Thursday, December 1, 2016

Marble Lura Bell Browning Graham

Aaron Bell was born February 12, 1809 in New York City.  He married Lydia Ann McDonald in Moniteau County, Missouri, in 1848/1849, and they had eight children.  Samuel H Bell was the second child, and the first son born to the couple.  He was born about 1851.
That year Aaron Bell filed a land patent for 40 acres in Moniteau County.  {My suggestion would be to contact the Moniteau County Historical Society and inquire about the history of these 40 acres in the NW quarter of the NW quarter of Section 11 of Township 43 North - Range 15 West as Aaron prospered quickly and appeared to be tied to the mining industry.}  According to Joe Pryor, lead was first mined in Moniteau County in 1841 and in Miller County in the 1850's. By 1858 Aaron Bell filed land patents for 245 acres in Miller County between the Bell Mining Company (was owned by Donnie Curty in 2003 but I think he sold it to Eddie Gibson) on the east and the Gageville Mine property on the west (Hart farm today).  Aaron Bell's property is owned today by Art Hager and Bill Bashore.
According to Clyde Jenkins, "in the early 1850's, Temple E. Bell, while sojourning down a hollow in the present community of Gageville, found the first vein of lead which was mined in Miller County successfully.  Bell's slaves operated the mine.  This photo, featured in a Joe Pryor article, is from one of Bell's mines, probably circa 1900.

I found no genealogical link between the Bell family members listed as operating the Bell Mining Company and Aaron Bell.  Further research is needed as there is significant evidence to support the theory that there was a link.





During the Civil War, Aaron Bell was one of three men to file statements against the Captain of the Clark Township Southern Guards (Cole County).
The History of Cole, Moniteau, Miller. etc.

The other Missouri State Guard Captain, James Johnson/Johnston, was the leader of the Osage Tigers in Miller County.  James Johnston returned home and was captured by Captain Daniel Rice's Cavalry unit in August 1861, and taken to Jefferson City.  Johnston declared that Governor Gamble had signed a proclamation which forgave those men who had returned back home. By December 1862 he had signed an Oath of Allegiance supporting the Union and was released to return to Miller County.

Aaron Bell would have been old enough to avoid service in the Civil War and his oldest son, Samuel, would have been young enough to avoid service.  Lydia died at the age of 37 in 1865.

Samuel married Lockey/Lockie Jane Jones in Cole County in 1873.  They had six daughters, and one son.  The youngest daughters were Grace born in 1890 and Marble born in 1894.

His father, Aaron, died at age 81 on June 12, 1891, and was buried at Spring Garden Cemetery.  By 1904 most of the acreage was owned by Samuel's brother, John S. Bell.  John's probate record is housed at the Miller County Museum.

Oral history states that Samuel and Lockey died and the two youngest girls were raised by Reverend Browning and his wife.  There is no record of Samuel or Lockey Bell in the 1900 Census.  {Possibly the old local papers at the museum hold the key to this mystery.}  Marble's oldest sister, Rosa, was 26 and working as a servant in the James Bond home in 1900.


Reverend John Henry Browning and his first wife raised a family in Vandalia, Illinois.  He married his second wife, Louisa Lnu, in Missouri, about 1881, and settled near Samuel and Lockey Bell.  In the 1910 Census Marble is living with them, along with a young hired boy.  The Browning family is living between Florel and Elsie Bell, and the William Blackburn family.

Marble married Ernest Eltry Graham in 1913. They had seven children.  She died in Eldon in 1978.  At her death, she had 18 grandchildren and 24 great-grandchildren.


Thursday, October 20, 2016

Hiram Hart in the Great War


Hiram Hart was born in the middle of ten children near Mary's Home in Miller County in 1892.  His oldest sister Margaret, recorded many stories about Hiram and his brother Eldo growing up on their farm:   "Once the boys captured lizards to start a lizard farm with plans to tan the hides and sell them to make ladies handbags and shoes.  Another time Hiram's mother sent him off to school, only to discover him in the top of a shade tree.  After exhausting every effort to persuade him down, she went to the house and returned with a double-barrel shotgun.  'For the last time come down out of that tree,' and she raised that empty muzzle-loader to her shoulder.  You never saw a squirrel come down so fast or so frightened. Mother had a hard time keeping a straight face as she marched him back to the house."


Hiram gained bits and pieces of a grade school education at Pleasant Ball/Bald School.  He said he "finished the fourth grade."


On May 18, 1917, Congress passed the Selective Service Act.  The following month Hiram registered for the WWI Draft.  Hiram was inducted at Tuscumbia on April 26, 1918.  A letter directed him on the date and time to board the train at Eugene.  For the first time in his life he left Miller County, to travel to Camp Funston in Kansas.    
insert troop train loading at Eldon picture

Hiram and his fellow recruits were in Kansas for only a few weeks before heading overseas.  The actions of the 89th Division in World War I were described by Lt. James E. Darst and published in the St. Louis Globe-Democrat:   On a Saturday in late April the camp officers were told: “Gentlemen, the day we have worked for and prayed for has come," the major said. "We will leave for France within the next week." The officers "fell to" with all the "pep" they had. They drilled the men of the new draft. The officers rushed them, feverish with enthusiasm. They responded. It was in the air.  Within a week of the first order came another, canceling the first. They were not to go. Back to drudgery. They plugged along. Within another week came a second order to go to France, apparently final this time, for exact schedules of departure were given. They spent the next week packing. The recruits got little consideration. One officer would take them out and drill them and the others would supervise the packing.  Finally it came. They hiked to the station in full packs, got on the train in remarkable quick time and pulled out. No fuss and feathers. Only friends in the division were there to see them go. They shook hands, swung aboard and were off.

Hiram Hart, Company A 354th Infantry Battalion 89th Division

It was a wonderful trip east; weather just right in that early June and accommodations all that could be desired. As they went through Kansas City, Chicago, Ohio, Detroit, Niagara Falls, Rochester and Syracuse crowds met them at the station and pressed gifts of chocolate and cigarettes on them and told them to bring back the Kaiser. A million times they said the last. The youngsters swarmed about them, and if they had time they would parade through the town with the kids running alongside or carried on the shoulders of some husky "buck."

New York: A real adventure right there for the Middle West "doughboys" to see the Statue of Liberty and the Battery and Brooklyn Bridge. They docked in Brooklyn and took a train to Camp Mills. They stayed there five days, subjected to numerous inspections. One bright Monday afternoon, June 4, they boarded the ship Tennyson, an English vessel that had just been impressed from the Argentine beef trade. She was sound enough, but the men were frightfully crowded. It took them seventeen days to cross, too.  German submarines were operating just outside New York harbor at this time. From the moment they stepped on board they were in the war, with strict safety rules, submarine guards, no lights.

They landed at Tillbury Docks, Gravesend, London, the morning of June 21. As they stepped from the boat they were handed a card bearing greetings from King George. Their look at London was short, for they immediately went aboard a train and whisked away to Winchester.  They spent five days there at a "rest camp." The men always italicize this term when they say it. There wasn’t much rest. Still, there was relaxation and a change from the monotony of ship life. After five days they went to Southhampton by train and took a small channel steamer for Le Havre, the famous French port in Normandy.  Past the English fortifications they dashed, one small ship, packed to the gunwales with men, accompanied by two destroyers, The moon came up, absolutely full. Toward dawn they fell asleep. When they awoke they were snuggled alongside a dock, in France at last.

They disembarked a little later and then started trudging with full packs to a British rest camp at the outskirts of Le Havre. It was a peculiar place, inhabited by troops of a dozen nations, French, English, Scotch, Canadians, Australians, Portuguese, Italians, Sengalese, Moroccans, Indo-Chinese. The boys fell in with them like veterans. They made themselves at home in the barracks and tried to get used to the "chow."

The roads they sped over were camouflaged with chicken wire nailed to poles, the netting being laid between the German lines and the road. The village of Minorville was brigade headquarters and was occupied by troops in reserve. It must have been the dirtiest, most unkempt village in France. Shell had taken off about half the roofs, but it was not the ruin that impressed but the neglect, the dirt, the debris. Soldiers lounged along the streets – Yanks. They were of the Eighty-second and had been "up front."  They had been put in to hold the lines against Fritz and they had held.

