by Hans Holzer
“Try to get as much of the argument as you can.”
Ingrid closed her eyes, sat down in a chair generally off limits to visitors, and tried to tune in on the past. “I get the argument as a real embarrassment,” she began. “The woman is frail, she has a long dress on with lace at the top part around the neck, her hair is light brown.”
“Does she take part in the argument?”
“Yes, she has to side with her husband.”
“Describe her husband.”
“I can’t see his face, but he is dressed in a brocade jacket pulled back with buttons down the front and breeches. It is a very fancy outfit.”
“How does it all end?”
“Well, nothing more is said. It is just a terrible embarrassment.”
“Is this some sort of special occasion? Are there other people here?”
“Yes, oh, yes. It is like an anniversary or something of that sort. Perhaps a political anniversary of some kind. There is music and dancing and candlelight.”
While Ingrid was speaking, in an almost inaudible voice, Horace and Virginia were straining to hear what she was saying but not being very successful at it. At this point Horace waved to me, and I tiptoed over to him. “Ask her to get the period a little closer,” he whispered in my ear.
Michie Tavern—Charlottesville, Virginia
I went back to Ingrid and put the question to her. “I think it was toward the end of the war,” she said, “toward the very end of it. For some time now I’ve had the figure 1781 impressed on my mind.”
Since nothing further seemed to be forthcoming from Ingrid at this point, I asked her to relax and come back to the present, so that we could discuss her impressions freely.
“The name Hamilton is impossible in this connection,” Horace Burr began. But I was quick to interject that the name Hamilton was fairly common in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and that Ingrid need not have referred to the Alexander Hamilton. “Jefferson was here many times, and he could have been involved in this,” Burr continued. “I think I know who the other man might have been. But could we, just for once, try questioning the medium on specific issues?”
Neither Ingrid nor I objected, and Horace proceeded to ask Ingrid to identify the couple she had felt in the ballroom. Ingrid threw her head back for a moment, closed her eyes, and then replied, “The man is very prominent in politics, one of the big three or four at the time, and one of the reasons this is all so embarrassing, from what I get, is that the other man is of much lower caliber. He is not one of the big leaders; he may be an officer or something like that.”
While Ingrid was speaking, slowly, as it were, I again felt the strange sense of transportation, of looking back in time, which had been coming to me more and more often recently, always unsought and usually only of fleeting duration. “For what it is worth,” I said, “while Ingrid is speaking, I also get a very vague impression that all this has something to do with two sisters. It concerns a rivalry between two sisters.”
“The man’s outfit,” Ingrid continued her narrative, “was sort of gold and white brocade and very fancy. He was the husband. I don’t see the other man.”
Horace seemed unusually agitated at this. “Tell me, did this couple live in this vicinity or did they come from far away on a special anniversary?”
“They lived in the vicinity and came just for the evening.”
“Well, Horace?” I said, getting more and more curious, since he was apparently driving in a specific direction. “What was this all about?”
For once, Horace enjoyed being the center of attraction. “Well, it was a hot and heavy situation, all right. The couple were Mr. and Mrs. John Walker—he was the son of Dr. Walker of Castle Hill. And the man, who wasn’t here, was Jefferson himself. Ingrid is right in saying that they lived in the vicinity—Castle Hill is not far away from here.”
“But what about the special festivity that brought them all together here?”
Horace wasn’t sure what it could have been, but Virginia, in great excitement, broke in. “It was in this room that the waltz was danced for the first time in America. A young man had come from France dressed in very fancy clothes. The lady he danced with was a closely chaperoned girl from Charlottesville. She was very young, and she danced the waltz with this young man, and everybody in Charlottesville was shocked. The news went around town that the young lady had danced with a man holding her, and that was just terrible at the time. Perhaps that was the occasion. Michie Tavern was a stopover for stagecoaches, and Jefferson and the local people would meet here to get their news. Downstairs was the meeting room, but up here in the ballroom the more special events took place, such as the introduction of the waltz.”
I turned to Horace Burr. “How is it that this tavern no longer stands on the original site? I understand it has been moved here for easier tourist access.”
