Captivity Narrative

In my last, I mentioned the genre of the captivity narrative, so I thought I'd provide an example. Below is the opening of The Narrative of the Captivity and the Restorationof Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, which was published in 1682 and probably sold more copies than all other books published in early America (except for the Holy Bible and Michael Wigglesworth's long poem The Day of Doom). It was written, obviously, by Mary Rowlandson (c. 1636-1711), wife of a Puritan minister in Lancaster, Massachusetts, who was captured by the Wampanoag tribe during what was known as King Philip's War. She was captive for eleven weeks and five days, during which time she traveled with the Wampanoag through a series of what she called "removes"--moving from one place to another.

On the tenth of February 1675, came the Indians with great numbers upon Lancaster: their first coming was about sunrising; hearing the noise of some guns, we looked out; several houses were burning, and the smoke ascending to heaven. There were five persons taken in one house; the father, and the mother and a sucking child, they knocked on the head; the other two they took and carried away alive. There were two others, who being out of their garrison upon some occasion were set upon; one was knocked on the head, the other escaped; another there was who running along was shot and wounded, and fell down; he begged of them his life, promising them money (as they told me) but they would not hearken to him but knocked him in head, and stripped him naked, and split open his bowels. Another, seeing many of the Indians about his barn, ventured and went out, but was quickly shot down. There were three others belonging to the same garrison who were killed; the Indians getting up upon the roof of the barn, had advantage to shoot down upon them over their fortification. Thus these murderous wretches went on, burning, and destroying before them.

At length they came and beset our own house, and quickly it was the dolefulest day that ever mine eyes saw. The house stood upon the edge of a hill; some of the Indians got behind the hill, others into the barn, and others behind anything that could shelter them; from all which places they shot against the house, so that the bullets seemed to fly like hail; and quickly they wounded one man among us, then another, and then a third. About two hours (according to my observation, in that amazing time) they had been about the house before they prevailed to fire it (which they did with flax and hemp, which they brought out of the barn, and there being no defense about the house, only two flankers at two opposite corners and one of them not finished); they fired it once and one ventured out and quenched it, but they quickly fired it again, and that took. Now is the dreadful hour come, that I have often heard of (in time of war, as it was the case of others), but now mine eyes see it. Some in our house were fighting for their lives, others wallowing in their blood, the house on fire over our heads, and the bloody heathen ready to knock us on the head, if we stirred out. Now might we hear mothers and children crying out for themselves, and one another, "Lord, what shall we do?" Then I took my children (and one of my sisters', hers) to go forth and leave the house: but as soon as we came to the door and appeared, the Indians shot so thick that the bullets rattled against the house, as if one had taken an handful of stones and threw them, so that we were fain to give back. We had six stout dogs belonging to our garrison, but none of them would stir, though another time, if any Indian had come to the door, they were ready to fly upon him and tear him down. The Lord hereby would make us the more acknowledge His hand, and to see that our help is always in Him. But out we must go, the fire increasing, and coming along behind us, roaring, and the Indians gaping before us with their guns, spears, and hatchets to devour us. No sooner were we out of the house, but my brother-in-law (being before wounded, in defending the house, in or near the throat) fell down dead, whereat the Indians scornfully shouted, and hallowed, and were presently upon him, stripping off his clothes, the bullets flying thick, one went through my side, and the same (as would seem) through the bowels and hand of my dear child in my arms. One of my elder sisters' children, named William, had then his leg broken, which the Indians perceiving, they knocked him on [his] head. Thus were we butchered by those merciless heathen, standing amazed, with the blood running down to our heels. My eldest sister being yet in the house, and seeing those woeful sights, the infidels hauling mothers one way, and children another, and some wallowing in their blood: and her elder son telling her that her son William was dead, and myself was wounded, she said, "And Lord, let me die with them," which was no sooner said, but she was struck with a bullet, and fell down dead over the threshold. I hope she is reaping the fruit of her good labors, being faithful to the service of God in her place. In her younger years she lay under much trouble upon spiritual accounts, till it pleased God to make that precious scripture take hold of her heart, "And he said unto me, my Grace is sufficient for thee" (2 Corinthians 12.9). More than twenty years after, I have heard her tell how sweet and comfortable that place was to her. But to return: the Indians laid hold of us, pulling me one way, and the children another, and said, "Come go along with us"; I told them they would kill me: they answered, if I were willing to go along with them, they would not hurt me.

