Friday, November 30, 2007

From Bob Haefner

At the Old Settlers Meeting at Paris, September 4th, 1875, from the Vernon Banner of September 15, 1875

At the Old Settlers Meeting at Paris, September 4th, 1875, from the Vernon Banner of September 15, 1875 comes this speech of William Deputy. It gives the most complete picture of life, as it really was back in the days of our forefathers.

Old Settlers and Ladies: I appear before you today for the purpose of making a little speech, as this day is appointed for speech making. As I never made a speech in my life, I thought it would be best for me, so as to avoid the danger of embarrassment, and the loss of anything I might desire to say, to sketch down the matter of my remarks. My speech will not be methodic although written, but I will do the best I can.

My father and mother were born, raised and married in Delaware State and four weeks after they married they bundled up and set off for Western Virginia. They stopped in Wood County, on the Little Kanawha River. On the 20th day of Sept. 1805, my eldest brother was born, and tomorrow 68 years ago, I was born. My elder sister was born August 21st, 1809. We remained in Virginia until Nov. 10th, 1810. My father and Mr. Trumbo took a notion at this time to go to Indiana Territory. So they build a flat boat put their goods and families, consisting of nine persons - one more than Noah had in his ark - in their boat, loosed the cable and floated down the Ohio River. We landed at Cooper's ferry on the 28th day of Nov. 1810. A man by the name of Hickey moved us out. In December, 1810, we put up a cabin 16 feet square and about as high as a man could reach, cut out a doorway, and Jan. 1st, 1811, moved into it without a door, floor, chimney, or one crack stopped. We built up a fire against the logs and if it raised a smoke there were cracks for it to go out at. Now here we were in a deep forest, a broad wilderness; the bears, wolves, panthers, catamounts and wild cats were our neighbors, and the Indian our dread. We went to bed the first night of January, 1811, in our cabin and laid awake as long as we could, expecting to hear the foot tread of an Indian, for we did not know but that we would be murdered before morning.

Ladies remember here was my mother seven or eight hundred miles from father or mother, brother or sister, in a cabin, in the midst of a gloomy forest. Oh such destitution, solitude and desolation. In the summer we could scarcely see the sun by day or the moon by night for the thick foliage of the forest which so completely overspread our cabin, that when the sun began to go down it would get so dark that the gloom thickened and we felt very lonesome, added to this the owls from every hollow tree would raise their voices in melancholy and hideous concert. All these things would make us feel that we were truly in the backwoods. Indeed we were in the wilderness without bread. Now friends here comes the tug, there was not one grain of wheat in the county, indeed no county of Jennings, nor State of Indiana. So father set off one morning through the woods in search of bread and the nearest he could find was at old John Work's mill 5 miles east of Charlestown. It took him two days at least to make the trip. After awhile night came on and my mother and her three little children were all alone in this little cabin; there was no neighbor to stay with her. Think how you would feel to be similarly situated. It would indeed be a trial and I do not see how she stood it. My father was in equally great danger, for he knew not when he might fall into the hands of a gang of Indians and be murdered, while on his journey to the mill. But it happened that the tomahawk was withheld and our scalps escaped. When it began to grow dark, my mother would set the table against the door and pile the chairs and stools on it, so that the opening of the door would make a noise and wake her, if asleep. She said she wanted to die while awake if such was to be her fate. But the Indians passed by and we were spared. This was in the beginning of 1811.

My father immediately went to work and got in corn enough to do us the first year, and I tell you when roasting ears came it relieved going to mill a good deal. We made many a meal on roasting ears and milk, and on stew and pumpkin and milk, boiled potatoes and milk, honey and milk, and we thought we were getting along fine, if it had not been for the dread of the Indian. Indians came into our cabin almost every day, wanting something to eat, and such as we had we always gave them to keep them as friendly as possible. Old Captain White-eyes has been in our cabin. Also, Kill-buck, Cucumbers, Truckwell, Anderson, and numbers of squaws and papooses. In 1812 war broke out and we left home and went over into Jefferson County, and with a few families built a fort and a block house. We cut down trees, about 18 inches over, cut them in lengths about 12 feet long, split them and then set them deep in the ground so as to touch each other and having port holes so that we could defend ourselves. In this way we lived along as best as we could until the year 1813. We then moved home, built a block house, and rangers were sent to guard us. They stayed awhile and then went home. Father worked away, got some ground cleared, an orchard planted, and had some stock around; so we had plenty, but mills were very scarce. Still we worked on and hoped for a better day; and after awhile peace was declared, and the people began to flock into the county from Kentucky, and settle around us, so that we felt safe. By this time the Indians had gone farther back, so that those persons who now emigrated to this county did not see it as we had. We had corn to sell these new settlers and were not then compelled to buy at Johnny Works' mill.