As they left Minorville they came to a sign along the road:  "Gas masks will be worn at the alert position from here on forward," read the sign. They squirmed around in their crowded positions and adjusted the masks snugly up on their chests, about 4 inches below the chin.

The sky was cloudless. The French countryside was fair, with only an occasional pockmark that told of the burst of a shell. It was a picnic, not war. Here they bowled along, day perfect, lunches tied up in their packs, spirits joyous, interested hugely in every passing clump of trees or ditch or house.  They came into the clear and the graceful rockets showed No Man’s Land ahead of us. Farther north there was the rumble of thunder-heavy artillery. They disembarked from the trucks and staggered up the road.
Guides were ready for them and they followed theirs into the communication trench that led to their position. From the road to their position was a sweet little jaunt of a mere two miles, loaded to the exhaustion point. They had to hurry, else dawn would be on the people they were to relieve before they could get back to their positions, and yet frequent stops to catch their breath were imperative.

Trenches abound in odors, but half way to their position they detected one they had been taught to watch for – gas. Down went the guns, the tripods and ammunition and everyone slid into his mask. Traveling had been hard enough before – now it was next to impossible.  Somehow they made it to their positions. The men they relieved looked that way. All along their sector the men of the Eighty-ninth were slipping into place and the men of the Eighty-second slipping out. A good two hours before dawn all their sentries were posted, all their machine guns emplaced. Nervous doughboys were gripping their rifles and excitedly peering over the parapet as a rat scampered by and dislodged a clod; whispered consultations were being held as to the exact nature of some dimly outlined shape in front of the trench, and debate was hot as to whether it moved or did not move; feverish second looeys were poring over maps and endeavoring to figure just where the Boche were; staff officers were making reports to those higher up. The Eighty-ninth was holding the line at last!

The infantry regiments were to hold the trenches.  The raid that they had been told to expect did not materialize, so they had their trenches to themselves that night. It was better that way, for no one wishes guests on the first night in a new home. Everyone was nervous.  In the chilly hours just before dawn a man’s imagination is running top speed and the barbed wire post just in front of him moves if he looks at it long enough and the whisper of the wind through the long grass deepens to the guttural mutters of a German patrol. Occasionally some "doughboy" would be unable to stand the strain and would fire wildly, bringing a hurried visit from a sergeant.

Finally dawn came, and as the light grew they could make out the ground in front of them, the valley, shrouded in mist, the ruined town of Limey to their right and Flirey to their left, the Metz road leading over the hill into Germany and mystery. Even before the sun was up they could discern a "sausage" hovering like a suspended elephant far back in the Boche lines. Someone else made out two planes winging their way across our front. Everything was still, and not a human being was in sight.

The vast majority – enjoyed the first tour of the trenches. It was a free unhampered sort of life.  Of course discipline was strict, orders were numerous and the work never seemed to have an end in sight, but it was healthy, albeit dirty; interesting, although with the spice of danger; comfortable, even in the crude sort of comfort of a hunting party.  The men lived in holes burrowed toward the enemy. Every man took a great pride in his particular "home", usually shared with one of two bunkies. They would scrape the holes clean, enlarge them, line them with "shelter-halves" and then tastefully dispose their packets, blankets, mess kits and shaving apparatus. A man had to insert himself into his "home" with just the right degree of care, else his foot would lodge in his mess kit.

They also took pride in being shaved daily, although water had to be carried three miles. However, if a man goes about it right he doesn’t need much water. In fact, we used captured German beer at St. Mihiel, and while it was sticky, it worked up a lather.

They also saw to it that the trenches were kept clean. One would no more throw a piece of paper into the trench than he would throw it into his front yard.  Orders were to keep out of sight when planes passed over and the doughboys developed considerable ingenuity in twisting out of a hole to look at a plane without exposing themselves.

"Chow" was supplied from the company kitchen twice a day. The kitchen was located in a grove of trees on the reverse slope of a hill, about three miles away. Sometimes the Germans were unkind enough to shell the kitchen and since cooks are only human they were bound to cease their ministrations and seek cover. Carrying parties went for the "chow" in the morning and in the evening and staggered up two miles of trench, loaded with marmite cans, suspended from poles. These cans kept the food hot and there was always plenty. Rations in the front lines were all that could be asked, fresh meat, vegetables, bread, syrup, and coffee. Often bread pudding would intrude its hideous presence, and canned salmon – the "submarine turkey" of the "doughboys" anathema. Tobacco was a part of the ration, and they could get cigarettes from a near-by Y. M. C. A. hut, also cookies, of a French persuasion, and chocolate.

The weather had been clear and the trenches comfortable, and artillery and infantry activity was light, so we were allowed to hold our positions for twelve days before a relief was made. Several times small German patrols got as far as their lines, but when they were discovered they did not linger long.  Activity on the whole Eighty-ninth sector was confined to work on the trenches in the daytime and patrolling duty at night. A defense system was worked out and the machine guns placed to sweep the territory they would have to cross to get at us.

Waiting for the relieving party in the trenches is an exasperating job. You feel sure that they do not realize the importance of haste; that they must be loafing along the road somewhere in back of you. You watch the hours go by and the silence of the night seems ominous, for you figure that the Germans probably have the exact dope on the relief and are waiting to catch you on the roads going back. Slowly they work their way back through the communication trenches and find the trucks that are to take them to the reserve position.  The road is dark and frequently a debate is held at a fork as to the proper course, but eventually every one finds his way to Manonville just as the dawn is breaking. Billets are ready and every one tumbles in.

Most "doughboys" will tell you that they prefer the front lines to the reserve and support positions, because the enemy artillery seldom goes after the front trenches unless a raid is imminent, but prefers to strafe the roads and lines of communication further back. Enemy planes locate the position of ammunition dumps and supply dumps and mark villages where troops are billeted and their artillery shells these frequently.

Soldiers of the Eighty-ninth, who were not holding the front lines, were called on to dig an elaborate system of trenches, laid about two kilometers in back of the positions they were holding. After eight days in reserve they moved up to the support positions in a woods. Life here greatly resembled existence in a hunting camp. Drill was, of course, out of the question and their vigilance during the day could be relaxed because another line of "doughboys" was between them and the Boche. Deep dugouts were plentiful and except for fleas and rats were tenable. The woods abounded in wild blackberries and when the men didn’t have anything else to do they gathered them and the cooks made them up into pies.

At night they grew more watchful, especially for gas, because Jerry had figured that troops inhabited these woods and knew that gas would linger in the foliage. Every five nights seemed to be his rate of giving a gas attack, for in this, as in everything else, he was methodical. They caught theirs the third night in and one platoon got most of it. The orders were to withdraw to high ground and this they did, at midnight, loaded with the guns. Four men were severely gassed and sent to the rear.

After ten days in the support position they moved to the front lines for the second time. They knew every foot of ground there and dared the Boche to come over. It’s funny how a man’s attitude changes. During the first few nights a person only hopes that the Germans will delay their attack until he is better prepared for them. After that he wishes they would come, because he feels sure everyone is prepared and he would like to see how well the preparations would avail. Then comes the third stage when the "doughboy" gets tired of waiting for the other fellow to start something and hankers to get over and start things himself.


The Germans put on a beautifully-timed raid on the third night back in the front lines. The raid was preceded by a box barrage that was a marvel of accuracy. The trench they were in was in the line of resistance and the outpost line was ahead of us. Two parallel communication trenches, about 800 yards apart, ran forward from their trench. The German box barrage was designed to hit their trench and the two trenches leading forward, to prevent them from going forward to join the advance party.
The German airmen certainly had given their artillery men the exact location of those trenches. The barrage started at 4:30 in the morning and lasted until 5:30. Behind the barrage came the German raiding party, about 200 strong. They filtered through the American advance outguards, and got behind the trench occupied by the outposts, and from a position in a cemetery threw hand grenades. The men replied with grenades and rifles and formed for attack in their trench. At a command they leaped out and ran at the Boche, yelling like Indians. This took the fight out of most of them, and the others were bayonetted or retreated.

