Newton County,
Indiana
Pioneer Families
It was no uncommon thing to find a
large family of children
among the first settlers. If the husband and wife were of fairly robust health and lived
past middle life, from six to
ten children usually encircled the hearthstone, and it was no uncommon thing to find
families numbering as high as
fifteen. If there was anything more than another that the pioneers rejoiced in it
was a family of good, strong
boys and girls,—good boys and girls, mind you; for parents then were as sensitive
about flat failures as they
are to-day. They knew as well as we do that much more depends on the quality than the
quantity of the increase of
population. The present generation has learned very much that was unknown to the pioneer;
some of which is well worth
knowing as it relates to hygiene and reproduction. "Other some" would better be
unlearned, but there are few
people who can learn to unlearn. And so it is, habits, desires, and society
"fads" are stronger than the
strong-minded. To-day, among those who make any pretentions to paternity, the average
number of children to the
family may run from two to four; others there are, endeavoring to cheat nature out of
the whole crop.
Whatever other faults and failures
the pioneers had (and
doubtless they had many), failure to be fruitful and multiply could not be reckoned among them.
At the present rate of
diminution, we shall soon be on a level with France, with her two children to the
married pair among the ban
tons, leaving the sustaining of the population to the poorer and less prepared classes, who
have always borne more than
their share of this natural burden. There is no good reason why a husband and wife
should bring into existence
more children than they can reasonably hope to care for; and, if we are to have the
survival of the fittest,
there is still less reason why strong and healthful husbands and wives should bring in none at
all. It will be good for the
world when the time comes—if ever it does —that none but the true and brave, the
honest and good, will be
engaged in this cooperative industry; and, when public opinion will be so formed and
ripened as to reduce the
procreation of paupers, criminals, and imbeciles to the minimum number.
Among those in our county who have
stood pre-eminently at the
head of large families, was William Gregory, a remarkably vigorous and energetic
pioneer, who was born in
Pittsylvania county, Virginia, February 8, 1776. His father's name was also William, and
his mother's maiden name,
Sally Graves, both natives of Virginia. When but a boy, young William's parents
moved to Washington county,
Tennessee. Soon after their arrival his mother died. About two years after this
sad event, his father married
again, and soon after moved to North Carolina where he passed the remainder of
his days as a local Methodist
preacher. He died at the age of seventy years.
The subject of our sketch was first
married in North Carolina,
March 25, 1795, to Miss Nancy Laws. In 1806 he moved to Kentucky where he remained
until February, 1811, when he
came to Harrison county, this State (then a Territory), and settled near Corydon.
Here his wife died, May 15,
1814. To them had been born eleven children between July 19, 1786, and May 16, 1814,
ten of whom were living at
the time of the mother's death, which occurred within thirty minutes after the
birth of the eleventh child.
Their names and dates of birth were as follows: James, February 9, 1796; John,
July 1, 1798; Beverly, June
11, 1800; Katy, April 24, 1802; Thomas, April 1, 1804; Daniel, May 5, 1806; Susan,
March 29, 1808; the eighthwas
stillborn; Nathan, March 22, 1810; Levi, January 22, 1812, and Nancy, May 14,
1814. Shortly after the death
of his first wife, Mr. Gregory was married, September 1, 1814, to Mrs. Lucy Moffet, a
young widow with three small
children, and be it said to his credit that he cared for them as tenderly as for his
own. This second wife in due
time added eleven more children to this already large family, as follows: Wiley, October
9, 1815; Dennis and Robert,
September 13, 1817; David, May 12, 1819; Fanny, April 17, 1821; twins stillborn in
1823; Hiram, June 14, 1825;
Grant, February 1, 1827; Milton W., April 7, 1829; and Eliza D., December 15, 1831.
Many old citizens will
remember John Moffet, the tanner, who for many years lived in and near Martinsville;
also, Mrs. Grant Stafford,
his sister, Mr. Stafford's first wife. These were Mr. Gregory's step-children. Grant
Stafford's second wife was
Miss Fanny Gregory, half-sister to his first wife. After Mr. Stafford's death, she became the
wife of the late John W.
Ferguson. The exact date of Mr. Gregory's coming to our county is not given, but it
was early in the twenties.
They first settled on the east side of White Lick on the road from Lyon's mills to
Mooresville, where he engaged
in milling and farming until 1832, when he purchased a farm in the northwest corner
of Greene township on the
road leading from Martinsville to Indianapolis.
This farm is now owned by attorney C.
G. Renner, of Martinsville.
Here, for eight or ten years, Mr. Gregory added merchandising to his farming. On the 17th day of May, 1835, his second
wife died. Eighteen of his
twenty-two children were then living. In August of the same year he made another
matrimonial venture. This was
with Mrs. Polly Lang, widow of James Lang, a very early settler. She had five
daughters and three sons
living, all grown, excepting the youngest son. This match proved to be ill-sorted and
brought plenty of trouble,
not only to the principal parties, but to their children as well, who all felt more or less
aggrieved at the unpleasantness.