On the 10th day of June 1816, my father died, and left my mother with six little children to combat with the world the best she could. At this time mills had come nearer, neighbors had crowded around us, and we felt no more the dread of the Indian. The burden of raising six little children now fell on my mother. She had lived in the wilderness six years and had learned how to contrive, for she had been taught in a school of experience. When spring came my mother hired a man to break up the ground, and lay it off and plant it in corn, and then my eldest brother and myself tended the crop. Neither of us had ever before managed a horse, so mother helped us to gear up a good gentle horse, took us out into the little corn field, started us in a row with a flock harrow and then went back to the house. She had neglected or forgotten to tell us that when we wanted the horse to go to the right we must say jee, and to the left, haw, yet our horse understood these words well. Our ground was rather sideling, and the harrow in spite of all my brother could do, would incline down the hill and get on the corn and take some of it up; so he said to the horse "a little higher up the hill". My mother found out what we had been saying to the horse and then she told us what to say. When we went back to the filed after dinner, being now well posted, we got along fine. We raised corn, wheat, got money to buy our salt, leather for our winter shoes, and a pound of coffee once in a while, and as for taxes I do not know whether we paid any or not, but after a while we did I know. Not long ago I saw a tax receipt for 37 1/2 cents among some of our old papers. But our troubles were not over yet. Our water mills dried up. Ramsay started a horse mill near Kent, and Lock after a while started one, but we knew nothing about steam in those days.

Rattlesnakes and copperheads were abundant and this made us very careful when going into the woods, but we escaped the fangs of the deadly monsters. Horse flies, mosquitoes and gnats troubled us a great deal. We had to grease our horses to keep them quiet when in harness, for the flies would swarm on the horses and almost distract them. We had to make smokes for the cows in order that we might milk them at all. This may seem unreasonable to my young hearers; but I tell you I have gone out in the morning and the gnats and mosquitoes have filled my face and bit me so that I had to cry aloud.

My father, mother, brothers and sisters are gone. Mr. Trumbo and all of his are gone, and I only remain to tell you what we had to undergo in the first settling of this country. We ate bread when we could get it and when it was not to be had, we lived on potatoes, pumpkins, homony, green corn, deer, turkey, and sometimes bear meat. We made our own clothing, lived in a cabin in the wilderness, and I do not know but that we had a harder time than Moses had in his wilderness. When we first entered this wilderness, there was not one thing to sell or to be had for money. If, in this day, we lived in a country where we could not buy even a pound of soap, we would think there was great destitution. But I never heard my parents repine, or wish themselves back in Delaware or Virginia. They were certainly courageous. I remember once we little children were put up in a loft, while my father went into the edge of the woods to shoot an Indian. My mother had, that morning, gone out to milk, and she saw an Indian jump behind a tree, and supposing he was going to shoot her, she came to the house in a hurry. Father was determined to kill him, but when he got to the spot the Indian was gone. I was sitting in a chair sick, when the first Indian came into our cabin, and he made right for me. You may imagine how frightened my mother was, for she thought he meant to kill me. she told him to let me alone, for I was sick. He looked at her, as ill as he could, took me out of the chair, and sat down himself. My mother had many such scares as this. Bears and wolves gave us some trouble, the rattlesnakes and copperheads frequently frightened us, the mosquitoes, horseflies and gnats were a source of much annoyance, but all of these together never gave us one hundredth part of the dread the Indian did.

We little children, in 1811 did not go far from the cabin, lest we should be picked up by a wolf or a catamount. I remember that one morning we went out and not 200 yards from the fort lay a dead cow, and from appearances she had been killed by the wolves. Bears would go through the fields in day light, sometimes with little cubs; great droves of wolves would come near the house and set up such a deafening howl, that we have shot off a gun and they would not stop howling, because, we supposed, the noise they made was so great, that they had not heard the gun, and the dogs would sit in the yard and tremble with fear.

I know a bush, perhaps as thick as my leg when I first saw it 65 years ago, and it now measures 13 feet 6 inches in circumference. I was raised in the backwoods, but was a nice boy, as one circumstance will sufficiently illustrate. I had never seen a carpet nor heard of one, until I went to Madison one day with my uncle. He had some business with a man there, but as the man was not at his office, we went to his house to see him. My uncle knocked at the door and it was opened, and there I saw on the floor what I supposed was a nice coverlet. My uncle walked right over it. I thought it would never do to make tracks on it, so I began to spring as far as I could towards the hearth, so as to make as few tracks as possible on the coverlet. My uncle looked back to see what was coming, but he never said a word, and the good people of the house never cracked a smile; I know they thought I was a nice boy for trying so hard not to make dirty tracks on their coverlet. After we left the house uncle told me it was a carpet and was made to walk on. This lesson I never forgot and never afterwards made such leaps on a carpet.

And now returning my thanks to the old settlers, and especially to the rangers who guarded me in 1813 at Deputy's block-house, I will bring my remarks to a close.

Taken from Deputy genealogy, Jennings County, IN library compiled by Belvah Perkins

Taken from William Deputy's notebook (1881, 1882 Pgs. 3&4 without any corrections of spelling or English)