During their last stay in the front-line trenches in the Toul sector they gradually were made aware that they would not be relieved, but would hold where they were until the order came to go over the top. Since the weather had changed and it now rained every night and every day, almost continuously and their trenches were a mass of mud, they fervently hoped that the attack would be ordered soon and give them a chance to take the dry hills in front of them.

The weather was both favorable and unfavorable for the preparation for a drive. The constant rain and overcast skies made German airplane and balloon observation impossible, but it also made the roads bad.  Darkness would gather by 7 o’clock and the cold rain increase in violence. Life in the trenches at this time lost considerable of its joy. Even an approximation of comfort was out of the question. The trenches were knee-deep in water in many places and everything a man possessed soon became coated with mud. Even sleep was scarce because of the increased night vigilance.

 A constant stream of trucks, marching soldiers, artillery caissons, machine-gun carts, rolling kitchens lumbered by. In sheltered fields great tents were going up, reminiscent of circus day at home. Soon the operating tables and shining instruments would be laid out in those tents and surgeons and nurses would wait for the trickle of wounded that would start almost with the first shots of the barrage and swell in volume as the drive got under way.  The confusion seemed complete, and yet every one was bending to the one task allotted him, and every one would get there on time–somehow.

Late in the afternoon of September 11 it grew lighter and the rain ceased. The slow-moving procession toward the front still went on. Back in support positions doughboys were getting a final hot meal, all ready to surge forward over the roads to their jumping-off places as soon as it was dark enough to travel.
In the front trenches every one was getting ready to go. The packs were stripped of everything but mess kits, iron rations and an extra pair of socks and toilet articles. It was optional with the man whether he slept in a blanket or not. Slickers were left out of the pack because they expected rain again any minute. Rifles and pistols were given a final polishing, ammunition was counted and arranged over the person, gas masks given a final test.

Shortly after dusk they got their orders from brigade headquarters. They learned that the barrage was to start at 1 in the morning of September 12 and would concentrate at first on the German rear positions, pounding roads, dugouts, villages. The zero hour, or "H" hour was just at 5 a.m. and an hour before this time the artillery would shirt to the positions just in front of them  trying to smash trenches and cut barbed wired. At 10:30 the night of September 11, they lined up in their trenches preparatory to making the hike of half a mile through a communication trench to the jump-off position. The rain had started again and it was pitch dark. One could not see 8 feet in front of him. He could barely make out the walls of the trenches he was standing in. The trenches were knee-deep in mud and slime and they stood in them, motionless, for an hour and a half, waiting for the road ahead to clear so they could move. Finally they got out onto a road, leading up the front.

The road was being used by the men of three divisions, packed shoulder to shoulder across its breadth. Men of the 90th were on the right edge of the road, working forward in columns of two. In the center were the marines, of the Second Division, and the 89th had the left edge. Men kept their free hands on the shoulder of the man in front and stuck with him. If someone slipped or the line became broken the word passed up front:
"Halt!"
Back would come a query from the company commander as to the cause of delay. Then the line would jostle forward again, sloshing through the mud, rain trickling off tin hats onto burdened shoulders.

At 1 o’clock they were cutting across a bit of open field to the jumping-off trench, when the barrage started. Every gun along the 30-mile front seemed to open at once, on the tick of the second hand. 
The battery of the 75s behind them was firing directly over their heads and the short, crisp bark sounded right in their ears. The sound was magnificent. After the first shock of the sudden blast had died away they became accustomed to the concentrated turmoil and they could note its pulsations. It would swell and recede, like the roar of the sea.

The murky sky was rent by innumerable flashes, like summer heat lightning multiplied a thousand times. There was a low undercurrent of throbbing noise that persisted through the sharper blasts. That was the bursting of the projectiles far back within the German lines. As it grew lighter, smoking was permitted and everyone pulled excitedly at cigarettes. They worked forward until we were in place to climb out of the trenches and go over.

They had an hour for meditation, or low-toned conversation, prayer, memories – whatever a man desired. Now the barrage had come close and was playing on the barbed wire and trenches, just in front of them. The shells were bursting as few as 200 yards in front, and the din had become terrific. One had to shout in the ear of the man next to him to be understood. The rat-tat-tat of machine guns now became apparent. They were their own, laying down a close-in barrage. As the bullets passed over their heads, each one cracked, exactly like the snap of a whip. When they hiss it means they are much closer.
Everyone’s eyes constantly re-returned to the dial of his wrist watch to note how the hands moved slowly to 5 o’clock. Five minutes more – a hasty survey of pistol belt, ammunition clips, rifle, pack; two minutes – the German machine guns were opening and the bullets had a new sing as they passed over the trench; one minute – everyone ready? Then the platoon leader, or company commander, would make a leap at the parapet, swing himself up on top, turn to the men and yell:  "Let’s go!"

They would swarm after him, helping each other up. Those up first pushed back the strands of barbed wire and waited for the others before they formed. The Infantry spread into open skirmish formation and moved forward at a rapid walk. One hundred yards in front the creeping barrage was moving. In the uproar no one could distinguish one shell from another until the sudden upheaval of the earth in front told
where one had landed.

They knew only one thing, to go ahead. "The command is forward." The sun had come out now and the fog had lifted and they could see their planes zooming up and down over their heads as they advanced. It was the pilots’ job to show the artillery how far they had gotten. Not ten minutes after they started they saw one plane crash, riddled with bullets from a German machine gun.  The day grew warm and they were covered with grime. The doughboys were scouting ahead, cleaning out dugouts and machine-gun nests. Then they ran into the German counter barrage and took squad formation as the best protection of a moving body of men against shell fire. They penetrated the Bois de Mort Homme and found the advance party of doughboys there. They had traveled too fast and their own barrage was tearing into the trees then.

The doughboys had about 300 German prisoners collected. They ranged in apparent ages from 14 to 50. The wounded were collected under the trees for first aid and the unwounded Boche were being impressed into service to carry the wounded back.

They moved on again and staggered up to their first objective, beating the schedule by two hours. Every one heaved himself on the ground and panted. After five minutes of relaxation they nibbled at their canned "willy" and hard tack and took cautious sips of water, for they had not eaten or drank anything for well over twelve active hours.

They began to realize that they were in German territory. There were the sign posts, warning against gas or directing to some command post. There were the abandoned German helmets and pieces of uniform. They looked curiously at the country round and thought of the days and nights they laid their own trenches and wondered what was taking place over here. The German dugouts were elaborate. Most of them were lighted by electricity and had good stoves. Many were large and roomy and could easily accommodate 100 men.


The going was more difficult now, for they were getting out of range of their lighter guns and into the secondary German line of defense. German "whiz-bangs" were operating successfully against them. The "whizzer" is reputed to be an Austrian 88-millimeter rifle, with a very low trajectory and high velocity. The shells came exceeding fast, the scream of approach being followed immediately by the explosion. There is a brief second of time with other shells before they explode, and a man has a chance to throw himself flat, but there is no dodging a "whizzer."

There were numerous casualties before they got shelter in a depression. It was then about noon. The sky was clear, for the first time in eight days. They had reached their objective and were called on now to dig in, to consolidate the positions against a probable counter attack. They were dog-tired and went slowly about the work of digging in. All along the line doughboys and machine gunners of the Eighty-ninth were consolidating, getting ready to hold what they had just taken. Down below us in Boullionville some of the doughboys had found a German train on a narrow-gauge track, loaded with delicacies for German wounded. Everyone helped themselves to blankets, new underwear, socks, cigarettes and cigars.

Dusk came on and they began to get word of the entire drive. They learned that thousands of Germans had been captured, that their own casualties were light and that the high command was delighted by the showing of the First American Army in its first major operation. As the shades of night gathered they made ready to abandon their hurriedly dug fox holes and move forward to lay in wait for a counter attack. They had not slept the preceding night and little the night before that. They trudged down the slope into the village of Boullionville and noted where their artillery had smashed it. They toiled up a road to a plateau that lay on the north of Boullionville and passed many German dead, mangled by our shell fire. They were twisted in grotesque positions. They noted curiously the ghastly whiteness of their faces.

