“The Fort Plain Faster:” Kate Smulsey and the 19th Century “Fasting Girls”

Though technically not part of Fulton County, the story of Kate Smulsey appeared in local newspapers and involved some medical professionals from Johnstown. After researching Kate’s story, I felt it was worth sharing here.

In the 1880s, the fasting case of Kate Smulsey captivated the country. The Smulsey family – father George, mother Catharine, and children Adam, Phebe, and Kate – lived in a “small but neat” cottage just outside of the village of Fort Plain. Neighbors and friends described the family as “people of character and respectability,” and “plain, hard-working Germans.” Yet they insisted that their 20-year-old daughter Kate had not and could not take a bite of food, and barely sip water, for what ended up to be a total of 391 days.

The “Fasting Girls” were a Victorian-era phenomenon usually involving pre-adolescent girls. Many of them claimed to have special religious or magical powers that allowed them to survive without food. Some were even said to exhibit stigmata. Doctors claimed these girls to be frauds, suffering from hysteria. With the benefit of modern medicine and a better understanding of psychology, some historians now believe these could have been early examples of anorexia nervosa. There were several famous cases throughout the world. One of these was Sarah Jacob (1857-1869), known as the “Welsh Fasting Girl,” whose story was the inspiration for Emma Donoghue’s novel The Wonder, recently adapted into a Netflix film of the same name starring Florence Pugh.

Kate Smulsey’s fast began on March 11, 1884, when she had her “last meal” of a piece of watermelon “about two inches square, and a little of the juice of a small piece of beefsteak,” according to her mother. She had apparently eaten nothing since and barely took water. Yet, Kate’s story wasn’t made known until late August of that year. The family had been keeping their daughter’s affliction secret and it was only discovered when someone leaked it to the press. On September 8, the Amsterdam Daily Democrat reported that it was the 181st day of the fast and she had received hundreds of visitors since it was made public. Letters were sent from Canada, Jamaica, and other parts of the world. The family received no financial compensation for Kate’s starvation. In fact, the family suggested that a watch be set. Two reliable nurses would be chosen by the “unbelievers,” one of which would be with Kate at all times. The money to pay for these services would be raised by subscription. The nurses would be charged with three tasks:

1. Determine if Kate eats or drinks
2. Determine if she is constantly moving
3. Record how much she sleeps

Number 2 was included because of a curious symptom of Kate’s fast: the constant jerking movements of her limbs. Because of her continual movement, she had to be burning energy – and without taking food, there was no way she could continue to survive. Her mother was quoted as saying: “It is impossible for her to eat and none of us can keep her alive.” Dr. Darwin Potter believed that Kate was suffering from St. Vitus Dance, today called Sydenham’s chorea. It’s an autoimmune disease characterized by rapid, uncoordinated jerking movements, primarily in the hands, face, and feet. It’s more common in girls between ages 5-15 (fitting with the same age range for the “fasting girls”) and is usually the result of an acute infection. In extreme cases, patients are unable to walk, talk, or eat. Dr. Potter explained that – although the Smulseys were honest folk – as a doctor he pronounced the story of a Kate’s fast as “an unmitigated humbug, a stupendous fraud, and a physiological impossibility.”

The watch was never set.

Dr. Potter and others felt that Kate had to be sneaking food in order to have survived for so many days. The press was divided between sympathy and sarcasm. Some reporters felt it was clear that she was suffering from some disease and it was cruel to make her such a spectacle. In November 1884, the Daily Democrat published two small comments that were rather callous. On the 10th they wrote: “Kate Smulsey likes water in all styles.” Their Thanksgiving issue included a list of “People Who Should be Thankful.” Among the names was “Kate Smulsey, because her Thanksgiving dinner will be so cheap.” The New York Morning Journal wrote that if she kept up the fast, she’d be a “transparent woman,” a “class of person which has long been looked for and desired.”

In fact, the day before Thanksgiving, Kate felt something “burst” in her stomach, allowing her to take a little food. The twitching of her limbs continued, but it seemed to be slightly improving.

