A Mother's Day

I am a little bemused to discover recently that, despite all the stories I've written about those I love, I have yet to address the subject of my mother. Perhaps because I find it difficult to do so. Not because we had a strained relationship or unresolved issues. Quite the contrary. It might just be because I want to keep her to myself just a little while longer.

I'm also afraid of doing her a disservice. I don't want to diminish her in any way or in anyone's eyes. As a child, she was my world. As an adult...well, let's just say she is never far from me.

My mother was very private; she let few people into her daily life and fewer still into the small, delightful secrets she kept. These gentle acts of kindness and generosity still amaze me, yet she considered them to be private obligations that would diminish in value should they become public. Family members to this day pull me aside and tell me how she kept the wolf from many doors by paying off bills, buying food, lending money and more.  She was exceptionally kind to the younger women in our family and helped them transition from tomboys into beauty queens. She herself remains to this day as the single most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

She understood the power of forgiveness--having been forgiven herself--and always strove to extend and demonstrate that forgiveness to others by making and maintaining a personal commitment to each of us--a reflection of her personal relationship with God. Because He had accepted her with all her faults and flaws, she could do no less than to accept all of us just as we were.

My mother understood that life was about choices. She herself made choices by faith with the confidence of knowing that in all things--all things--God works for the good of those that love Him (Rom 8:28). One particular choice she made had a profound effect on my own life.

In 1961, when I was born, special needs children were not cherished and treasured as they are today. My birth had many complications which, in combination, led my mother's doctor to have a serious conversation with her. She, he explained in so many words, had been selfish to bring me into this world. Given the challenges I faced (club feet, misformed pelvis, kidney disease, jaundice, possible mental retardation), she ought to do the right thing and put me (away) in a place where others tasked with such problem children could take on the burden that would undoubtedly be me.

When she asked to see me for the first time (they didn't do natural childbirth in those days), they instead brought her a form to sign to have me committed. Undaunted, she insisted. "He may be damaged," she said, "but he's mine." Over 20 years later, when I graduated with honors from the University of Missouri, she sent that doctor an invitation to the ceremony.

That's not to say that my early years were easy for her. She searched out every doctor on her own, queried every special needs organization for resources and help. She found little assistance. All the therapy, all the rehabilitation, all the instruction came trial and error at her hands. My father, frustrated and devastated over his helplessness, turned his attention to the things he could control and supported her while she did the hard work of taking me to an endless procession of doctors while repairs were made.

I still remember Mom and Dad visiting me in the hospital in Los Angeles, Dad putting a tiny cap gun set in my crib so I'd have something to play with. I remember the leg braces, special boots and shoes, and my mother's hurt while she watched me miss out on things I could not physically do. But, she never regretted her choice that day to be my mother. She made that choice with prayer, confident that God would work in my life to His glory. And for that, I will always love her.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

I'll See You There

My beloved Uncle Dean is on my mind much of late. He turns 91 this Friday (though he insists he's 93 because, he says, he feels he's 93). He may look frail and paper thin in his hospice room up north, but he remains a giant of a man for the life he lives within.

Despite his fading days, he lifts his hands in praise. Despite his failing strength he lifts his voice in prayer. He points to heaven and shouts, "I'll see you there!" It is both a promise (for he knows where he is going) and a challenge, for he has a burden for the gospel and sharing it with others.

"The worst thing that can happen," he confides, "the worst that can happen is that you find the way is shut and you hear the Lord say, 'Get away. I never knew you.'"

It breaks my heart when he cries, "And so many good, good people I know, people I love will hear those words."

And there, I think, is the reason he is still here with us in that little room up north. He still has work to do, prayers to offer, praise to make. He still sees the work God has laid out for him to do and, despite his dwindling days, he takes it up with purpose and with joy. He remains, indeed, a giant of a man, within and without.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Dean.

Epilog - April 2, 2013

                       Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on His gentle breast;
                       There by His love o’ershaded, Sweetly my soul shall rest.
                       Hark! ’tis the voice of angels borne in a song to me,
                       Over the fields of glory, Over the jasper sea.
                                                                                     - Fanny Crosby

Dean Marquis Huffstutler entered his promised rest at the invitation of his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ this morning. His release is a powerful, positive answer to prayer, yet bittersweet in that he will be deeply missed if only for a little while. Because He lives, Dean lives. (John 14:19)

The Six Wives of Perry Green Marquis

Perry Green Marquis

Time for a little family history and a few tales of that most enigmatic ancestor, one Perry Green Marquis. Perry lived a very long and colorful life that is perhaps best told through the lives of his many wives. Get comfortable and settle in. It's a long story (he had a lot of wives).