“Yes,” Horace replied. “The building originally stood near the airport. In fact, the present airport is on part of the old estate that belonged to Colonel John Henry, the father of Patrick Henry. Young Patrick spent part of his boyhood there. Later, Colonel Henry sold the land to the Michies. This house was then their main house. It was on the old highway. In turn, they built themselves an elaborate mansion which is still standing and turned this house into a tavern. All the events we have been discussing took place while this building was on the old site. In 1926 it was moved here. Originally, I think the ballroom we are standing in now was just the loft of the old Henry house. They raised part of the roof to make it into a ballroom because they had no meeting room in the tavern.”
In the attractively furnished coffee shop to the right of the main tavern, Mrs. Juanita Godfrey, the manager, served us steaming hot black coffee and sat down to chat with us. Had anyone ever complained about unusual noises or other inexplicable manifestations in the tavern? I asked.
“Some of the employees who work here at night do hear certain sounds they can’t account for,” Mrs. Godfrey replied. “They will hear something and go and look, and there will be nothing there.”
“In what part of the building?”
“All over, even in this area. This is a section of the slave quarters, and it is very old.”
Mrs. Godfrey did not seem too keen on psychic experiences, I felt. To the best of her knowledge, no one had had any unusual experiences in the tavern. “What about the lady who slept here one night?” I inquired.
“You mean Mrs. Milton—yes, she slept here one night.” But Mrs. Godfrey knew nothing of Mrs. Milton’s experiences.
However, Virginia had met the lady, who was connected with the historical preservation effort of the community. “One night when Mrs. Milton was out of town,” Virginia explained, “I slept in her room. At the time she confessed to me that she had heard footsteps frequently, especially on the stairway down.”
Monticello—Thomas Jefferson’s home
“That is the area she slept in, yes,” Mrs. Godfrey confirmed. “She slept in the ladies’ parlor on the first floor.”
“What about yourself, Virginia? Did you hear anything?”
“I heard noises, but the wood sometimes behaves very funny. She, however, said they were definitely footsteps. That was in 1961.”
What had Ingrid unearthed in the ballroom of Michie Tavern? Was it merely the lingering imprint of America’s first waltz, scandalous to the early Americans but innocent in the light of today? Or was it something more—an involvement between Mrs. Walker and the illustrious Thomas Jefferson? My image of the great American had always been that of a man above human frailties. But my eyes were to be opened still further on a most intriguing visit to Monticello, Jefferson’s home.
* 14
A Visit with the Spirited Jefferson
“YOU’RE WELCOME TO VISIT Monticello to continue the parapsychological research which you are conducting relative to the personalities of 1776,” wrote James A. Bear, Jr., of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation, and he arranged for us to
go to the popular tourist attraction after regular hours, to permit Ingrid the peace and tranquility necessary to tune in on the very fragile vibrations that might hang on from the past.
Jefferson, along with Benjamin Franklin, is a widely popular historical figure: a play, a musical, and a musical film have brought him to life, showing him as the shy, dedicated, intellectual architect of the Declaration of Independence. Jefferson, the gentle Virginia farmer, the man who wants to free the slaves but is thwarted in his efforts by other Southerners; Jefferson, the ardent but bashful lover of his wife; Jefferson, the ideal of virtue and American patriotism—these are the images put across by the entertainment media, by countless books, and by the tourist authorities which try to entice visitors to come to Charlottesville and visit Jefferson’s home, Monticello.
Even the German tourist service plugged itself into the Jefferson boom. “This is like a second mother country for me,” Thomas Jefferson is quoted as saying while traveling down the Rhine. “Everything that isn’t English in our country comes from here.” Jefferson compared the German Rhineland to certain portions of Maryland and Pennsylvania and pointed out that the second largest ethnic group in America at the time were Germans. In an article in the German language weekly Aufbau, Jefferson is described as the first prominent American tourist in the Rhineland. His visit took place in April 1788. At the time Jefferson was ambassador to Paris, and the Rhine journey allowed him to study agriculture, customs, and conditions on both sides of the Rhine. Unquestionably, Jefferson, along with Washington, Franklin, and Lincoln, represents one of the pillars of the American edifice.