Sadly, this apparent sign of recovery soon disappeared. Kate’s condition only worsened as 1885 dawned. She had not spoken for months and her room was kept constantly dark. She could only take the smallest nourishment, usually wine of whey. The family consulted a “witch doctor,” which did not seem to warrant any further comment by news reports. In February, Kate grew weaker. No one was allowed to see her but the immediate family, who she barely recognized.

On April 10, 1885, Kate Smulsey died after a fast of 391 days. She had been comatose the previous several days, but “gave no indication that death was approaching until the last moment.” She weighed only 75lbs at her death. The family originally didn’t want a post-mortem, but there was an autopsy anyway. It was conducted by Dr. Theodore Deecke in the presence of Dr. Potter and Dr. CB Walrad of Johnstown. Dr. Deeck was a pathologist from the State Asylum at Utica. It was determined that the cause of death was not starvation, but tuberculosis. Kate suffered from chronic TB for a long period, followed by an acute form which brought about her death. Her stomach showed no sign of disease, but was still taken back to the hospital in Utica by Dr. Deecke for further study.

The phenomenon of the “fasting girl” faded out at the turn of the century. Nothing more was published about Kate Smulsey in local newspapers after her death. Her funeral at the Reformed Church was considered to have the largest number of attendees in the history of the village of Fort Plain. There is also no record of either Kate or her family claiming special powers or a religious connection to her fasting. Though her story is curious, it is tragic, and Kate’s family mourned her loss.

The Glov-Burr Colony of the Rome State School

Note: Many of the historical records that were used in researching this paper, including newspapers, county and state records, and other materials include terminology that is now considered offensive, harmful, or problematic. Some of that language is preserved in this article because changing or removing the content would alter the historical record or one’s understanding of it. Otherwise, we seek to use inclusive and updated terminology.

Our understanding of physical and intellectual disabilities and mental illness — and the needs of and treatment for those living with any of these conditions — has come a long way, even within the past fifty years, and continues to evolve. If disabled family members weren’t hidden away at home, they were sent off to prison-like institutions (if not actual prisons, which was sometimes the case) where treatments could be inhumane and neglectful. By the latter half of the 19th century, specialized institutions focused on the care of people with disabilities began to pop up. One such place was the Rome State Custodial Asylum for Unteachable Idiots. Opened in 1894, the organization provided basic care for people with disabilities of all ages, especially “low grade” and delinquent cases. Still, people brought here were often seen as “the result of moral failure” on the part of the parents.

At the arrival of Dr. Charles Bernstein in 1904, the institution became the Rome State School. Dr. Bernstein’s progressive rehabilitation programs, backed by the Board of Managers, focused on a philosophy that recognized that people with disabilities “have a right to experiences and opportunities equivalent to those available to all other citizens.” One of these programs was the establishment of homes, or “colonies,” across the state that operated under the auspices of the school. The first was a small house rented by Dr. Bernstein near the school; at first the state objected to placing patients outside of the main building. But the doctor sent a married couple with about a dozen boys to the house, which soon became a working farm with cows and horses. The State Board didn’t support this first effort, but the farm was a success.

As more homes were established for boys, Dr. Bernstein wanted to provide the same opportunity for the girls at the school. Many of the students were sent to nearby cities to work during the day, but returned to the main building at night. Bernstein knew the benefits of the school-sponsored homes and knew the model could easily be expanded upon. However, according to Robert York, the school’s Director of Vocations, Colonies, and Parole in the 1930s, there was pushback from the communities: “They did not want girls of their own town to be contaminated by a group of girls definitely known to be feeble-minded.” Yet there was no denying that this program benefitted the students, and soon these homes acted almost as working girls’ clubs, with caretakers helping to supervise work, recreation, and health. The local physician and the school’s woman physician made regular examinations of the residents. The program found success especially in knitting towns, where girls were at work sewing baseballs.

