John de Vere was born on a farm at Greenmeadow, New York. His
grandfather, Benoni De Vere, came from Tarrytown to Greenmeadow in 1796
and was the first settler there.
John’s father was a representative of the sturdy men of those stirring
times and his mother was a woman of great strength of character. Nine
children were reared in a veritable wilderness and their destinies were
governed by the restrictions of the times. Six days of the week were
spent in hard labor on the farm and the seventh lived in John’s memory
as a horrible dream. On this day, winter and summer, instead of five
they arose at six o’clock. Milking and breakfast over, the whole family
repaired to the parlor for family prayers, which ceremony lasted an
hour. They then hurried off to church where for two mortal hours the
good dominie preached Calvinism unabridged. Woe to the culprit who
fidgeted or betrayed any lack of interest, and John sat on those hard
seats without moving a muscle until his bones ached.
Relatives and friends usually dined with them on Sunday and the
children “waited.” After the sermon in all its bearings had been
discussed, the sweetmeats and tea--which appeared on company days--were
sparingly dealt out to the children and they took what else remained on
the table, John inwardly vowing that when he grew up, he would have all
the sweetmeats and tea he wanted.
Pilgrim’s Progress, Baxter’s Saints Everlasting Rest, Fox’s Book of
Martyrs and the Bible were the only books allowed, and a funereal
atmosphere pervaded everything. When the guests left and the chores
were done, the children went to bed thankful for the Sunday less.
Naturally a student, John worked hard, saved his money, studied every
spare moment of his time and eventually was graduated with honors
from Union College; then, broken in health, he went South to accept
the Chair of Ancient Languages at Vicksburg College, Vicksburg,
Mississippi, where he met and married Miss Bessie Ragsdale, a beautiful
southern girl and an heiress; meantime pursuing the study of law and
was admitted to the bar of that State two years after his arrival there.
In the sunny South on the bank of “The Father of Waters,” their life
was a poet’s dream, “Where the sweet magnolia blossoms grew as white as
snow, and they never thought that sorrow, grief nor pain would come.”
True, there were mutterings of war, but none believed they would amount
to anything, and when the firing on Fort Sumpter was heralded abroad
people said it would be a short war. After the secession of Mississippi
and the formal election of Jefferson Davis as President of the Southern
Confederacy, the defeat of Commodore Montgomery at Memphis, its
occupation by the Union forces, and the concentration of forces upon
Vicksburg, they knew then that war in all its horrors was upon them.
This last Confederate stronghold on the Mississippi which had refused
to surrender to Farragut’s fleet was strongly fortified. General
Grant’s attempt to change the channel of the river, leaving Vicksburg
some distance back, had failed, and the people were still confident
until he attacked them from the rear. The railroads were destroyed and
for six weeks the city was cannonaded unceasingly night and day. The
siege of Vicksburg was John De Vere’s last picture of Mississippi; the
city battered to pieces, the streets red with blood, two gallant young
Confederate officers shot dead at his door, his home in ruins.
Hearing that he was about to be pressed into the Southern Army, he
managed, through the influence of his wife’s family, to get on board
a boat bound for St. Louis, taking what little money he could scrape
together. His wife and children with the faithful Reuben and Margaret
joined him the next morning and they started for the last-named city
where he hoped to earn enough to take him North.
Will he ever forget that sail up the mighty stream so full of snags and
timber from the far North? That river which has played so important
a part in the destiny of our nation? In 1542, its muddy waters
received the fever-racked body of its discoverer. Down this stream
came Marquette with his devoted Canadian followers in their birch-bark
canoes, “ready to seek new nations towards the South Sea who are still
unknown to us, and to teach them of our God.” LaSalle, Iberville,
Bienville and many others floated before his mental vision. The levees,
which were built before each river plantation by the owners’ slaves,
were simply artificial mud-banks sometimes strengthened by ribs of
timber and sometimes not. These answered very well so long as kept in
repair. An unusual flood, of course, was apt to destroy them, but slave
labor was cheap. Mr. De Vere noted with dismay their present neglected
condition. The largest and most substantial was the one over Yazoo
Pass twelve miles above Vicksburg; but this was in bad shape, and he
pictured the wholesale destruction which would follow the inevitable
spring flood, and the dank pools left by the receding waters, filling
the air with deadly miasma.
