The subject of my long obsession, research, study, frustrations, and wondering had come to see me. He'd lived two centuries earlier two blocks from where we sat in the George Stonebreaker house, at the corner of Maple and Lincoln Streets (Mud and Spring Streets in his day) in Fayetteville, Tennessee.
"You looked quite odd prowling around Rose Hill Cemetery yesterday. Matter of fact, you've done that several times now, that I recollect…mornings the first few visits and yesterday in the autumn sunshine. Different perspectives, I suppose," he said as he offered a whimsical smile. His eyes changed then, seeming to find someplace in space that reflected melancholy.
***
My pilgrimage with George Washington Jones (1806-84) in the fall of 2004 was a journey to another time-his nineteenth century world, his experiences, and the people who filled his living. This is the chronicle of that adventure.
***
He sat as if waiting for me to talk. "Tell me about Archibald Yell and the knife, Mr. Jones. Please," I said filling the silence. That impertinent question about him and another fellow in Fayetteville, "the 1830 Courthouse incident", was the only thing that emerged from my disorientation. There were countless insightful and more critical inquiries I could have made of this traveler from one hundred fifty years past.
Sitting before me was a man, or rather a phantom, who in life had walked with giants in the halls of Congress: Webster, Clay, Calhoun, Douglas, Lincoln, Davis, Houston, Benton, and countless others. He'd been a disciple of the great Andrew Jackson, an antagonist of the wily James K. Polk, and life long friend and ally of the ill favored Andrew Johnson. Three illustrious Tennesseans who had been residents of the White House and chief magistrates of the emerging American republic had shared his life.
Here was an informant from the nineteenth century. He could share an unmatched perspective of the building up, the cruel destruction, and the troubled rebuilding of a nation.
George Washington Jones-or his spirit-had come to me, and I began what could be a most amazing and wonderful expedition with an inane, embarrassing question. I'd sought the details of an angry confrontation, a footnote in a life that had experienced remarkable times and people. I was stupid to ask about the knife. Stupid.
He stared at the worn, dark, oil-soaked floor for a moment or so after I'd gone silent as I recognized the folly of my first "interview" question. He then started to shake his head slowly, chuckling to himself. He lifted his head, his eyes connecting with mine. There was a look-a mixture of disappointment and humor.
"Oh, the famous book and knife altercation, remarkable! Darnation over fifty years in public life from courthouse and statehouse to two nations' capitals-fifteen elections from 1832 to 1870, never defeated-rise from an apprentice saddler to lawyer, and politician to bank president and you want to know about a trivial event, one experience of no significance." He hesitated, his frustration obvious. Then he nodded his head. He'd come to a decision. A twinkle shone in his pale-blue eyes.