In addition to doing away with overcrowding and waitlists at the school, there were no extra per-capita costs — the farms were largely self-supporting. Farmers were desperate for help as their children fled to the cities for more lucrative factory work. The program provided training and jobs for the students, who earned their own money, and much-needed assistance in rural communities. About 1/3 of the earnings of each student was given directly to them for clothing and other personal wants; 1/3 went into the bank to the credit of the earner; and the final portion was placed in a fund to provide things for the students that the state could not. Each colony had its own car for recreation. The program provided training and part-time schooling. At age 14, students either went home, to other institutions for placement, or colonies where they fit for working parole. There were about 1,200 people in this system by 1932.

Gloversville was home to one such colony. The first was opened in 1922 at 22 East State St., formerly the Elmwood Boarding House run by Sadie Hart. The girls were available for hire for domestic work by the day, week, or month. The Morning Herald advertised their services for all kinds of domestic work and “common” cooking. “These are girls who have been orphans or have never known a normal home,” the paper reported.

By 1933, the Gloversville program had grown and additional space was needed. The school leased the property of the late John Burr Wells at 23 East State St., which had been the Burr family home for about four decades. They also kept the original building, and the complex became known as the Glov-Burr Colony of the Rome State School. It was being run by Mr. and Mrs. Louis Brennan at the time. The “supervisors” were rarely, if ever, social workers. They were usually a married couple. That year, the supervisor position was taken over by Ward and Caroline Robinson, who came to the city from Oriskany Falls.

The couple originally took the job on a temporary basis to help them during a difficult financial time, but they ended up staying on for 21 years. In an article in the Morning Herald about their retirement in 1954, the Robinsons recounted that over the years they have helped take care of 350 girls, as many as 60 at a time (there were 22 girls living in the home in 1954). Some of them had been left by their parents, others were dependent, some had been in some minor difficulty. The Robinsons helped teach the girls household duties and ensured they went to school, but they also organized a photography club and choral group. The singers performed at various events and locations around the county over the years. But the couple was ready to retire. Mildred Sargeant was set to take over the supervisor role.

The Glov-Burr Colony of the Rome State School closed in 1970. Things were changing, social services became more wildly available, and there were more options for support. The homes were not as needed. The Gloversville house had about a dozen women there at its closure. There were still four other homes in the state at Rome, Frankfort, Hamilton, and Herkimer. The Gloversville buildings were the only ones not owned outright by the state, but leased. After the home closed, the property was purchased by local historian, author, and educator Don Williams and his family. The Rome State School closed in the fall of 1989.

Scrapbook Scraps: Interesting Items from Old Newspapers

The Fulton County Historian’s Office has a great collection of scrapbooks. These fragile old books put together by residents past are filled with interesting clippings. From global and national events to local happenings, obituaries, and sports scores, they can show us not only what was going on at the time but what the creator (often anonymous) deemed to be important enough to save. Looking though them often reveals tidbits of local history that don’t provide enough content for a full article or program, but are interesting nonetheless. Here are a few pieces that I found in one such scrapbook.

“WW BROWER GONE
HE WENT FOR OIL, SO HE SAID”
November 15, 1901

On November 6th, tannery owner Wilbur W. Brower told his family he was headed to Boston to purchase leather dressing oil. It was a trip, and an errand, he had taken several times, so his departure for this purpose was pretty mundane. Brower promised to return within a few days, Friday at the latest, to his family’s home at 17 McNab Ave. in Gloversville.

That Saturday, the employees at the West Mill Leather Company, the business Brower owned for three years, gathered in his office to receive their month’s pay. It was their usual payday. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But the man Brower left in charge said that the owner had not left any money with which to pay the employees, and he hadn’t even heard from him since he left. Being a reasonable bunch, the group decided to wait a couple of days for his return. He may have had some unforeseen delay that kept him from getting back to the city. But by Wednesday, Brower had failed to appear and his family still hadn’t heard from him. The workers called on law firm Jordon and Cassedy to look into Brower’s books, and his absence.

The lawyers quickly discovered that Brower owed considerable money to various creditors — about $15,000 total — and had few assets with which to pay his debts. Before he left, Brower collected many of his accounts and took with him the sum, which they supposed was about $1,800. The biggest debts owed were to Alonzo Brower, his father, who endorsed several bank notes for him; Young and Kimball of Boston, the firm selling tannery oil, for $1,300; and Lawton Caten (father-in-law of renowned Western artist Frederic Remington), the owner of the mill building, $400 for rent. It was clear that Brower did not have sufficient capital to meet his obligations and he often got extensions from his creditors.

The employees had not been paid for their work in October or anything they had done the first weeks of November. Their claim was $2,400, and would probably be paid in full, leaving little to cover the rest of Brower’s debts.

The community was surprised by this discovery and by Brower’s disappearance. He was a well-known member of the Kasson Opera House orchestra and the Gloversville military band. The Daily Leader reported: “Mr. Brower’s friends were much surprised at the announcement that he had left the city under such unfavorable circumstances, and his family have the sympathy of the community in the trouble which has overtaken them. Mr. Brower’s family enjoy the esteem of many friends and that they are made to suffer for the misdeeds of Mr. Brower is generally regretted.” He and his wife Elizabeth had four children.

Eventually, the court handled this bankruptcy case. Brower returned to Gloversville and the family moved to 115 Broad Street. He was still involved in tanning, according to city directories, though it’s unclear if it was still with the West Mill company or not. Wilbur W. Brower died in 1910.

“TIE VOTE OF COMMON COUNCIL KILLS SUNDAY BASEBALL HERE”
August 13, 1919

In 1919, the New York State Legislature allowed municipalities to make decisions about whether or not they would allow Sunday baseball games. In Gloversville, home of the Parkhursts, the debate was fierce and lasted several months. The first petition to allow Sunday baseball was brought to the Common Council in August, and they put it on their agenda for their monthly meeting.

Morning Herald 11/4/1919

Gloversville’s religious-leaning residents were against allowing Sunday games. The Ministerial Delegation and other church representatives spoke at the public meeting, protesting the petition. A rather scathing letter from the Parkhurst Baseball Club was read allowed. The games would not interfere with religious services, they promised, and only held during certain hours. There were working people who only had Sunday as a day for an outing, and why shouldn’t they be able to enjoy a game?

“There is another element that desires a restoration of the old Puritan days,” the letter read, “when a man could not kiss his wife on Sunday without a fear of public punishment. If a small minority of men were to have their way, they would revive all these old laws.” As to children being exposed to unwholesome sport on the Sabbath, the letter claimed the same children could “stand on the curb on any Sunday,” and “they will see some of the sinners of your adverse petition filed with your body whirring along on pleasure bent in their automobiles.” These church members would be driving on to Sacandaga or Saratoga — what was the difference? It continued: “Has a petition ever been circulated in any church in Gloversville protesting against Deacon Jones burning up the gasoline on Sunday? Has there been any public protest from the same source against Elder Smith and his family hiking to country clubs on the Sabbath with golf sticks under the blankets?”

The vote at the August meeting was a tie, 6-6. The city attorney, Wesley H. Maider, advised that Mayor Baird didn’t have authority to vote on questions “of this nature” and he couldn’t vote to break the tie.

Throughout the rest of the summer, there were letters and articles in the local papers regarding the question. Alva J. Zimmer asserted that the FJ&G Railroad didn’t support the Sunday games — why would they, when fare to Parkhurst was only 5 cents and a trip to Sacandaga Park cost 50? “It has an Alderman to do its bidding,” Zimmer wrote, referring to the Fourth Ward Alderman who was also connected to the railroad. Another debate and another vote was held on August 20th, resulting in the same result: a tie.

Finally, the Common Council decided to put the question to the citizens for a vote. Their vote wouldn’t mean anything legally, as the council would still have to make the call, but at least it would give them an idea of what the rest of the community was thinking. The question of Sunday baseball was included in the mayoral election of November 1919. The proposition was endorsed and the Common Council quickly went to work and legalized Sunday baseball in Gloversville.