On the fourth day of their journey they reached St. Louis. Mr. McElwee,
a member of the “Christian Commission,” which did such noble work in
the armies, offered them the shelter of his home until work could be
found and they gratefully accepted his offer. He used his influence
and one day Thomas Murphy from a settlement near Lake Crevecœur, about
thirteen miles west of St. Louis, offered Mr. De Vere the position of
teacher in their school at a salary of fifty dollars per month and
the use of a log house belonging to him. Autumn found them installed
in their new quarters. Mrs. De Vere, accustomed to every luxury, yet
accepted her lot uncomplainingly; and with the assistance of Reuben
and Margaret the rude house was made to appear quite home-like. It
consisted of two rooms, a living-room and a sleeping-room. Mr. and Mrs.
De Vere and the children occupied the latter, and all that the bed
would not hold were stored away on the floor. Reuben and Margaret slept
on the floor of the living-room.
Time passed more quickly than they feared it would. Christmas came
and went, but Mr. De Vere’s step was not so springy as formerly. His
head ached continually and memory failed. All night long he tossed and
moaned but stern duty demanded his services and when morning came he
sought the school-house tired in mind and body. No butter nor milk;
coarse corn bread, sweet potatoes and pork constituted their daily
fare, but no one complained. Coffee at twenty dollars a pound was not
to be thought of and they all declared corn coffee delicious.
One morning immediately after school was called and the arithmetic
class was on the floor, for no apparent reason, Mr. De Vere dismissed
them. This he did three times in succession, and each time a general
titter went round. Suddenly Elisha Vedder, a great lubberly fellow,
rose to his feet and in a ringing voice said, “Shame, you cowards!
Don’t you see that our teacher is a sick man?” Then going up to Mr. De
Vere, he said: “Mr. De Vere, your wife is not very well and wants you
to come home with me, and George Murphy will bring the doctor”; at the
same time putting on his own and his teacher’s hat. Mr. De Vere leaned
heavily upon him, and when they reached the house he fell on the bed,
too sick to undress. No doctor lived nearer than St. Louis, but George
Murphy on Elisha’s mare was flying like the wind after one, and by
evening, when the doctor arrived, Mr. De Vere was raving in delirium.
After a short examination and a few intelligent questions, Dr. Hoff,
the physician summoned, took Mrs. De Vere aside and said, “I need not
question further, the diagnosis is clear. It is typhoid and about the
end of the second week. An ordinary man would have added to his chances
for recovery by having spent the time in bed. Though a very sick man, I
trust that we may be able to pull him through. Who is to help you?”
Reuben, who had been stationed near his master’s bed, caught the last
words and exclaimed, “Who but me, Massa?”
Eyeing him critically, the doctor said: “Ever had any experience in
fevers?”
“Yes, Massa. Yaller Jack, break bone, intermittent, remittent,
congestive, typhoid, small pox--”
“I reckon you have then,” returned the doctor. “Where were you raised?”
“New Orleans, Massa.”
“Ever worked in the charity hospital there?”
“Law me, Massa, I has so!”
Doctor Hoff looked satisfied, and after giving careful directions left,
promising to come the next day.
Needless to dwell on the anxious weeks to follow. Reuben never left
his post, faithfully recording every symptom even when others would
gladly have relieved him. His black lips were almost constantly moving
in prayer and who shall say that they did not penetrate to the “Throne
of Grace.” At last the change came and when Doctor Hoff paid his next
visit, he grasped those black hands and in a tone of profound respect
said: “Reuben, your master will live and you, not I, have saved his
life.”
Falling on his knees, Reuben poured forth his soul in an earnest
prayer. Unconsciously, the doctor knelt beside him, bowing his head
on those faithful black shoulders, and the man of science and the
descendant of Ham were one in the presence of their Maker. A silence as
of death followed and then a voice low and sweet, but trembling with
emotion, came from the doorway:
“On Christ, the solid rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.”
The dim morning light, with the stars still twinkling in the heavens,
the rude log house in a strange country,--the picture is not soon
forgotten.
