Other Voices, Other Towns: The Traveler's Story. Caleb Pirtle III
follow. Storms never reach where he has touched.
Thelma Allen did not tempt fate or take any chances. The Gray Man had come to her doorway, and, two weeks later, so did Hurricane Hazel. It blistered the Grand Strand with raw power and fury. Homes were like matchsticks broken by the snap of the winds, and the isle was left with nothing to do but grieve, bury its dead, pick up the pieces, and build again.
Not all who left would return. Not all who left had anything waiting for them on the Strand. The storm took it all.
Well, not all, perhaps.
Thelma Allen said, “After the storm, we came back. It looked as though someone had taken a giant knife and sliced the beach in half. There had been thirty-one homes on the island. It spared two. One was mine.”
The Allens immediately saw that their steps and chimney had been washed away. But as they climbed back into the home, it dawned on them slowly that nothing had been disturbed. A vase of sea oats was still sitting untouched on the corner table.
A friend’s house sat eighteen feet away, and Thelma Allen recalled, “They never found enough of it to put into a bushel basket.”
The friend knew about the Gray Man. The friend had never seen the Gray Man. Thelma Allen had. He walked to her home and made no footprints on the sand when he left. Above her the sky had turned a pale shade of blue.
The sands were as white as the whitecaps on the waves. Even the Atlantic had become a ragged and ruffled concoction of indigo and green. A slender ray of sun topped the beach, and the golden tops of sea oats struggled to rise again from the dunes.
Thelma Allen looked for the gray.
She saw none.
The lone sentry of the Carolina coast had faded back into the mist, and the mist was lost at sea. She knew he would come again. He always did.
She thought about all of those around her who had suffered greatly and wondered why the Gray Man had stood in her doorway and no other.
And would he remember her when the deadly storms rose again?
Or would he leave her at the mercy of the winds.
The angry whitecaps of the Atlantic come crashing aboard the solitary beaches of the Carolinas.
Attorney for Mister Drum
Somewhere on the outskirts of
Frankfort, Kentucky
Pop: 27,741
The Scene: A bright array of seasonal color focuses on the time of day as the often famous and sometimes notorious Floral Clock stands like an elegant centerpiece to Kentucky’s seat of government. The clock, comprised mostly of Joseph’s Coat and begonias, is not wedged into the hillside. It is suspended over a pool of water and occupies a planter that weighs a hundred short tons.
The Sights: The Floral Clock has become the face of the state capitol grounds, but it has had its share of ridicule. When Governor Bert Combs had the clock built in 1961, his political opponent, Happy Chandler, said, “Well, they don’t say it’s half past two in Frankfort anymore. They say it’s two petunias past the jimson weed.” The flowers are grown in a state-owned greenhouse near the capitol.
The design of the governor’s mansion, which occupies a bluff overlooking the Kentucky River, reflects an eclectic French neo-classicism style of architecture and was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s summer home “Petit Trianon” near Versailles. The mansion represents Kentucky’s idea of the post Civil War’s gilded age of “conspicuous consumption.” On the grand tour are the ballroom, reception room, formal salon, and state dining room.
The Setting: The Lindsey-Vest home, presently a state meeting house, is located on the historic “Corner of Celebrities,” an aristocratic neighborhood of Frankfort’s oldest homes – mostly Federal style and dating between 1800 and 1821. The house served as the residence of attorney George Graham Vest, who was defense counsel in one of the most remembered and celebrated trials ever held in a Kentucky courtroom.
The Story: George Graham Vest and adversity were no strangers to each other. They had met before and would meet again, but never in a trial like this one was destined to be. Vest had fought a few wars before, but now he was sitting in the dim light of a dark room and wondering how in God’s great name he would be able to save the reputation of his client.
It was a case unlike any he had ever witnessed before, the kind he might never see again. A client named Drum had placed his fragile and precarious reputation in the able hands of George Vest.
The attorney closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. A dull ache kept boring into the back of his head. He knew that he had neither statutes nor precedence on his side, and the heavy odds against him were growing stronger with each passing hour.
He would not formulate his case until he walked into the courtroom.
By then, it might be too late.
George Graham Vest was a lifelong politician who had served as a senator in the Confederate Congress and as U.S. Senator when the storm clouds of war finally faded from the landscape. He was a dashing and distinguished figure in Kentucky, and, as an attorney, he handled only the cases of utmost importance grave interest to the state.
His client was a farm dog, Old Drum that had been shot dead by Leonides Hornsby, allegedly for killing sheep. Couldn’t prove it. Had his suspicions. Had a rifle. Took it down. Took a shot.
Did not regret it. Did not deny it.
Old Drum’s owner, Charles Burden, without hesitation, retained George Graham Vest as counsel in his suit for damages. Old Drum had been good dog. A faithful dog. A constant companion. A great loss.
A sense of anger worked its way through Leonides Hornsby. He bowed his back, straightened his shoulders, and prepared for war. If Burden wanted to fight, Hornsby was ready to roll up his sleeves, spit on his fists, and meet Old Drum’s owner any place at any time. In a back alley, on main street, or in a courtroom. They could settle their dispute with fists, pistols, long knives, or log chains. It did not make him any difference. A bitter Leonides Hornsby promptly hired the renowned and dignified Francis M. Cockrell, a sitting United States Senator, to defend him.
All of Kentucky sat back to watch the two statesmen duel with a slam-bang, no-holds-barred whirlwind of words and emotions before a scowling, black-robed referee who happened to look a lot like a judge.
Senator Cockrell was not concerned, which meant that Leonides Hornsby was not worried either. He was competent. He was efficient. He knew the facts. And he carefully placed them before the court in a convincing manner.
He had all of the facts on his side, he said. His client owned a farm. He raised sheep. A dog trespassed on Hornsby’s land. Sheep died. Profits were lost. The dog needed killing. His client obliged. His client only did what other self-respecting farmers would do when facing the sudden demise of their livelihood by a marauding dog. The shooting was entirely justifiable. He nodded to the judge, walked stiffly to his chair, and sat down.
All eyes turned to George Graham Vest.
He made no effort to deny any of the facts that his opponent had presented the court. He called no witnesses. He cited no legal precedents. He presented no legal argument. He did not rant. Or rave. George Graham Vest simply stood before the jury and – with a low, calm voice – offered a quiet, gentle eulogy to a dog. He said:
“Gentlemen of the Jury, the best friend a man has in this world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or