One of the many topics of the Civil War Sesquicentennial conversation is (or at least should be) how we, as human beings, construct historical memory and how we ourselves become historians (sometimes knowing, other times not) of our collective past. The recent official opening of the Rural Plains & Totopotomoy Creek unit at Richmond National Battlefield Park on September 10th has spawned considerable interest and intrigue in not only the “narrative history” of the historic Shelton House and the battle of Totopotomoy Creek, fought in and around Rural Plains, but also in how we know (or think we know) what we do about this site’s unique history.
Built around 1724, and home to the Shelton family for over 280 consecutive years, the Shelton House at Rural Plains boasts a long and rich history. Archaeology and architectural surveys reveal settlement on the Rural Plains site as early as the 1670s, as well as three major restorations performed on the house in 1785, 1835, and 1915. Family lore states that Patrick Henry married Sarah Shelton in the parlor of the house in 1754. Well-known Civil War artist Alfred Waud sketched the scene of Rural Plains under fire during the May 29-31, 1864 Battle of Totopotomoy Creek. Captain Robert S. Robertson of the 93rd New York infantry writes that, during the battle, Union 2nd Corps commander Winfield Scott Hancock made his headquarters underneath the porch of the house, just outside the house’s basement where, according to both Robertson and 14- year-old Walter Shelton, Mrs. Shelton and her three children barricaded themselves during the artillery bombardment.
According to Bill Shelton, the last resident of the house, and local, long-time friends of the Sheltons, the plantation ultimately became a prosperous tree farm which supplied Colonial Williamsburg with much of its shrubbery during the Rockefeller restoration there in the 1930s.
With this remarkable historical record, Rural Plains stands as one of the most treasured sites in all of Hanover County and within Richmond National Battlefield Park.
However, Rural Plains has much more to teach us as professional historians, and the public, as (perhaps unknowing) amateur historians, for it opens fascinating portals into the construction of historical memory.
For instance, how accurate is Alfred Waud’s sketch of Rural Plains in 1864? Was it meant to be an exact image of the house under fire during the battle, or was it in any way romanticized or “artistically exaggerated” by Waud? Was Walter Shelton consciously trying to influence how later readers would view the battle fought on his property and his family’s experience of war while caught in the cross fires?Or was he merely documenting or reflecting on his experiences out of personal interest or, perhaps, even emotional necessity? How were his accounts of the battle shaped by his youth, and conversely, how did this battle (literally in his backyard), influence his coming-of-age and his adult life?
Can we ask the same questions of Robert Robertson?—Was he a conscious “historian” with specific intentions and agendas? How did his experience as a soldier under fire differ from that of a civilian or of a high-ranking and more “tucked-away” general such as Hancock?
How did the Patrick Henry story get started, and why? What does it mean to the Sheltons, and to the Hanover community, to tie Rural Plains to this famous episode? How do we make sense of such a deeply-ingrained legend against the backdrop of the startling lack of evidence that such an episode actually occurred at Rural Plains? Does a lack of evidence to support the legend, combined with evidence suggestive of a different story, necessarily mean it did not happen? Further yet, how do we turn these newly-discovered, admittedly frustratingly-inconclusive pieces of evidence that question passionately-defended “facts” about the Patrick Henry story within the Hanover community, into non-offensive “teachable moments” for the public and the community? What weight do we give to the oral histories of Bill Shelton and his long-time friends and neighbors about goings-on at the house for which we have no other material evidence? Should such oral histories become part of the official record of the house or should they treated as a separate category of “legendary evidence?”
These are the questions with that we have been wrestling at RNBP and that have fascinated me, personally, and my ideas about our responsibilities as professional historians and stewards of cultural treasures and deeply-cherished legends. Further, by analyzing and debating about the stories we tell and need to tell to the public, I have increasingly wrestled with the process of interrogating historical sources and our responsibility to teach the public to do the same.
It seems like now, more than ever, we public historians must assume the responsibility of teaching our visitors and community partners not only what to think about history, but how to think about history—how history is made, constructed, understood, and interrogated over the years.
Additionally, as we find ourselves in the middle of the Civil War 150th commemorations, it seems prudent to make ourselves more aware of the process of “history-making,” and the many pitfalls, opportunities, and long-term effects of such “history-making” on the future consciousness of the American public. All of us, professionals and everyday visitors, are historians in our own right, constantly crafting and re-crafting history as we know it, understand it, and, in many ways, want it to be.
We must assume our responsibility as instructors both of history and of “history-making” with confidence and aggression, as well as with the reassurance that it is ok to change the historical narrative as we know it, and that, in fact, acceptance of proven changes to that record is not only necessary, but is also exciting. Sites such as Rural Plains, and historic sites in general, need to be viewed more often as “living” and “growing sites,” constantly changing and evolving, and continuously altering our knowledge of history and the process whereby we understand history.
Further, what our recent work at Rural Plains has taught me is that we must regard historic sites themselves, rather than interpreters of those sites, as the true teachers—teachers which guide us through our past and which instruct us to think, analyze and interrogate the past in new ways. In viewing historic sites in this way, we might be able better to grasp a more reliable awareness of our collective past, but also, and perhaps more importantly, a far greater understanding of the ways in which we perceive contemporary events, relationships, and humanity itself.