Perry Green Marquis, affectionately known as “The Old Sire,” was born on Thursday, January 22, 1824 in Posey County, Indiana. Posey County is at the extreme southwestern tip of Indiana. It shares the Wabash River as its western border with Illinois and the Ohio River as its southern with Kentucky. It is still a largely rural county with a population fewer than 30,000. At the time Perry was born, it must have been a lonely place for its population was less than 5,000.

In 1840, when Perry was 15 years old, he moved in with his grandparents William A. and Mary Marcus while his father, James C. Marquis, moved to Wells County in northeast Indiana, presumably to farm a parcel of land he'd just bought. It's interesting to note that James and his brothers, Solomon and William, all owned land but in different parts of the state. Perry maintained a close relationship with his grandfather until the old man's death prior to 1860. James, for his part, left Perry out of his will when he died in prior to 1850.

In 1854, Perry took his young wife and two small boys across the Wabash River into White County, Illinois and set out for Hamilton County, just a few miles down the road.

Hamilton County records show Perry was granted 200 acres of land for farming. He received 160 acres on August 7, 1854 by the Department of the Interior, General Land Office. He received an additional 40 acres on March 28, 1855. The 1860 census lists Perry as a Farmer Landowner with $500 worth of land and $150 of personal property. Family legend, however, states that Perry was a heavy drinker and that he “drank away acres of timber.”

Elizabeth Martin
Perry married Elizabeth Martin on March 5, 1849 in Vanderburgh County, Indiana. Perry was 25 and Elizabeth was 18.

Elizabeth Martin was born in 1830 in Vanderburgh County, Indiana near what is now the Evansville area. The Martin family, it seems, was both sizable and wealthy. In January 1869, one Lucy Martin brought suit against the late Elizabeth Marquis’ children. Also named in this document is William Martin, Minerva Martin (probably husband and wife), Charles Martin, and Nancy A. Martin (also probably husband and wife). In a pleading document dated September 1871, William Martin states that he and the defendants are joint tenants of fifty-six and one-half acres in Vanderburgh County, Indiana. It appears that this legal action was to get total property rights of what would have been part of an inheritance from Elizabeth Martin’s parents. A cursory check of land grants in Posey and Vanderburgh counties shows that the Martin family collectively owned about 2,000 acres.

Elizabeth's gravestone

Perry and Elizabeth Martin had four children:
    •    William B. Marquis, born 1850
    •    James T. Marquis, born 1852
    •    Sarah F. Marquis. born 1856
    •    Joseph P. Marquis, born 1858

Eight months after giving birth to her son Joseph, Elizabeth died on Friday, November 5, 1858 in Hamilton County, Illinois. She was buried in Antioch Cemetery.

Margaret Freeman
Two months after Elizabeth’s death, Perry and Margaret Freeman were married on Sunday, January 16, 1859 in Hamilton County by Z.B. Reed, Justice of the Peace. He was 34, she was 16. While the short courtship might give one pause, one must consider that Perry found himself alone, raising four children (ages 8, 6, 2, and 10 months) while also trying to keep his farm going.

Margaret Freeman was born on Sunday, March 14, 1842 in Illinois. She died on Saturday, January 18 1862 in Hamilton County and was buried in the old section of Antioch Cemetery. Her gravestone is worn and barely legible. She was laid to rest next to Perry’s first wife, Elizabeth (Martin) Marquis.

Perry and Margaret Freeman had one child, Mariah Elizabeth Marquis. Named after Perry’s sister, Mariah (and his first wife), she was born December 18, 1860.

Amanda's sister, Clarinda Cowen

Amanda Elizabeth Cowen
Four months after Margaret died, Perry and Amanda Elizabeth Cowen were married on Thursday, April 3, 1862 in McLeansboro, Hamilton County, Illinois by Z.B. Reed, Justice of the Peace. This was Perry’s third marriage and the only marriage for Amanda Elizabeth. Perry was 38 and Amanda was 23 years old. Given the short amount of time between Perry’s marriages, one may assume he did not like living alone – at least not without a wife to care for his growing family.