It was raining, cold, dark when they reached the plateau, and they got an order to lie down in the field and wait. They had donned their slickers, and wrapped in these they stretched out on the ground and let the rain soak in on us. Far in front of them they could see the flames of burning Thiacourt. They waited patiently until midnight, but the Boche didn’t favor us with an attack.

At midnight they moved to take up their positions for the next day’s attack. All night they marched by the compass and the north star, and at 3:30 came to a ditch beside the Metz road that was near to the position they sought. They threw themselves in the ditch, while their captain hunted brigade headquarters to get orders. He returned in an hour and they dragged themselves forward again. They stumbled up a hill and came close to the village of Beney. This had not yet been cleaned out and the attack was to start there at dawn. They were so utterly exhausted that they were numb. It isn’t the danger nor the pain that the soldier minds, but the hardships of the march, the digging in without shelter, the living in the rain.

At dawn the attack started. Beney was cleaned and the line swept toward Xammes. The going was tough. The day was cloudy, and their planes had difficult keeping touch with them and locating the German batteries that had been set up during the night. Furthermore, their mastery of the air was no longer uncontested, and the famed Richthofen circus had come to harass them. The advance, outside of Beney, was up a long, gentle slope, and the Boche had a battery of 88s placed at the top that could sweep the slope. Vainly their planes went over to locate the battery. As the doughboys walked up the slope, in squad columns, the battery fired point blank at them. The attack went forward three times, was halted half way by the rain of projectiles and fell back. It was an hour before the battery was flanked and its gunners bayoneted.

The lines through Xammes was their second and final objective and it was gained ahead of schedule. The Boche artillery fire was gaining hourly in intensity, as they rushed up reserves, and the artillery had not had time to catch them. Boche planes grew in numbers. The evening of the first day they saw a wonderful air battle, right over their positions, the wings of the planes gleaming silver in the evening sun. At least sixty planes were engaged in a "dog fight," every one for himself. It was at least a ten-ring circus.  Three or four planes would go at each other, twisting, diving suddenly, side-slipping. The air was full of the streaks of tracer bullets and the putter of machine guns. Suddenly one plane far up in the air, burst into flame and began to fall. They watched it twist and turn, now dropping rapidly, now drifting down and they knew that the poor devil who had guided it was past help now. Blazing like a torch it crashed to the ground. Hardly had they raised their eyes to the struggling planes again than they saw a second plane go down in flames.

They had not slept for two nights and had not eaten anything except canned corned beef and hard tack for two days. To put it mildly, they were ravenous. When they got into Beney they were forced to wait for three hours. Beney was a village of perhaps 1000 souls. German officers had been billeted there and German soldiers had cultivated the gardens. The Boches were shelling the town constantly, but no one paid much attention to the explosions. A man soon develops the philosophy that if he is destined to get hit he will be hit and there is no use worrying about it.

Soon the men were foraging about the place for food. The first contingent explored the gardens and came back with arms full of carrots and cabbages. Pretty soon another contingent of explorers found a kitchen close-by. It contained everything a well-regulated German kitchen should contain – post, pans, spices, jams, potatoes, lard, two wood stoves, coffee, black bread. They didn’t see any meat but a muffled squawk came to them out of an adjacent shed and presently a soldier entered the kitchen bearing two speckled German hens. Some buck from the Middle West, who had administered the coup de grace to many a fowl on his native farm, effected the execution of this pair and willing hands fell to plucking them of their feathers. Someone else had brought wood for the fire. Another had pulled down a skillet and was greasing it.  There were representatives of three divisions and numerous regiments gathered about, assisting in the preparation of the meal. It was a queer situation. Each party of doughboys rummaged busily among the pots and pans and went about the preparation of his meal quite unconcerned that shells were dropping in the fields near-by and might hit his shelter at any moment.

Digging in was a rotten job. They didn’t have enough short-handled picks and shovels for everyone, and a man had to work awhile with a pick and then turn it over to his neighbor, and scoop out the dirt with the lid of his mess-kit. They were racing like mad to get their holes deep enough to give them protection in case the Germans shifted their artillery fire to their road. As they dug they threw the dirt toward the enemy and built up a small parapet. Later they would connect the holes so a man could go along the line without leaving protection. As the days and nights passed each soldier would deepen and broaden his hole and extend it toward the hole beside him. When all were connected there was a continuous trench. Later, communication trenches were dug towards the rear to facilitate the bringing up of supplies.
They weren’t planning on any future trench system, but they were grimly in earnest about getting their own holes deep enough. Long after midnight everyone had scooped out a hole about 3 feet wide, 6 feet long and 4 feet deep. Blankets were spread in these, and everyone who could be spared from his vigil slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

They knew that all along their line the Eighty-ninth had attained all its objectives ahead of time and were now strengthening those positions. Things become really heart-breaking when the advance is over and men are required to lay in shallow holes, pounded by enemy artillery, the ground swept by machine-gun fire, hostile airplanes sweeping through the sky, dropping bombs and turning their machine guns into the trenches.  The Eighty-ninth remained dug in on the St. Mihiel front from September 13 to October 1, and on that date took over the sector held by the Forty-second, or Rainbow, Division, holding there until October 8, when they were sent to the Argonne forest to take part in the drive along the Meuse River.

Life along the front held a great deal of sameness after the first thrill of consolidating positions was over. Regiments and battalions relieved each other in the front positions and the outfits in the rear had the opportunity to relax a little, wash their clothing and get hot and regular meals.  In the front positions the men still lived in foxholes. "Foxhole" was the doughboy’s name for the shelter he dug for himself in the side of a hill.  Days were a great deal alike in the foxholes and yet filled with plenty of excitement.  To the right of Xammes was a large and luxuriant cabbage patch, and many of the infantry dug in there because the ground was soft. The Germans shelled the town at about one-hour intervals and the cabbage patch always got more than its share.

A stroll down the road into Xammes was a high adventure, for the shelling might start at any moment and there was no protection against it.  The terrain here was rolling and green. The foxholes were dug in the slopes of the gentle hills. Engineers were working desperately to repair the roads to enable the artillery and supply trains to come up.

As dawn came on a person could make out the figures of soldiers squatting in their holes near by. Usually two men occupied a hole together, and if they were both fortunate they were sleeping in utter exhaustion, huddled together for warmth. We had "borrowed" a number of mattresses from the German stores of supplies in Xammes, and these were placed in the bottom of the holes. When it rained all a person could do was wait resignedly and bail out his home when the downpour had ceased.

When it grew lighter most of the men would bestir themselves and take a bored view of the new day. A man then would go about making his toilet. If he were lucky his water supply would consist of a few drops in a canteen.  The first process was a vigorous shaking. Rising cautiously, the "buck" would remove his "tin hat" and shake out the accumulation of clods that had lodged in his hair throughout the night. He would then "dust" his hair with his hand and set about seeking a piece of mirror. The mirror would be propped up in a niche and the soldier would cautiously survey himself. If he were a strong man he could survive the initial shock without losing the desire to live. For a man becomes exceedingly unbeautiful when his post office address is a ditch, dirt showing its strong affinity for the human countenance.
Sighing, the doughboy would resume his toilet. Fumbling in his pack, still on his knees, he would bring forth a rag that would make a skillet shudder. Carefully removing the stopper of his canteen, he would transfer a few drops to the rag and go about washing his face as cats and rabbits do, making up for lack of moisture by the vigor of the application. The drying would be done with the other end of the rag. Then he would part his hair with his fingers, readjust the tin hat and be ready for the day. Shaving was a much more intricate and painful process. Let whiskers grow for three or four days and mix them with grime and a razor meets stubborn resistance.

