He further telegraphed "Devil Anse" Hatfield and several others of the
family:
Will be there. Meet me on arrival.
Another telegram read:
Get this in newspapers, but not as coming from me.
Another telegram went forward later as a news item:
"It is reported here that a dozen armed men from Kentucky and
West Virginia are secreted on the cars of the Al. G. Field
Minstrels, to resist arrest of one of their number who is
reported with the minstrels."
Of course all this was false. When the minstrel troupe arrived, hundreds
were at the depot. Alfred was one of the first to leave the train. The
officers and many others were aware of the falsity of the published
statement, but hundreds were deceived by the sensational reports.
The owner of the paper wherein the reports originated assured Alfred
they had been imposed upon and the columns of the paper were open to
anything he might dictate for publication. Introducing Alfred to his
city editor, the owner of the paper remarked: "I have requested Mr.
Field to prepare a statement for publication. We want to do what is
right by him."
The matter was submitted to the editor. He reminded Alfred that it did
not answer the article published by them but was a boost for his
minstrels.
Alfred replied: "I realize the matter published was false, but the dear
public has gained the idea that I am a desperado. They will only
remember this a day or two. If I endeavor to contradict the published
reports, it will keep it in their minds. This matter I submit will
benefit me. A denial such as you have in mind will not do me any good."
While this advertising was not the sort Alfred desired, he was bound to
make the most of it. The theatres were packed to their capacity during
the three or four weeks the opposition worked the press with the silly
matter; although many newspapers treated it as a joke. For a few weeks
Alfred was a living curiosity, pointed out by some as a desperado to be
shunned, sought by others to be idolized. Surely, human nature is past
understanding.
It is dangerous to try to blacken the character of your opponent as it
invariably places one's own under the spotlight and they'll find spots
you were sure were never visible.
* * * * *
Ed Boggs, now Secretary to the Governor of the State, was at the time
engaged in the drug business and managed the Opera House in Charleston,
W. Va. The gross receipts were the largest in the history of the opera
house. Alfred carried his share of the money in a satchel after the
show. Boggs accompanied him to the ferry. There was no bridge spanning
the river in those days. Boggs' store was on the corner of Water Street
near the ferry landing. The ferry boat was on the opposite side. Boggs
suggested they step into the drug store and smoke a cigar until the boat
returned. Alfred, arriving at his private car--the wife was a
visitor--the first question propounded was: "Where have you been to this
hour of the night? Where's your satchel?" Alfred nearly fainted. He
rushed out on the platform of the car. The ferry boat had left on the
last trip of the night. Alfred was not clear in his mind as to where he
had left the satchel, whether in the drug store or on the boat. He
floundered along the banks of the river, endeavoring to locate a skiff
that he might recross the river. His fears were that he had left the
satchel on the forecastle of the ferry boat where he stood smoking while
crossing the river.
The Kanawha is a narrow stream as it flows by Charleston, yet it seemed
an ocean that night. Alfred's slumbers were neither lengthy nor
soothing. One hour previous to the scheduled time of the ferry boat's
arrival on her first trip of the morning, he stood on the shore gazing
across the river. When the boat was within four feet of her dock, Alfred
leaped aboard, and began inquiries. The captain said: "I was at the
wheel. If you left your money on the boat you might as well stay on this
side. There was a rough crowd aboard after the show. That money's split
up and partly drunk up by this time." Mr. Boggs had not arrived. The
clerk searched the drug store. He urged the minstrel man to assist in
exploring the mysterious recesses behind the counters. No satchel was
found. Mr. Boggs was late coming to the store. "He always gets here
before this," the clerk asserted. Alfred could not restrain himself
longer. He fairly ran to the residence of Mr. Boggs. The servant
brought the message: "Mr. Boggs was not well this morning. He would
probably not go to the store until afternoon."
"Jumping Jupiter, Holy Moses," and other expressions were suppressed by
the highly wrought-up minstrel, as he stood on the doorstep. Say to Mr.
Boggs: "Mr. Field must see him, if only for a moment. Must see him at
once."
"Howdy, Al, I thought you were on your way to Huntington."
"No, our train does not leave until eight-thirty. I only have
twenty-five minutes. Are you going to the store?" Alfred tried to look
unconcerned as he asked the question: "Did I leave my satchel in your
drug store last night? I feel sure I did."
Boggs gazed at him in blank amazement. "Your satchel with all that money
in it? You don't mean to tell me you left that satchel somewhere and are
not certain where?"
"Oh, I am pretty certain I left it in your store."
"Well, if you left the satchel in my drug store it is there yet."
"I am pretty sure I did."
"But you're not certain," persisted Boggs.