I went out to my land to clear off a spot I come a cross a strait tree I cut it down cut it off 18 feet long and squred it up nicely and the first fellow that came a long declared it was a houselog so the news flew round the neighbor hood like fire in dry grass. so the first old lady that came to our house after wanted to plage me a little says to me you are a going to take a woman are you I said to her thats my notion well said she such a one has got her cap set for you that was good news to me that some lady had a cap set for me .. this was the first mondy of August 1 month before I was 20 year old so on the first of the month first of the week and early in the morning I went to the barn and brought out a horse put a new saddle on him and started to hunt me a wife you may know I was in earnest to start on mondy and early in the morning I told mother I was going to the election in Jefferson county I would be back that evening. I sped away. I stopt at a house in 80 rods from where the election were held I went in the girls looked friendly the old folks too thare was 3 girls I had my eye on one of them we was well acquainted the boys soon put my hors in the stall I told them to lay my saddle on the grass I would use it soon I walked with the boys to the election though little did I care for the election and while we was at the election thare came up a big rain the old lady says to the girls which of you claims him must bring his saddle in so neither of them would move a peg it began to rain the girl that I had my eye on, went out picked up my saddle came walking in with it, the other two laughing at her, seeing her so sober, seeing her so plaged they laughed the more when I came back these two girls had sucha good Joke by the way I found out this girl that I had my eys on claimed me I thought then the lord was shurely on my side .. I waid to myself Just as shure as the grapes growes on the vine you are mine. I went home in a good humour went out to cut houselogs in earnest and on the 5 day of September 1827 I raised my cabbin on the verry day I was 20 years old and on the 15 day of November 1827 we were married and on the 20 day we moved home in the green woods I was an able bodied you man I could move almost any thing that came before me I took my ax and madock went out in the woods and slew every tree big and little that stood on 5 acres and 32 square rods of land that winter and spring and when spring came the sun could shine down upon us when night came I took a seet on my shoe bench made 2 pair of shoes a week of nights which I got 3 days work for that made my weeks 9 days long in stead of 6 I now went to plowing and when not plowing I was grubing I soon bought one of my nieghors out, that added a little to my farm and soon an other that added little more which made me 240 acres

From Book "The Land of Winding waters" by Malcolm Deputy

William Deputy and his wife Cassander operated a store in Paris. One night his store was robbed of a large amount of merchandise. When Billy found out about the robbery the next morning as he opened for business, he kept all the facts of it secret - as an added safety, he did not even tell his wife Cassie about it.

Months later a man, who shall be nameless here, walked in to visit. It was a brisk fall morning, and the visitor, being in no hurry, talked at some length with Billy. After several preliminaries on crops and weather, the visitor suddenly asked, "say, Billy, did you ever find out who robbed your store?" Probably as astonished by the question as his visitor would be by the answer, Billy replied, "Never until now, I never told anyone about it, not even Cassie."

-----More Notes about early Deputy Indiana--------------------------------

From "Jennings County in the Frontier Period," by Alice Bundy, in Indiana Magazine of History, vol. 32, page 370, 1936.

The first of these daring, vigorous pioneers to enter the territory now included in Jennings County was Solomon Deputy, who, in 1810, came to live in a blockhouse on the west side of Coffee Creek in what was then Clark County. this station, or blockhouse, was guarded by a group of light-horse cavalrymen, who included in their territory Abbott's Blockhouse, on the Ohio River a few miles above the mouth of fourteen-Mile Creek, and the Lewis Station on Neil's River south of the present site of Paris. In the blockhouse on Coffee Creek, Joshua Deputy was born. He is said to have been the first white child born in the territory now included in Jennings County, a tradition that is strengthened by an inscription on his gravestone.

From Deputy genealogy Jennings County, IN library compiled by Belvah Perkins

I quote from notes by Morincie Robertson Wells "Solomon Deputy and wife Sarah Deputy moved from Delaware to Virginia (Near Parkersburg) over the Allegheny mountains in a two wheeled cart drawn by an old mare named "Shin".

From records of Land Office, Jeffersonville, IN

Solomon Deputy entered SE quarter, section 30, 5 N, 8E, December 22, 1910.

The Hoosier Journal, Jennings County, The Coffee Creek Baptist Association

Between the years 1790 and 1795 a few settlements were made along the northwest bank of the Ohio River, above Clarksville. These gradually increased from year to year, but it was not until about the time of the organization of a separate territorial government for Indiana, that any considerable number of these were extended into the interior.

In 1809 a few families from North Carolina and Kentucky settled about ten miles north from the Ohio River and about the same distance west of Madison, on White River. In 1810, a single family from Virginia, Solomon Deputy, located on Coffee Creek, in the southern part of what became Jennings County. About the same time a small settlement was made on Lewis' Creek, in Jefferson County, some four or five miles south from Coffee Creek and a little later, a company from Kentucky attracted by the fertile valley of the Muscatatuck, where Vernon now stands, made that point their future home. Other families came in from time to time, selecting lands, and thus settlements were made through the wilderness, generally from three to five, often from ten to twelve miles distant from each other. The ratio of increase advanced each year, and after the battle of the Thames, so rapidly was the country developed that in 1816, Indiana was admitted to the union. (battle of the Thames, in Canada 10/5/1813).

At the time of the first settlements, this whole section of country was a dense, unbroken forest. Hill and valley, high land and low, were alike covered with a heavy growth of timber. Not a tree had been cut down, not a road opened, not even a foot-path marked out, except the Indian Trails leading from the Ohio River back to their villages on the Wabash and other streams.

_----------More Notes about early Deputy Indiana -------------------------------------------------------------

From "The Land of Winding Waters" by Malcolm Deputy, May 14, 1963

Joshua Deputy, the fourth child of Solomon and Sarah, was born June 4, 1811, at Coffee Creek; and on his gravestone is inscribed, "He was the first white child born in Jennings County." His burial vault was one of the large black walnut trees which grew in abundance during the time of settlement. The black walnut log used for his coffin was squared at four feet, hollowed out, and a slab of the same log was placed over the top as a lid, secured with black locust pegs.

Note: The stone is now missing.

From records of Land Office, Jeffersonville

Joshua Deputy entered south west quarter, section 8, twp. 4N, range 8E, Clark county, April 27, 1810.