How the tedious weeks of convalescence were brightened by those honest
people. They could not do enough and blamed themselves for former
neglect. Delicacies from down the river came by the basketful; fruits
from New Orleans, fresh vegetables, tender chickens and everything
which kind hearts could suggest and ingenuity procure. Elisha Vedder
was untiring and his horse always at their disposal.
Letters from Greenmeadow contained sad news. Mr. De Vere’s brother had
been severely wounded in the battle of Gettysburg and many dear to him
were fighting for their country. His mother could not become reconciled
to the fact that her son had married what she termed a “Creole.”
It was April now and although Mr. De Vere had not taught school since
February, the kind people of Crevecœur insisted on paying his salary,
and the family were preparing to leave for the North. At Nootwyck, New
York, was a good opening for a lawyer, and Andrew Genung, president of
the savings bank there, had written him urging him to come; and only
too glad to do so, Mr. De Vere answered saying that he would start
in April. Now that the time had come to say good-bye to these more
than friends, his heart failed him. Doctor Hoff and Elisha Vedder had
particularly endeared themselves to him and though neither of them
would accept a cent of remuneration, he exacted a promise that if he
could ever serve them in any way, they would let him know.
The morning they left, the whole neighborhood assembled to see them
off. Mrs. Murphy had provided a generous lunch-basket and her eyes were
red with weeping. Mr. Murphy clumsily concealed his sorrow and Elisha
Vedder was nowhere to be seen, but Reuben’s diligent search disclosed
him behind the house, shaking with ill-suppressed emotion.
“Now, Massa ’Lish, don’t give way to idle grief. Jes’ run along and
saddle Jinnie. Massa Murphy wants you to lead the way.”
Elisha obeyed willingly, and after a tearful parting and promises to
write often, they were off. No one seemed inclined to talk. Nothing
but the rolling Missouri broke the stillness. Their way led along its
banks and in sight of Lake Crevecœur, and the mocking-bird’s voice
was heard imitating first one bird and then another. Just as they were
leaving the lake behind them, Mr. De Vere turned for a last look and
said, “Farewell to Crevecœur! No more does that word to me mean ‘broken
heart,’ but ‘grateful heart.’”
A little after noon they reached St. Louis where they were met by
Doctor Hoff, and after again and again thanking him for all his
kindness, the De Veres said good-bye to Missouri and soon were speeding
northward.
Mr. De Vere’s brother-in-law, Peter Brown, met them at a hamlet west
of the Shawangunks which they had crossed by stage from Middleburgh,
bundled them into his great wagon, cracked his whip over his horses’
heads and in a little over an hour set them down at his home in
Greenmeadow. Oh, that welcome home! Can words describe it? Dear old
mother, with her silver hair, forgot all differences and the welcome
accorded her ‘baby’s’ wife made Bessie feel that she was one of them in
very truth.
Peter Brown was a generous provider, but to-day his table groaned
under its weight of good things. Such deliciously sweet white bread
and butter, steaming roast chickens, cranberries; and with appetites
whetted by their ride over the hills, the hungry wayfarers did ample
justice to everything.
Bessie’s sweet ways won the love of all, and when John told that, but
for her, his heart many times would have failed, how she had lost
everything and used all her influence to prevent his being forced into
the Confederate service, their glowing eyes expressed the welcome
addition she was.
The children were duly admired and all points of resemblance settled.
John De Vere’s mother positively detested negroes, regarding them
as all alike, and as a race of filthy, lying, lazy thieves. This
condition, of course, was due to the system of slavery, but Reuben and
Margaret’s devotion was regarded by her as a special dispensation of
Providence and her heart went out to them.
Anxious to be up and doing, John De Vere made arrangements to begin
at once in his new field of labor, and another month found them
comfortably settled at Nootwyck. It was a fortunate time. The village
was being boomed by “The Consolidated Iron-Mining Company” which
employed several hundred men. The town had been bonded for the Valley
Railroad and the route surveyed. Prospects were good, for with this
valley opened up to the outside world, its wonderful resources would be
developed.
But oh, the uncertainty of human plans! Fifteen years had passed;
the iron mine had long since shut down; the coal mine was unsteady
and the Valley Railroad, after tunneling the mountain, penetrated to
Elmdale--a short distance south of Nootwyck--and stopped. People along
the promised line were powerless, and with the apathy born of repeated
disappointments, they submitted to the inevitable.