As the day would come on their chief duty would be to keep out of sight and on the alert. Soon the hum of airplane motors would come to their ears and a cautious survey of the sky would show half a dozen planes in battle formation, ranging above their lines. It was exceedingly interesting speculation whether they were Allied planes or Boche. Glasses would be brought into play, and finally a close scrutiny would reveal the circular markings of an allied plane—or the black Maltese cross of the Germans.  If they were Boche every one would remain low and motionless. Whoever was moving at the moment dropped where he was and stayed there. At the same time every one kept a sharp eye on the invaders. Sometimes a plane would sharply disengage itself from the formation and suddenly swoop low over the rows of foxholes. A warning cry would run along the line, and every one would strain his ears for the first crackle of machine-gun fire from the plane.  When the burst came every one would huddle in the corner nearest the direction of approach of the plane and draw in his legs and arms to the smallest compass.  An anxious moment while the plane was zooming above, and then it was past. No one allowed himself the luxury of a breath of relief, however, for they knew how fast the plane could wheel in its tracks and pay a return visit.  Usually the plane paid several return engagements, varying its angle of approach and making the men in the foxholes seek different positions.

Bombing always added to the delights of a perfect day. An airplane bomb makes a much louder noise than an exploding shell and gives a much greater feeling of danger. There is nothing to do but stick it out and hope to be lucky. As the day wears on the shelling grows in intensity. Doughboys, busily engaged in figuring where an approaching shell will land, have time to "cuss out" their own artillery.  As a matter of fact, the artillery is having its hands full "back there" dragging up their guns over impossible roads, meeting a rain of shell fire, hurrying without rest to gain new positions and support their infantry. The doughboy doesn’t take his criticism seriously, but it is human nature to think the other fellow is loafing and having it easy while you are working hard.

Among the stores captured in Xammes were many kegs of German beer. It was dark and sweetish, evidently a kind of Muenchener, but of poor quality. However, with water scarce, it was decidedly welcome—and perhaps would have been welcome even with water abundant.  Every so often one could see a strange procession coming down the road out of Xammes. As it came closer one could make out half a dozen doughboys in solemn escort of a keg of beer, mounted on a wheelbarrow. They would relieve each other at the handles of the wheelbarrow and never slacken their progress toward their own positions.  That beer came in handy, for washing and shaving (and drinking). It was too insipid to tempt any one to drink too much.

With the beer the Germans had stored thousands of cartons of a compressed honey that seemed to be a popular article of their diet. It probably was a chemical, synthetic honey and had about the consistency of a paste. It came in cubicle boxes, about three inches in all directions and, served with German hardtack, it made an acceptable food. The German hardtack came in muslin sacks, holding about three pounds. They also captured hundreds of earthen jars of apple butter.  This honey and hardtack and jam was their ration for three days until their kitchens caught up with them. Of course, soldiers are fond of sweets and they appreciated the Germans leaving them anything to eat, but you can bet it palled on the jaded appetite after the first day.  Every one accumulated a store of jam, honey and hardtack in his foxhole and served his own meals whenever the fancy moved him. These "meals" and the shelling were the only diversions.

Of course most of the night was spent in vigilance, but occasionally every one got the chance to sleep. Sleeping in a foxhole is just one step better than never sleeping. The damp from the earth strikes through the blankets and clothing and thoroughly chills. Your pillow is the useful "tin hat," which doesn’t make a bad head rest, if it be pulled down on the back of the neck.   It is almost imperative that a person sleep on his back because the gas mask is tied under the chin and prevents much rolling about. As you stretch your legs and carefully place your head in the tin hat you discover how much loose earth fringes the edge of your "home," poised to roll in on you. The slightest move brings down a shower of clods. Dirt finds its way into your eyes and you feel the insistent bulge of a large lump that has lodged just under your backbone.  If you are sufficiently exhausted—and it is probable you are in this condition—you pass up these minor inconveniences and fall asleep.

Hours later you are snatched from a land of sunshine to the wide-awake realization that shells are bursting near. The detonations are rocking the ground around you and new clods are being dislodged and are tumbling in on you. You hear the zing of shell fragments cutting the air.  Strange as it may seem, a man can sleep peacefully during a bombardment. As soon as you can assure yourself that the shells are not destined for your immediate neighborhood, you fall peacefully to sleep again. Shell fire has a lulling effect on the nerves of a tired man.

After several hours of sleep it is time to go on guard. The vigil in the foxhole differs from the vigil in the trenches. Lights and other of the pyrotechnics of No Man’s Land are taboo in open warfare and the blackness has no relief.  The Germans were reputed to use "duck calls" or an imitation of the chirp of birds as a means of keeping in touch with each other when they came over in patrols, and it was easy to imagine this sound during the stillness of the night. During all this drive in the St. Mihiel sector and during the consolidation after the drive, men were being killed and wounded, gassed and overcome by the horrible fatigue of the thing.

The companies were to take up positions in the Bois de Bantheville at midnight of October 31.  The attack that was to take place the next morning, November 1, was what was later known as the last phase of the Meuse-Argonne offensive. This attack had been planned for weeks and a date had been set several times and then abandoned. The Germans were well aware the attack was coming and were amply prepared for it. The Eighty-ninth was pressing on, the men who were left, and were holding the center of the forward curve in this drive, as they had held it at St. Mihiel.

On the night of November 10 they crossed the Meuse River under terrific fire of artillery and machine guns, located on the heights of the opposite bank. This has been described as the most spectacular incident of the war. The losses were very heavy, but on the fateful 11th they were dug in on the east bank of the Meuse, still going strong. It was for their deeds of heroism that the Eighty-ninth was chosen to form part of the Third American Army, the army of occupation that occupied German territory on the Rhine. They had gained a reputation as the division that never failed to take an objective and never was late in taking one. Col. Conrad S. Babcock, now in command of the Three Hundred and Fifty-fourth Infantry, summed it up: "I have seen my regiment go into an attack, get its objectives and then dig in and hold. They had taken along no slickers and few rations. Supplies could not be brought up. The men lay in the mud and the rain came down on them. What did they do? Why, they walked half the night to get enough warmth in themselves to sleep through the other half. Will their folks in St. Louis and the other Missouri towns ever realize how their sons fought and went through the campaigns? Will the people of any part of our country? I do not think it is possible for them to do so. Only the men who have been in France can understand."

"Mud? The man back home talks of mud when he gets the uppers of his shoes dirty, but mud will always be a horrible word for the returned soldier. The very day the armistice was signed I went through the regiment, telling them it was all off. I remember going through a field, when I found a lone doughboy. He was trudging along with his pack and his shoes and puttees were caked with red."
" ‘It’s all over,’ I said. ‘The armistice has been signed.’
" ‘Thank God,’ he replied. ‘Now we can get out of the mud.’ It was his first thought. He had been sleeping in it, marching in it, living in it for weeks."

The 89th Infantry in France two minutes before 11:00 A.M. on November 11, 1918

Insert pictures from Germany of destruction and men in Company A  info about occupation

On May 22, 1919, Hiram returned from overseas aboard the Imperator.

Insert card given when they arrived

He was discharged on June 2, 1919, almost exactly one year from the day he headed overseas.  Frieda Schulte noted his return in the Mary's Home items for the Eldon Advertiser.
Later that year, Hiram celebrated his engagement to Frieda, stating, he "had to wait for her to get out of diapers."  Frieda was ten years younger than Hiram.

Hiram Hart and Frieda Schulte were married on February 16, 1920, two weeks after her eighteenth birthday, at 4:00 P.M. in Mary’s Home, Missouri, at Our Lady of Snows Church.
On March 3, Hiram left for Nebraska to work with his brother Eldo.  Frieda joined him there in June. The couple returned to Mary's Home in September.  The next spring he headed for Nebraska again but had bad luck.  He went on to Kansas but was too late for harvesting the wheat.  He found work threshing the wheat.

Waiting for a train home at the depot in Kansas City in July 1921, hungry and tired, he swears this will be his last trip without Frieda.  

   Hiram and his younger brother Bill walked from Mary's Home to Henley to work at a tiff mine.  The    dirt was taken out by mule and carts. 

 As Hiram and Frieda began their lives together, her father was trying to send help to his siblings struggling to survive in Germany.   John Henry (Johann Heinrich) Schulte wrote this letter in 1923, enclosing money orders from him and his brother August.

insert letter and translation


Due to her parent's illness Hiram and Frieda took over her parents' general store and continued to     run it for over sixty years.