__________Notes ___________

Rebecca Baxter Hord was the first recorded burial at Mt. Piscah Church, she was buried in a hollowed out Walnut Log…… BURIED PISCAH METH. CH , GRAHAM TWP , JEFF.CO. IND. , 1/2 MILE E. OF DEPUTY



-----------------Memo on Early Deputy Indiana ------------

Morgan’s Raid Civil War

Grace Monroe,

District #5

Jefferson Co. {Begin handwritten}Feb. 1938/39{End handwritten}

Morgan's Raid



Reference: A- Mr. Middleton Robertson, Deputy, Indiana.

"On the 11th day of July 1863, General John H. Morgan and his army passed through Graham township, Jefferson county, in his flight through southern Indiana, from Kentucky to Ohio. It is not the purpose of this article to point out his objectives in making this invasion. The historians have already done this as satisfactorily, perhaps, as can be done.

General Morgan not being a trained soldier did not rank in ability with the best military leaders of the Southern confederacy, but he was a courageous officer and General Grant in authority for the statement that in his military operations in Kentucky and Tennessee Morgan killed, wounded and captured several times the member under his command at any one time.

At the time of the raid I was not at home in Graham township which was less than a mile from the line of march of the enemy army, but was away temporarily visiting my uncle, Dr. N. D. Gaddy, at Weston, in Jennings county, and so did not see any of the rebels.

Of course there were no telephones or radios in those days, but we kept fairly well advised as to what was going on outside of our community. Hearing of a movement among the citizens to assemble at Vernon and engage the enemy in battle, my uncle joined them. I see him now through the eyes of memory as he rode away that Sunday morning in company with some of his neighbors, his rifle on his shoulder and with enough bullets in his ammunition pouch that I had helped him mould, to send the souls of scores of rebels to purgatory. The day passed, but no sound of cannon came our way, leading us to believe there was no battle in progress. After hours of waiting for him, my uncle returned, not bearing on his person any marks of carrage or strife, but bringing the glad tidings that Morgan had gone without unleashing his guns in the destruction of {Begin page no. 2}life or property.

Not years prior to his death, G. W. Whitsitt, who for a long period was well known in this part of the county by reason of his musical talent, informed me that he was in Vernon at that critical period of its history, and that a regiment of Union soldiers from Michigan were there, also a considerable number of citizen soldiers, and that he was present and over-heard a conversation between General Lew Wallace who was in command and the colonel of the Michigan regiment, in which the latter begged permission to lead an attack against the enemy, but the general was firm in his opposition alleging that in view of the superior strength of the fee, such a move would result in a useless waste of life.

The most vivid remembrance I have of any experience in these troubulous times was of a happening a few day after Morgan had gone out of the state. Two men came along, riding fast and furiously past my uncle's, pausing just long enough to tell us that the rebel general, Forrest, has destroyed Paris by fire and was coming our way, [buring?] {Begin deleted text} buring {End deleted text} {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}burning{End handwritten}{End inserted text} buildings and killing men. My uncle assigned me two tasks-one to assist in burying a box of silver coins amounting in value, I suspect, to several hundred dollars, any my other job was to walk over to the home of his father-in-law and give warning to the family of impending danger, the distance being about a mile and in part through a dark woodland. I was younger then than I am now, being in my 12th year and not overstocked with that admirable quality of the mind called courage. I discharged my trust, but not without realizing that the sense of fear had not been left out of my makeup. But the supreme peril was yet to come. It was not long until a body of armed men on horseback came into view. Surely, we thought, this must be Forrest and his army and the end of the world, but we were unduly alarmed, for when the men came close, and I don't know why we did not run away, they told us they were not rebels, but for the Union, and it was they who were at Paris and that it was through the {Begin page no. 3} distorted imaginations of some parties who had seen them that had spread the rumors of disaster and death. An imaginary danger for the time being is as nerve racking as an actual one, for while one thinks he is in danger, to him it is real and palpable. Learning that we had been deceived, whether intentionally of otherwise, by the excited horsemen, the black cloud of fear lifted and passed away, and from that day to this I have never felt any danger imminent to myself or country from armed rebellion or foreign fee.

About a fortnight after Morgan had come and gone I returned to my home in Graham township. The perspective was about the same, no marks of vandalism were observable except the loss of three good horses. There had been a forcible transfer of the title to ownership from the family to the Southern Confederacy.

On the morning of July 11th my brother, Philander, had gone to a mill about three miles east of our house on land now owned by [Hiren?] Poster, in a two-horse wagon, where he had exchanged wheat for flour. The day was fair and no portents were in the sky or impending danger until on the return trip he reached a point in the road apposite Pisgah church, when suddenly about fifty men appeared in view and soon demanded that he get out of the wagon and unharness the horses. Being slow to obey, they persuaded him to hurry by pointing their guns in his direction. They took the horses, and they were good ones, and made him walk in front of them to the creek, about half a mile north of the church, where they bade him go home. Before he reached home the marauders had visited the premises and taken from the stable a fine young black mare, the idol of the family. My oldest sister, Nancy, though habitually of a mild and equable temper, became so angry when she saw her pet mare being taken away, that she told those sons of Dixie that she thought them abusive, but she did not accomplish more than if instead she had given them her blessing--the bension of good will, for they took her beautiful mare away and she never saw her more. This was one of the great sorrows of her life.

