Macksville, at times, took on the aura of a Wild West town. It was a mini Dodge City without the steely gaze of a Matt Dillon coolly surveying its streets for bad guys through a haze of gun smoke. Being unincorporated it had no local law enforcement. The town had to rely on the Terre Haute police department for protection. That is one reason that some Macksvillians had petitioned as early as 1873 to be annexed by Terre Haute.
Criminals from Terre Haute on the lam from police often hid in Macksville or the bottoms, knowing there was little chance that pursuers would come looking for them across the river. They frequented the saloons initiating brawls or committed petty theft. This was a bane to upright citizens like the Mcilroys, Castos and Cassadays. Especially when the brawl led to gunfire.
In the early 1880s the village was plagued with outsiders bent on trouble. Rival groups of traveling horse traders brought an end-of-the=cattle-drive mini-riot in 1884 that was dubbed the Battle of Macksville.
For several months Macksville had been bedeviled by the horse traders. They were a brawling, drunken lot who came to town acting as if it were their own. Townspeople did not want them, but they were too intimidated to ask them to depart for other horse pastures. Macksville “lived in fear” of that the village would be ransacked and their homes burned.
The traders would get drunk and race their horses up and down the streets. Anyone venturing out onto the street was risking their lives. The races were inevitably accompanied by drunken brawls. Even a band of gypsies camped west of town decided it best to load their caravans and move to less dangerous places. Gypsies of this period were also known for horse trading and an additional incentive to head out may have been a fear that competition for the trade heightened the chances of conflict.
In the looming twilight of June 24th men gathered in Webb Bayless’ Paris Road saloon (funny how often Webb’s name came up during troubles). In a scene that presaged hundreds of Westerns, a rowdy crowd gathered in the dimly-lit, hovering smokehaze that shrouded Webb’s place in a grey mistc. All around men clutched beer and whiskey glasses close to their chests. The twittering of cards being shuffled competed with a cacophony of laughter and drink-fueled boasting.
Among those being dealt cards at one table were rival traders named Fred Weiser and a certain Mr. Bryant, aka “Dude” Cooper. Both men were so bleary-eyed from whiskey it was hard to focus on what their hands held. Words were spoken. Both men looked up from their cards. Weiser took deep offense at something Dude said and reached slowly under the table. Up came a “loaded” club studded with nails. Cooper seemed unimpressed by Weiser’s stick. Dude’s eyes told Weiser he was not afraid of the man across from him.
Weiser laid down his club as those watching the scene hushed to see what would happen next. When Weiser’s hand reappeared it brandishing a knife pulled from his boot. In seconds he lunged across the table. The knife cut through the haze and Cooper’s arm. Deep slashes erupted blood that stained the cards. Cooper’s brother John rushed to help him.
All hell, indeed, had broken loose in Macksville.
Soon the dirt streets of Paris Road were filled with angry, shouting men as the brawl grew too large for Bayless’ saloon. Fists flew and the retorts of every reeay guns filled the dark. Pushing and shoving let to a dozen little fights. Weiser was the chosen opponent of many. His young nephew, Fred Smith tried to come to his rescue and pull him away. His attempt failed as a multitude of gunshots rand around him and forced Smith to retreat to whence he came.
A trader named John Crank ran to his wagon and pulled out an ancient rifle. He was going show the mob a thing or two. His only [problem was that he did not have the caps need to fire the weapon. Crank went to Field’s drugstore and and the McIlroy and Hodgers’ groceries in search of caps. All three merchants rightly chose peace over profit and refused to sell the drunken man caps.
Meanwhile hundreds of townspeople cautiously stepped out into the street to see what the hell was going on. Many of the brawlers, upon hearing a messenger was sent off to bring the Terre Haute police, began to slink off to their hiding places in the bottoms. No sense chancing being caught. Town doctor James Hunt was called to Bryant’s, aka Cooper, tent. He found the man gushing blood and set about his work.
Five policemen, including Chief Vandever, sped across the bridge to Macksville. Must of the tumult had subsided by the time they arrived. They found nearly the whole town awaiting them. Now was the time, many argued, to drive out these criminals with the backing of the police. The police arrested a brawler named Joe King and Crank. King’s brother John, Fred Weiser and John Cooper were long gone. They headed to Bryant’s tent to arrest him. What they found was a man with his head bandaged and a large chunk of ice on his arm wounds. Bryant was so drunk and wouldede they left him to recover, returning the next day to arrest him.
The policemen began to “mop up” the scene. Traders still hanging around were ordered to leave town. They were surprised to find that John King and John Copper had not fled town. Instead they had merely their venue. They were arrested in John Snack’s saloon just up the block and sent on their way.