Virginia Cloud, ever the avid historian of her area, points out that not only did Jefferson and John Adams have a close relationship as friends and political contemporaries but there were certain uncanny “coincidences” between their lives. For instance, Jefferson and Adams died within hours of each other, Jefferson in Virginia and Adams in Massachusetts, on July 4, 1826—exactly fifty years to the day they had both signed the Declaration of Independence. Adams’s last words were, “But Jefferson still lives.” At the time that was no longer true, for Jefferson had died earlier in the day.
Jefferson’s imprint is all over Charlottesville. Not only did the talented “Renaissance man” design his own home, Monticello, but he also designed the Rotunda, the focal point of the University of Virginia. Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe were members of the first governing board of the University, which is now famous for its school of medicine—and which, incidentally, is the leading university in the study of parapsychology, since Dr. Ian Stevenson teaches there.
On our way to Monticello we decided to visit the old Swan Tavern, which had some important links with Jefferson. The tavern is now used as a private club, but the directors graciously allowed us to come in, even the ladies, who are generally not admitted. Nothing in the appointments reminds one of the old tavern, since the place has been extensively remodeled to suit the requirements of the private club. At first we inspected the downstairs and smiled at several elderly gentlemen who hadn’t the slightest idea why we were there. Then we went to the upper story and finally came to rest in a room to the rear of the building. As soon as Ingrid had seated herself in a comfortable chair in a corner, I closed the door and asked her what she felt about this place, of which she had no knowledge.
“I feel that people came here to talk things over in a lighter vein, perhaps over a few drinks.”
“Was there anyone in particular who was outstanding among these people?”
“I keep thinking of Jefferson, and I’m seeing big mugs; most of the men have big mugs in front of them.”
Considering that Ingrid did not know the past of the building as a tavern, this was pretty evidential. I asked her about Jefferson.
“I think he was the figurehead. This matter concerned him greatly, but I don’t think it had anything to do with his own wealth or anything like that.”
“At the time when this happened, was there a warlike action in progress?”
“Yes, I think it was on the outskirts of town. I have the feeling that somebody was trying to reach this place and that they were waiting for somebody, and yet they weren’t really expecting that person.”
Both Horace Burr and Virginia Cloud were visibly excited that Ingrid had put her finger on it, so to speak. Virginia had been championing the cause of the man about whom Ingrid had just spoken. “Virginians are always annoyed to hear about Paul Revere, who was actually an old man with a tired horse that left Revere to walk home,” Virginia said, somewhat acidly, “while Jack Jouett did far more—he saved the lives of Thomas Jefferson and his legislators. Yet, outside of Virginia, few have ever heard of him.”
“Perhaps Jouett didn’t have as good a press agent as Paul Revere had in Longfellow, as you always say, Virginia,” Burr commented. I asked Virginia to sum up the incident that Ingrid had touched on psychically.
“Jack Jouett was a native of Albemarle County and was of French Huguenot origin. His father, Captain John Jouett, owned this tavern.”
“We think there is a chance that he also owned the Cuckoo Tavern in Louisa, forty miles from here,” Burr interjected.
“Jouett had a son named Jack who stood six feet, four inches and weighed over two hundred pounds. He was an expert rider and one of those citizens who signed the oath of allegiance to the Commonwealth of Virginia in 1779.
“It was June 3, 1781, and the government had fled to Charlottesville from the advancing British troops. Most of Virginia was in British hands, and General Cornwallis very much wanted to capture the leaders of the Revolution, especially Thomas Jefferson, who had authored the Declaration of Independence, and Patrick Henry, whose motto, ‘Give me liberty or give me death,’ had so much contributed to the success of the Revolution. In charge of two hundred fifty cavalrymen was Sir Banastre Tarleton. His mission was to get to Charlottesville as quickly as possible to capture the leaders of the uprising. Tarleton was determined to cover the seventy miles’ distance between Cornwallis’ headquarters and Charlottesville in a single twenty-four-hour period, in order to surprise the leaders of the American independence movement.