On August 13, 1862, four months into the marriage (and 16 months after the war began), Perry joined the Union Army at Knights Prairie as a Private, Company B, 110th Illinois Infantry. The “Muster and Descriptive Roll of the Regiment of Illinois Volunteers” lists Perry as 38 years old; 5 feet, 10 inches tall; black hair; blue eyes; fair complexion.

It is unclear how much actual battle Perry saw. There is no specific mention of Private Perry Marquis’s exploits. His unit, however, is documented to have fought in a number of battles, including two seminal events: the Battle of Chickamauga, where the Union Army suffered one of its greatest defeats in the War; and Sherman’s March to the Sea.

If Perry fought at Chickamauga and elsewhere in Tennessee, it helps explain the brevity of his marriage to Amanda Elizabeth Cowen. According to Della Marquis Gruthoff, “Amanda came (to Illinois) from Tennessee in a covered wagon. Her family, who still lived in Tennessee, fought with the Southern Army, but those who came to southern Illinois served with the North.”

The basic experience of war also served as a contributing factor. According to Helen Huffstutler Ferreira, “Perry went away to serve and came back such a hard and changed man that the marriage could not last.”

Company B was mustered out on Thursday, June 8, 1865 in Washington, DC. After returning to Hamilton County, Perry joined the Grand Army of the Republic Post 469 at Macedonia.

Perry and Amanda divorced in 1866. Child custody was an immediate point of contention. According to Helen Huffstutler Ferreira, “My mother Kate indicated that whenever ‘Old Perry’ moved on, he would insist that his offspring should go with him. When he confronted Amanda Elizabeth with this demand, she met him with, ‘Over my dead body!’ He did not take Katherine and Alexander.”

Still, he must have borne her some lingering affection since he named his next daughter, Amanda.

Amanda Elizabeth Cowen was born in March 1839 in Tennessee. Judging from her sister Clarinda’s photo and family lore, Amanda was “of sturdy stock,” a large woman who was known for her outer and inner strength. During the War, while Perry was away, Amanda worked the fields with Perry’s sons, ages 12 and 10, plowing with a team of oxen. She was pregnant, alone and raising her husband’s five children, ages 12, 10, 6, 4 and 2.

She died on Sunday, August 11, 1907 in Flannigan Township, Hamilton County, Illinois, less than a month after Perry’s death. Her obituary in the McLeansboro paper, The Leader, read, “An old lady died here at the home of her son Alex. Buried at Cartwright Chapel Cemetery.”

Perry and Amanda Elizabeth Cowen had two children:
    •    Katherine Marquis, born 1863
    •    Alexander Rhodes Marquis, born 1865

According to Della Marquis Gruthoff, “Grandmother raised Alex and Katie. Katie died when 12 years and is buried at Cartwright Cemetery beside Grandmother.”

Blind musician G.W. Marquis

Margaret Perry
Perry and Margaret Perry were married on Thursday, March 1, 1866 by O.P. Kelly, Justice of the Peace. Perry was 42 and Margaret was 33 years old.

Margaret Perry was born about 1833 in Indiana. Perry and Margaret Perry had two children:
    •    George Washington Marquis, born 1867
    •    Amanda Marquis, born 1870

Perry divorced Margaret Perry in 1873.

Sarah Matilda Clanton
Perry married Sarah Matilda Clanton on Monday, September 15, 1873 in Hamilton County, Illinois. This was Perry’s fifth marriage. He was 49, Sarah was 15.

Sarah Matilda Clanton was born in 1858 in Missouri. Perry and Sarah Matilda Clanton had three children:
    •    Mary Etta Marquis, born 1875
    •    Ellen (Martha E.) Marquis, born 1879
    •    Infant Marquis, born 1883

Perry and Sarah were divorced, year unknown. Sarah died November 29, 1923 in Pinckneyville, Perry County, Illinois.

Susan Angeline Gibbs
Perry and Susan Angeline Gibbs were married on Monday, July 27, 1891 by R.M. Harrelson, Justice of the Peace at the Gibbs home in Hamilton County, Illinois. This was Perry’s sixth marriage and Susan Angeline’s first. Perry was 62 and Susan Angeline was 48.

Susan Angeline Gibbs was born on Sunday, November 13, 1842 in Knox County, Tennessee. She united early in life with M.E. Church in Tennessee and lived a devoted Christian life until death. She died on Saturday, June 4 1921 in Knights Prairie, Hamilton County, Illinois and was buried in Antioch Cemetery.

