THE VILLAGE
by
John Uri Lloyd
edited by
James Duvall, M. A.
We pass next a few residences, then a blacksmith shop and beyond this a grocery, which is a drygoods store as well; and along the street are to be found other �stores,� and a few doctors� offices, after which dwelling houses again appear, another blacksmith shop, and two more of the four churches; finally the village disappears, giving place to meadows and cornfields which close in to the turnpike boundary. The hamlet, squatted on the borders of the field fronts, has almost thrust itself into the pike�s right of way, many of the houses being in the floating dust, close to the edge; few of them having more than a small door yard, yet, strangely enough, limitless acres unused in the rear.
Have I overlooked or evaded anything of importance that should take part in this description of Northern Kentucky rural life in those days? Let me think. Ah! there is one omission. My village has an industry. Near the junction where the Stringtown and Knob- land pikes meet stood a shop conducted by an old man, who lived near his workroom. The Christian, or Disciples� Church was on one side of this shop, and over in the fields beyond it spread the village churchyard. The odor of freshly-cut walnut wood always hovered about this isolated building; a few walnut shavings and fragments of thin boards mouldered undisturbed in front of the door, for children who frequented the wagon-maker�s did not come thither for chips and blocks. The old man who worked within was not ill-natured; he spoke kindly and mistreated no one, yet in common with other boys, I avoided him. He neither nor sang while plying his tools, and, strangely enough for a woodworker, never was the sound of hammer heard in his shop. The products of his skill were artistically joined with glue, smoothly sand-papered, carefully varnished, and brass screws with secreted heads held the polished planks together. Yes, I neglected to mention this shop with its hollow wares, in whose neighborhood the children�s voices were hushed in daylight, and past which, with scudding feet and beating hearts, the little ones slipped noiselessly if, in the night time, duty called them along the dust-bearing Pike. The home and shop of this man, whose parcels were always sold empty, should not be disregarded in a picture touching these times and scenes, � this solitary abode nestling snugly near a silent church and lonely graveyard, this dwelling place and storehouse of the village coffin-maker.
OUR PART IN WAR
Within the borders of our village and in the country adjacent was to be found all that man really needed for life and comfort. Such necessary articles as coffee, sugar, �store tea,� and �boughten� clothes came from abroad, but our people gave to outsiders in return from out our plentiful stores of hogs, corn and tobacco. Honors were easy, and, really, we were of greater concern to the world than the world to us. Whoever heard of one of our villagers going to Europe on a pleasure tour? Yet every year travelers from abroad came to our contented village, and while the stage horses in front of the tavern were being changed, these journeyers even asked questions concerning the town and adjacent country, thus indicating our importance.
But now the war that divided the nation burst upon us, and from our village, true to the traditions of their fathers and grandfathers, men were traveling, traveling with set bayonets, to meet, not an outside foe, but, alas! their friends from boyhood. Unhappy Stringtown! Farther south the young men turned their faces all in one direction, and amid the plaudits of their countrymen enlisted in behalf of the cause that lost. To the north, the young men, not less enthusiastic, marched from homes not less precious, to engage side by side with their comrades in a victorious cause. United to a man, those from the South opposed those united in a body from the North. To the member of a stricken southern home, tidings of death to him in the field spoke of a blow dealt by a foe from the North; while the mourner in the broken family circle of the North, thought of an enemy in the distant South.
But to this highland village near the border of northernmost Kentucky friends were not necessarily comrades, nor were antagonists foes. The roll of the drum, the music of the fife, the flaunting of banners, did not cheer the ear of Stringtown�s new-made soldier boy; no mirth, no thought of glory could come where each step fell on a loved one�s heart. Life-long neighbors stood not shoulder to shoulder. Our soldier boys shook hands, turned their backs to one another, sadly, silently seeking, some the North, others the South. Having enlisted, they faced about, enemies in principle, though friends at heart. When came death�s herald to a Stringtown home, came next the thought of a brother�s hand possibly red with a brother�s blood. Between the North and the South our pike stretched; in one direction it led toward the land of blue-coats, in the other, toward that of the men in gray, and men of Stringtown rode both ways. Let us illustrate by an incident.
One afternoon in 1862, a group of citizens sat in front of the village grocery, discussing the war news, which came by newspaper from the North and by �grapevine� from the South. Among them were two young men, to be known herein as Joe and Bill. Next day the circle was smaller, for Bill was absent.
�Joe, where�s Bill?� a companion asked.
�Gone.�
�Which army?�
�Northern; went this morning. Bill and I couldn�t jest see things alike,� he continued. �Reckon I�ll go South to-night.� And that night the group lost another member. These young men had been sheltered by the same roof, caressed by the same loving hands, had knelt beside the same mother � they were brothers.
In these matters of principle not a hand was raised to prevent a free choice; no feeling of personal hatred stood between those who saw life�s duty differently. A neighbor to the right of a little home called one evening on his neighbor to the left. He kissed the children and shook hands with the parents.
�I may not see you again; to-night I go to join Morgan,� he said. The host went to his little wardrobe, took therefrom his great-coat, thrust a pistol into the pocket, and threw it over the arm of his guest. Both were poor men, and winter approached; the recipient attempted to return it. �No,� said the donor, �no, you take this coat. Your path is to be one of privation; besides, I won�t need it. Tomorrow morning I start North to enlist. My government has overcoats to spare, and pistols, too; you who go South may find neither. God bless you, friend; may we return to meet again.� Ah! I see that I misstated when I said that our people did not travel. Their journeyings, however, were not toward the attractions that entice pleasure seekers to strange lands. Forth they went when stern duty called. Then it was that men of Stringtown bade farewell to their homes and enrolled their names, not on hotel registers, but on enlistment books. Sleepy old Stringtown, she did her part well and has earned the right to rest!
* An endeavor has been made to handle this fragment so as to avoid identifying individuals. With this aim I have ventured to touch more than one village. Yet, to persons familiar with Florence (Stringtown on the Pike), Boone County, forty years ago, many points both of location and of incident must be recognizable. J.U.L.
This article was published in Frank Leslie�s Popular Monthly, a magazine published in New York from 1876 until 1904. The article appeared in 1902 and is one of the few preserved contemporary accounts of the Civil War in Boone County. This article was located in a box at the Lloyd Library in Cincinnati. This is the third of four sections to be published verbatim in the Boone County Historical Society newsletter.