USA > Indiana > Morgan County > The pioneers of Morgan County : memoirs of Noah J. Major > Part 3
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Back among the Collins ancestors there must have been some one who greatly admired Hebrew names, for of the nine heads of families, eight of their baptismal names were strictly Hebrew, David coming in for four of them, to-wit: "Cracker-Neck" Dave, "Ticky" Dave, "Cackling" Dave, and "Bucket" Dave. Next came "Old Sol," of whom we have already made mention; "Punkin" Sol, perhaps so named because of his partiality for pumpkin pies and all other forms of this unclassified edible. Then Hiram and Isaiah, dubbed "Old Hi" and "Old Zair." Even Pompey's name may have been Jeremiah or Ezekiel, but we always heard him called Pompey. Only two of the nine pairs of old folks stayed to have their bones buried on the old camping ground. They were Hiram and David L. ("Cracker-Neck"). Hiram owned a small farm near the mouth of Highland creek, where he and his wife lived to old age, having brought up five sons and five daughters to full age. Their last days were embittered by neighborhood broils. Wyatt Carpenter and family frequently came in collision with Collins and family. But the greatest battle of the neighborhood was between the Collins and Overton families-near relatives. The war spirit had been hover- ing over them for some time. Their farms joined, and one day something about a partition fence or a watergap brought them face to face. The skirmishing began by
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firing red-hot words into the ears of each other. There was no one to pour oil on the troubled waters, or the water- gap. Both parties were ready for the encounter, and from words it came to blows. Fists, clubs, teeth, and claws went into action on the double-quick, and for a few minutes it seemed that there would be business for the doctors and coffins to be sent for. Fortunately no one was killed ; but, when the smoke of battle lifted, it was found that Ander- son Collins had been severely punished and his father cut in the thigh with a knife.
From the battlefield this feud was transferred to the courthouse, where the crossfiring from the witness stand was equal to that on the skirmish line. Time alone, which blots out everything, could quell this neighborhood quarrel. Some died, some moved away, and others for- gave, but it was years before peace was fully restored. The other family to remain was "Cracker-Neck" Dave's. He purchased a little farm on Sycamore creek, where he continued to reside until the end of life. He and his family were quiet, good citizens, and well respected by their neighbors. Several of his descendants are still living in Clay township.
When the bear tracks were fading away, the herds of deer scattered, and the flocks of wild turkeys growing wilder and scarcer; when churches and schoolhouses be- gan to spring up in the woods, and the little copper stills to die out, then "Old Sol" turned wistful eyes westward, as to the "land of promise." About the year 1836 he gathered up his goods and started for a new country-a country not yet unduly civilized-a country where he could chase bruin with his "seven thunders" every day in the week, Sunday not excepted. The last we heard of this backwoods child of the chase, he was in his ninetieth year, hale and strong for his age. He could no longer join
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in the hunt for bear or deer, but had to content himself with a seat in the chimney corner and while away the time with pipe and tobacco. My informant said his chances were good for rounding out one hundred years. His wife and most of his children had "shuffled off this mortal coil," and the old hunter seemed to be sad and lonely. Like Othello, his "occupation was gone."
Pompey was a nondescript. You might travel to and fro for half an age and never find his match. He was not an "all-round crook" but, physically considered, an "all- round tough." As Fowler once said of Henry Ward Beecher, he was "a splendid animal." He walked to Martinsville one Christmas day when the snow was falling on warmly dressed people, clad in nothing but a coonskin cap, and tow-linen shirt and breeches, while his feet were as bare as at birth. He could snap his finger at Jack Frost in midwinter, and walk about, seemingly as comfortable as the average man in boots. His diet was corn bread and wild hog, and his drink, whisky. The truth is he was some- what careless about his menu and personal appearance. But he was the "very soul of honor," as he understood the term; for when Bill Jones at a shooting match said some- thing about a hog thief, which Pompey thought was a reflection on himself, he proposed to vindicate his honor by pounding Jones into sausage meat. But Jones headed him off by landing his rifle on Pompey's head. The gun- barrel left the stock in Jones's hands, and together with Pompey fell to the ground. The blood was spinning out of his left ear in a fearful stream, and he was supposed to be killed. However, he was only "dummed"; for in a short time he was on his feet, and wanted to go gunning after Jones, but the peacemakers interposed their goodly offices and prevented further bloodshed.
