William H. Washington . The Burial of Latané. 1864. Engraving by A.G. Campbell. Collection Virginia Historical Society. Reproduced under Fair Use, etc.
“Getting back in the car, we drive back to River Road, which curves leftward in its descent to the floodplain. Flanked on both sides by farm-fields, the road comes to a T-intersection. Straight ahead lies a band of trees along the Pamunkey River. To the south, fields stretch into the distance. The ground rises gently, forming low bluffs on the right. At the tree-line we make a ninety-degree left-hand turn, and then left again onto a grassy farm-road running between the fields. Now heading west, the fields on either side are planted with corn, with stalks eight to nine feet high. I ask Willie if being in high corn was the same as being in high cotton. She couldn’t say. We turn right onto another farm-road running north between the fields. Patches of the maize the size of city blocks had already been harvested, hewn to a stubble. Through one of these clearings I behold a cluster of trees. Following another bumpy farm-road, we come to a grassy lane, turn right and find ourselves at the edge of a small family graveyard. Willie is amazed at the remoteness of the site, comparing it to the spot where Stonewall Jackson’s arm is buried, on the Lacy farm near Wilderness Church. Getting out of the car, we walk around the little park. Planted with boxwood hedges, an ancient tree towers overheads, providing welcome shade. Arrayed within the walls we find an orderly collection of eighteenth-century stone sepulchers, but no sign of Latané’s grave. Nestled within a clump of shrubbery we find a cast-iron state historic marker set atop a stone altar. Its text unfolds the tale of Latane’s death, and his burial by the Brockenbrough women. Setting her homemade wooden box-camera on a tripod, Willie makes half a dozen exposures. Finally, I am ready for my closeup. She readjusts the camera. I lean on the marker. With utmost gravity, Willie says, “Now. Hold still!” “Don’t forget to get the ghost,” I shoot back. “That’s not funny!” she replies with a pained look. “Hold still. Don’t talk.”
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