Crank had a child living with his sister in Terre Haute. He asked the police to inform her that he had been arrested and the child was now all hers/ He wanted no more to do with “it” Those arrested paid fines and were sent on their way. Weiser was gone.
General opinions about the Trader family ranged from the bad to worst. They were poor white trash to a “bad lot” to “one of the worst set of scoundrels ever to infest any locality.” It all depended on who was speaking ill of them. They had a history of drunkenness, violence, theft and, some said, prostitution.
The family seemed to bounce back and forth between Sugar Creek and Terre Haute, usually living near the river in the poorest areas. It is difficult to pinpoint them because they always seemed to evade the census, or the census man thought it was more than his job was worth to tarry too long in some areas. James Trader, the patriarch of the family, listed his occupation as basketmaker, though petty thieving and other crimes claimed a lot of his time. His young son John followed the family path and he was sent to prison in 1872 for grand larceny. He was about 16 years-old when he entered the Indiana Penitentiary at Jeffersonville.
John was released in 1874 and returned to live with his family. At that point they were living in a tumbledown log cabin east of St. Mary’s. Whether the reunion was a happy one or not is hard to say. It probably depended on the moods of his parents, James and Mary, and how much alcohol was in the house. But it is evident that the mood in that hovel was not good in early August, 1874.
On August 11th James Trader was in a foul mood. He was roaring drunk by early afternoon. At some point he decided he could no longer stomach his son John. Shouting he ordered John out of the house, his shouts slurred by drink. Fearing trouble, John stepped out of the house, but turned back. He insisted that he must at least be allowed back in to get his few clothes. He pushed aside his father and stepped into the house.
An enraged James followed his son into the house and a violent scuffle took place. He pushed James onto a hot stove, burning the young man’s hands. With the pain rising in his arms John ran out of the house. James followed, a shotgun in his hands. Looking for a way to defend himself from his drunken, wild-eyed father, John grabbed an axe handle. It did not take long for John to realize that the handle he was clutching was not a viable weapon agaist a drunk with a gun. Thinking it best to go away and let his father sleep it off, perhaps to return the next day, John turned to leave. He had not even made a full turn when the shotgun blasted a hole in he stomach. He quickly crumpled to the ground gasping for air and blood spurting from his wounds.
Wife and mother Mary watched as it all unfolded. Did she hurry to hold her son? Possibly for a minute or two, but realizing her husband was so drunk as to be insensible she turned her attention to him. She shouted to the oblivious James that he must get away. People might come running soon to see what happened. Unable to make him completely understand the situation, she prodded and pushed him deeper into the woods. Finding a hollow log she helped James squirm his way into it as a hiding place.
Mary Trader was right. The shot soon brought neighbors rushing the house. Along the way many of them must have wondered what the hell was going on with those damned Traders now. It was always something with that cursed clan.
While someone went off the fetch the doctor and inform the police in Terre Haute, others searched for James. It did not take long to find the snoring drunk in a log.
They pulled him back to the log house and guarded him until the doctor arrived. Seeing James’ condition he set about cleaning the blood and dressing his would as best he could. James being a thin, delicate boy with a hole in his stomach, the doctor did not hold out much hope that he would survive the night. Eventually John was moved to the the poor asylum in Terre Haute to either die or recover.
James was taken to the Terre Haute jail to await trial, possibly for murder. He sat there until John made an unexpected recovery. He did not file charges against his father. All’s well that ends well. The traders went home. Jailers must have thought good riddance, along with thoughts that the Traders would end up killing each other anyway.
Some thought the real cause of the argument between father and son was a woman.
That woman may have been Catharine Miller, later called a “:notorious prostitute” (and there was seldom a shortage of those in Terre Haute). He choice in husbands made for an interesting life.
Catharine was the daughter of William Irwin a farmer living in Sugar Creek. She married Andrew Miller in 1870. Miller was average height, about 5’8”, with dark complexion and brown eyes and hair. Like many, he had a smattering of small pox scars on his face. Later, a prison warder described him as having “a small scar on his throat and the initials MVM, AM and AEM [tattooed] on his right forearm.” His right arm was adorned by an American flag, the number 73 and other marks too faint to read. Presumably her family, including a half-brother named James Martin, witnessed the ceremony at the Justice of the Peace office.
Catharine’s father did not care much for his new son-in-law. The two seemed to be continuously sniping at each other with words. And once or twice Irwin allowed as how he would not mind shooting his father-in-law. On Tuesday, September 26th, 1872 the happy family was gathered at home. Irwin and Miller spent the day the day drinking hard cider (or so Miller later claimed). A thought percolated through Miller’s hazed brain, possibly after another of Irwin’s taunts. Seizing the moment and an axe, Miller proceeded to fell his father-in-law with a clean chop into his lower back, severing Irwin’s spinal chord. The old man was dead before he fell “upon his own threshold.” Andrew Miller was sentenced to life in prison.