Oh the doleful sight that now was to behold at this house! "Come, behold the works of the Lord, what desolations he has made in the earth." Of thirty-seven persons who were in this one house, none escaped either present death, or a bitter captivity, save only one, who might say as he, "And I only am escaped alone to tell the News" (Job 1.15). There were twelve killed, some shot, some stabbed with their spears, some knocked down with their hatchets. When we are in prosperity, Oh the little that we think of such dreadful sights, and to see our dear friends, and relations lie bleeding out their heart-blood upon the ground. There was one who was chopped into the head with a hatchet, and stripped naked, and yet was crawling up and down. It is a solemn sight to see so many Christians lying in their blood, some here, and some there, like a company of sheep torn by wolves, all of them stripped naked by a company of hell-hounds, roaring, singing, ranting, and insulting, as if they would have torn our very hearts out; yet the Lord by His almighty power preserved a number of us from death, for there were twenty-four of us taken alive and carried captive.

I had often before this said that if the Indians should come, I should choose rather to be killed by them than taken alive, but when it came to the trial my mind changed; their glittering weapons so daunted my spirit, that I chose rather to go along with those (as I may say) ravenous beasts, than that moment to end my days; and that I may the better declare what happened to me during that grievous captivity, I shall particularly speak of the several removes we had up and down the wilderness.

Historical Marker

This historical marker seen on Monday, 14 May, at the Arcadia exit on I-81 in Virginia, the exit where Wattstull Inn sits up on the hill east of the Interstate:

Cartmill's Gap

This gap, just west, is named for Henry Cartmill who acquired land nearby on Purgatory Creek. During the French and Indian War (1754-1763), conflicts between Indians and settlers increased in this area. In 1757, Indians laid waste to several neaby farmsteads, including the Robert Renick settlement a few miles north near present-day Natural Bridge. Renick was killed, while his wife and children (William, Robert, Thomas, Joshua, and Betsy) were taken captive. A neighbor, Hannah Dennis, also was made prisoner; Joseph Dennis, her husband, and their child were among those killed. The Indians escaped south through Cartmill's Gap.

Lots of interesting stuff in this, not the least of which is Purgatory Creek! That sounds like it could be the title of a great little historical novel. Captivity such as that experienced by those taken prisoner in the story above was fairly common in 18th- and 19th-century America. The captivity narrative--in which a captive wrote his or her story or told it to somebody who wrote it--became a popular literary genre unto itself.

Time Wounds All Heels

I've been reading Raymond Chandler's hard-boiled detective novel The Big Sleep. In that seedy underworld culture, a "heel" is a bad guy, somebody who will look out for himself without consideration of anybody else. He's tough and callous and low (as in mean)--like a heel. This translates into the world of old school professional wrestling, as it developed during the time of Chandler's writing career, where the good guys were known as "faces"--or "baby faces"--and the bad guys--the roughians to whom rules were meaningless--were known as heels. (More and more I believe that wrestling--from Jacob wrestling with God to today's farcical television melodrama--is the perfect metaphor for our lives.)

So, I've taken the old hope that time heals all wounds and twisted it a bit to come up with the idea that time wounds all heels, which is to say that all the bad guys will get theirs in the end. I don't know if Hendersonville's pissedoffredneckwoman is a heel or not, but if she is, she'll get hers. Maybe I'm a heel. If I am, I'll get mine.

I guess the key ingredient in all of this is time. Time takes care of everything. It rights most wrongs--those capable of being righted, at least--and levels each and all and everything. This is probably one reason why we're so unfortunately obsessed with time.

Last night, in the timeless darkness of my old room at Mom's house, I tossed and turned, dreaming those kinds of dreams that often follow a day like I had yesterday, dreams that are disjointed, disconnected, off-center, troubling in unidentifiable ways. I remember the edge of a precipice. I remember flat tires on the van of friends currently cruising to Alaska and back. I remember something about a police officer I know who was supposed to be teaching a children's class on Speaking of Faith. This latter element, which never progressed beyond the idea, probably cycled through my dreams in some connection with the Captain Shrimp, who wrote my ticket yesterday. (A heel in early America--British bad boy Thomas Morton--referred to Pilgrim military leader Miles Standish as Captain Shrimp, because he was short and had a ruddy complexion.)