Sunday, May 22, 2016

Seth (II) Manes Pulaski County Part I

Signature from application for Presidential Pardon for James Davis after the Civil War.
Courtesy National Archives and Records Administration

Seth Manes (often noted as Seth II) was born in 1814 to Jacob Wilson Manes and Mary Lawson Manes six miles from Rogersville on the north side of Clinch Mountain in Hawkins County, Tennessee.  Jacob was an Indian trader and fur trapper and was frequently gone from home.  He had been kidnapped at age 11 and wasn't able to return for eight years.  Although Jacob didn't have the chance for an education, he was known for his fantastic memory, especially for Bible verses.  The Manes and Lawson families were Baptists.  Seth and his brother Callaway became Baptist ministers.

Some sources state that the family moved to Indiana circa 1821.  "Jacob Wilson Manes and Mary "Polly" Lawson Manes moved to a spot near Terre Haute, Indiana.  Jacob, his wife and their six sons, Callaway, Wade, Seth, William Bryson, James and Nicholas, headed north in a covered wagon, crossing the states of Tennessee and Kentucky. When they came to the Ohio River, camp was struck for several days while a raft was built. This raft carried the family across to the Indiana side. The march northward was continued until a place was found to suit Jacob's fancy. The site was near what is now Terre Haute, Indiana. Here a log cabin was erected."  Four more children were born to this couple after coming to Indiana:  Lottie, Jane, Jacob, and Mahala.

Their son Callaway returned to Tennessee, marrying Sarah "Sallie" Evans on July 7, 1828.  According to the 1830 Census he was married and living with his wife and infant son in Hawkins County.  The young family moved on to Indiana, as did his wife's family, Archibald and Mary Manes Evans, with their other six daughters.

The Jacob Wilson Manes family was on the move again in 1832. This journey, however, was of short duration, lasting only three days or so. They stopped at a space 35 miles east of Terre Haute, in Clay Township, Owen County, Indiana. Here, according to Jacob Wilson Manes, was an ideal spot. The land was high and dry. There were almost no settlers and plenty of game. An abundance of water was supplied by Raccoon Creek and White River, which ran close by and were filled with good edible fish; plenty of timber was available for building. The location offered everything that tended to make a pioneer's life easier one. A cabin was built a little more than a quarter of a mile west of the present site of the Braysville school house on the south side of the Braysville-Freedom pile road.

In Indiana Seth was hired to a man, Sammy Howe, and lived with him continuously for years, giving most of his wages to the support of his mother and younger siblings.

By February 1835, Jacob Wilson Manes had moved to an area that would become Richwoods Township, Miller County, Missouri.  Mary Polly Lawson Manes and several of the children stayed in Indiana.  One story relates that he had left Indiana with a drove of horses and no one knew what became of him; however, four of his sons came to Missouri over the next few years.

Missouri had been granted statehood in 1821.  The Osage Indians ceded their traditional lands across Missouri, Arkansas, and Oklahoma in the treaties of 1818 and 1825.  Jacob acted as administrator for William Evan's estate in 1835 and married William's widow, Emaline Hice Evans.  Callaway's wife, Sallie, was a niece of William and Emaline Hice Evans.  This same year Seth married Rebecca "Becky" Evans, a sister of Sallie, in Indiana.

Seth and Becky's daughter Mary Anne "Polly" Manes was born on April 12, 1837, in Indiana.  A second daughter, Ellen Elizabeth, was born in 1838.

Callaway witnessed a land sale for Jacob and Emaline Manes in Miller County in 1839.  He chose to settle in neighboring Pulaski County, Missouri. "For some time Callaway lived in a cabin in what was known as Still House Hollow on the William Gillespie farm on the Gasconade River when that entire area was wilderness. Callaway Manes, William Gillespie, and Isaac Davis, made a crop there. The cabin was an old trapper's cabin without any door or window. At the same time, he laid the foundations of two cabins on Conn's Creek, but continued to cultivate land on the Gillespie place until he had cleared out a sufficient land of his own claim. In those early years, the foundation for a cabin was sufficient to hold a claim against subsequent comers."   The ties between the Manes and Gillespie families can be traced back to Moore County, North Carolina.   The Gillespie and Davis families had come to Missouri in 1829.      



By the 1840 Census, Callaway and Sallie Manes were living in Pulaski County next to Seth and his family, and near the wives' parents, Archibald and Mary Evans with four other daughters.  Six of the seven Evans' daughters remained in Pulaski County for the rest of their lives.  Seth and Becky's son, Thomas Callaway, was born in Pulaski County in March 1840, and Callaway and Sallie's son, William Gillespie Manes, was born in October. "Seth was offered his choice of the two claims on which Callaway had laid foundations. Seth chose the one near the head of the stream and, in due time, erected a house of heavy hewn log timbers in which he lived the remainder of his life and where he reared his children and some of his grandchildren.  The claims were on the Gasconade River, about five miles southeast of where Richland exists today.


According to Seth's half-brother, Samuel Jasper Manes, who lived with the family at times:  "Seth differed from most of the Manes family, all of whom were high strung, fractious people.  Seth was high strung, feared nothing on earth, but was not fractious.  I was about his house a great deal, lived there as my own home two years as one of the family, and I never seen him yet off his balance, never heard a cross word spoken to his wife nor one of his children, yet he chastised his children and occasionally punished them, but always seemed to be in a perfect good humor.  To illustrate his way, I will relate one circumstance.  His oldest boy Callaway (Thomas Callaway) and the rest of his boys got into some mischief, but Callaway seemed to be the leader and Seth got onto it and called Callaway up, asked him about it.  Callaway tried to justify himself, but Seth said, 'tut, tut, tut.  Callaway you are too big a boy to act that way.  I will have to give you a whipping in the morning.'  This was Sunday afternoon.  He was smiling all the time and talking in a kind way.  Callaway was about fourteen years old, so we all supposed that ended it and went on our way.  Next morning, after breakfast, Seth called Callaway out and give him a genteel dressing.  When he got through, he said, 'My son, I hate to have to punish you, but you must not do such things - and if I have to punish you again I will make it a little worse.'  And all that time was seemingly in a perfect good humor.  That was his style with his family, his neighbors, and his stock; never seemed to fret over anything.  He was honest to a cent and his work was considered good, was a good neighbor and the best man in case of sickness or distress I ever saw.  When a neighbor got sick or had bad luck he was the first man to be on the group or help and often sacrificed his own interests to help others."

In February 1844, Jacob Manes left Miller County to join his sons Callaway and Seth in Pulaski County.  Jacob Wilson Manes cleared four acres of land that spring for William Gillespie in the lower field of the Jesse Gillespie Place.  Jacob and his family moved on to Hot Springs, Arkansas, where his step-daughter, Minerva Jane Evans, married Reuben Lambert in 1850.  In January 1853 Reuben Lambert and Jacob Wilson Manes got into a fight near Mountain Grove, Missouri, and Seth's father was killed.  It's plausible that the two men were trapping and trading furs, as the fur-trading town of Astoria existed near Mountain Grove at that time.

Seth served as Justice of the Peace for 18 years.  Additional children were born as follows:  1841 Francis Marion Manes, 1843 Jacob Newton Manes, 1845 Sarah Malinda,  1846 Simeon Henderson, 1848 John Aaron, 1849 Mahala Catherine, 1851 Daniel Lorenzo, 1852 Matilda Emmaline, 

In 1848 their brother Wade joined them in Pulaski County.  He stayed until 1855, moving on to Flat River where he died in 1864.  His family moved on to Texas.

In August, 1851, Seth's mother, Mary Polly Lawson Manes, died in Owen County, Indiana.  Although she used the name Manes, her children who stayed in Indiana used the name Maners.

In 1858 Seth and Becky's first daughter Mary Anne Polly Manes married George W. Vaught on May 11.  George was born in Alabama in 1833.  (1880 Census of Pulaski County) He homesteaded 160 acres near Dublin.  He walked to North Missouri to record his deed.  George said the 160 acres cost ten cents an acre.  His home was a big log house with a lean-to and by that was another cabin which was used as a kitchen.  Later he built a two-story, all the logs the same size, hewed and notched at the corners.  The fireplace was on the east end.  Big porches were on the north and south sides.  This home was built near the spring.  A log smokehouse was built and the cooking was done here in the summer.