It is not known how soon after her husband was carted off to prison that Catharine took up with John Trader. They were certainly together by early 1875. They married in August, 1875. Whether she was actively exchanging her favors for the money of excited strangers can only be speculated upon. At any rate, they were living with Trader’s parents in another “squalid hovel,” this time on the east side of the river in Terre Haute.
On the first Sunday in November, 1875, James Martin, who worked as a farm laborer, decided to visit half-sister at the Traders. His mother lived near the Traders in another hovel in area derisively known in Terre Haute as “Happy Hollow.” So, he would get to see them both, something he looked forward to.
Martin never made it past the Trader’s front gate. James and John Trader stopped him as soon as he arrived and a heaving quarrel took place. Martin’s mother hurried over to intercede and quiet them down. She convinced her son to just go away to prevent further trouble. Martin agreed and turned to leave, but he stopped at the top of the hill of the hollow and stopped. He was shouting his parting words at the Trader’s. He may have been brandishing a knife, but that was never proven..
In a flash the Traders were up the hill, John with a brick and a knife, his father with the trusty shotgun he had shot his son with two years earlier. John threw the brick and hit Martin on the head. When Martin fell they began kicking and stabbing him. Martin rose haltingly and staggered away. He managed to make it to the house where his mother was living before dying.
This time James Trader was more aware of what he done. No one had to implore him to run from justice. He and John ran down to their house, grabbed a few things, and lit out across the river on a skiff. John got out as soon as they hit the Sugar Creek shore. James turned at headed back to the middle of the Wabash. Abandoning the boat he hid on a sandbar for a few minutes. He then set off through the swampy bottoms trying to elude anyone chasing him.
John and James must have hurriedly decided on a rendezvous point. James was captured in Clinton on Monday morning. John managed to hide another day before being caught near Clinton, not far from where his father was snared by the police. James escape through the swamps took its toll. He died while awaiting trial. John was sentenced to life in prison.
Later a newspaper writer noted the irony that James Trader and James Martinn were buried almost next to each other in the pauper graveyard. The body of an infant was the only thing separating them in death.
Eighteen months into his sentence John Trader wrote an open letter to the people of Vigo County. He acknowledged his crimes and all but wept onto the page his lament that he was confined in the narrow walls of a prison. He asked that they obey the laws of god not man, and forgive him. He also wanted them to start a campaign to have him pardoned. His epistle was not well received.
Who knows what washing thoughts go through the mind of a prisoner facing a life sentence, penitence, anger, sorrow? Something went through John Trader’s mind. In 1879 he told the warden that he had information about an unsolved murder. He wanted to confess to the murder of an old maid named Eva Peters in Macksville years before. And he would tell who helped him. And, he said, his wife Catharine would back him up. He also wrote to Macksville merchant Daniel Bayless saying he had important new information about the murder. He confessed to the murder but said he was abetted by three other men Oliver Perry, Frank Smith and John Evans. And to top it off he said Catharine had also helped.
Trader was returned to Terre Haute and he and Catharine unspooled their tale.
Catharine and Trader testified at Oliver Perry’s trial (by this time Smith was dead and Evans had long ago left town for places unknown) that the scheme began because they needed money (Perhaps her return on selling herself had diminished.). John and Oliver Perry, who was living with them at the time, told her they had a way to raise a stake from “an old man” in Macksville. Smith and Evans would go along with them.
The group (which Catharine said included her and John’s month-old baby) crossed the grade that Sunday night. They arrived about 9:00. The men forced open Eva’s door. She had barricaded her door with her bed and it was a struggle to get into the house. Catharine and the baby followed them in. According to John his wife helped them stuff a handkerchief into Eva’s mouth. They bound her hands to her bed with a dog chain and tied her head back with rags. She was raped and then was choked to death. Catharine seemed particularly displeased that the murder only yielded the gang $30.00. She also said she and the baby had stayed outside when the door was forced. Trader denied that, saying his wife had stayed long enough to push the gag in Eva’s mouth.
Oliver Perry maintained his innocence, but it looked like a sure conviction and prison sentence awaited him. But on the day the trial was set to go to jury, John Trader suddenly announced he had lied. He had Killed Eva. Wilson had not been involved. The testimony he and Catharine had given was all a lie. Wilson was let go and John Trader went back to the narrow walls at Jeffersonville. Catharine was not charged,
Why did they do it? Perhaps it was to settle some long festering score with Wilson. Perhaps it was a scheme cooked up by John and Catharine to get him out of prison for a while. Some prisoners were so desperate to step outside the prison walls, even for a few days, that they would say anything.