This morning I got up long after sunrise and went out to walk four miles. The long night and its weird dreams and rest, the long walk and its music and sights and exertion have done me much good. But what I think is really behind it all is time.

By the way, September's class reunion is still homeless. Maybe I'll work on that next week.

An Afternoon in Hendersonville, NC

I had a good day planned, but as is said, "The best laid plans of mice and men. . . ."

My son is past due for getting his learner permit, and my 30th high school reunion is looming without a venue for the meeting. So, I had a plan that would move both of these things along. I needed a replacement birth certificate for my young man, but because he was born in Henderson County, North Carolina, getting said document required a trip to the county court house in Hendersonville. After that, I thought, I'll go by Madison High School, from which I graduated in 1977, and see what I can set up for September. It's my weekend at Mom's in North Carolina anyway, so all this seemed doable.

Philosophical Pause: When something bad happens to you, do you ever think of the decisions you made during the day that allowed you to be--or forced you to be--in the exact place and at the exact time where and when the bad thing happened? I've been thinking about this all afternoon. As I was driving over the TN/NC mountains this morning, I thought that I could swing by Madison High School first, maybe see if I could have lunch with my cousin who teaches history there, and then go on down to Hendersonville in the afternoon. I decided against it, not wanting to be caught in the afternoon traffic that made Asheville a place I was glad to move away from. So I went on to Hendersonville, thinking that I'd go to the court house and then get some lunch before heading back to MHS. Then again, I was already hungry. Coming off the ramp at the Hendersonville exit, I got caught in the wrong lane and forced to turn into this little shopping center. I saw a Burger King on up the road, so I thought I'd just swing through the shopping center's parking lot, breeze through BK's drive-thru and then run on to the court house. Then in the shopping center I saw a chinese buffet, and the lot was full of cars. Must be good, I thought. I checked the time and decided to eat there. The place was quite good, and after a good meal I was back on the road and headed for the court house, still with plenty of time to do all I'd planned to do.

And then all this brought me to the moment when something bad happened.

I was a couple of blocks away from my left-hand turn onto Hendersonville's Main Street, and I was one lane away from the one I needed to make that left. I checked my side mirror and saw that I had three or four car-lengths of space to make my move. I turned on my turn signal, looking in the rearview mirror at the same time. I saw a gold PT Cruiser making the same move to the left. Figuring that we would just move into the left lane together, I made the fatal mistake of not checking my side mirror one more time and thus of not noticing that the PT Cruiser was apparently gunning it into the lane and trying to go around me. We weren't going fast, maybe 20 or 25 mph, so I didn't feel any sort of impact. The back right side of my CRV simply raised slightly and shook slightly. Then the PT Cruiser's horn was blaring at me. I quickly figured what had happened.

A traffic light stopped us, and I saw an older woman stand up quickly out of the Cruiser. She stomped up to my door, and I rolled down my window as she came.

"You hit me," this pissedoffredneckwoman said.

"I had on my turn signal," I said.

"I don't care what you had on," the pissedoffredneckwoman said.

Not feeling it was anything to block traffic over, I pulled made my left-hand turn at the light and found a pullover on Main Street big enough to accomodate both our vehicles. I got out and looked at my left rear bumper. Nothing. I looked at her right front bumper, and on top of it was a slight scrape, not more than a smudge really.

"I'm calling the police," the pissedoffredneckwoman said.

"All right," I said and got back in my car to wait.

Now, I'd always heard that if anybody hits another driver from behind, it is the fault of the driver in the rear, especially if the turn signal is used properly, which mine was.

To my surprise, the police officer told me that I was at fault, that the pissedoffredneckwoman "controlled the lane." I didn't know how to argue this. I'd never heard this idea before. (It was confirmed as a real thing to me later by a claim agent at my insurance company.) All I could think of was the charging foul in basketball, when the ref has to decide if the player who "drew" the charge had established a position before being plowed into by the player committing the foul. I doubted that the pissedoffredneckwoman had really established "control" of the lane, but she was from Hendersonville and I was from Tennessee. She was the home team, and I was the visiting team. No ref was looking, so the call went her way. So the collision was judged my fault. The traffic violation was charged at $25, and court costs were added to the tune of $110, making the subtotal of my afternoon $135. Of course, the probably increase in insurance premiums will make more of a mess.

