Going to the back door he called in a loud voice for his coachman, and ordered his carriage. “I am going” said he, “to Grove Hill for a week and from there to Lexington with my whole family, and don’t know when I shall be at home again.”
“It is very inconvenient,” said he to his wife, “but I must leave home.”
Hurrying up the carriage, and the family they were soon off on their unexpected trip.
They stayed at Grove Hill, seven miles off, a week, during which time Mr. B. every morning mounted his horse and rode timidly around the outskirts of his own plantation, peeping over the hills at his house, but afraid to venture nearer, feeling assured it was occupied by the objectionable party. He would not even make enquiries of his negroes whom he met, as to the state and condition of things in his house.
Concluding to pursue his journey to Lexington and half way there, he met a young nephew of Mr. R.’s, who happened to know all about the quiz, and immediately suspecting the reason of Mr. B.’s exile from home enquired where he was going, how long he had been from home, &c. Soon guessing the truth and thinking the “joke had been carried far enough,” he told the old gentleman he need not travel any further for it was all a quiz of his uncle’s, and there was no one at his house. Thereupon, Mr. B. greatly relieved, turned back and went his way home rejoicing, but “determined to pay R.” he said, “for such a practical joke, which had exiled him from home and given him such trouble.” This caused many a good laugh whenever it was told, throughout the neighborhood.
The two estates of which I am writing, were well named—Greenfield, for the fields and meadows were of the freshest green, and with majestic hills around and the fine cattle and horses grazing upon them, formed a noble landscape.
This land had descended in the same family since the Indian camp fires ceased to burn there, and the same forests were still untouched, where once stood the Indian’s wigwams.
In this connection, I am reminded of a tradition in the Greenfield family, which showed the heroism of a Virginia boy:
The first white proprietor of this place, the great grandfather of the present owners, had also a large estate in Montgomery county, called Smithfield, where his family lived, and where was a fort for the protection of the whites, when attacked by the Indians.
Once, while the owner was at his Greenfield place, the Indians surrounded Smithfield, when the white women and children took refuge in the fort, and the men prepared for battle. They wanted the proprietor of Smithfield to help fight and take command, for he was a brave man, but could not spare a man to carry him the news. So they concluded to send one of his young sons, a lad thirteen years old, who did not hesitate but mounting a fleet horse set off after dark and rode all night through dense forests filled with hostile Indians, reaching Greenfield, a distance of forty miles next morning. He soon returned with his father, and the Indians were repulsed. And I always thought that boy was courageous enough for his name to live in history.[3]