Oliver Perry did not stay out of jail for long. Less than three months after his release he was arrested and convicted of attempting to assault a young Macksville woman along the National Road.
Catharine disappeared from the newspaper pages.
John Trader died in prison of consumption in 1886. The final entry on his record noted he had large scars near his spine (caused by his father when he tried to kill him) and his arms, like James Martin’s, were covered in tattoos likely done while in prison. John’s featured a dancing girl, star, cross, cross two hearts with arrows through them, a flag, and the initials JT with the date 1872 in red and black india ink.
The nest of scoundrels had finally been cleaned out.
Unknown to all but a few, Sugar Creek was only fifteen miles from the center of a Confederate spy ring that was operating in Marshall, Illinois in 1864. It was a part of what is now known as the Northwest Conspiracy
The Conspiracy was a series of efforts in 1864 and 1865 to destabilize the North by committing acts of sabotage, fomenting insurrection by copperheads and butternuts and, ultimately, free Confederate prisoners in the North, particularly those in Camp Douglas in Chicago and Camp Morton in Indianapolis. The idea was the brainchild of Thomas Hines, a dashing Confederate cavalryman complete with flowing mustache. Hines had made an earlier raid into Indiana in 1863 to gauge support for what later became Morgan’s Raid. Captured along with Morgan and his remaining forces, he had helped engineer their escape from an Ohio Prison.
After pitching his conspiracy plan to Confederate leaders, Hines travelled to Canada, a refuge for Southern sympathizers and spies. Posing as a civilian, he crossed the border back into the United States to carry out his plan in 1864. One of his operatives was another soldier named John B. Castleman. Things did not go well in Chicago and his scheme failed for several reasons. Perhaps chief among them was that hoped for support from the Butternut crowd did not materialize. This should not have surprised Hines or Castleman. Though southern sympathizers in Indiana were quite vocal in their support for the Confederacy, they tended to go silent and fade away whenever they were actually called upon to put their beliefs, and bodies, into action.
Undeterred, Hines and Castleman moved on to further plots in Illinois and Indiana. Calling himself Clay Wilson, Castleman set up headquarters in Marshall, Illinois. He may have lodged at the Archer House Hotel in Marshall, where earlier a circuit riding lawyer named Lincoln stayed, but most likely he was housed by sympathizers. The stretch between Sugar Creek and Marshall was considered one of the most hardcore Butternut areas in the region. It was an enclave that gleefully hid deserters and those fleeing the draft. The “headquarters” was a stone house along Big Creek known locally as Castle Fin. It may have been there that plots were plotted. He began making connections with Butternuts in the area, quite possibly with some in Sugar Creek. In a report to the Confederate government he said that Hines was operating out of Mattoon, Illinois
Hines and Castleman’s little “guerrilla network” did actually pull off some acts of sabotage, including blowing up some Union storehouses. But they wanted to do more. They still wanted to lead a band of Illinois and Indiana sympathizers to attack Camp Morton and enlist the prisoners in their little army. Travelling undercover once again, he rode to Sullivan to arrange for some dynamiting to take place there and then returned to Marshall. On September 29th Castleman left Marshall and rode across Sugar Creek to Terre Haute. Those along the National Road or in Macksville would have taken little note of handsome man riding by them At the Terre Haute depot he boarded a train to Sullivan, presumably to initiate the planned sabotage spree.
Quite unknown to him the braggadocio of some of Hines’ men in Mattoon about the plans was overheard and reported to authorities. Castleman and two co-conspirators were captured soon after stepping down from the train. It all seemed over for the man calling himself Clay Wilson.
But Thomas Hines, who was known for daredevil escapes from danger, had other ideas. He rushed to Terre Haute with some of his men with the idea of freeing Castleman when the train taking him to prison in Indianapolis stopped at Terre Haute. Hines and his men were ready as the train chugged in from the south. As later recounted by Vigo County Historian Mike McCormick in an excellent article about the event: “Strategically placed around the Terre Haute Depot, Hines’ spies awaited a cue to gun down the guards. Moments before the signal, a train loaded with Union soldiers chugged into the station. Castleman, flanked by sentinels, saw the infantrymen arrive. Hines did not. Attentive to the insurgents designs, Castleman hastily requested ca well-dressed man standing nearby to warn Hines to ‘back off.’ The man obliged; the warning averted a major incident in Terre haute on September 30, 1864.”