Pompey had a "hog ranch" somewhere between Cox's
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mills and Lamb's creek. He did not exactly own, but exercised a sort of supervision over it, looking after his neighbors' as well as his own swine herd. In those days people had ear marks for their hogs; slits, swallow-forks, underbits and upperbits, slopes, holes, smooth crops and half crops. Pompey's brand was a smooth crop of both ears. He was greatly annoyed by some neighbors who were always trying to pry into his business. He usually marketed his hogs at the Martinsville porkhouse; and sometimes the hair was scalded, and again it would be singed off. The ears had been frozen off. He once built a corn crib; but like Ward McAllister's head, never had anything in it.
Had Pompey lived at the present time and been so dis- posed, he could have been a noted prize fighter or foot- ball player. He had the one great qualification-a thick skull.
"Here I close my narrative- I tremble as I show it, Lest perchance that 'all-round tough' Should ever catch the poet."
§5. THE VENERABLE WILLIAM PARKER AND WIFE, OF MORGAN.
Will the citizens of Indiana ever forget or cease to take an interest in those unique characters, the pioneers ? Will they assign them an unmarked grave? Will they leave their page in history unwritten and their heroism unsung because they, as a class, were a plain, unlettered people ?
While the State is building monuments to statesmen and military heroes its people are forgetting the men and women who made statesmanship possible-they who
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with one hand held back the forest savage and wild beast while with the other they "cleared the road" along the line of which "the course of empire takes its way." We seem to forget that the men and boys who "wore the blue" and cemented the Union with their blood caught their inspiration from those brave old men and women, fathers and grandfathers and mothers, who said, "Boys, we hate to see you go. It almost breaks our hearts. We are old and broken down; hardly see how we can do without you, but go and lend the helping hand, and we will work on, in pain and sorrow though it will be, and send your supplies. It is all we can do now. Yes, go, and God's blessing go with you, for if it must be so we would rather part with you for this life than see that flag trailed in the dust, for we are for the Union first, last, and all the time."
. This was and is the sentiment of the Indiana pioneers. Leastwise it was so with those with whom the writer had acquaintance during those dark and dreary days of death. I ask, shall they be forgotten in our memorial services, giving them nothing but an ephemeral obituary notice? Or shall we plant a rough-liewed shaft of the Indiana quarries-fit companion of our grand Soldiers' Monument, and let them go hand in hand along the ages to come to perpetuate the memory of the soldier and his inspiration, the pioneer, as well?
It is quite refreshing in passing through those thin and wasted Indiana forests to see some sturdy old oak, which has been rocked by the storms of four or five cen- turies and escaped the tornadoes and thunderbolts of years, and the more murderous saw and ax (for we have become a sort of forest vandal, and the "ax is laid at the root of every tree" that will bring four or five dollars). It is good to look at one of those old forest giants and
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to think of the events which have taken place since the falling of the acorn from which it grew. It is also inter- esting to see and talk with some such old people as are sketched in this column, who began life in the very first year of this century, and, for anything we know, may live to its close, for they are quite strong for people in the ninetieth year. 1198562
We have here in Morgan county a very remarkable couple of pioneers in several respects. There is only fourteen days' difference in their ages. They have been married sixty-six years and have been apart only three consecutive days and two nights since their marriage. There were born to them twenty-six children (single births), thirteen girls and thirteen boys. Seven of these lived to adult age; the others all died in infancy. Only three of the twenty-six are living, two sons and one daugh- ter. Three sons went into the army. One was captured near Vicksburg and died in a Rebel prison. One died in the Union Hospital at Nashville. The other one came home and died of consumption not long afterward. The old father and mother are quite sad when speaking of the deaths of their sons, particularly of the one who was made a prisoner, for, like Benjamin, he was the youngest, the one who was to have been the staff of their old age.