In 1860 their oldest son Thomas Callaway married Nancy York and their daughter Ellen Elizabeth married William Elbert York.

Seth McCully Manes (III) was born in 1861.

The Manes Family of Preachers and Teachers

Seth (II) Manes Pulaski County Part 2

The year 1861 changed Missouri and changed the Manes family.  Citizens of Missouri held a unique position during the Civil War.  "Three weeks after Abraham Lincoln's inauguration, Missouri became the only state to hold a secession convention and then vote to remain in the Union. Still, the convention soundly rejected coercion along with secession. The delegates called for federal troops to be removed from southern forts, and they expressed support for slavery where it already existed.  The convention made it clear Missouri would not accept harsh federal measures against any state. Missouri assumed the position of an armed neutral, committed to the Union, but ready to defend itself against federal abuses."

On April 15, President Lincoln requested that Missouri supply just over 3,000 men for Union forces.  Missouri's Governor Jackson, famously replied, "Sir—Your requisition is illegal, unconstitutional and revolutionary; in its object inhuman & diabolical. Not one man will Missouri furnish to carry on any such unholy crusade against her Southern sisters.”

In May federal forces under General Lyon took over the State Militia training camp near St. Louis.  Shortly after Missouri had gained statehood in 1821, the Legislature had enacted a law for organizing a militia.  All men over 18 and under 45 were enrolled as state soldiers to prepare for Indian wars or other emergencies.  On the first Saturday of April each year, the citizens of each township came together to be organized into companies and drilled for soldiers.  This was called Muster Day.  Then in May the companies came together and were organized into battalions, drilled and paraded for several days.  Muster Day became when debts were paid, loans made, and trading done.

As General Lyon marched his prisoners away from the State Militia training camp in St. Louis, a riot erupted during which Union soldiers fired upon civilians, killing more than two dozen of them, including women and children.  The event polarized the state.  Hundreds crowded the streets of the capital, Jefferson City, to enlist in the Missouri State Guard and protest.

Federal supporters began to organize Missouri Home Guard units in many counties, including Miller, Camden, and Laclede.  The men were mounted and armed at their own expense. They were never mustered into the U.S. Army, but were paid by the U.S. government.  The beginning of the war disrupted trade in the area and the local economy collapsed.   "Men who had been employed on the river loading and unloading cargos, men who hauled wagon loads over old salt roads to and from markets - all lolled on the streets or visited dram shops. Idle men sat on benches and whittled bass-wood."

On June 11 a peace conference in St. Louis between General Lyon and Missouri's elected governor, Claiborne Jackson, broke down.  General Lyon declared war on Missouri's elected government.  Governor Jackson traveled back to Jefferson City, burning bridges over the Osage and Gasconade Rivers to slow the federal troops.

The next day Governor Jackson issued a proclamation pleading for men to take up arms against the federal troops:

"Your first allegiance is due to your own State, and you are under no obligation whatever to obey the unconstitutional edicts of the military despotism which has introduced itself at Washington, nor submit to the infamous and degrading sway of its minions in this State.  No brave hearted Missourian will obey the one and submit to the other.  Rise, then, and drive out ignominiously the invaders who have dared to desecrate the soil which your labors have made fruitful and which is consecrated by your home."


General Lyon commandeered four steamboats and captured Jefferson City on June 15.  He left three companies of soldiers commanded by Henry Boernstein in  Jefferson City "to oversee steamer traffic on the river, keep peace and order, in the capital itself."  Boernstein made the Capitol building his headquarters, establishing a temporary bivouac for men of the companies in the great hall of the House of Representatives and the officers were quartered in the hall of the Senate.  Boernstein himself took over the chambers of the Secretary of State.  Fearing a rebellion by capital city residents, he decided to rule by fear, "bloodless terror" as he phrased it.  He quickly arrested five local citizens denounced as chief conspirators of the rebels. and requisitioned the prisoners of the large penitentiary seven blocks away and had them build high earthworks around the elevated capital.  At one point Boernstein's soldiers brought seven prisoners who were all preachers and who had been accused of disloyalty.  His men wanted to hang the seven preachers in the Capitol rotunda and began extending ropes for that purpose but Boernstein put a stop to it.  This event was a harbinger of what was to come for Methodist and Baptist preachers in Missouri during the Civil War.

Governor Jackson escaped upriver to Boonville where General Sterling Price struggled to organize Missouri State Guard forces.  Price fell ill and Jackson took command.  To buy time for the Missouri State Guard to organize elsewhere he ordered General Marmaduke to battle Lyon when approached, even though the men were outnumbered four to one.  

President Lincoln, the War Department, and local commanders in Missouri began to determine when, where, and how martial law would be applied.  Successive commanders applied increasingly harsh penalties for disloyalty.  They appointed a Unionist provisional government that enacted a requirement that voters and officeholders be made to take an oath of loyalty to this provisional government and to the federal government before being allowed to vote or hold office.  The oath effectively created an atmosphere of suspicion that encouraged neighbors to spy on and accuse each other of disloyalty, especially those with money.  As one Missourian of moderate means later sneered, “the cry of ‘disloyal’ could be very easily raised against any man who happened to have a superabundance of property.” Civilian assessments were charged against citizens in the forms of levies, taxes, and bonds.  Those who refused such levies had their property confiscated.  In one military district alone, provost marshals required 612 persons to post bond in 1862, which ranged from one thousand to ten thousand dollars each. The provost in Palmyra, Missouri, reported taking in as much as $1 million in the same year."

"Callaway and his brother Seth had plenty of good land, large herds of cattle, and were considered prosperous for that day.  Callaway was a Baptist minister while Seth was a judge and held some political offices. Both men had large families and the children of both families were as brothers and sisters to each other."  In the election of 1860 Abraham Lincoln received only seven votes in Pulaski County.  When the election came to a vote on whether or not the state was to secede from the Union, Callaway and Seth voted to stay in the Union.  These sentiments were mirrored by the majority of citizens in Pulaski County. "Though their sympathies were with the South, they still felt that the Union should be preserved at any cost. They could not forget that their grandfathers had fought for the Stars and Stripes in the Revolution and therefore were opposed to secession.

By the end of June, General Price had established a camp on Cowskin Prairie in the extreme southwestern corner of Missouri, assembling some 1700 men.  
"These people were not all rebels nor disunionists, but believed that they were serving the lawfully constituted authorities of the State, in repelling invasion and in protecting their homes."  (p. 83 Wilson's Creek Piston and Hatcher)
Three sons of Seth Manes joined the Missouri State Guard:  Thomas Callaway, Francis Marion, and Jacob Newton.  

Less than a month after joining up, Seth and Becky's oldest son, Thomas Callaway Manes, contracted measles, died, and was buried in an unrecorded grave near Joplin, Missouri.  His widow, Nancy York Manes, and her two young daughters came to live with Seth and Becky.

The Battle of Wilson's Creek near Springfield, Missouri on August 10, 1861, was the bloodiest battle in the West, with about 2,500 casualties. Two of Seth's sons were with the Missouri State Guard at Wilson's Creek.  Jacob Newton Manes was born August 11, 1843; he celebrated his 18th birthday at Wilson's Creek.  After the battle, Francis Marion Manes was in a Missouri State Guard hospital in Springfield with remittent fever.

When word reached Pulaski County, "Callaway and Seth set off for Springfield. While the Manes brothers were in Springfield, the Union Army, commanded by General Franz Siegel, retreated from Springfield to Rolla, which was the end of the rail line at that time. The Union Army retreated right by the newly constructed Callaway Manes' home, (in what is Richland, Missouri, today) and camped overnight on what was afterwards called the "Old Union Road." That night the soldiers burned all the rails in the fence on one side of the farm for firewood. A flock of sheep and all of the hogs and chickens were butchered for the army. General Siegel paid for the animals with script, but the Manes family was never able to collect any money for their stock."  The beaten Federal army encumbered by a train of Government wagons and refugees was estimated at seven miles long.

Francis Marion Manes was furloughed on September 12, 1861.  Returning home brought little peace. A month later a skirmish was fought in nearby Camden County between Union forces and the Missouri State Guard. The Union soldiers prevailed in the Battle of Monday's Hollow (or Wet Glaize).  An undetermined number of Missouri State Guard soldiers from Camden, Miller, and surrounding counties were killed.  Many more were taken prisoner.

The commanders of the Missouri State Guard merged with Confederate troops in Arkansas. The men were forced to choose between leaving Missouri to join the Confederate Army or returning to their homes.  Jacob Newton Manes was furloughed from the Missouri State Guard at 19.

By 1862 the Union forces needed more troops. On July 22 General Schofield issued General Order 19 requiring every able-bodied man in Missouri to report to the nearest military post to become a member of the Enrolled Missouri Militia (EMM). "Over 18 and under 46 had to enroll in six days from the date of the order."  

These men were on-call as needed in their local counties.  The purpose of the EMM was to provide protection in local counties. "These units were untrained and lacked even the lax discipline of the Missouri State Militia, a full-time federal force.  A distressing number of men took advantage of their newfound military authority to harass, or even rob or kill, neighbors against whom they bore grudges or whom they suspected or knew to be Southern sympathizers."

The Lt. Colonel of the local 47th Regiment EMM organized in Camden County was Thomas O'Halloran, an Irish immigrant who worked as a meat cutter in St. Louis, then came to Camden County to work for Joseph McClurg. The Manes folk "always hated old man O'Halloran with a hatred that was akin to poison, and he was always afraid of the Manes men."

General Order 24, issued in August, required all disloyal men and those who had sympathized with the rebellion to report to the nearest military post or enrolling station, be enrolled, surrender their arms and return to their homes where they would be permitted to remain as long as they attended to their ordinary business and in no way gave aid or comfort to the enemy.

Disarmed citizens quickly reported concerns.  Residents of Camden County met to form the Wet Glaize Union Patrol Guards because "stealing, robbing, and other crimes and misdemeanors are enacted in our midst with impunity."  A detailed set of rules and regulations for the new organization was sent to General Brown.  The letter requested that General Brown "order the Colonel at Linn Creek to give us our shotguns and rifles again."

Seth's son, Francis Marion Manes, paid $300 in Commutation Tax in 1862, exempting him from service in the 47th EMM. "Each person liable to perform military service shall be exempt from service during each year on the annual payment of a commutation tax equal to ten (soon modified to thirty) dollars each, and one percent of the assessed value of his property."  He was listed as "rebel" on the Muster Roll.  The following year he was listed exempt as a teamster employed by the government.

Multiple encounters heightened the tension between the Manes family and the area's Union forces.  One encounter was retold by Seth's great-nephew:   "During the Civil War Grandfather Callaway and Great Uncle Seth and Uncle Ben Clark went to Linn Creek at about wheat harvest time. On the way they passed near to the place of Major Thomas O'Halloran, where the Chitwood gang hung out. They were intercepted by some of the soldiers, bushwhackers, or militia, or whatever they were, and ordered to get out of the wagon and cut O'Halloran's wheat."

"Grandfather said, 'Gentlemen, I am as ready to die as I ever expect to be. I propose that, when I do die, it shall be as a free man and not as a slave. I will cut no wheat and I will resist to the limit of my power any effort to force me to do anything against my will.' At this, he and Uncle Seth seized their guns which were in the wagon and, standing back to back in the wagon, Uncle Seth said, 'Now men, we don't want to die, but we will not cut your wheat while we are alive and we can't cut it when we are dead, so you can make nothing by killing us. You can kill us, but we will get some of you while you are at it, so do your worst.' "

"Uncle Ben got out of the wagon,  got down on his knees and begged the Manes brothers to go with him to the wheat field, but they refused and continued to defy the crowd against them until they finally agreed that they might go. They refused to go without Clark and ordered him to get in the wagon. He drove off, while Grandfather and Uncle Seth faced the rear with their weapons in their hands."

Baptist and Methodist preachers were systematically being warned out of the pulpit at this time. The majority of Missouri churches were either Methodist Episcopal South or Southern Baptist.  Seth's brother, Callaway Manes, was ordered to stop preaching. After preaching next to his last sermon in Waynesville, a bunch of switches was laid at the door with a note saying that if he preached there again, they would kill him.  The bundle of switches, an omen of a slicking, was a last dire warning used during this era. If the warning went unheeded,  the subject was drug out in the middle of the night and beaten with the switches until the entire bundle was exhausted.  The first slicking took place in Camden County in 1832.  The popularity of slickings spread from punishments administered to cheaters to become a method of intimidation.  

The next week the men of Pulaski County organized.  According to Seth's half-brother, Samuel Jasper Manes, who was 24 and serving in the Union Army, the men were responding to the actions of the Union forces in the area.  "Finally, the people, to escape the raids and persecutions of the Chitwoods and their associates, called a meeting at Waynesville on Sunday, July 31, 1864, to organize a company of the 48th Missouri Volunteer Infantry.  Callaway was elected First Lieutenant over some friend of the Chitwoods. This was the last straw."

Two descriptions of the murder of Seth's brother, Callaway, follow:  On August 7th "some men rode up in the lane about forty yards from the house, stopped there, and five men came through the gate on to the house. One man knocked at the East door of the house. Pa was already in bed. He had taken some cattle to market at Waynesville, then filled his appointment to preach there. When he got home he took the gold he got from the cattle and buried it in a stone jar. When he heard the men, Pa got up and opened the door. Pa said, 'Come in, gentlemen.' One man asked, "Is this Callaway Manes?" When Pa said, 'I am,' the man pulled his pistol and shot him in the chest. Pa fell back against the stairs and Polly screamed. Pa whispered, 'Hush, hush, hush.' The same party that did the shooting called for a light and Polly got the candle. He made her hold a light so he could shoot Pa through the ear."

"So, on the night of the following day, an unknown number of Chitwood’s Company G – some say 12, and some say 20 or more – rode to the Manes home and aroused him from his bed. As he approached the door he said, “Come in, gentlemen. To which the reply was a question, “Are you Callaway Manes?” He answered, “I am.” A shot followed. Stepping back to the bed, the stricken man let himself gently to the floor. Hush Hush Hush A light was made and one of his daughters was compelled to hold it over her father while the assassin shot him again through the head, although he was already dead. "

The family members interred Callaway Hodges Manes in the Mays-Gillespie Cemetery.

Military service cards substantiate that many men enlisted in Company A of the 48th Regiment on July 31, 1864, at Waynesville, and were mustered into service on August 3. The men named in service records as officers for Company A were noted as enlisted at Rolla a week after the murder.   The service card for Captain William Wilson was altered.  The First Lieutenant was Daniel E. Davis, a neighbor of Callaway's, and the grandson of William Gillespie, whom Callaway had worked with when he first came to Pulaski County.

Two weeks after the murder, on August 21, Becky Manes died from dysentery and was interred in Mays-Gillespie Cemetery.

A second company of the 48th enlisted at Waynesville on August 27, including Seth's son, Francis Marion Manes. On September 5 he was promoted to Corporal at Rolla.  On September 16, Jacob Newton Manes age 21 enlisted in the 48th Regiment Company C at Rolla, along with his brother-in-law George Vaught.

On October 24 Seth Manes married his daughter-in-law Nancy York.  The marriage was performed by W. S. York, Justice of the Peace, in Phelps County.  Francis Marion Manes arranged for military permission so that Seth and Nancy could take the younger children to Illinois.  They left in November.

In 1865, the 48th Regiment was disbanded and discharged on June 30.  In September Alice Jane Manes was born to Seth and Nancy in Illinois.

By 1867 they had returned to Pulaski County where six more children were born: 1867 James F., 1869 Benjamin Albert, 1871 Harriet J., 1873 George Washington, 1875 Samuel J., 1879 Jessie Gillespie

Seth McCully Manes (II) died on June 15, 1896, and was interred with his first wife Rebecca and his brother Callaway at Mays-Gillespie Cemetery.

Nancy York Manes died on June 21, 1923, and was interred at Manes Cemetery.
Nancy York Manes holding her grandson Drew