The train carrying Castleman and his men steamed east to Indianapolis. No one on it but Castleman was aware how close they came to bloodshed. Castleman was charged. The complaint read that he “did secretly and covertly lurk and travel about as a spy in the dress of a civilian.” He was convicted and sent to prison. After the war he was exiled to Europe until President Andrew Johnson pardoned him in 1866.
It was going to be a long, long war.
But men from Sugar Creek continued to don the blue uniform. Many of them were naïve young farm hands eager for adventure, only vaguely aware of the swirling currents that swept them into the coming whirlwind. They traded chores for the heady perfume of glory. Their enlistment papers were tickets to a different world beyond Sugar Creek and the Wabash. A nice uniform, a gun, money in their pockets, a little taste of glory, and then back home by Christmas as laureled heroes. It would be a grand reunion with loved ones, the hero striding back into a swell of admiration.
They would learn, though, and all too quickly. And they would mourn, and suffer, and watch as life ebbed out of friends on some hazed battleground. The whirlwind they marched into would define them, taunt them, haunt them for the rest of their lives. They would learn what millenia of soldiers before them realized all too late, that the declarers of wars, old and far from a battlefield, depend on the gullibility of young men.
But those were lessons still to be learned. Nearly a thousand Vigo County men enlisted in the two weeks after Fort Sumpter. That number grew ever larger over the summer. One of them was William Ray. He was 16. William and his older brother worked their widowed mother’s farm southwest of Macksville. You can also hear his pleas echo still, just like those of other boys over the centuries. “It will be okay, Ma. Nothing will happen to me. Lee can still run the farm, and little George is old enough now to help out more on the farm. You and the girls will be fine. Besides I’ll be home before you even miss me.” He enlisted May, 1861 as a Hundred Day Man in the 11th Indiana Infantry. After he was mustered out he returned alive and well as he had promised his mother. But he would go off to war again very soon. His next return home would be very different.
William joined the reorganized 11th Indiana Infantry. The 11th had originally been a regiment of 100 day men like William. When their enlistment was up and the men mustered out the unit was organized anew as a three year enlistment regiment. The 11th was led by Lew Wallace of Crawfordsville. Long before he wrote Ben Hur Wallace was a military man. He fought in the Mexican-American War as a teenager. He styled the regiment after the Zouaves, French infantry units known for their colorful uniforms.
Wallace chose their uniform which consisted of “a grey jacket with red trimming, a grey kepi with red braiding, a dark blue zouave vest, and grey pantaloons.” William must have looked grand in the uniform as the regiment was feted in Terre Haute and en route to Indianapolis. He was in Company “D” which was primarily made up of men and boys from Vigo County. Ray and the others were soon sent to the Paducah, Kentucky area to guard against Confederate troops heading north.
But young William was not to find the glory of war that may have inspired him. On November 11, 1861 he died, not by shell or bullet, but by disease. That day William and two other men in Company D perished. The cause was typhus, which took so many during the war. William died as the majority of those killed in the Civil War. 240,000 men died of diseases, more than double the number o those killed in action.
William Ray was brought back to Sugar Creek on November 22, 1861. Several of his buddies from the 11th were there to honor him. Along with his family they silently watched as his body lowered him into his grave at New Hope Cemetery.
There are some promises to their mothers young men are not allowed to keep.
Recently I was sent a citation about Taylorville. Since that little village has stirred so much interest, I wanted to post the links to the story. It appeared in The Normal Advance in 1909. The Advance was the yearbook of Indiana State Normal (now ISU) and featured essays, poetry and article by ISN students. It is quite well done and important because the students went to Taylorville and talked with some of the people. Thus it is an excellent primary source regarding Taylorville.
Below are photos of the story. If your browser does not open photos correctly let me know.
As the World Turns was my Grandmother’s favorite soap opera. Every day after the noon news on Channel 10 she would watch (well, listen as she was always bustling about) the lives, loves, and losses of those folks in Oakdale.
But Grandma’s soap was tame compared to the scandals that washed over Sugar Creek in the early 1880s, where tongues happily wagged themselves into exhaustion over the stories of near bigamy, illicit love and a spurned woman with a gun.
There was the story of that nice farmer named B.F. Brown in St. Mary’s. Rising as usual one morning Farmer Brown suddenly told his wife that he had to go to town and might not return for a day or two. She was not to worry. He hitched the wagon and headed to Terre Haute. There he sidled into a rooming house.
Mrs. Brown rose the next morning and went about her duties. In the back of her mind she wondered when her husband would get home. Hearing a noise she went to her door. And, as in many a fairy tale, she looked down upon the baby squirming on her doorstep. The little thing was wrapped only in a “wisp of hay.” Next to it was a note. Later, people could not remember exactly what was written on the missive, but that it was signed by a “Most Worshipful Master.” Mrs. Brown looked all around her, even to the sky, seeking a clue as to why this little package had found its way to her.
