It's a morning in June, in the year 1845. The warm Tennessee sun sends a golden shaft of light through the tall windows of the hermitage, and settles lightly on an age withered hand, resting on the coverlet of a big four-poster bed. Yes, it is an old hand, tough and gnarled, weathered by the suns and rains of time, and under that hand is a letter, written many years ago. The letter is from Elizabeth Jackson to her son Andrew in the year 1780...