After every corner and nook of the store had been searched, Alfred went
behind the counters. Again he looked under them. Boggs did not seem to
be greatly interested in the search. He seated himself at a desk as
Alfred rose from his knees, from exploring a dark corner, and inquired
in an unconcerned tone, "Find it?" Alfred was irritated. He did not
reply. The ferry boat whistle sounded. The bell was tapping. Alfred
looked at Boggs. He was still at the desk.
"Good-bye, I'm going. I guess the Hatfields haven't exclusive privileges
in West Virginia. I think I'll join them to get even. I either left that
satchel in this drug store or on that boat. That's a cinch."
Boggs raised his eyes. "Well, if you only knew where you left your
satchel you'd have a better chance to recover it."
"Well, I'm going," replied Alfred, moving towards the door.
"Good-bye," Boggs shouted. Alfred was on the front steps. "Hold on,"
Boggs yelled, "I'll go over the river with you." Alfred was looking
across the river. Boggs was by his side. They had walked several yards
towards the ferry boat. Boggs inquired as to what excuse he would make
to his wife. Alfred turned his head. Boggs was carrying the satchel in
his hand farthest from Alfred. As the latter reached for the grip, Boggs
laughed as he pulled away, saying, "I won't trust you with it."
Boggs discovered the satchel after Alfred left the drug store. He
awaited the return of the ferry boat and endeavored to have the Captain
make an extra trip to relieve Alfred's suspense. The Captain refused,
saying: "If a man is that careless with money, he ought to worry."
* * * * *
In the early days of Alfred's minstrel career he became acquainted with
Dan D. Emmett, the originator of American Minstrelsy (the First Part).
Emmett was living in Chicago at that time.
[Illustration: Dan Emmett]
Years afterward Alfred learned that Mr. Emmett was living in retirement
in his old home, Mount Vernon, Ohio. He called on the aged minstrel. Mr.
Emmett pleaded that he be permitted to accompany the minstrels on a
farewell tour. His request was granted. At the time there was no
intention of advertising Emmett. He was simply to accompany the troupe
as a guest of Mr. Field.
About this time several persons were claiming the song "Dixie." Alfred
furnished the _New York Herald_ with irrefutable proof that to Emmett
belonged the honor. That paper sent a man from New York City. He spent
several days at the home of Emmett. The feature story and the
subsequent proofs published by Col. Cunningham, editor of the
_Confederate Veteran_, forever settled the controversy as to the
authorship of Dixie.
Emmett's memory, in his last years, as to dates was defective. The story
of Dixie was often related to Alfred by Emmett and, from other
information, Alfred is of the opinion that Dixie was sung in the south
long before its New York production. Emmett was the musical director of
Bryants' Minstrels. Dan Bryant desired a walk-around song and dance.
Emmett, on Saturday night was commissioned to have this number ready for
Monday night's performance. He labored all day Sunday. Dixie was
produced on Monday night and made an instantaneous hit. This is the
accepted story as to the production of "Dixie."
It is well known to all of Emmett's intimates that he was a slow study
and a very indifferent reader but once he memorized music, he required
no notes thereafter. It is not probable Emmett turned out Dixie in one
day or the company learned and produced the song with only one
rehearsal. All minstrel people admit this.
Dixie was produced in New York in 1859. Prof. Arnold, of Memphis, (of
Montgomery, Ala., then), claims that Emmett visited Montgomery in
January, 1859, and sang Dixie, the words, however, a little different
from those used in New York later. In presence of Mr. Field, Prof.
Arnold called Emmett's attention to this. Emmett's reply was that the
air of Dixie--the melody--had been played by him for a year prior to his
writing the words of the song.
It is Alfred's opinion that Emmett first sang the song in the south else
how could it in those days become so suddenly popular. It is an
authenticated fact that the troops from Alabama first sang Dixie as a
war song of the South. There are gentlemen living in both Eufala and
Montgomery who assert that Dixie was sung in those cities early in 1859
and that it attained great popularity.
However, the memory of Emmett will be preserved to future generations as
the author of a song the common people love to sing.
* * * * *
"I have bought a farm."
The wife looked incredulous. The past four years Alfred had optioned as
many different farms, always dissuaded by the wife to give them up. In
fact, the wife did not show the husband's enthusiasm as to the bucolic
life.
"I've bought a farm: Bienville, a part of the old Goodrich tract ceded
to that family by the government for services in the Revolutionary War,
opposite 'high banks' on the Olentangy River, where the ruins of the old
fort are. It is a place of historic interest. The river, the best bass
stream in Ohio, skirts the east side of the farm. There's a lovely brook
running through the farm, and the largest virgin forest in the county.
Why, the timber in that woods will sell for more than I paid for the
whole farm. But I will not cut a single tree down, only an occasional
shell-bark hickory tree to smoke our meat. Uncle Jake always smoked his
meat with hickory wood and he cured the finest meat in Fayette County,
generally a little too salty; we must look out for that."