The Browns were a childless couple, and Mrs. Brown much loved children. She took the baby girl into her arms. Soon she was joyfully showing it to her neighbors. She could hardly wait until her husband returned so she could tell him all about the morning’s miracle. He soon returned. He was staggered by the news, but happy. They must raise the child as their own. All seemed set for a fairy tale ending.
But then there came the matter of an unpaid bill. A Dr. Taylor sent farmer Brown a bill. It went unpaid. Frustrated, Dr. Brown finally sued the new “father.” And then it all came out. When Mr. Brown climbed the stairs of the boarding house he was going to see his young unmarried niece, Julia Brown. Oddly, she had signed herself into the boarding house as Mrs. Jones. She had just given birth. Mr. Brown arranged for the doctor to care for “Mrs. Jones” and her baby daughter. After recovering, she and the baby took their leave of Terre Haute.
Conjecture laced with gossip eddied through Sugar Creek. Was it really Farmer Brown’s baby? Oh my god, had he committed incest? Do you remember that family a few miles west in the township? The one where the old man had made his daughter pregnant? Or was Mr. Brown just being a good man by shielding his young niece from scandal and giving his wife the child she always wanted? Answers were not forthcoming.
And poor Ida Gamron. Ida was the picture of the naïve farm girl. She lived on a farm in Sugar Creek with her widowed mother and her siblings. One day a young farmhand named James Elliott caught her eye. It soon turned into a courtship that turned into a marriage proposal. A preacher was spoken to. Ida excitedly had her wedding dress made by a local woman and dreamily awaited her long hoped for wedding day. Just days before the wedding Elliott suddenly left town, leaving Ida alone with her wedding dress, shame and tears. But naïve Ida was not to be trifled with. Soon after she marched to Terre Haute and filed suit against her footloose fiancé for seduction.
A year later James was found living in Hartford, Kansas. There he had proven himself to be a fast working swain, for he had already married another. His new wife was the daughter of a Vigo County family that had moved west. He was arrested and brought back to Terre Haute to face the jilted Ida. He was fined and sent on his way. As for Ida, she married a man from Paris, Illinois named Charles Cummins a few years later. Her second proposal had indeed turned into marriage, one that produced eight children. Ida eventually returned to Sugar Creek and died in West Terre Haute in 1937.
Mary Joab Mickleberry was a young widow. Called Molly, her husband had died after only three years of marriage. Molly was an attractive woman. She was blonde (or appeared to be), had a “well rounded figure” and outgoing personality. Needing a job to support herself, she went looking for work in Terre Haute. She went into the store of George Arbuckle at 6th and Wabash. Arbuckle was the son of Irish immigrants, and sure did he inherit a dose of the old blarney. George was a man in his sixties. His store sold general merchandise, but also offered custom made dresses for women. She went in and applied for a job.
Molly liked the gregarious Mr. Arbuckle and felt the interview had gone quite well. She was offered a job, or so she thought. But Arbuckle, she said, kept putting her off. What he did offer, Molly said, was a place in his bed. Soon they were repairing to Arbuckle’s hotel just around the corner from his shop. There, Molly swore, they made love. Soon, she believed, they fell in love and were engaged. Apparently not satisfied to be the wife of a merchant, she also wanted to be his employee. Eventually she went back to the store and claimed the job she thought had been on offer. George told her she was much too beautiful to be his shopgirl.
But Molly was not one to be daunted by rejection (or, seemingly, reality). As she later recounted to a newspaper writer: “
I went in in when we were engaged to be married, George saying he would rather marry me than have me accept a place in his store I very often wanted to leave saying ‘George, I don’t think you intend to marry me,’but he said he did and induced me to stay.”
She then said something that may not have been a threat, but eventually rang true:
“I told him that sometime he would regret marrying me… ‘
In her version George then said it was not so and he was too old a man to regret loving her. But following that encounter their meetings became fewer. Arbuckle later went to Indianapolis for a while, possibly in unrealized desire to escape the young woman that had come into his life. Molly nearly went crazy without him, she said. She followed him there, where, she said, he lovingly took her sleighriding and showed her a marvelous twelve-room house that would be their love nest. But it was not to be as the wedding date was never set.
Things had seemingly cooled down after they returned to Terre Haute. But Molly could not let her man go. In March, 1881, just as winter seemed to be waning finally, Molly got her gun and went to town. Arbuckle was taking a walk on a fine day when he realized Molly was behind him. When he turned she pulled a gun and shot at him. She missed. Instead the bullet meant for her lover lodged in the innocent arm of a Jane McMurtrie, who had not expected gunfire while shopping.
