The train ride was not terribly unpleasant. I used the
company’s short lines along the New River and north, until I was able to
arrange travel east and south in Charleston. From there the train carried me
past Huntington and out of West Virginia. My
Denison was actually a remarkable place. Founded by the
Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad, it immediately grew as an important primary
rail hub for traffic crossing the Red River. The busy streets bustling activity
throughout the town was testament to the success of that plan.
My official business in Denison was to consult with a
gentleman named Thomas Munson. However recent events in my life had given me
reason to do some personal investigation while I was there. Hidden amid my
papers on chemistry and botany, was an old newspaper clipping I had run across.
It was my hope that this ragged little clipping might lead me to some insights
regarding recent events. However I was obliged to see to my official
responsibilities in regards to Mr. Munson first.
Mr. Munson received me at his home and we talked at great
length as he proudly escorted me through his small private vineyard. We talked in
detail about phylloxera and the damage it was spreading across Europe. The
disease had been introduced when vines native to the Americas had been
transplanted in Europe, bringing with them a disease which the European vines
had no resistance to. It had become a serious epidemic. Mr. Munson’s work in
cross breeding strains for a heartier variety had proven to his satisfaction
that he was well on the way to solving the dilemma, however there were still
details which eluded him. Because of this we spent much of the rest of the day
in his study, with him asking me endless varieties of questions about soil and
minerals. He has a strong belief that the real answer lies in the plant's root
development and the particular nutrients it is getting from the soil content.
After spending the day with him, I would have to say that I feel he is looking
in the right direction, and may one day prove successful at his goal. However
Botany is not one of my strongest of sciences, so I might simply be taking a
rather Pollyanna attitude towards a project I was honored to be included in. I
am not as often approached for such work since West Virginia
The days consultation seeming to prove fruitful, and with
Mr. Munson seeming both satisfied and grateful for my meager contributions, the
good botanist asked me to join him for dinner. I was happy to do so, and had
expected our days scientific conversations to continue, however I found myself
a bit surprised when Mr. Munson turned our conversation in directions more
philosophical and political. It was at that moment that I understood why a
pansy flower decorated his lapel. Thomas extolled at length about his
particular viewpoint in which reason, logic, and empiricism held the greatest
status, above tradition, religion, or even common law. I had heard of folks
like Thomas, who called themselves free thinkers, though many considered them
anarchists. After spending an evening of conversation with the man, I’d have to
say my impression lies somewhere in the middle of those two labels. It was an
enlightening and engaging conversation, but not one I’d be inclined to record
the content of, lest our musings be misconstrued or taken out of context. After brandy and cigars I complimented
his home and company and made my way back to my simple lodging.
Compared to Mr. Munson’s fine house my snug four by nine
room was as Spartan as a monk’s chamber. I am not sure if it was entirely
discomfort which prevented sleep that night, it might also have been a
childlike anticipation. Much like what occurs the night before Christmas or
some other exciting event. One is so looking forward to the morn, that one’s
rest seems short and fitful. Filled not with slumber, but instead long moments
of laying in the dark with ones mind a swirling fog of hope and expectations,
limiting actual rest to foggy snippets of sleep. Such a night of course left me
cotton headed and thick the next morning. It required numerous cups of coffee
for me to find my wits and set out on my mission. It took the rest of the
morning, and a small amount of bribery, to learn the location I sought. A farm
just a few miles out of town, near the wide gulch.
The five or six miles along the south road proved a dusty
and dry walk. As I strolled along my way I admit my mind wandered to my
previous days conversations regarding the local agriculture. Compared to the
more fertile mountain land of my home, this location seemed very hard and cruel
with respect to the land. I also think that I mused upon this subject as a
manner of distraction, so that I could prevent myself from making suppositions
or leaps of judgments about the encounter I hoped to have. Looking back, I
think I might have clutched at that old scrap from the Denison Daily News the
entire walk. The sweat from my hand caused the ink to bleed onto my fingertips,
and smeared the original date of January 25, 1878 so much so that I had to pencil
it later on the clipping. This same excitement quickened my pace and made the
journey pass quite swiftly.
The Martin farm was of modest size but obviously well tended
and cared for. It’s appearance spoke well of its owner John Martin and his
family. I was greeted by one of his sons immediately upon arriving at the farm,
and without suspicion or frowns as academics such as I often receive when
arriving unannounced. The boy cheerfully introduced me to his father and after
the customary polite exchanges I explained my interest in speaking with him,
bringing forth the newspaper clipping I had carried so many miles.
“That was a long time ago.” Mr. Martin related. “I remember
it happened not too long after Doc Holliday closed his practice in town. I was hunting
when I saw it.” It was at this time that the farmer slowed his words, making
sure the seriousness of what he was relating was imparted. It was a tone meant
to assure the listener of the veracity of what was to follow. “One moment it
was there, just a dark speck in the southern sky, and then all of a sudden it
just seemed to dash right over us. It was moving at a frightful speed, reminded
me something of a hummingbird in flight. Fast, then stop, fast, then stop. “
I asked him what it looked like and without hesitation he
pointed to the saucer under his coffee. “Flip that over, that that’s what it
looked like. Like a round saucer. I don’t know what it was, but I am glad that
some learned science man like yourself is looking in on it. I am reassured by
that, even if it did take ten years before someone did.”
He went on to tell me that the object then flew off in a
northeastern direction, and that he was certain it was not a balloon, and that
he actually saw it. I inquired if he had seen it land or had perhaps come
across any place on his property where it might appear that it had come to
earth. He assured me he had found nothing of the sort on his property nor knew
of any neighbors who had discovered anything.
“The only thing that was odd about it was the Preacher who
arrived a day or so after the story had been printed. Friendly enough fellow,
all smiles in his black suit. He spent some time trying to convince me that I
had seen some planet in the sky or something called a bowl-ride.”
“A Bolide?” I asked, to which he nodded.
“He said it was rocks that fell from the sky, which sounded
like a lot of rubbish to me.” Mr. Martin added, obvious humor to his tone. “He
pestered me for a few hours about my not really seeing what I told the paper I
saw. After awhile I got annoyed by it and told him so, and threw him off my
farm. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, it wasn’t Christian of me,” he
said, emphasizing, “but there was just something about the manner of that
Preacher. So soft spoken and always smiling.”
I asked Mr. Martin why he thought the stranger was a
Preacher and was told, “His coat and manner of dress, all black and funeral
like. Only folks I see dressed like that are usually preachers and undertakers.
Now that you ask that, I admit I never heard him say one word of scripture. He
just talked planets and falling rocks with that odd smile. Guess I just felt he
was mocking me.”
With that I finished the notes I was taking and thanked Mr.
Martin for his time. As I was getting ready to part company with the farmer I
begged one last indulgence of his time as I took a ferrotype from the safety of
its paper cover and showed it to him, asking if the gentleman in the picture
resembled this preacher he had spoken with.
John Martin confirmed that indeed the man in the picture
could be the preacher he had thrown off his farm ten years prior. This was
something that dominated my thoughts the long train rides back to West
Virginia. John Martin, a farmer in Denison, Texas, had witnessed the exact same
thing I had, except almost a decade prior.
And like myself, he too had encountered, the man in black.
From the Journal of Professor Tot
November 1888
Author'sNote: FictFiles are works of Fiction. The FictFiles posts here in this blog are one of my ways of both sharing these stories with a wider audience, and collecting them in a easy to locate place.
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