William Parker was born within sixteen miles of Fay- ettesville, North Carolina, on the 16th day of October, 1800. Mrs. Parker, whose maiden name was Delilah Ray, was born in Crab Orchard, Kentucky, the 1st of No- vember, 1800. Mr. Parker came to Indiana in 1819, stop- ping near Madison a short time.
Miss Ray came with her parents to Indiana in 1822. She became acquainted with Mr. Parker the same year. The acquaintance ripened into love, and on Christmas Day, 1823, they were married. They have been well and
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truly married ever since, and have never regarded mar- ried life a failure, that the writer is aware of. There are those who would do well to study this man and wife, that they might learn the art of keeping married, as well as the art of getting married.
Mr. Parker in early life was tall and slender, as he is now; a tough, wiry man, with the powers of endurance to sustain him at hard work from dawn to dark. He was a great axman, and cleared year after year acres of land in the White river bottoms. He is of light com- plexion and sanguine temperament, and always has the courage of his convictions, though a man of peace and unusual prudence. He never was given to profane or vulgar language or intemperate habits. He and his wife have been members of the Christian church since 1845, and their toils and trials have but increased their faith. He has resided in this county the last sixty-four years, excepting six months, and at his present home thirty-four years. Until the thirty-third year of his life he was poor indeed. But fortune favored him at this time, and the toils of himself and wife were well re- warded the next twenty years. He is now, and has for years been in very comfortable circumstances. Mr. Parker never went into debt, never had a suit in court, or held office in church or State. He is what the world calls a peculiar man. His strictness and regular habits were not always well pleasing to his neighbors.
Mrs. Parker is a brunette, and in her younger days was accounted very handsome; a fine form of medium height, with soft brown eyes and hair. She is quite lively now at ninety, and can laugh heartily at a good joke. She enjoys the company of old acquaintances and likes to talk of the good old days before the spinning wheel and loom gave place to the organ and piano. She
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retains all her faculties and is wonderfully bright ; even memory, the first to forsake us in age, still abides with Aunt Lilah. She does much of the housework (for those old folks live to themselves) with her own hands, and the day we were there last she was piecing quilt blocks, while Mr. Parker was out feeding the pigs.
Their son, Moses Parker, and his estimable wife and family live just across the highway and see attentively to any wants they may have. They are very patient and kind to the old folks. The thoughtful reader will ask, "What has contributed most to their length of days?" We would say probably, most of all, it is regular habits. Next, the complete acquiescence in the providences of God. They have had their full share of trouble, but they have borne it all in the faith and belief that all will be well in the end.
They live in the plain, old-fashioned manner of the pioneers of sixty years ago. Their wants are few, and, with these satisfied, they are content. The old lady is particularly free from fret and worry. They both talk very sensibly of the time when the race will be ended -"only waiting till the shadows are a little longer grown," and their greatest concern seems to be for the one who shall be left. When I see or think of this couple, whom I have known for fifty-seven years, who were born to toil and hardships, who were deprived of an education, and hence of the solace of good books-so good in declining years for those who love to read-I am reminded of the words, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Yes, and heaven too, we hope, after the earth.
The reader will not be surprised to learn that this old couple have never been aboard the cars. The steamer, railway train, telegraph, telephone, electric light and
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motor, cotton gin and spinning jenny, power looms, reaping machines, sewing machines, etc., have all been born since our old friends first saw the light. Twenty- two presidential elections have been held and twenty- five States have been added to the Union since their birth, and the population has increased from five millions to sixty millions. They have lived through a decade of mechanical improvements such as the world never saw before, and have seen the Western wilds transformed into happy homes for millions.
§6. THE MATTHEWS AND DRURY NEIGHBORHOOD.