Perry was saved and committed his life to the Lord in 1885 in Hamilton County, Illinois. According to his obituary in The Leader, “He professed faith in Christ in 1885 at an arbor meeting held on his own place and held out faithful till the last. He talked of joining the Baptist church at Antioch but thought himself too feeble for baptism; while he did not belong to any church he was a liberal giver in helping build and keep up churches.”

Kate at Perry's grave, McLeansboro.

Perry died on Thursday, July 18, 1907 in Knights Prairie, Hamilton County, Illinois at the age of 83. He was buried in Antioch Cemetery amongst all of his wives. His gravestone reads:

----------------
MARQUIS
----------------
Perry G. Marquis
Jan. 22, 1824
July 18, 1907
Co. B 110th Reg. ILL Volume. Inft.
---------------
AT REST


Note: all of these details (and more) are due to the diligent research of my cousin Dan Robbins. For more stories, see his wonderful Marquis Family genealogy site at http://www.forestcastle.net/family/marquis/marquis.htm

The Little Boy Who Wouldn't Say His Prayers

Della with Susan Leona and Robert Kim Huffstutler.

Once,” Della said (and rather ominously at that). “Once there was a little boy (and here, always, always, she looked at me with cold, dark eyes) who wouldn’t say his prayers.” 

You could hear the horror of that thought in her voice as she moaned. Her face, in shadowed profile, tilted up away from the light and we watched, oddly fascinated, as the loose skin of her neck quivered. Right on cue, her wicker rocker let out a “screeeeeeeeeetch” that made us all jump a foot in the deep dark of the front porch.

Growing up, this was Halloween. With a pinch of salt thrown over one shoulder, we whistled past the graveyard hoping to escape the notice of the powers of the air. Halloween was frowned upon in that house, tolerated for the sake of us children who merely saw it for the entertainment that it was. Fifty years ago, it was an entertainment – a harmless bit of fun tempered with a little vandalism, a spot of tooth decay and a dash of outright illegal behavior.

Today, Halloween seems to be a quite different thing. When we were kids, boys dressed up as super heroes. We only had two: Batman and Superman. Or we dressed as cowboys or Indians, astronauts or hobos. Girls dressed as princesses, Indian and otherwise, and Raggedy Anne or (shudder) Barbie. Back then, Halloween was a sort of dress rehearsal for our future ambitions. 

Today, I think Halloween has undergone a warped reformation. It's stripped away the fun and the playfulness and embraced death with open, vacant, decaying arms. Halloween has returned to its roots of demons and devils, blood and gore. Since when is death fun? Some still see no harm because it “isn’t real.” They don’t believe in monsters. As for me, I see monsters every time I watch the news or read a paper. I believe in monsters. I have met monsters. The evidence is everywhere – especially in my Bible.

Perhaps I’m naïve. Or perhaps I was a little too fully taught about the consequences of foregoing prayer and a respectful relationship with the Lord above. For, as Della warned us…

Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers,
and then one night he went away upstairs,
his mammy heard him holler, his daddy heard him call,
but when they pulled the covers back he wasn't there at all!
They searched him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press
and even up the chimney flue and everywhere, I guess.
But all they ever found of him was pants and roundabouts
because the goblins will get you if you don't watch out!

Uncle Charlie's Farm

My beautiful sisters Donna and Susan.

I have been blessed all of my life with two sisters who quietly and pleasantly fill in the gaps of my life. From hardship to spiritual lack to memory lapse, they have gently corrected my mistakes, set me back on my feet and even pressed a few dollars into my hand before sending me back out into the world--all of which speaks to their superior character.

Many times when I have spun my yarns I'll get a phone call or an email gently pointing out the factual errors in my recollections. "No, that was Della" or "that was five years ago" or "Colostomy?? No! He had a tracheotomy--wrong end!"

Therefore it is my distinct pleasure to offer the following recollection which, I'm sure, will generously provide those in the know with ample opportunity to engage, direct and confide.

Uncle Charlie he had a farm, he had lots of chickens.
Uncle Charlie he loved them all, they were his friends.

The girls--Becky, Susan, Colleen and Donna--used to sing that song quite often. Or rather, Grandmere, Sarlita, Carlita and Jarlita did. At one point in our youth we gave ourselves Mexican-style names although mine, perhaps, was more Spanish Colonial as I was called Don Diego. It doesn't speak well of our parents that someone felt that, since we were emulating immigrants, we belonged in the fields. That's how we came to visit Uncle Charlie's farm: we were recruited to de-tassle corn.

First, let me say what a lousy job that is and allow me to apologize to anyone I have ever unintentionally maligned for having to do any kind of agricultural work. I might add that our parents knew what they were doing when they loaded us onto that flatbed truck and sent us out into what appeared to be endless rows of feed corn. It was dirty, boring, hard work and, after we had finished, we found our wages (hot dogs, potato salad and tall, cold glasses of lemonade) to be, however sating, wholly inadequate to the task. Right away we learned that work is hard and that, because it is hard, one should be humbly grateful for and respectful of those things which were given to us through the fruits of our parents' own hard labor.

Sometimes I know for a fact that youth is wasted on the young. I will warn you, however, that a wise youth is a formidable force of nature. Think of all the things you know now--not just the factual reality of those things but the whys and wherefores as well. Now, imagine what you could have accomplished if you had possessed all of that knowledge and wisdom when you were 18.

It's only over the past ten years or so that much of what I learned 30 and even 40 years ago has started to make perfect sense. It may be because my perspective has finally shifted, thanks to time and age, to a point where it is aligned with that of my teachers. Because I now see the world from the same angle and manner in which they did I am more able to share in their viewpoint and benefit from their experience.

If that's so, then I need to remind myself to be appropriate and deliberate in my discussions with the younger generations of my family. If I truly want to help them, I need to offer advice and guidance while looking at their world through their eyes. I need to gently and lovingly offer kind assistance in much the same way as my beautiful sisters offer it to me.

Birthdays With Aunt Myrtie

Miss Myrtle Marquis, circa 1918.

Time, it has been famously said, keeps on slippin' into the future, and as it moves inexorably on to points unknown it leaves us bobbing in its wake to sink or swim with the outgoing tide. Change is a biological imperative and a key component of God's design. New generations rise to take our place and help us step down to take our last walk into the fading light. It is the most natural of phenomena, and yet I can't help begrudge a few minor points.

I appreciate the fact that my family, once so compact and easily contained, has become a large, gangly creature that romps about like an overactive but well loved chocolate Labrador. Full of exuberance and easy affection, it runs in circles that grow ever wider and far flung. I don't know half my cousins' children by face or name, and I am even a little hard pressed to identify their parents, too. It seems sometimes that I am losing touch not only with the generation that came before but the one that has come after as well. That bothers me a little.

I want to know these younger people, and I think it's a shame that most of them have not had the great privilege to grow up personally knowing the names I hold as famous: Ira, Kate, Della, Myrtle, Lyman, Lee, Perry and more. The wistful attention that I paid to the stories they told of Poly, Eileen, Hannah and Alexander years ago is what motivates me to tell stories like this one today.

Her name was Myrtle Elizabeth Marquis Jordan, although we always called her Myrtie. She was the third sister among Hannah's surviving daughters, and I still marvel at how close she, Kate and Della were. For a long time, they did not let a day go by without visiting one another in their homes, and they even worked together in the laundry at the Old People's Home.

Myrtie lived on Oak Street, too. In fact, she lived at three different addresses on Oak. She and her husband Frank, daughters Gerry and Elaine and sons Paul and Joe lived with the Huffstutlers at 153 during World War II. After the war, they lived across Raymond Street in what we came to know as "Mrs. Purdy's house." Finally, after Frank had died and her children had grown up and left home, she lived across and a few doors up the street with her friend "Aunt" Martha Huber.

Martha was no relation to us, but we called her "Aunt" just the same. She was very sweet but given to sudden lapses in comprehension that somehow always managed to devolve into spirited diatribes on the exemplary character of her parakeet, Buddy. (Truth be told, while she had the dedication necessary to own several parakeets over the years she had imagination enough for only one name: Buddy.)

Myrtie was such a frequent visitor at 153 Oak that she had her own bed there in Kate's room. When it was available, it's where I slept when visiting. If it was not, I ended up on the roll-away. One night, when the house was full to overflowing, Kate made me a bed in the bathtub. More comfortable than Myrtie's bed, which had a pillow that doubled as a sandbag (or vice versa), it became my instant favorite, and I gave Kate ample reason to regret her ingenuity for years to come. (Looking back, Kate may have been trying to safeguard my 7 year old pride during an extended bout with bladder problems and bedwetting--ingenious indeed.)

Myrtie was very sweet, always singing or whistling, eager to talk and laugh. She always shared gum--something no other adult did in my recollection--but she had a habit of sticking it under the table when she was finished with it and no one was looking. None of us ever dared to say a word about it (till now). She also wore clip-on sunglasses over her prescription glasses. It always struck me as so modern and stylish--as if she were a character out of The Great Gatsby--that it still fascinates me to this day.

At some point in her life, Myrtie had developed severe hip problems. I remember how she struggled to walk and how she lurched from room to room. It's only recently (thanks to my own hip problems) that I have realized just how much pain she must have been in--and yet she never complained. Instead, she always smiled, laughed and sang hymns ("The Old Rugged Cross" was always her favorite). She was at peace with her pain. In fact, she always seemed to have that "perfect peace" for which Kate, Della and Ira were so well known.

That's not to say that things didn't affect her. After she moved to the modern high-rise public housing apartment building on State Street, I spent the night there with my cousin (her grandson) Jordie. Space was tight in the tiny apartment, and Myrtie slept on a foldaway couch (how that must have added to her pain!). Jordie and I had the floor and we were fidgety and wound up (probably full of sugar) as 12 year old boys often are. Ten minutes of that and Aunt Myrtle laid down the law: be quiet, go to sleep OR ELSE. The next day, Myrtie was back to her old, happy self.

Myrtie and I had a special bond because we shared the same birthday. Growing up, we shared many birthday parties and cakes at Oak Street as well. She always made a point of singling me out for affection but, like Kate and Della, she also made a point of reaching out to all of my cousins. Between the three of them, they created a strong, wide web of love and affection that helped keep our growing, gangly family close and warm. Theirs was a high standard of family parenting--one to which I hope we can all continue to aspire.

Ave Maria

The group lived in Powell's Valley, Tenn. for a short time.

It is an alarming story. However, there are so many gaps in the narrative that one cannot report the course of events with complete conviction and authority. It isn't just a question of time and distance. Basic human decency, morality and raw survival instinct all converge to weave a patchwork story that contradicts itself and beggars explanation. It is a story so painful that one is left searching for a redemptive thread--a lifeline that, for all its insubstantial nature is still strong enough when flung in faith to rescue even the most lost of souls.

She could not have been more than 12 when they took her from her father's home. Maria Davidson was likely out in the fields, playing with her friend Susan Wood, when the two men snatched them and fled to North Carolina. The men--Micajah and Wiley Harpe, posing as brothers but rumored to be cousins--already had somewhat of a reputation for this sort of thing and were said to be part of a Tory rape gang terrorizing patriot families who supported the War of Independence. The men took their prizes to the wilderness of Tennessee where they joined the renegade Chickamauga Cherokee community of Nickajack. Years passed there, and the men honed an inexplicable, evil delight in rape, murder and violence. Micajah, for one, was said to be convinced that he was called by God to execute judgment on certain men but Micajah was not from God. He was a murderer from the beginning and, like his father the devil, he was a liar.

The small group left Nickajack shortly before it was raided and destroyed by U.S. troops after years of criminal activity and attacks on nearby settlements. However, it wasn't the impending destruction that spurred them to move elsewhere. It was the savage murder of their companion, Doss, that made them unwelcome. Doss had complained about the brothers' savage treatment of the women and was rumored to have more than a passing interest in their welfare. The brothers brutally murdered Doss, dumped his body off the main trail, and headed to Powell's Valley near Knoxville.

Life in a frontier settlement, however, proved difficult for the men and they resorted to stealing livestock and supplies which they then resold to other members of the community. Throughout the course of their association, the Harpes had presented the women as their wives. However, the dynamic within the group became somewhat skewed when Micajah legally married Susan and Wiley wooed and married a local Methodist minister's daughter, Sally Rice. It is perhaps at this point that Maria, with the alarming sobriquet of "supplementary wife", became "Betsey Roberts" and was regarded as Susan's sister despite the fact they looked nothing alike.

About a year after Wiley and Sally's marriage, the group met up with John Langford at an inn near Rockcastle River in Lincoln County, Kentucky. Langford befriended the group and, seeing that they were destitute (and that all three of the women were pregnant), bought the group breakfast and joined them on their journey along the Wilderness Road. It proved to be a fatal mistake. Days later, the Harpes emerged from the woods leading Langford's riderless horse. Langford's body was later found not far from the road.

The group was arrested and put in the Lincoln County jail on Christmas Day, 1798. After two months of plotting, the Harpe men escaped and left the women behind--not surprising as all three were heavily pregnant and it would have been nearly impossible to travel with them in the dead of winter. During the course of the women's 100-day confinement, all three gave birth. Betsey had a son. Susan and Sally each had a girl.

All three women were put on trial for murder. Susan was found guilty. Sally was acquitted. Only Betsey was found not guilty. Because the same evidence was presented against each of the women, the judge offered Susan a new trial. However, after four days, the Attorney General declined to re-try her. Having convinced the local townspeople of their innocence and their desire to have nothing further to do with the Harpe men, the women were released and sent on their way. As an act of charity, the townspeople took up a collection, gave the women a horse and outfitted them for the journey home to Tennessee.

What should have been a celebration of release from both the prospect of jail and the years of squalor and abuse at the hands of the Harpe brothers quickly took an inexplicable turn that defies explanation. The three women and children traded the horse for a boat and headed for Henderson County to rejoin the men.

Why? What possible reason could they have had for willfully going back to such a wretched life? Looking more closely at the circumstances of their situation, one can perhaps begin to understand. First, it cannot have been an easy decision to make. Surely, the three women felt themselves to be between a rock and a hard place--Betsey especially so. While Susan and Sally had the benefit of legal marriage, Betsey had no official designation other than the contemptible "supplemental wife." To complicate matters, she could not have been more than 17 at the time. She had no real family, no standing in the community, an infant son born out of wedlock and no advocate. The women were supposed to be heading "back to Tennessee" but where? They were driven out of Powell's Valley when the men were discovered to be stealing livestock, and Nickajack had long since been destroyed. The prospect of returning to North Carolina--even if she could recall where it was she had lived--must have been too daunting to Betsey. What family could have welcomed an unwed mother and rape victim after years of living amongst thieves, scoundrels and murderers?

Returning to the Harpes did not improve their lot. In fact, it made it far worse for the brothers, wanted with a $300 bounty on their heads, had gone from bad to worse by teaming up with an enterprising band of Ohio River pirates operating out of Cave-in-Rock in what would later become Illinois. The association, however, was short lived. The Harpe group was asked to leave after Micajah and Wiley had driven a man and a horse off the bluff onto the rocks below for their own private entertainment.

The departure from Cave-in-Rock established a momentum that fueled the Harpes' destruction and left a trail of bloodshed in their wake. After a spree that claimed the lives of nearly 40 people, Micajah was finally shot, captured, killed and beheaded. Susan, to her disgrace and horror, was forced to carry the head back to Russellville, Kentucky where it was placed on a pike for all to see. Wiley, having fled, abandoned Sally and made his way to Natchez, Mississippi and was eventually captured and executed.

Again, the three women found themselves incarcerated, examined and eventually exonerated. For a time, the three remained in the Russellville area. Sally later moved back to her father's home in Tennessee where she married a respectable gentleman and raised a family. Susan, too, was said to have returned to Tennessee where she later died. Betsey stayed in Russellville until--in 1803--something curious and unique happened: she met a man who drew her out of the darkness of her past and into the light.

Given that the facts are incomplete, I believe I'm entitled to take creative license as I turn to the matter of one John Huffstutler, a second generation Swiss-American immigrant from North Carolina who, I like to believe, had been looking for his missing childhood friend, Maria Davidson.

John's marriage to Betsey stands as a testament to her innocence and her redemption from the hell on earth in which the Harpe brothers had imprisoned her. Not only did they raise a large family (at least five children) over the course of their 60-year marriage, they also moved to Illinois and helped settle Hamilton County in the 1820s. Their son, George Washington Huffstutler (G.W. to the family) continued their legacy by marrying Susan Stelle (a cousin of one of Illinois' early governors) and raising a family of 10 children.

As a family story, Maria's history was never known until my cousin Becky and I stumbled across it while researching our family's line. Understandably, we were both horrified by what we found. "What kind of legacy does this leave us?" she asked. Having dug a little deeper beneath the surface, I would like to believe it is a legacy of hope and a testament to the power of faith and redemption. It's a legacy that speaks to the fact that no one is so lost that God's love and power cannot reach them. A legacy that stands on the old scripture "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:9)