“In the town of Louisa, forty miles distant from Charlottesville, he and his men stopped into the Cuckoo Tavern for a brief respite. Fate would have it that Jack Jouett was at the tavern at that moment, looking after his father’s business. It was a very hot day for June, and the men were thirsty. Despite Tarleton’s orders, their tongues loosened, and Jack Jouett was able to overhear their destination. Jack decided to outride them and warn Charlottesville. It was about 10 P.M. when he got on his best horse, determined to take shortcuts and side roads, while the British would have to stick to the main road. Fortunately it was a moonlit night; otherwise he might not have made it in the rugged hill country.
“Meanwhile the British were moving ahead too, and around 11 o’clock they came to a halt on a plantation near Louisa. By 2 A.M. they had resumed their forward march. They paused again a few hours later to seize and burn a train of twelve wagons loaded with arms and clothing for the Continental troops in South Carolina. When dawn broke over Charlottesville, Jouett had left the British far behind. Arriving at Monticello, he dashed up to the front entrance to rouse Jefferson; however, Governor Jefferson, who was an early riser, had seen the rider tear up his driveway and met him at the door. Ever the gentleman, Jefferson offered the exhausted messenger a glass of wine before allowing him to proceed to Charlottesville proper, two miles farther on. There he roused the other members of the government, while Jefferson woke his family. Two hours later, when Tarleton came thundering into Charlottesville, the government of Virginia had vanished.”
“That’s quite a story, Virginia,” I said.
“Of course,” Burr added, “Tarleton and his men might have been here even earlier if it hadn’t been for the fact that they first stopped at Castle Hill. Dr. and Mrs. Walker entertained them lavishly and served them a sumptuous breakfast. It was not only sumptuous but also delaying,
and Dr. Walker played the perfect host to the hilt, showing Tarleton about the place despite the British commander’s impatience, even to measuring Tarleton’s orderly on the living-room door jamb. This trooper was the tallest man in the British army and proved to be 6’9 ¼” tall. Due to these and other delaying tactics—the Walkers made Jack Jouett’s ride a complete success. Several members of the legislature who were visiting Dr. Walker at the time were captured, but Jefferson and the bulk of the legislature, which had just begun to convene that morning, got away.
After Thomas Jefferson had taken refuge at the house of Mr. Cole, where he was not likely to be found, Jouett went to his room at his father’s tavern, the very house we were in. He had well deserved his rest. Among those who were hiding from British arrest was Patrick Henry. He arrived at a certain farmhouse and identified himself by saying, “I’m Patrick Henry.” But the farmer’s wife replied, “Oh, you couldn’t be, because my husband is out there fighting, and Patrick Henry would be out there too.” Henry managed to convince the farmer’s wife that his life depended on his hiding in her house, and finally she understood. But it was toward the end of the Revolutionary War and the British knew very well that they had for all intents and purposes been beaten. Consequently, shortly afterward, Cornwallis suggested to the Virginia legislators that they return to Charlottesville to resume their offices.
It was time to proceed to Monticello; the afternoon sun was setting, and we would be arriving just after the last tourists had left. Monticello, which every child knows from its representation on the American five-cent piece, is probably one of the finest examples of American architecture, designed by Jefferson himself, who lies buried there in the family graveyerd. It stands on a hill looking down in to the valley of Charlottesville. Carefully landscaped grounds surround the house. Inside, the house is laid out in classical proportions. From the entrance hall with its famous clock, also designed by Jefferson, one enters a large, round room, the heart of the house. On both sides of this central area are rectangular rooms. To the left is a corner room, used as a study and library from where Jefferson, frequently in the morning before anyone else was up, used to look out on the rolling hills of Virginia. Adjacent to it is a very small bedroom, almost a bunk. Thus, the entire west wing of the building is a self-contained apartment in which Jefferson could be active without interfering with the rest of his family. In the other side of the round central room is a large dining room leading to a terrace which, in turn, continues into an open walk with a magnificent view of the hillside. The furniture is Jefferson’s own, as are the silver and china, some of it returned to Monticello by history-conscious citizens of the area who had previously purchased it.