Halloween to you, too!
Love it!
George, you build palpable tension in your marvelous paragraph beginning “The driver dismounts . . .” with the words “stillness,” “creaks,” “blisters on his blisters,” “short fuse,” “long,” and “dangerous.” There’s no turning back for the reader at that point. And then comes my favorite line of them all: “And you, sir, are as disagreeable as the countryside.” Rather than disagreeable, you found the countryside inspirational. Well told!
George, I enjoyed that very much. You should send it to Nathaniel Philbrick.
Artfully done. You should send it to Nathaniel Philbrick.
George – the description sets a very probable scene in late 18th century. I want to know more about this guy Gurley who has so many places in Mansfield named after his family and whose family members reside in Bone Mill cemetery. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for your beautiful writing. I created the trust sign you see and I always wondered what the many hours between the pictures were like for these ancestors. George, you have captured a glimpse of those daily times and have given an air of real magic to the site.
Last I heard (and I have no documentation) is that the Smithsonian sold the saw to a private individual. This was quite a few years ago. I was told that the Smithsonian does not know where the saw is.
In a book sold at Mount Vernon, Washington described Ashford as lacking