"The bottom land is a farm in itself. There are two orchards, an old one
and a young one. The old one is about run out and I'll cut it down when
the young one comes in. The wood will be fine to burn. Dry apple wood
makes the hottest fire."
"Dried apples? What are you talking about--burning dried apples?"
But Alfred was not to be interrupted. "The hill land is not so good but
I'll bring that up. I've bought a book on Liming Land. I won't have a
great deal of stock to begin with. It's my intention to begin with a
few of each species and breed up, that's the way Doctor Hartman does.
"The hill land is not productive now and the bottom land will have to
supply the farm until we get the hills tillable. There's only one thing
that troubles me. The bottoms overflow every time the river rises. As
you know, the Olentangy rises every time it rains."
"Well, for Heaven's sake, you haven't bought a farm like that, have you?
Now, Al, you are just like your father. Your mother often told me he
could make money but always had a plan to spend it and his investments
always proved failures. Why don't you let this farm business go? You've
got enough on your hands without a farm."
Alfred never noticed the interruption.
"Chickens are very profitable. Poultry raising is one of the most
profitable things about a farm, and the average farmer does not give his
chickens any attention. I expect you to look after the chicken end of
the farm. All the profits will be yours."
Even this liberal offer did not interest the wife greatly.
"The first thing I am going to do is to build a dyke or levee along the
river bank to protect the bottoms from overflows. This must be done this
winter. Mr. Monsarrat is at work on one on his place. He went to the
expense of hiring regular dyke-builders, civil engineers and all that
sort of thing. I'll just hire farmers and their teams. I've got onto a
man that built all the dykes down toward Chillicothe. He knows just how
to construct them. I'll hire him to superintend the work. Of course,
I'll be on the ground all the time to look after the details."
"When will you have time to attend to matters of that kind? Now, Al,
you're just hatching up a lot of trouble for us. Why don't you rest? You
have been working all these years to lay by a few dollars and now you
are contriving to spend them. We know nothing of farming. We will be
worried to death."
"Now don't get excited, Tillie. Hold your horses. I've thought the whole
matter out. Now listen to me. You can't farm in winter, can you?" and
Alfred waited for his wife to answer. The wife deigned no reply; she
either considered the question too deep or too silly. Alfred answered
his own question: "No, you can't farm in winter. This is November. I've
fixed it that by the time we are ready to farm we will be all prepared.
I've subscribed for three farm journals, a poultry paper and a dairying
book. The farm journals are published in New York, Los Angeles and
Denver. This will educate us up to farming methods in all sections. What
they don't know in one section, we will learn from another. You leave it
all to me. Country life will make another woman out of you and Pearl
will like it. It will be good for you all. It's the dream of my life
realized and I do hope you will enter into my plans and be the help you
have always been. I'm going to have a horse and phaeton for your
exclusive use. I don't want you to do anything. Just sort of look over
things. You need not read the farm journals unless you are interested.
You read up on poultry and the dairy. They go together. All I'll ask you
to do is to look after those two things, the poultry and the dairy. I'll
take care of the farming."
Bob Brown, (no relation to Bill Brown), editor of the _Louisville
Times_, one of Alfred's warmest friends, published a feature article, a
brief history of Alfred's career, touching on his newspaper experiences,
however, omitting the cow-doctor experience. The article concluded with
a lengthy write-up of Alfred as a farmer. The paper was carried in
triumph and read to Mrs. Field and Pearl. Bob predicted the success for
Alfred in farming that he had attained in minstrelsy. Several
illustrations in Bob's write-up exhibited Alfred in farmer's garb,
feeding cattle, sheep and hogs out of his hand.
The wife observed: "Why, you haven't got sheep, hogs or cows as yet;
have you imposed upon Mr. Brown?"
"No, certainly not. Bob is an up-to-date newspaper man. Newspapers that
wait to print things as they are, get left. Newspapers that print things
as they are to be, are the live, up-to-date, always read journals. Bob
knows I'll have things just as he represents them."
Bob Brown's write-up was greatly appreciated by Alfred even after Emmett
Logan informed him that Bob had written him confidentially that he,
Alfred, had turned farmer, but he did not know what for, as he felt
certain Alfred could not plant his feet in the road and raise dust; in
fact, he did not think Alfred could raise a parasol.
Alfred was advised that a club, of which he was an honorary member,
would entertain him--that it would be a farmer's night. Alfred well knew
there would be great fun at the expense of the farmer. He would be the
butt of all the jokes the busy brains of a dozen or more keen wits could
devise. Therefore, he studied for days that he might in a humorous way
parry the jibes. Nothing humorous in connection with the farm could be
evolved from his brain. He was too ambitious, too enthusiastic a farmer
to ridicule any phase of his newly adopted calling.