Long before Centerton was dreamed of, even while Indianapolis was yet in embryo, and the State capital was at Corydon, while as yet a beautiful green wilder- ness stretched far away from the Whitewater river to the Wabash, dotted here and there with the lowly cabin home of some brave pioneer, while the footprints of the Pottawatomies and Miamis were yet in the sand and the stealthy panther and howling wolf hunted the speckled fawn, there came to this fertile valley, stretch- ing along the north bank of White river, from the mouth of White Lick to Sycamore creek, the following named men with their wives and children, some from Ohio, some from Virginia, some from North Carolina, and others from Tennessee and Kentucky :
George Matthews is supposed to be the first man to build his cabin in this settlement. It stood one-fourth of a mile northeast of Centerton. He hailed from North Carolina, but of the date of his birth or death we know nothing. He was a man of strongly marked character and sterling worth, standing in the front rank of Indiana pioneers. He left six sons and two daughters, to whom
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he bequeathed some property and a good name. His sons bore a conspicuous part in the development of this settlement and in bringing it up to the highest level it has ever attained. Close on the heels of Mr. Matthews, almost while he was cutting his cabin logs, came Isaiah Drury, of Ohio; Alexander Cox, of Penn- sylvania ; John Stipp, of Virginia; and Samuel Scott, of Kentucky. Their domiciles were in the river bottom, south of Centerton, excepting that of Mr. Drury, whose farm was in the direction of White Lick. Down in the pocket of the settlement, beginning at the mouth of Sycamore, and coming up the river, were Daniel Reeves, Kester Jones, Benjamin Stafford, Elijah Lang and sons, Dabney Gooch, Andrew Paul, Gabriel Paul, Jesse Gooch, and John Robb. These all tilled their own soil, drank water out of their own "moss-covered buckets," and heard the rain patter on their own housetops, in the year of 1836. Afterward, in the '40's, the homesteads still increased as the sons and daughters were married. Three of the Matthews brothers, Calvin, Alfred, and James, were owners of good farms. Michael, Benjamin, and Abraham Stipp, the sons of John Stipp, lived under their own "vine and fig tree." So did John and David B. Scott; and William, John, and Charles Cox, sons of Alexander Cox; and William Hardwick, son-in-law of Mr. Cox. Mr. Drury sold his farm about 1834, and moved farther west. The only unimproved land in this settlement in 1840 was two eighty-acre tracts lying on the east of the road from the bridge to Centerton. This belonged to one Colonel Lyons.
Frederick Barnard, father of Dr. and Sylvanus Bar- nard, bought this land, which formed the nucleus of the present unsurpassed farm of Sylvanus Barnard. In the '40's there were about twenty-two farmers in this
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neighborhood who owned, lived on, and cultivated their own farms; did most of their own work, owed but few debts, ate their own bread and butter, and attended to their own business. They were not scholars, but many of them were readers, familiar with the history of their country. They started schools at an early day and kept pace with the progressive developments of that institu- tion. They were not religious in the sense that the orthodox understand that term. Many of them leaned to Universalism in theory and some were skeptical. They listened to the preacher respectfully, and would take him home with them and feed him on "the fat of the land," of which they had an abundance, and enter- tain him most hospitably.
That was about as far as they would go religiously. As a wag said: "The New Lights and Methodists were too 'hell-fiery,' and the Baptists too 'whang-doodley' to convert the community." Notwithstanding all this, these neighbors lived peaceably with each other, having very little use for Squire John Robb, other than to fill out deeds, take acknowledgements, and join the brides and grooms in marriage. The men joined hand in hand to reap and bind when harvest came, and to raise houses and barns, roll logs, turn boats, and husk corn by moon- light. The women folks had wool-pickings, flax-hackel- ings, quilting bees and peach parings, and made apple and pumpkin butter in abundance.
After the first few years of settlement-wherein they knew what it was to be in need of even the most com- mon wants of life-by dint of industry and caretaking, these men and women made that neighborhood fairly flow with milk and honey, buckwheat cakes and maple molasses, to say nothing of the corn dodgers and pork sausages in due season. Soon the old log cabins were
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replaced by neat hewed-log houses with shingle roofs, brick chimneys, and plank floors, whereon during the long winter evenings they "tripped the light fantastic toe" to the merry mystic charms of Uncle Ap Mat- thews's fiddle.