{Begin page no. 4}My home was not the only one visited by the troopers. Almost all the good horses near the line of march had been taken. There was one marked exception. James Dowy Robertson, better known in this vicinity as "Uncle [Doc?]," lost only one horse and saved four. His eldest son, Melville, was home on his summer vacation from college and happened to look toward the south and saw a large body of horsemen in a high point in the road where John Stewart now lives, heading in the direction of his home, acting with quick presence of mind, he went to the barn and rushed off four good horses to a thicket in the back part of the farm and tied them near together so they did not get lonesome and whiny. All four horses escaped capture. Returning to the house he found home rebels ransacking it. Uncle Doc had recently became the owner of a new pair of fine boots and one rebel, evidently having some sense of humor, picked up the boots and said: "This fellow has some good boots and I believe I will trade with him," and so he did. By reason of some offensive remark, Melville was compelled to go with the rebels as far as Dupont, where he was released. Later he joined the Union army, was captured in his first battle, east into a rebel prison and there contracted typhoid fever which ended his life--another sacrifice in the cause of human liberty.

Uncle Aquilla Robertson, better known as "Uncle Quill," and a brother to Uncle Doc, was less fortunate than his brother in saving his horses, as all three of his were taken. His youngest daughter Mrs. Rebecca McClelland of Deputy, remembers well the leading events of the Morgan raid. This is her story: I lived with my father, less than half a mile of the road over which Morgan and his army passed. We could see the cavalry and artillery as they passed along the road. We first saw that they were nearly all day passing from about 8:30 in the forenoon. The most exciting scene in the drama was when a bunch of rebels come into the yard, clamoring for something to eat, one insistent fellow attempting to go into the kitchen in spite of a refusal of my stepmother to admit him, and so she flourished a butcher knife in his face saying: "I'll let you know I am one of the blus hen's chickens from the state of Virginia and if you make any {Begin page no. 5}further attempt to enter here I'll cut your heart out." Eyeing her intently for an instant, the rebel said, "I know them Virginians will fight like the devil and I have no doubt you mean what you say." He then went away and left her, for the time being, mistress of the situation.

Next morning July 12th at about 6:30, while we were at family devotions my father leading in prayer, several armed men in federal uniform entered, disregarding the usual civilities on entering a home, and in a rough and overbearing manner demanded something to eat. Being Union soldiers, we were glad to feed them. Father ended his prayer rather abruptly, as any other good man would have done under the circumstances. Regarding the number of men in each army, my impression is that according to the estimates of the people at that time that there were somewhere between four and five thousand men in each army.

This chronicle would not be complete without some reference to another prayer, but made on the day of the raid. There then lived in this township a local preacher, Reuben Rice by name. He was an ardent Methodist and a militant abolitionist. These facts together with his heavy artillery voice when in prayer made him a distinctive citizen in the community. It was currently reported and generally believed that some rebels called upon him and under threat of death commanded him to get down on his knees and pray for Jeff Davis and the success of the Southern government, which being under duress he did so, but "prayer being the soul's sincere desire, uttered or unexpressed", it was really no prayer, but more lip service. It accomplished no good. Rice lived for years and scores of years after John Morgan and the southern confederacy were dead as an Egyptian mummy, and all through these years prayer was a part of his daily program. Maybe the rebels felt that their government needed praying for. It was certainly in a bad way at the time. Evidence was multiplying fast the the Lord was "Trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored," for one week before this time Lee and his splendid army were defeated at Gettysburg, and hurled back across the Maryland border, and Grant, after long, patient and {Begin page no. 6}laborous effort, had captured Vicksburg. Surely the clock had struck the hour marking the beginning of the end of the southern confederacy.

Dr. C. H. McCaslin, now of Kansas City, Mo., was at the time of the Morgan raid a boy of about my age, but much larger and braver. He lived on what is now the E. J. Wolf farm, the dwelling house being within 100 ft. of the road over which the armies of Morgan and Hobson passed. From a recent letter I rec'd from him, he had this to say about the Morgan raid: "When John Morgan's raid through Jefferson county occurred, I was plowing corn. I looked up the road and saw a company of soldiers on horseback. I supposed it was the home guard going to Washington, Indiana, where the company at Parid, Ind., had been ordered. Morgan had telegraphed Gev. Morton that he was going that way. My brother was at home on a furlow and he went with the Paris home guard. The rebels were all day passing our home, and I wish to state that my mother was sick in bed and I sent to the spring for water. An officer approached and asked if I wanted water. I told him my mother was sick and wanted a drink and he ordered his soldiers to stand back and let me fill my bucket. They had several carriages which in those days were known as rockaways. Whether General Morgan was riding in one of them or not, I cannot say. They took all of the horses within the radius of two or three miles on each side of the road. They told us there would be a larger army the next day and that they would burn houses and barns, but General Hobson and Shackelford of the Union army followed them.

There was an incident on the day of the raid that gave a touch of comedy to the tragic side of the picture. An aunt of mine whom I shall call "Aunt Julia," who evinced considerable excitement when she learned that Morgan was near, lived in a large house well stored with valuable goods and furnishings. Wishing to salvage something of great worth from the coming destruction, in her confusion she selected a mirror and hastily took it to the garden and buried it. This seems ludicrous in view of the fact that she made no effort to save things more valuable, but perhaps there was [?] in her madness, {Begin page no. 7}for, after all, what is there about a home which a woman prizes more than a looking glass?