Therefore, when the chairman concluded his introduction in these words:
"And now, gentlemen, we have a farmer as our guest here tonight. It has
been the plaint of the farmer from time out of mind that he had not
representation; that he had not voice in affairs that had to do with his
vocation. The newly made clod-hopper is respectfully informed that he
can air his grievances to the fullest extent and that, unlike others, we
will not pass resolutions of acquiescence in his views and then
repudiate them. We will file them in our archives as a memento of the
fact that another good man has gone wrong. Alfred, it is the fear of all
your friends in this club that the minstrel show will not make enough
money to run the farm."
[Illustration: Alfred as a Farmer]
Alfred replied to the introduction:
"Gentlemen, the introduction honors me; to be a farmer has been the
dream of my life. Beginning life on a farm, I ask no more pleasant
ending than to live the last days of my earthly time on a farm.
"The facetious remarks of the toastmaster do not explain my reasons for
engaging in farming. It is true, financial consideration did not govern
me in this matter, although I do hope to make the farm self-supporting.
If I do not, I shall not feel that I have made a bad investment.
"In seeking the quietude of the farm, I was actuated by that yearning
that comes to all men who have led a busy life--to turn back the years
and try to live the days of patches, freckles, stone bruises and
laughter; to live those days again when there was only one care in the
world, not to be late for meals.
"I want to go way back yonder in my life to a house half hidden from
view by the locusts and maples, where the bees hummed and swarmed. I
want a scent of the honeysuckle as the maples and locusts budded forth
in what seemed to me the morning of the world--springtime. I want to
follow the path down by the big spring, through the hazel bushes, where
the cotton tail jumped up just ahead of you and the redbird sang his
sweetest song. I can follow the path in my mind as the hunting dog
follows the scent, down to the old rock hole where the clear, cool
waters of the creek formed an eddy, in which the chub and yellow perch
lurked and jumped at the bait as they never did anywhere else.
"I want to feel that ecstacy that only comes to a boy when the bottle
cork you used for a bobber goes under water, when something is pulling
on the line like a scared mule, bending double the pole cut in the
thicket on your way to the creek. I want to throw the pole away, roll up
the tangled line, hide it away in the corn crib, and sneak back to the
house the opposite direction from the creek, that the folks wouldn't
suspect I had been fishing on Sunday.
"I want to go back yonder in my life where the hills meet the sky in a
purple haze, where you feel yourself growing with the trees, where the
smell of new earth calls you to the woods, where the dogwood is budding
and the may-apple peeps up through last year's leaves at the new leaves
budding out on the grand old maples above.
"I want to go so far back from the worries of city life that the crowing
of the cock and the cackle of the hen will tell me it is morning,
instead of the clanging of bells and blowing of whistles. I want to go
back yonder where the setting sun, instead of the city lights, will tell
me it is night. I want to hear the cricket and whip-poor-will as we
heard them in the evenings long ago, as we listened with bated breath to
the jack o'-lantern legends that stirred our childish fancy until the
croaking of the frogs sent us to bed to dream of uncanny things.
"I want to live in the happiness of an autumn when the frost was on the
pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; when the hickory nuts falling on
the ground called the squirrels; when the stars gleamed bright enough to
afford you light to bring a 'possum out of a tree with the old flintlock
musket--how you cherished that gun. And when the snow hid the roads and
paths like the white coverlet on the big bed in the spare room and the
big backlog crackled and burned on the hearth, and the red apples
glistened in the firelight, and the popcorn imitation of a snowstorm was
more realistic than any artificial one that you have since witnessed.
"How you shivered as you undressed in the room above going to bed, but
how soundly you slept after you got warm. I want to go back to one of
those hallowed Sunday mornings in summer when the hush of heaven seemed
to fall on earth; when the quiet that spread over hill and vale seemed
to announce the Spirit of God in some unusual sense; when the peace of
heaven seemed so near you felt its happiness.
"While living the old days over--the days way back yonder--I want to
live in the love of my friends of today. Whilst I cherish only a memory
of the friends of the old days, I hold, after my family, the love and
esteem of my friends of today above all things in this life.
"Gentlemen, come down to the farm. Visit with me and endeavor to live
the life of a boy again, if only for a day."
[Illustration: Bill Brown as a Farmer]
Alfred's response was not what the assemblage expected. Congratulations
were showered upon him. The speech was reproduced in newspapers all over
the country. Printed copies of it were circulated. The sentiment
expressed therein seemed to have struck a responsive chord in the hearts
of all men who love to live close to Nature. It does not seem possible
that any one would have the hardihood to endeavor to controvert the
sentiments set forth in Alfred's tribute to the "Back to the Farm" life,
yet there appeared in all the papers that had given publicity to
Alfred's speech, a diatribe from Bill Brown, headed "The Truth," as
follows: