A SLEEPING HERO
On The Heights of the Ohio in
Charlestown Township
The Grave of Col. John Armstrong
A Revolutionary War Hero
His Posterity in our Midst
If you take the Bethlehem road
after passing Charlestown eastward, you will at first encounter some pretty
rough territory. After ambulating up and down several hills, which are
in no respect models of asphalt pavements, and jogging your liver and dinner
together, you reach the Fourteen Mile Creek bottoms and find yourself trotting
along in a deep valley with steep precipices and craggy hills on all
sides.
About two miles from Charlestown
you reach the foot of a steep ascent that demands strong pulling and a
stronger harness. It is a great deal the best to get out and walk up the
hill. It is both kind and safe and you reach the summit after more
blowing than a campaign stumper gets off during those incandescent times
of political excitement just closed. About the time you think you
are at the top of the hill, a sudden turn presents another installment
of climbing the golden stairs. You think of course that now you are entitled
to a level drive, but in less than a mile you suddenly dive down in a hole
at McMillan's that makes you feel so queer under the apron. Now your animal
toils up another hill.
Then you turn a short corner,
and it's up and down for a quarter of a mile, when at last you can go it
level for several miles. Over five miles from Charlestown is a modest
little country schoolhouse to the left. It has the usual style that
illustrates how hard it is to learn children to shut the gates. This is
the school that was made famous by the contest that Miss Addie Hay had
with the trustee of Owen township. Now if you want to find out how
much high life there is in Charlestown and Owen Township, there is a gate
opposite here that leads into the farm of Joseph Haymaker. Joe is one of
those sensible farmers that knows enough to be a Democrat, and can readily
see that a farmer has no interest in a high tariff. In fact everything
about him is high, and therefore he likes a low tariff for a change.
The traveller will at once go
into raptures of delight at the grandeur and beauty of the view from Mr.Haymaker's
house, that faces toward the Ohio river, and overlooks the quiet flowing
stream for miles. This point is about four hundred feet above the
level of the Ohio and affords a scope of scenery that must at all times
be impressive, and is especially delightful in the growing season of the
year. We are now eighteen miles from Jeffersonville yet way off westward
are the knobs back of new Albany, appearing as a blue, hazy ridge.
The hills of Kentucky are in
immediate view, and below them is a large plateau of fertile land. Man
is naturally fond of a wide range of view, and this is the reason scenery
that affords such a scope is so charming to the eye. Any little object
in the distance becomes a point of interest, the moving of the cattle,
the curling smoke of a house, or a distant horseman, while the appearance
of a steamboat is an event. Over there in the channel there is a
peculiar streak, a different shading in the water. The mailboat has
passed several hours since, yet there is the trace of it still on the water’s
surface. This remains for hours, notwithstanding the tide flows on through
the valley. It is certainly a singular phenomena, and why the track
of a boat should thus be visible for hours on the surface of moving water,
will require a more scientific head than ours to tell.
After we had spent all the time
we could spare (for we did not tire gazing on the grandeur of nature),
Mr.Haymaker invited us to examine the grave of A Sleeping Hero.
We past [sic] through
a wheat field and climbed a fence into a cornfield where a spot had evidently
been reserved from tile ravages of the plow. It was growing rank
and thick with weeds. In the center stood a Weather-beaten, sandstone monument
that was blackened, mould-eaten and blotched with the vicissitudes of nearly
seventy winters. On all sides were seen the stains of the poison
vines. These had been torn off, and disclosed the scars of the storm-beaten
shaft. Hidden around it in the grass were a few rough stones that
marked the resting place of the eternal sleepers, whose name and fame are
lost forever in oblivion, excepting, perhaps an old lady named Davis, mother
of Ebenezer Davis, of Jeffersonville. The rest of the graves had no mark,
and were indistinguishable in the weeds.
We all know that dead men neither
tell tales nor hurt theit living sucecessors, yet there is always
awe, silence and reverence, feelings so akin to fear when we stand on ground
where we know now lies the ghastly gaping face of a form once alive, full
of hope, impelled by ambition and sustained by ardent desires just as we
are today. It is then we gaze upon nature in every picture, and think those
winds and trees, these birds, this grass, these floating ephemeral clouds
were once all realities to the form that lies here. It is now just
sunset. It is golden, ruddy, glorious! How oft did these brilliant
and many hued corruscations appear for the sleeper here, who wakes not
at the tread of man nor at the bursting artillery of the heavens.
His sleep is as peaceful and eternal as the tranquil flow of the river
away down in the valley.
Why do we call death a frightful
monster? What is sweeter to us than painless sleep? But it is time
we were reading the inscription. You will find it elaborate.
Either the man himself or his relatives were desirous his full history
should be known. Read it:
"Sacred
To the Memory of
Col. John Armstrong,
who was born April 20, 1755,
and
Died February 4, 1816"
“He entered the Army of United
States at the commencement of
the
Revolutionary War, and
served his Country seventeen
years as a soldier and
an Officer.”
"During his services in the Army
he was in thirty-seven skirmishes, and four general actions, among which
were the battle of Trenton, Stony Point, Monmenth, and the Siege of York.”
"The deceased came to this Western
country with the first troops sent hither, and was in Marmer's and St.
Clair's campaign and commanded the garrison (Fort Finney) at the Falls
of the Ohio for several years, making frequent excursions against the Indians.
At an early day he selected for a farm the tract of land where his remains
are interred, and formed a settlement on it of several families in year
1796.
We were therefore in the presence
of a Revolutionary hero. To his services are we in part indebted: for the
privileges we enjoy today. Could he have had a conception of the
wonderful results of his labors and sacrifices, it would not only have
been a source of still deeper inspiration but a cause of the most intense
gratification. What a contrast between the time when Col. Armstrong
first settled here. Nearby here is the site of an old block house
to which the pioneer citizens fled in terror at the appearance of the merciless
savages. Then nature was in a rude state and both savage and wild
beast terrorized the life of the settler. Now on this peaceful
Sunday evening there was a soothing calmness all around, and there are
none to molest or make afaraid. The pale face has no enemies to fear except
those of his own making, and upon every hill the rich grain, the fruit
trees and other products of the earth give him comfart end ease.
But in this change the dusky
sons of the forest have fled before him, the story of our glory and growth
as a nation is the history of the death of another race who have fled before
us. Across the fence, a hundred feet or more is a grave, supposed
to be the last home of an Indian. The grave is a curious one. It was walled
up on both sides with flat rocks, making a crude sarcophagus. Mr.
Haymaker dug down to a large solid rock, that he supposed covers the remains
of an Indian, although it may possibly be a Caucasian, as it was customary
in the pioneer days to cover the dead with stones to keep them from the
wolves.
The difficulty of getting through
the solid rock that covers the bones of the dead persons, has prevented
Mr. Haymaker from learning to what race it belongs. So the grave
stands there a mystery. Archeology will doubtless tell the story
when the remains are exhumed. This silent grave, alone on these lofty
heights reminds us of the poet's description of the burial of Sir John
Moore, and, perhaps, it was true of him that:
Not a drum was heard
not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts
we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his
farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero
was buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead
of night
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's
misty light
and a lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin encloses his
breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we
wound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking
his rest,
With his martial cloak around
him.
Few and short were the prayers
we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on
the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the
morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his
narrow bed
And smoothed down his lowly
pillow,
How the foe and the stranger
would tread o'er his head,
And we are far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit
that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid
him;
And little he'll reck if they
let him sleep on
In the grave when at last they
have laid him.
But half of our heavy task was
done
When the cloak tolled the hour
for retiring,
And we heard the distant and
random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him
down,
From the field of his fame and
gory,
We carved not a line, we raised
not a stone,
But left him --- alone in his
glory