If the searchlight of truth were applied to all the facts connected with the Morgan raid, it would awaken a memory not complimentary to the national government. Morgan's men, about as fast as they captured and appropriated good horses, discarded those they did not care to use longer, and quite a number of these horses were taken over by farmers and were fed, groomed and taken care of until they were fit for farm work. My brother appropriated two of these horses and just as he in common with his neighbors felt that they had some amends for their losses, the national government sent agents around and through might, not right, took possession of these horses without any compensation to the farmers whatever. This was not only flagrantly unjust, but it was obviously unwise. Here was a government in a great war and needing provisions to feed the armies and navies and were depending in part on these very farmers to supply the sinews of war in food stuffs and at the some time taking from them the means and the vehicles of production needful to help the cause along. Later a concerted effort was made to induce congress to appropriate money to reimburse the farmers for their losses sustained by reason of the stated, but these claims were never allowed.

For more then three score years and ten the body of John Morgan has slept in the dust of the earth, but the government he sought to destroy still lives at Washington and the flag he dishonored and tried to cast aside still waves in undimished splendor "o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."

{End body of document}

From Ardath Blue

I took some pictures to my daughter this morning to be scanned and I
attached one. This is Ida E. McClanahan and her husband, Charles
Wright. Ida
was the daughter of William McClanahan, a brother of my great
Harvey McClanahan. William was married to Amanda M. Phillips, daughter
John Phillips and Sarah Wells. Ida was my first cousin twice removed
and I
think she looks a lot like I did when I was younger.


Thursday, November 29, 2007

Byfield info from Bob Haefner

All "Hord" names below are also found as Hoard

Sarah's Aunt Julia Ann Waldsmith Roseberry
Julia's daughter married Adam Hord (William, John)
so the grandchildren of Aunt Julia and I are connected

"Julia Hord (born 1865) ( of Electra Jane Roseberry and Adam Hord)
and Robert Carlyle Haefner are 2nd cousins 2 times removed. Their
common ancestors are John Hord and Rebecca Baxter."
(Can be verified with census)

I did have the Waldsmith and Roseberry names in my masterfile

Wesley Hord (of John Hord and Rebecca Baxter)
married Ida Byfield Sister to Albert, Charley, and Maria, Harriet
"Wesley Hord is the 2nd great grand uncle of Robert Carlyle Haefner.
Their common ancestors are John Hord and Rebecca Baxter."

Ida is the daughter of G. W. Byfield George Washington Byfield
She received the East 1/2 of the NE quarter of Section 11, T 4N, Range

7E in her father's will. (Your plat map later has, Maria Young and
Chris Young)

"A land patent was issued to George Byfield in 1819 in Scott County,
Indiana ("The Early History of Scott County, Indiana 1820-1870" by Carl

R. Bogardus, Sr., M.D., published by the Scott County Historical
Society, Pub. #2, 1970, p. 11 ).

Scott County Will Records, LDS FHL Microfilm #1305354: the will of
George Byfield was written and signed 1 June 1845 , witnessed by James
A. Keith, Cyrus Day, Christian Young and John Watson. In the will he
bequeaths real and personal estate to his wife Lana Byfield and his
children George Washinton Byfield (oldest son; his inheritance has
already been given to him), Harriet (Byfield) Griffith, Lewis Freeman
Byfield (2nd son), Maria, Ida, (Francis) Marion, and Charles (youngest
son). He also mentions a debt of $100 plus interest to be paid to
Horation Byfield (his brother). The will was presented to the Clerk of
the Probate Court, Willis Traylor, on 18 June 1845 by Cyrus Day,
Christian Young and John Watson."

You can see and search my master file here:
(15,824 names, and not one mistake . . .(more than one)) I do not put
sources or references on line...(increases contacts)

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Thanks to Bob Haefner

Wesley Chapel United Methodist Church

From Scott Co. Historical Society Newsletter

Located about 5 miles northeast of Austin, Wesley Chapel was first organized in 1852 in a log cabin across the road from the present day structure. The land was purchased from William D. Martin for $5.00 which also included a plot of land for a cemetery. The first Sunday School was organized in 1871.

Mrs. Sarah Bovard in her diary of the late 1800's writes of walking to church at "Chapel" from her home near the present day Hardy Lake, about 4 miles.Ê Her husband would accompany her as far as Quick Creek, help her cross, and then return home.

In 1898 the present structure was built when the log cabin burned. Built with funds contributed by the membership and native, donated timber,the land was donated by Adam Wiesman and included a cemetery plot. The church was dedicated in December 1898. J. R. Cross was pastor. In the early 1900's a second cemetery plot was donated by Anna Keith.

The church has been extensively improved over the years.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Weatherbee speech at Pisgah Church

The following is a speech that Harriet R. Noy (?) Weatherbee gave at the Pisgah Memorial Day service in May 1985.

I do not know what life was like for everyone in the community 150 years ago, but I do know what life was like in one household.
We need to travel only a few miles. We go out the door of this church and turn west and we proceed until we come to the first road going north. If we were to turn there, we would soon come to what I grew up calling the old John Steward place. Some of you may know it as the place where Brisco Huff lived for several years.

Back before the Civil War, the family of Robert Smith lived there. He and his wife were known throughout the communities of both Deputy and Paris as “Uncle Robin” and “Aunt Nellie.” They had one son and four daughters. It is Louise, the youngest, who, as an old lady, shares the memories of her girlhood with us.

