Cracks in the Stone: The Legend of Fotheringay

by Crystal Nash

Director and Archivist

Lewis County Public Library and Archives

As Halloween approaches, tales of ghostly apparitions and eerie legends resurface, capturing the imaginations of thrill-seekers and history buffs alike. One such spine-tingling story hails from Fotheringay, a two-story, Federal-style plantation house nestled in the heart of Virginia, linked to none other than William Clark of Lewis and Clark fame. This tale was unearthed during a late-night gathering in the hotel lobby during the Lewis and Clark Trail Alliance's meeting in Charlottesville, VA, and is courtesy of Peyton "Bud" Clark, a direct descendant of William Clark.

Bud's storytelling began with an unusual show-and-tell. He revealed a small glass case containing remnants from Fotheringay-pieces of the original plaster, complete with horse hairs used to improve the performance and longevity of the wall preparation, and antique "L"-shaped brad nails used for finishing work. Bud had had the opportunity to visit the house while it was undergoing extensive renovations. The owner allowed him to pick up the items-rubbish to the owner, but treasured family mementos to Bud. As the light on the table shined eerily on his face, Bud leaned in closer, ready to share a tale that would send shivers down our spines: the Legend of Fotheringay.

Built around 1796, the plantation was home to George Hancock, William Clark's father-in-law, a farmer, lawyer, and politician who had served in the U. S. House of Representatives. Hancock's strict management style would haunt the land long after his death in 1820. Hancock had a peculiar wish for his burial-to be interred standing upright, facing his beloved fields. It was said he wanted to keep an eternal watch over his farm, ensuring that his enslaved workers remained diligent, even from the grave.

But it gets spookier. Behind the house lies a weathered stone mausoleum, standing approximately eight feet tall. It houses the remains of Hancock and two other relatives, his mother-in-law and his daughter Julia. Julia Hancock Clark was William Clark's first wife who died just a couple of weeks before her father. Legends state that the sun would reflect off the white structure, calling attention to Hancock's presence. Bud ominously encouraged our group to explore this crypt, suggesting that a flashlight shined into the cracks could reveal the skeletal remains of the watchful George Hancock, still overseeing his fields in death. Bud himself had gone to the mausoleum only to still be unable to confirm what he saw through the cracks in the stone.

Bud continued to provide private information to encourage our visit. As his stories flowed, our imaginations took flight. What would it be like to stand before the mausoleum? What whispers of the past would we hear? Yet, despite our eagerness, the realities of its geographic distance from our location and the tight events schedule thwarted our plans to visit Fotheringay. Or so I thought.

On our return to Tennessee, a spontaneous detour led us to Troutville, a charming community with a highway destination sign that rekindled our interest. With a swift search, we discovered that Julia Hancock Clark and her father were buried nearby, only a half-hour drive from our current location. Fotheringay lay three exits closer to our home. With renewed excitement, we set off to discover the unsettling resting place of George Hancock.

Guided by GPS, we found ourselves at the mile-long driveway leading to Fotheringay. The plantation house stood majestic yet foreboding, with lights burning inside. As we crept closer, anticipation hung in the air. Where was the mausoleum? With every twist of the driveway, the excitement mingled with a tinge of trepidation. We found a car parked behind the house, and I began mentally rehearsing what I would say if questioned.

After a search of the property, including knocking on doors that yielded no response, disappointment began to seep in. The mausoleum remained elusive, obscured by dense foliage. Just as dark clouds gathered overhead, unleashing a torrential downpour, we retreated, the mystery of Fotheringay slipping away like the rainwater cascading down our faces.

Once home, I delved deeper into the legend. Yes, the mausoleum was real-its presence perched on a hill for George Hancock's vigilant gaze over his plantation and the "Happy Valley" below. But the dense trees and cloudy skies had concealed it from our sight. The lingering question remains: Was Hancock a loving guardian, or a relentless taskmaster, forever watching over Fotheringay?

As Halloween beckons, the legend of Fotheringay lingers in the shadows. Perhaps one day, armed with flashlights and a yearning for discovery, Jaimee and I will return to uncover the bones of the past and shed light on the haunted history of this forgotten plantation. Until then, Fotheringay stands, a reminder of the tales that haunt the hallowed grounds of our history.