Not yet ready to take his last resting place, Arbuckle hurriedly ducked to the relative safety of Greiner’s Shoe Store. Molly pursued him, once again sighting the revolver on the man who spurned her. When Arbuckle saw that she had not cocked the pistol, he reached out and took her gun. He stared at Molly in shock and disbelief. Meanwhile, Mrs. McMurtrie watched her blood seep onto the sidewalk
Molly was not arrested. The situation was defused, though Mrs. McMurtrie later sued her.
Seeing it was no use to attempt reason with Molly, Mr. Arbuckle decided to put a state line between him and his unstable former lover. He moved to Paris, Illinois. After a while he felt safer. But then one day that following September he got word that Molly was on her way to Paris. Though he might be old, Arbuckle spryly mounted his horse with alacrity, leaving a message that if Molly came to look for him, he was “in the country.”
Molly strode off the train at the Paris station that morning clad in a blonde wig and a heavy waterproof coat. When she found that her “lover” was not at the hotel she returned to Terre Haute. But, Molly being Molly, went back to Paris that evening. This time she spied a man who looked like Arbuckle and sprang forward. The hotel clerk reached her just as she realized she was mistaken. She went away.
Deciding the hotel was a waste of time, Molly went to Arbuckle’s new store in Paris. Perhaps alerted by Arbuckle, a clerk stopped her as she entered the store. She proclaimed that Arbuckle had some letters she had written him and wanted them back. When she opened a small handbag the clerk saw a gun. The police were called.
A few days later Molly was back in Terre Haute ladling out her heart to a newspaper.
Her relationship with George, she said, had ruined her reputation because of the late night hours and sneaking around. But she loved him, even more than she did her late husband. She had not meant to kill him, only to make him suffer as she had for month after long month. And finally, “I always thought I would detest an old man as a lover, but George completely won my heart. He flattered me and called me his angel, his own little love.”
After settling the suit with Mrs. McMurtie Molly’s name all but disappeared from the newspapers. She likely was referred to an asylum. Whether she actually sought help is unknown. She disappeared afterwards. No one knows where she went, how she lived, or when she died
May met December in a house in western Sugar Creek in 1883. John Caldwell was a lifelong bachelor. He had lived in his father’s house all his life. After his father’s death he remained in the house with his sister and a niece who took care of him as he tended to their successful farm. But his sister Eleanor died in 1882. He began to take his meals at the home of his tenant Sam Misner. Mrs. Misner was a good cook and enjoyed Caldwell’s company, despite their age difference.
Each day they sat at the Misner table, eating together and talking. Then one day Sam came back from the fields. His children were there, but not his wife. There was no food on the table. Nowhere to be found was John Caldwell. The couple had run off together.
It did not take long for the tale to be told. Everyone talked about old man Caldwell running off with his tenant’s young wife. And leaving that poor man and and his babies all alone to fend for themselves. And that Caldwell had recently sold his farm and made a lot of money.
Caldwell’s long-time lawyer told the papers that it was not true. Caldwell he said had moved to Illinois. He had sold his house, but not to support a relationship with Mrs. Misner. He was forced to sell the farm to pay off the debts that were no fault of his own. He had had signed as security for other peoples’ loans and loaned out to much to neighbors in need. Caldwell’s own goodness had led to his downfall. As for Mrs. Misner, that she was also gone was a mere coincidence or that she had followed him without Caldwell being aware of her scheme.
The lawyer was soon taken to task by a woman from Sugar Creek who wrote a letter to the editor. She was not a lawyer, she said, but she knew a few things about life. Caldwell was a neighbor and she knew he was careful of his money. To those who might blame the young wife they should perhaps instead focus on a a man of so little honor that he “would steal into a neighbor’s home and take a wife from a husband and a mother from her children.” She reminded the lawyer and others that they should withhold judgment until both sides of the story were known.
Soon the story was known. Sam Misner filed a suit against Caldwell seeking $5,000.00 in damages. The errant couple returned together to Terre Haute to settle the case. A lesser sum was offered and accepted. A writer blithely noted that Caldwell and his lover would “head out west and grow with the country.”
John Cramer lived in Macksville with his wife and three children. He was an industrious man, and hard working. His dream was to save enough money to buy a small farm to support his wife of 14 years and their three children.. He found a suitable place near Effingham, Illinois he liked. On Christmas Eve, 1883, while he worked he sent his wife and one of their there children with a fifty dollar payment on the farm. She boarded a train that morning saying she would be home by evening.