One of the things she shares is what it was like to be a neighbor here in this community. She says, “I’ve always found good neighbors wherever I have lived; but when I think of neighbors, some way or other my mind always goes back to Southern Indiana. I've often wondered sometimes whether there was ever another place in the world where folks neighbored as they did there, a few miles north of the Ohio River when I was a child.

"1 can remember as plainly as can be one afternoon when Father and I were riding home from Deputy, and we passed a big field where the hay was down. Father stopped his horse and looked at the sky.

“'Lem’s away today buying cattle, and that sky looks like a storm. Louise, you hurry along and pass the word to the neighbors north of home towards Paris and I’ll round up the ones between home and Deputy.’”

“In half an hour there were a dozen men and five teams in that field and every bit of hay was under cover before the storm broke.

“Somehow or other nobody minded taking help or giving it. Maybe one of us children would be ailing, and Mother would he trying to get her baking done and in would come one of the neighbor women. She’d take a look at things. and then she’d walk over to the closet where Mother kept her kitchen aprons and get one out and tie it on.

“‘You go along and look after that baby, Nellie.’ she’d say. ‘I’ll get this bread in the oven for you.’

“She’d mix the bread and put it in the oven; and, if there weren’t pies or doughnuts or cakes on hand, she’d toss them together, too, and when it was all done, she’d wash her hands and take off her apron and go home as if she’d only been making a pleasant call.

“I remember one warm fall evening my sister Evaline, Father, and I were sitting on the back porch. and Mr. Gasway came through the calf lot and set down on the steps.

“‘That’s a fine field of turnips you’ve got down by the creek, Robin.’ he said.

“‘Yes,’ said Father. ‘They’ve done well. Help yourself to them when you want any, Will.’

“‘Oh. I’ve been doing that,’ said Mr. Gasway.

“It didn’t strike either one of them as funny that he hadn’t waited to have the turnips offered.

“One Sunday Mother was putting dinner on the table. She had just taken two roast chickens out of the oven. Just then our neighbor to the north come tearing in at the kitchen door, all out of breath and red in the face, and she grabbed chickens, platter and all.

“‘Nellie,’ she said, ‘I need those chickens. My nephew and his wife have just come and they've got to push on to Indy [Indianapolis] in a hurry. Her mother’s sick there. I haven’t got time to kill chickens, and my nephew can’t eat ham since he had that stomach trouble.’
“Off she went across the orchard with our chickens, and Mother laughed and fried some ham.”

Somehow, I think Uncle Robin, Aunt Nel1ie, and Louise would be very proud of us today, because I think that neighboring is one thing in this community that hasn’t changed over the years. I dare say there is not a one of us here who doesn’t know what it is to have neighbors and to be a neighbor.
The next memory that Louise shares is of all the unexpected company they used to have.

“We lived in a big red brick house beside the State road, and all the travel between Louisville and Indianapolis went that way. (Isn’t it difficult to think of that road as the main highway between Louisville and Indianapolis?) There wasn’t a railroad, you know, and most of the travelers rode, unless they were movers or peddlers with wagons.

“So, though we lived in the country, a good deal of the world went by us--and most of it stopped with us. Everybody knew our house and knew that Uncle Robin Smith never refused lodging and food to a traveler, and if travelers didn’t know, someone was sure to tell them.

“Everybody for miles around knew what a great cook Mother was. Once just about sunset, a young men rode up to our gate on a fine, thoroughbred horse. We didn’t know him, but he tied his horse and came up the front walk where we were all sitting on the stoop.

“‘Are you Uncle Robin Smith?’ he asked Father.

“Father said he was and then the boy turned to Mother.

“‘Aunt Nellie,’ he said. “I’m Miranda Powell’s boy. and I’ve ridden up from Lexington to see if your Sally Lunn really is better then Mother’s. She owns up that it is.’

“Mother was pleased as Punch to see the son of her dear friend and former neighbor in Kentucky, and she almost fed that boy to death while he stayed with us. My sister Elzina married him later.

“All kinds of people stopped by. Once a man and boy came along one spring day with a covered wagon full of waxworks, and they had to stay at our house three days because one of his horses was lame.

“Father wouldn’t take any pay. He never did--and so, the evening before they went away, the inan and boy unpacked all the wax figures and brought them into the sitting room and showed them off.

“Father was troubled for fear it bordered on theatricals. You see, he thought anything that had to do with the theater was a terrible sin. But the man said it was educational and high class and elegant, and Mother told Father it wasn’t right to throw the man’s gratitude in his face. I reckon she was just as crazy to see the show as us children were. There were Shakespeare, George Washington, Napoleon, and lots of others, but out of respect to Father, the man didn’t get out the murderers and pirates, and the boy told my brother Milton afterward that they were the best part of the show.

“Runaway slaves used to come because Father was an anti-slavery man. That's why he moved from Kentucky after freeing all his own slaves. We children never knew much about the runaways for they usually came in the night; but sometimes we’d hear a tapping on the back door, and then we’d hear Father get up and let someone in, and pretty soon we’d hear Mother hurrying around in the kitchen and we’d smell bacon, eggs, and coffee. Julia, Evaline, and I used to creep out of bed and watch out our window, and by and by we’d see a group of dark figures go slipping off toward the woods.

“One day, Cass Dawson, the sheriff of our county, came out to our house with a posse just at dinner time. Father was away, but Mother made them have dinner, and when they were ready to go, Cass shuffled around and stood first on one foot and then on the other and tried to look like a sheriff, and finally said: ‘Now, Aunt Nellie, you’ve got to stop feeding and harboring runaway slaves. It’s against the law.’

“Mother looked at him as if he were a foolish child. ‘Well, Cass, I’ve been going by a law that says, “Feed my sheep.” God made my law. Who made yours?’

“The men grinned and Cass looked silly, but he began to bluster and say that it was a prison offense to feed runaways, and Mother listened only for a little while. then she walked up to Cass and looked him straight in the face. Her eyes were as bright as stars and her face was pink all over and she blazed out at him.

“‘Cass Dawson. I never turned away a stranger that came to me and asked for food and I’m not going to start now. I don’t care whether he’s black or white, bond or free, and if feeding the hungry is a prison offense in Indiana, then you may as well take me to jail now as anytime because I'm going to keep right on being that kind of offender. So you’d better get a horse ready for me and I’ll put on my bonnet.’
“‘Take you to jail, Aunt Nellie? Why the whole county’d turn out and lynch me!’”
“‘Well, then, if you aren’t going to do your duty, for pity’s sake run along, and let me get at mine,’ said Mother.

“And that was the last we ever heard about her feeding runaways, but our house used to be watched sometimes.

“I remember one morning when I was sitting on the front stoop waiting for my bothers and sisters to come home from a wedding in Paris. They had spent the night at the bride’s parents’ but were due home at any time. There was a clatter of hoofs in the covered bridge to the north and soon a crowd of girls and men on horseback came riding up. The whole wedding party it was, bride, groom, and all.

“The crowd had come over to our house for the infair dinner. That’s the bridegroom’s dinner on the day after [before?] the wedding. you know, but the bridegroom was far from home and there hadn’t been any plan for an infair until, as the wedding party was riding part way home with my brothers and sisters, they met Father going to the mill.

“‘Why don’t you go over to the house for your “infair” dinner?’ he asked. ‘It’d please Nellie, and I’ll he home in an hour or two.’

“They took him at his word and came, twenty of them, mind you, and it did please Nellie.” Those are Louise’s words, but sometimes memory clouds reality.

There’s not a woman in this church who doesn’t realize how really pleased Nellie probably was no matter how much she pretended. How would you like it, if on the afternoon before his wedding your neighbor’s’ son and his whole wedding party drove up in your driveway and said they had come to your house for the rehearsal dinner? They had seen your husband at the service station and he had invited them because he knew you’d be pleased.

Louise also shares a memory of a very special Christmas. “It was Christmas Eve and we had gathered in the sitting room waiting for Father to get hack from Deputy.

“Julia and Evaline had made a pan of butternut maple taffy, and Milton and I were popping corn when Father came in. He smiled and looked jolly, but we knew something was bothering him.

“‘Nellie.’ he said, ‘I came mighty near bringing you a present tonight.’

“Mother laughed. ‘Mighty near isn’t near enough. Why didn’t you bring it?’

“‘ I was afraid you wouldn’t want it.’ Father’s voice was serious.

“‘What was it, Robin?’ she asked in a puzzled way.’

“‘A little boy, Nellie--Such a little, scared shaver! A man from over near Blocher was taking him into Madison to the poor house. His mother just died of pneumonia and no one knows where his father is. The man’s horse went lame and they had stopped at the store. The little boy will have to spend the night in the back of the store. ‘

“It didn’t take Mother long to send Father right hack to Deputy after him. In fact, she fairly pushed him out the door.

“When Father got back with him, Mother whisked him off to the kitchen where she gave him a bath, trimmed his hair, and dressed him in some of Milton’s outgrown clothes.

“She held him on her lap while Father read us the story from the Bible about the shepherds and the Babe of Bethlehem.

“‘A blessed Christmas child like you, dearie,’ she said, when the reading ended.

“He hadn’t said a word until now. ‘Aw shucks! He was only a baby. I’m a big boy. I’m most six!’

“My pious father looked shocked but Mother understood. ‘So you are, Honey,’ she said, ‘and so you’re going to be the greatest possible help and comfort to me.’

“He was a help and comfort to her as long as she lived, and the very best Christmas present my family ever had.”

Louise’s memories are very precious to me because Uncle Robin and Aunt Nellie were my great great grandparents. As you know, their daughter Elzina married the young Kentuckian on the thoroughbred horse. Their son Milton went to Kansas and settled there. Louise, who shared her memories with us, married one of her school teachers and spent her adult life in Canada, Iowa and New York City. That leaves Julia and Evaline. They remained in this community and married brothers. Julie married William Robertson and became the mother of Uncle Ed Robertson. Evaline married James Dowen Robertson and became the mother of Dr. Wilbur Robertson and my grandfather, Colonel Ellsworth Robertson.

It was Evaline who, during the Civil War, when they heard Morgan’s Raiders were coming, took the family’s best horses and hid with them in the woods. The Raiders came, took all the hams and bacon in the smoke house and an old nag or two that had been left in the barn as a ruse. But the good horses were saved.
The little boy whom Robin brought home that Christmas Eve was named John Phillips; he became the great grandfather of Myron Phillips.

We are indebted to Louise’s daughter Eleanor, who preserved her mother’s childhood memories in writing. As I look about this sanctuary, I see several people who are at least my age. That means we spend almost as much time in remembering as we do in planning. Doesn’t it behoove us to start writing our memories? After all, 150 years from now our descendants may he interested in reading about the way of life of their ancestors.

[Handwritten note at bottom:] Notes for this speech taken from Our Little Old Lady by Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd.