Sharp in Appalachia

From a work in progress, by Karl Dallas

Mrs Mary Sands shifted uncomfortably in her truckle bed. She was heavily pregnant, near her time, with another wee one to join the nine already sleeping together in a big box bed nearby. She thought of the two strangers who’d come to the village over the hills from Marshall, the frail, beak-nosed Englishman and his maidenly companion, Maud she called herself. A strange pair. No wonder some folk wondered if they were German spies, wandering around the mountains with their notebooks.

But that Mister Sharp was so educating, his speech so old-fashioned and all, that Maud with her big hat to keep off the sun. She’d had to go into Marshall to buy some new things, her old ones being stolen on the train and all. Wicked people there were in the world.

How many lovesongs had she given him? Must be nigh a score. He’d liked her Lord Lovel. It was a wonderful thing, to be able to catch the old airs on paper like that. It looked more like spider scratchings to her when he showed her the notebook, but then he’d sung it over, and she could hear the old song, almost as if she was singing it herself, though his voice was not so rough as hers, being a city-bred man and all.

He’d given her five dollars for the children, which was kind of him. He made a point of saying it wasn’t payment for the songs. Said they were beyond price, which was true.

Mrs Gosnell come over this day to sing as well. No, check the moon is nearly down, must be yesterday now. Gave him two songs. She don’t know as many as me, but she’s good enough, the way she do them. And that fiddler, Mister Mitchell Wallin, he played him some tunes, but I think they were a bit wild for Mister Sharp, he were shaking his head and cursing to himself, seemed like, scribbling in his book and then crossing it all out and starting over.

He’s no singer, that Mitch, but he has a few good ’uns, and Mister Sharp noted them down all the same. Think my Broken Token’s better nor his, though, a lovely lovesong, the two parted lovers joined together by a silver dollar split and shared between ’em. His ain’t a patch on mine, though I do say it myself.

Wonder if he’s asleep yet, over to Miss Fish’s at the school settlement house? He’ll be jolting over the hill in the two-mule buggy to White Rock tomorrow, a hard journey for a man as frail as he, needs a good night’s sleep. But city folk don’t keep God’s time like country people, to bed at dusk and up with the dawn. Most like he’d be still waking.

He was. Cecil Sharp was on Miss Fish’s verandah, smoking his pipe before turning in. The night was quiet, here where you could hardly hear yourself think for the two-note piping of the red cardinals during the day. Must be past midnight.

That Mrs Sands was a fine young woman, well 45 I think she said, but not so worn out as some of these mountain girls, with a fine crop of songs. She’d promised three more for this day. That old fiddler was a bad singer, though I got four from him. It was hard to make head nor tail of his fiddling, though, the battered old instrument held low on his chest, the bow scraping away over the metal strings ringing out like cracked churchbells, the unstopped ones droning along like bagpipes.

A far cry from the English Morris.

And a long way, here in Appalachia, from the Western Front, where most of his dancers were while he stood on a southern verandah, taking the night air before turning in.

People said it was dangerous, up here in the mountains, but it must be far worse to be on the Somme, like Butterworth and Lucas, huddling in a trench with the German shells coming over, fighting hand-to-hand for a yard of land. And the North Carolina hills might be raw and rough, but the people were gentle, raising their hats and extending a friendly hand when your paths crossed, pleased to share their old lovesongs with you: “But surely you will tarry with us for the night.”

The youngsters enjoy the old songs as much as the older people, which is different from England, where the youngsters scorn their parents’ culture. They’ve been cut off from the world here for several centuries, and the railroads and wireless haven’t got here yet. It’ll happen, soon enough.

And the missionaries have a lot to answer for, the way they are imprisoning their voices in those dull, Presbyterian Yankee hymn tunes. They’ve invited us to join with them Sunday night, but we’ll try to excuse ourselves. Still, it would be hard to do this work without their help.

That Miss Edith Fish is a nice enough old dear, not half so prim and proper as she looks, a hard old thing. It’s good she’s teaching them to read and write. But their theology is hard to take. A pity they can’t leave them to their country ways, which have endured for centuries.

You can’t separate out the songs from their lives. They’re not entertainment, something more central. That old lady, shaking her head when she forgot the words: "Oh, if only I were driving the cows home I could sing it at once."

That boy, creeping in to listen when I was noting them down, and then launching into the song when the old lady fumbled over the words. And appreciating them: "I always like to go where there is sweet music." How old was he? Fifteen? No, less.

He moved back to the bedroom Miss Fish had set up for him, wincing as he put his weight on his foot. Doctor Packhard was coming to look at it, which was just as well, since there’d be some walking later, when the mountain tracks got too much for the jolt-waggon, and we had to follow behind as the two mules struggled in the mud. Aptly named.

He winced again. Still, it was better than the gout, just a bit of a strain, when he turned his ankle on the rocky part of the road. He’d walked 14 miles on it, that day, which can’t have done it much good.

Another hot night, though there was a touch of thunder in the air. It was the same all over America, apparently, a real heatwave. Some rain might cool it down a bit, and Maud can get out her oilskins. She’d had to buy them in Marshall, but they didn’t sell umbrellas. Didn’t seem to understand what they were for.

No fear of floods, up here in the mountains, but it had been bad down in the valley, apparently. Six people drowned when the river broke its banks.

That woman poling her punt across the waters, still muddy from the floods. Gaunt features, though handsome, probably in her thirties, but looked older.

The bed creaked as he got into it. In hers, the other side of the curtain that veiled them from each other, Maud heard him settle down to sleep. He should take better care of himself, she thought, as she turned on to her side.

It seemed scarcely seconds before she was woken by the rooster crowing nearby, the sun burning down bright and hard, from a sky like burnished sapphire.