Though the train went to Effingham Mrs. Cramer did not. Instead she stepped off the train just across the border in Marshall. Who should be waiting for her, but a Macksville neighbor named Belcher. Now Mr. Belcher, no matter what his other qualities, did not look like a ladies’ man. He was ungainly, with a face described as one “that would scare a women nearly to death rather than impress her.” But there he was along with two of his children. The group bought tickets to Terre Haute. Once there the newly formed couple went to the Crapo Hotel. There Belcher signed the register as “Belcher, wife and two children.”
Meanwhile John Cramer was growing worried about his wife. They should have been home by now. Then a friend whispered that she was not coming home and why. Cramer left his two remaining children with a neighbor and went to Terre Haute. He met with his wife and Belcher. He was willing to forget and forgive the whole thing if his wife would come back home. It was not to be.
In reviewing the Cramer scandal, a writer who thought he was much funnier than he was opined that if he wanted understanding and commiseration he should meet with Sam Misner.
Tune in tomorrow, same time same station…
As farmers continued to prosper, other things were happening in Sugar Creek. In the decade leading to the Civil War several factors were coalescing that were essential to community formation. These would change the township from an expanse of often isolated people and farms to a broader “community.
Churches both bonded the township and divided it, particularly over liquor and slavery.
All the early churches were established in the township, Macksville not having a sufficient number of any single faith to warrant a church. The first church in Sugar Creek was located southwest of Macksville. Called the New Hope Presbyterian Church it was erected in 1824. Each family in the congregation provided a log of black poplar for the building. A lecture forcefully delivered at the church in 1828 was the opening shot in a social war that would echo throughout Sugar Creek for the next century.
Samuel Baldridge, the second Presbyterian minister in Indiana, was born in North Carolina in 1780. He, himself, was a product of a religious “schism.” When he chose to become a Presbyterian his father disowned him. His father was a Scots-Irish immigrant and a strict adherent of the Covenanters, a strict sect of Presbyterians born in 17th-century Scotland to combat their perceived interference of the Stuart kings in Presbyterian affairs. When Samuel chose the more mainstream Presbyterian Church, His father William would have none of it and chose his brand of faith over his son.
With that past trailing him Baldridge strode boldly to the pulpit of the tiny log church in Sugar Creek and set afire the brimstone of his holy wrath. His subject was Temperance. Drink, perfidious alcohol, was a defiler of the flock and an affront to God and all those who feared him. Some in the log pews nodded their heads or added a chorus to his booming voice. Still others emphatically shook their heads no and headed for the door.
The battle between “wets” and dries” was to be fought on a regular basis for the next nine decades. It was a war that never seemed to end and its battlefronts were scattered across the township. This first confrontation literally brought down the church. So incensed by the temperance sermon some of the original families would later return to the church with teams of horses and chains and literally tore out the logs they had offered for the church building. Not to be deterred from his self-ordained mission, Baldridge left behind Sugar Creek’s first temperance society, 101 members strong.
A Methodist Church, Pisgah, opened in the northwest part of the township in 1840. Built of hewn logs, it was covered in whipsaw weatherboarding to make it more attractive. Bethesda, another Methodist Church was built a mile west of Macksville from 1849 to 1852. The church was a simple frame building and its burial ground became the resting place of a great many. These churches and the others that followed not only brought together congregations, but also became part parts of a larger community.
New Hope, which had to be physically rebuilt after the exodus of non-temperance and their sundering of the walls of the church, seemed to be particularly prone to conflict. This time the internal strife was over that most divisive element in American society, slavery. Presbyterian orthodoxy held that slavery was a “divine institution” approved by God. This doctrine did not sit well with some of the more thoughtful in the congregation, especially the Goodman brothers.
John and William were the sons of Sugar Creek pioneer Micajah Goodman. John was among the very first children born in the township, thus laying claim to being a native son. Both brothers came to see slavery as an “immoral and wicked institution” that was “a barrier… to progress of the christian religion.” Finding themselves increasingly at odds with the church’s doctrines, they and a splinter group of ten other members left New Hope. In 1849 they founded the West Vigo Congregational Society and built the church four years later.
Of course the most unusual church “founding” in Sugar Creek was the one “established” far away across the Atlantic Ocean, St. Mary of the Woods. It was the first Catholic church across the Wabash. Most are aware of the story of Mother Theodore Guerin’s arduous journey from France along with five other members of the Sisters of Providence. Their mission was to establish a school for girls. The small, but hardy, group arrived in Sugar Creek in the Fall of 1840.
The school and its church would become a magnet for Catholics and a small village grew around it, including my Chrisman ancestors. It was at the village church that the Chrisman’s were born baptized, lived, married and buried. Two generations worked there or in the coal mine owned by the Sisters. My grandmother scrubbed the school’s floors and was quite proud when her grandson taught there seventy years later.