The old settlers of this neighborhood always believed they were cheated out of the county seat. They affirmed that there was undue influence brought to bear on the commissioners by the landowners of the Cutler site. They showed the commissioners that they were much nearer the geographical center of the county than was the Cutler place ; that more than half of the new settlers were on their side of the river; that they were at the mouth of White Lick, then one of the best mill streams in the State, and that Cutler and Gray could not better them at a single point. Nevertheless they were beaten, and no language could express their indignation. Once or twice since then northern citizens of the county have tried to move the county seat to Centerton, but failed. It seems that the soil of this beautiful valley is not suited to the growth of towns and cities.
Early in the '40's Samuel Moore built a warehouse on the north bank of the river, a little below the north abutment of the Barnard bridge. It was for the pur- pose of storing sacked corn, wheat, flour, and pork products to be shipped on flatboats to New Orleans. Mr. Moore was then doing the largest business of his life, and the farmers of whom we have been writing were producing more corn and hogs and surplus farm products than ever grew in that valley before or since. Mr. Moore intended to establish a packing house here, but for some cause deferred it from time to time. Mean- while John Scott, who owned the farm and ferry at this place, conceived the idea of platting a town nearby. He
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selected the northeast corner of his farm, which was about sixty rods north and a little east of the bridge. Three other farms cornered there and went to share in this enterprise. The neighborhood was greatly elated at the prospect of a town, porkhouse and boat-landing. A conference was called to select a name for this little newcomer, and after many proposals and due consid- eration it was christened Rockingham. Four or five lots were sold and three houses built, and for a little while there was a tailor shop and also a blacksmith shop located here. The tailor died and the smith moved away, but just when Rockingham died it is hard to find out, as no records are kept of dead towns. It was probably on the first day of January, 1847, when the first great flood in White river on which the eyes of white men had ever gazed, stood three feet on its floors. From this flood dates the diminution and downfall of the forty-acre homesteaders of the Centerton neighbor- hood. For twenty-five years many of them had lived on or near the banks of this beautiful waterway without ever dreaming of its capability for mischief. They had paddled their canoes over its placid bosom many a time, angling for the black bass, or hunting the pike and salmon with a "gig" on still, bright mornings during Indian summer when they could see the pebbles on the bottom in water fifteen feet deep. During the warm months they had swum, dived, splashed, and played in it, times unnumbered. True, they expected the spring rains to fill her banks to the brim, and ever and anon a tide came in June which drowned the corn on the low bottoms, but it remained for the warring elements of the last three days of December, 1846, to sweep the White river bottoms from end to end with destruction. The river behaved like an insane elephant who, having
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snapped his chains, proceeds to hurl the dens and cages right and left and stampede the whole menagerie. Day- light broke that gloomy morn only to reveal to the eye the sickening sight of an unbroken sheet of water extending from hill to hill, blackened with driftwood, rails, and cornstalks which the maddened currents were piling up "house high" against the resisting trees.
The roar was like the "waters coming down at Lodore." Long before daylight signals of distress came from those who had failed, or could not get to the hills the evening before. They blew their dinner-horns, rang cowbells, shouted at the tops of their voices, and fired their rifles to gain the attention of those "on shore." So sudden and swift was the rise of the river in the evening that many canoes were lost to their owners, which more and more complicated affairs. Others only saved their canoes by wading and swim- ming to them at dark and bringing them into the bayous. By 10 o'clock at night the hogs and sheep were scat- tered, and many were drowning. On and on, higher and higher came the waters until they reached the doorsteps, then to the floors, finally putting out the fires in the chimneys. That was the most awful and terrible New Year's eve ever experienced in Morgan county. For thirty miles by the meanderings of the river there was a sheet of water that would have averaged a mile in width, busily engaged in drowning sheep, hogs, and cattle, and sweeping away fencing and outhouses. Fortunately few or no human lives were lost; but men living on the lowlands were discouraged, and some of them sold out immediately. Others followed suit in course of time; so almost imperceptibly the inhabitants on the banks of the river slowly disappeared; their little farms were absorbed by the large landowner who
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could choose his residence in the town or city, or on the second bottom lands where the tide has never yet come to his dwelling place.
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