And then the little things that follow on the heels of such an event:

• I decided I just get some cash from the NC State Employees Credit Union and pay today's fees off. From the nice women who got my son's birth certificate for me, I learned that a branch of the SECU was only a few blocks away. Although the afternoon was hot, I decided I needed a walk. After making the hike, I walked up to the 24-hour teller to be greeted by a little screen reading "Temporarily Out of Service."
• A little over nine miles south of Asheville, on I-26, traffic came to the stop I'd been dreading, so I exchanged the congestion of the Interstate for the more interesting congestion of Hendersonville Road.
• In Biltmore, I thought of something that would make me feel better and took a sudden right turn (no lane changes necessary) and wound my way along the Swannanoa River Road to Cold Stone Creamery.
• I was listening to this oldie rock station and realized that the remote broadcast the DJ kept cutting to was coming from the SunCom location right beside the Cold Stone Creamery. What's more, the voice on the radio was that of Chuck Finley, who had been a big supporter of Cody band music while working at another station in the early '90s. I started to go speak to him, but although the ice cream had made me feel better, it hadn't really improved my mood. So I took a quick look, saw that Chuck was involved in talking with somebody else, got in my CRV and left.

Now I'm at Zuma Coffee in Marshall. I didn't have coffee, but I made another attempt to feel better with an original grape Nehi. Like the ice cream, it helped some

But now that I've gotten the story out there--and off my back--I find that writing is what really helps!

Quotes

This is Jimmy Carter's extemporaneous definition of fundamentalism, from a recent interview on Speaking of Faith:

Fundamentalism is a characteristic of dominant males who, first of all, subjugate women and derogate women's rights. Secondly, an aspect of their fundamentalism is that they assume that they have a rare or unique relationship with God Almighty, whatever god they define, and their beliefs, therefore, are ordained by God. And since their beliefs are God's beliefs, they are infallible. They cannot make a mistake or acknowledge a mistake. Anyone who disagrees with them, by definition, is wrong because 'the disagreement is with me and with God.' And being wrong, you are inferior and, in extreme cases, you are considered to be subhuman. And so that's where violence erupts and condemnation erupts and value of a human life within a person who disagrees with you has little or no value. And that's where the violence comes out, and that's where the unnecessary war comes out, and that's where what we define as terrorism comes out.

This is from the title song of Bruce Hornsby's Halcyon Days:

Some rise by wrong,

and some by virtue fall;

and those in judgment could be guiltiest of all.

Wash it all away!

I'd love to bring you--

on a silver tray--

some halcyon days.

More later.

Foreign Travel

Many have heard the phrase "publish or perish." It's the notion in fields such as mine that in order to prove yourself worthy of keeping your job, you must do research and publish your findings. Fortunately, at the institution where I work, the greater focus is on teaching, so the "publish or perish" model isn't as important as it is at other places. I've written and published a book, some literary articles and some short stories, and this helped get me tenured and promoted to associate professor. An acquaintance of mine just lost her position at Yale, probably because she didn't publish enough as expected; a more established scholar with higher firepower was awarded her job. I'm not in that situation and glad of it, but I have one further level of promotion to go--promotion to what we call "full" professor. So I continue to research and struggle to write in an attempt to make my case for the next promotion undeniable.

Many of my colleagues are scholars of British literature, and when they travel for research, they find themselves in London or Stratfor-upon-Avon. They might go to Scotland--somewhere I've always wanted to go--or Ireland. I don't know many scholars of other literatures, but I can imagine traveling to places such as Paris or Rome or Istanbul or Moscow, to India or Japan or Nigeria, to Cuba or Colombia or New Zealand. Yes, books have been written--and great authors have lived--in all of these places.

I chose to be an Americanist, an early Americanist at that. So my fields for scholarly digging are not so exotic. I could find myself in Philadelphia or New York or Boston. I might end up in Maine or Charleston or New Orleans, although these are less likely. My major research trip so far in my career--way back when I was researching the dissertation that became my book--took me to Kent State University in Ohio, for cryin' out loud!

Now I'm working on a new project, and I'm just in the stage of seeing if it leads anywhere. So far, it has led me to Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey, which is where I am now. I'm spending my days in a big lower-level room in the Alexander Library--in Special Collections and University Archives--going through folders containing manuscripts of family papers that are at least two hundred years old. And I'm fighting construction traffice between Rutgers and the Days Hotel where I'm staying.

After yesterday's research, I went out to eat, and on a whim stopped in this little Italian place run by a very Italian family. I bought two huge slices of pizza--one steak and cheese, one chicken marsala and both pretty bland. I ordered a Diet Coke, which was fairly flat. To get something enlivening out of the meal, I set the soda aside and asked for a beer. That helped.

My destination for the evening was the theaters at Brunswick Square Mall, where I saw the 6:55 showing of Hot Fuzz, a new British comedy spoofing cop movies and British countryside mysteries. It was great!

The most magical moments of the evening came just after I left the theater. I decided to drive south on Highway 18 to find a Wal-Mart. I'd forgotten to pack underwear, and I needed some cash back as well. Believe it or not, I couldn't find a Wal-Mart! But I started to notice street signs mentioning Matawan and Freehold, and I suddenly realized--or remembered--that I was in Springsteen country. To be so close to a place so dear to one of my idols was a breathless sort of feeling. Heck, I might have been within a few miles of The Boss himself!

So, I didn't find a Wal-Mart, but I'd passed a K-Mart between the hotel and the theaters, so I backtracked to there. When I walked into this huge cavernous space, the sound system was playing Springsteen's version of his "Pink Cadillac." I was walking back from the underwear racks to the front of the store when I looked to my right, and there, at the end of a long aisle, in the large appliances between washers and dryers, a forty-something Oriental man--the salesman for that area, who wore white shirt and tie, gray dress slacks and his thick black hair spiked--was up on his toes and doing a slow twist to "Pink Cadillac." A moment of relief and release from boredom--both his and mine, I guess.

An Afternoon in Washington, DC

DC: Day Two

It's night again. The saxophone was playing a little while ago, but it's gone now. I hear brakes shrieking--not the tires, the worn out brakes--and sirens and voices and crazy yelling. The city hums constantly and now and then break out into a scream.

I went out in the morning but only to go to FedEx/Kinko's, where I took care of some business that needed taking care of. Then I grabbed a bagel and cream cheese at a restaurant on E Street and came back to the Hotel Harrington. Believe it or not, I used up most of the day in the room, working on a project I haven't had time to work on this spring. I took a break for lunch and went to this little place that is sort of like Barberitos (but not as good, of course).

Along about 5:00, we headed out to meet a friend of mine who lives here. I was to take the Metro to Pentagon City and meet him when he came out of work. Along the way to the Metro station, I stopped at a local theatre and bought a ticket for tomorrow night's performance of Titus Andronicus, one of Shakespeare's first plays. After I met my friend, we just hung out at his place for awhile, catching up on the last couple of years. Then we headed out for a restaurant in Old Town(e) Alexandria, where I had a great flounder dish and a beer.

I'm relaxed, more or less.

Tomorrow I have more work to do, but I think I'll make sure that I get out to see at least some of the DC sights. All this history and architectural wonder would be more interesting if I were sharing it with my family. In the evening I'll go see the play and then get ready for departure on Thursday morning.

The Hotel Harrington

On one side, noises in the hall--people walking, running up and down; knocking on doors; talking and calling out names. On the other side, street noise from the intersection of 11th and E, from vehicles small and large, a saxophone echoing up five stories to my window. The Hotel Harrington's room 528 is the usual--bed and bath, TV, tiny desk, shallow closet, small refrigerator with my one bottle of water in it.

I'm in Washington, DC, having driven up from Johnson City today with a cargo of ETSU's University Honors Scholars. Every year the sophomores in the program are given this trip right after the spring semester is finished, and this is my second year to be one of their drivers. We'll stay until Thursday with no agenda whatsoever and then return home.

(I'm watching 24, and in a commercial break a brief news update just reminded me that the Queen of England is in town. And, probably to nobody's surprise, Bush has apparently said something stupid to her.)

I have a project that I'm working on for the Charles Brockden Brown Society, so I'll spend a good bit of my time here working on that. Otherwise, I plan to eat, drink and be merry.

I'll keep you posted.