After much court maneuvering, a divorce was obtained and peace was restored "all
along the line." The truth
was, there was no congeniality between them. They were both stern and unyielding. She
was a thoroughbred Calvinist,
and he an "overflowing" Methodist. In those days soda and acid would not
effervesce much quicker than
"free grace" and "unconditional election" when thrown together. But Mr. Gregory was
"foreor- dained" to be a
patriarch, as the sequel shows, for after his divorce from "Aunt Polly," he married,
September 28, 1840, Mrs.
Naomi Scott, who had two children. She was the daughter of John and Susan Jackson,
and sister of James Jackson,
elder of the Christian church at Martins- ville, and clerk of the Morgan Circuit
Court during the forties.
With her he passed the remaining years of his life, adding six more children to his
remarkably large family.
William G. was born July 11, 1841; Wallace, December 18, 1842; Marion, December 6,
1843; Scott, September 20,
1847; Edgar, June 22, 1849; and Mary, March 19, 1851.
The panic of 1840 dealt Mr. Gregory a
hard blow. He was then in his
sixty-sixth year, a time in life when most men are ready to "throw up the sponge."
But he was not a man to "sulk
in his tent," or "strike his colors" as long as there was a foot of tenable ground on
the battlefield. He gathered
up the fragments of his estate in 1843 and moved to Iowa, then a Territory, and
settled about twenty- two
miles northwest of Burlington. Having served in General Harrison's army in the War of
1812, he received a land
warrant, which he laid on eighty acres of prairie land adjoining his homestead. He held an
enormous sod- plow, dragged
by five yoke of oxen, until the last foot of sod was turned up to the sun for the first
time. Here Mr.
Gregory found more "snakes in the
grass" than he had encountered
hitherto in all the ups and downs of his eventful life. His son Milton, at that
time a lad of fifteen, and
principal driver, says, "When a rattlesnake got tangled in the grass about the cutter, the plow
was allowed to hold itself
until a quietus was put upon the rattler." When finishing a land, as the grassy strip grew
narrower with each furrow,
the snakes would crawl out of the grass and over the plowed land trying to escape; but
he became so expert with his
ox-whip that he could clip the head off one nearly every snap of the lash. One day he
"lynched" seventeen of "the
little prairie devils" without judge or jury, and it was no great day for snakes
either.
Here upon the broad prairie of the
West he made his last home.
Far, far away from where he gave the first infant wail; far from the scenes of
childhood and first love,
with his children scattered far and wide—some dead, some in childhood, some busy with the
concerns of life; himself
well worn with the toils, cares, and sorrows of a mortal existence. His journey from the
cradle to the grave came to
an end September 25, 1858, in his eighty- third year.
Mr. Gregory had lived in six
different States, had been four
times married, was the father of twenty-nine children and step-father of thirteen. His first
child was born in 1798 and
the last one in 1851. Thus, for the time of fifty- three years, his ears had been accustomed
to the wails of babies and
the racket of wideawake children. He was a large, strong man, rather stern in manner
and full of energy. A man of
good business tact, always providing well for his family, large as it continued
to be for more than forty
years. His posterity is scattered far and wide, a respectable and respected people, many
of whom have passed their
lives in Morgan county. Two of his children are well known residents of
Martinsville—Milton W.
Gregory, to whom we are indebted for
many of the items in this
sketch, and Mrs. William Edwards. At the time of Mr. Gregory's first marriage, people
had not been educated to
believe that "marriage is a failure." When the characteristics of manly men and womenly
women are so changed or
obliterated through luxury and false ideas of life,—when home is the last place they
wish to be, and the least
cared for, and when women would rather tend lap dogs than lap babies, when both parents
desire nothing higher than to
dress, flirt, and have a good time,—then it must be conceded, marriage is a failure,
man a fraud, and woman a
cheat. Whether or not marriage is a success or failure, depends upon who is married more
than on any of the external
circumstances of life.
One of our near neighbors in 1832 was
Solomon Collins. He was the
head of one of nine families of that name who came from Tennessee at the earliest period
of our settlement. Several of
them lived near the mouths of Sycamore and Highland creeks. "Old Sol," as he was
called, then lived in the
river bottom, about three miles north of Mar-
tinsville, and was a fair specimen of
a backwoods Tennesseean. He
was no bookworm—knew not a letter or figure in the books—much less was he a
dude or a "gentleman
of leisure." He was a good neighbor
to good neighbors, but woe to
him who undertook to tread upon the toes of "Old Sol." During the summer of
1832, he, with the help of
his daughter "Jinse," the best farmhand in the household, cultivated a field of corn on
the bottom lands.
They had worked hard—that is, Jinse
had—and a fine crop was the
result. Down on the bottom
ground near Cox's (High Rock) mills,
lived old Tommy Clark and his son Jim. They were full of "crookedness." Among other
annoying things, they kept
breachy horses and cattle that, like an invading army, were always foraging in every
direction. As one settler
said,"It took a fence horse-high, bull-strong, and pig-tight to beat Old Tom." In the
fall, Clark's horses and cows
held daily picnics in "Old
Sol's" corn field. When this
came to his ears, and a
personal investigation proved
the report true, the air
nearby seemed to turn blue, for
Mr. Collins was not a regular
church attendant, neither had
he learned to curb his temper or
bridle his tongue; but he
could keep his own counsel.
He was at that time the owner of
seven dogs. Now, one or two
dogs can live on the
crumbs that fall from the rich
man's table, but seven dogs are
too many boarders under the
table of a poor man; so the
dogs were in poor condition,
and very much lacking in
snap and vim. Collins killed
a beef and began putting his
dogs in training for the fray.
He said "nine days was all he
wanted to put 'Bull' and
'Caesar' in good workin" order."
He told one of the neighbors
that "if them cows git into
my corn ag'in, old Tom Clark
won't hev head nor tail on
'em." A peace- loving
neighbor informed Clark of
what was coming, and averted
a calamity to the cows, as
well as a lawsuit; for Clark
took in the situation and kept
his trespassing animals at
home.
It is a true saying that "bad fences
make breachy animals and bad
neighbors." A good farmer
does not like to see his own
animals in his wheat or
corn, much less to see other
people's stock trespassing on
his lands. The best farmers
among the early settlers made
and kept up good fences, and
consequently, had but
little breachy stock. But
many communities had those among
them who were careless as to
where their domestic
animals roamed, knowing full
well that they would breach any
common fence. Nay more, they
were known to pass by,
seeing their horses in a
neighbor's field and never
offering to remove them, and
if remonstrated with, would
reply, tantalizingly, by saying,
"Build up your fences." It
took Indiana fifty years to
learn that it is the duty of
every man to fence against
his own stock. There are
those who yet think that they
ought to be permitted by
law to forage the unfenced
lands and public highways.
The Legislature wrestled many
sessions with the fence
question, all to no purpose;
for many members who wished
to be returned were afraid of
those voters who
wanted to keep the State as a
sort of a big ranch. They
finally passed an act defining a
"lawful fence," over, or through
which, if an animal went, the
owner was liable for
damages. Two fence viewers
were to be elected for each
township. Nobody wanted this
thankless office, and the
people ridiculed it by electing
the longest and shortest men
in the township—the one to
view the height, and the other
the cracks of the fence.
Miss Jinsey Collins was the strongest
woman in the county. She was
about medium height,
weighing 130 pounds. It was
said that she could
shoulder three bushels of
wheat, standing in a half-bushel.
She could swing an ax like a
logger, and was a good hand
in a clearing. She could ride
as wild a horse as the
average man. In winter time
she was usually attired in
linsey-woolsey, with a red bandana
tied about her head. She had
dark brown eyes and hair,
with complexion to match,
and was more useful than
showy. She moved away with her
father's family, and we lost
all trace of her.
One Christmas Sol brought home two
jugs of whisky,
one of which he suspended with a rope
from the joist to a height to
meet the mouths of the
smaller children; the other
jug was set on a shelf for his
private use, and for visiting
neighbors. Many kinsfolk and
friends dropped in to see Sol
on that day and were
feasted on pork, venison, and
wild turkey, together with com
bread, hominy, and dried
pumpkin, all plentifully
interspersed and leveled off with
stew, sling, and eggnog. It was
a merry Christmas at Old
Sol's house, long to be
remembered by the participants. Even the "seven sons of thunder," as
he called his dogs, were not
forgotten, but had an
additional allowance, besides
the ordinary share of crumbs;
for next to his family, Sol's
affections went out to his
dogs and gun, and if you
wished to carry a broken nose,
you only had to kick one of
his "seven thunders"
unlawfully.
People of to-day can have but a faint
idea of the tie that bound
men and dogs in the days of
howling wolves, snuffing bears,
and purring panthers. Sol's
dogs were his bodyguard by
day and his sentinels by night.
Daniel in the lion's den was
safer than a stranger
would have been prowling
around Mr. Collins's
domicile after nightfall. 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 wehave 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 hovering 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 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 Anderson 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 forgave, 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 began 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 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 somewhat 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 something 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 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 disposed, he
could have been a noted prize
fighter or football 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."
