THE DESERTED HOUSE

Dr. James H Turnock
~January 28, 1962

            With an entire afternoon at my disposal before boarding the night sleeper to New York, I decided to revisit the old Weatherby home.  I rented a carriage and, an hour later, having told the driver to wait, I stood at the front entrance to the estate.

            My eyes saw a bleak, cheerless scene.  The old stately mansion, formerly vibrant and gay, stood empty and uninviting.  The lower windows were all boarded up and the upper windows broken and shattered.  No smoke emanated from the many chimneys and the once-magnificent grounds were covered with weeds.  A sign, “Private – Keep Out”, which had apparently once stretched between the massive stone pillars had fallen to the ground as if even it no longer cared.  But my mind and heart visualized a different scene in the almost –forgotten past.

           

* * *

 

            September of 1860.  After an almost perfect summer, I was about to return to West Point for my final year.   We were to have dinner with the Weatherbys.  My parents and sisters would follow later in our carriage but, impatient to see Miss Grace Weatherby, I had preceded them on horseback.

            The wrought-iron gate was invitingly open as always.  I noticed wisps of smoke coming out of the chimnets indicating the cheerful fires within.  The sunny, Indian Summer day was not very cold; Mrs. Weatherby probably just wanted to take the chill off.

            As my horse trotted up the driveway, I looked up at the tower which proudly overlooked the sea.  Here, as a boy, I had spent many happy hours with Grace’s brothers dreaming about pirates and smugglers and mentally taking part in great sea battles.  Occasionally, we would see a huge square-rigged ship sail by on the start of a long journey across the Atlantic.  Then we would talk about other lands: the glorious history of Europe, the pomp and military traditions of England, and the mysteries of the East.  Someday we would depart on such a voyage.

            I rode up under the marquee and threw my reins to a small boy.  Moses, the dignified family butler, met me at the huge oak door.  Miss Grace was not yet downstairs.  Would I care to join the other gentlemen on the porch in a glass of sherry.

            On the porch the conversation all concerned the presidential campaign and the possibility of war.  Senator Weatherby was listened to with great respect because of his long, intimate association with Washington affairs.  There would be no war.  Senator Douglas would be the next President, easily defeating that uncouth upstart Lincoln, and he would quickly reach agreement with the South on the issues that threatened to divide the country.  It was reassuring to listen to this opinion from this wise man.

            That evening, after dinner, Grace and I were able to slip away from the others for a short time.  As we walked down by the seashore discussing our plans for the future, we could hear the sounds of laughter and the low singing from the servant’s quarters behind the house.  We watched the ocean grow grim and cold as the sun sank in the trees behind us.

            At dusk, as I rode through the gate, I turned and waved a last goodbye to the Weatherby family gathered on the porch, unaware of the grim days that lay before us all.

 

            * * *     

 

It was all so long ago, I thought, as I wiped away a tear.  I had been awarded a commission and the command of a cavalry company even before my graduation.  The events of four years of war had left me discouraged and unhappy.  While I was away, Grace had passed from pneumonia.  Bother of the Weatherby brothers had been killed in action, the Senator died after a fall from his horse, and his wife, heartbroken, soon followed him.  Their once-proud, gay mansion, unoccupied these many years, was becoming a ruin.  I thought of all this as I gazed at the desolate scene.  I decided to go no further, turned, and with a heavy heart walked by to my carriage.