“POLICE SAY CABARET SHOWS MUST STOP”
January 10, 1915

Two Gloversville hotels, the St. Charles (29 Bleecker St.) and the Lincoln (52-54 N. Main), and their proprietors were issued warnings by Police Chief Smith to stop hosting the cabaret shows they had been putting on for the past couple of weeks, as they were in violation of a 1909 city ordinance. “There was no objection registered to the character of the shows,” the paper reported. In fact, the crowds enjoyed the “Bohemian atmosphere” provided by Sandford Eaton at the Lincoln and August Schmidt of the St. Charles. It was just the city ordinance standing in their way, which stated that no place selling liquor or beer was allowed to have singing, dancing, exhibition of skill or athletic performance, concerts, piano playing, theatrical performances, lectures, or other entertainment or exhibition. Which seems kind of odd, because what better place for live music and dancing than a restaurant or hotel that serves food and drink?

A week later, an article ran titled “LINCOLN CABARET GIVEN AS USUAL.” It seems Eaton wasn’t deterred by the original warning and the police had yet to take any action. Schmidt had closed the St. Charles for the past few nights, but the Lincoln went ahead with several singers and a new addition, a four-piece orchestra. It was reported that several police were in attendance, supposedly gathering evidence, but they would not comment on what, if anything, they planned to do. Eaton said he would continue to operate as usual, the shows offered “purely as entertainment for his guests and nothing untoward was allowed in the program.” He planned to go on until he was stopped.

Several attorneys commented that the provisions of the ordinance could not be enforced, and it seems that was the general conclusion. Advertisements for cabarets at both the Lincoln and the St. Charles reappeared in papers in following years.

“CIGAR CUTTERS BANNED”
November 26, 1912

The State Board of Health said that the little machines in cigar stores used to cut purchased cigars were unsanitary and needed to be removed. Why were they so unsanitary? Often, a man would wet the cigar in his lips before using the cutter, transferring his germs to the machine. Then the next gentleman continued the cycle, until everyone had everyone else’s germs on their brand new cigars. The paper stated: “Smokers must cut the tops of their cigars with their pen knives, or, better sill, bite them off between their teeth.”

Say Cheese! Fulton County Cheese Factories

When we think of cheese production, we might think of the Midwest – Wisconsin, probably. But in the 19th century, the Mohawk Valley was one of the largest areas of cheese production in the country. Little Falls, just over the border in neighboring Herkimer County, was the largest cheese market in the world from 1864-1870. The first cheese factory was established in Rome, NY in 1851. It proved a popular model.

Farming families typically made their own butter and cheese at home, both for family use and for sale. As farms grew, and more milk was produced, farmers looked for a way to use this excess dairy without losing money. According to historian Washington Frothingham in 1892, William H. Youker was possibly the first person to open a cheese factory in Fulton County at Oppenheim. By the mid-1800s, the town hosted seven of them.

These operations weren’t massive industrialized ventures that the word “factory” conjures up. They were about the size of a small barn, usually with one room, 2-3 large wooden vats for milk, a stove or a boiler, shallow trays for cheese curd, a press, and a storage shed to hold or age the cheese. Some of them ran like co-ops, with the farmers working together and being paid from the profit from the sale of cheese. Others had a single owner who bought the milk from the farmers directly. Factories usually employed a cheese maker and an agent, who would take samples to show potential buyers and make sales. Little Falls was the closest and largest market that drew buyers from New York City and elsewhere. The profit was shared among the farmers. About ten pounds of milk produced one pound of cheese. Whey was returned to the farmers for use in slop for their hogs. Though these were seasonal operations, the sale of cheese equaled a large portion of the farmer’s yearly income. Usually factories were closed from November through April; inadequate feed meant less milk production from the cows during the cold winter months.

Cheese factories sprang up all over Fulton County, though many of them were in the western half. An 1870s report from the Albany Journal about the county dairy business stated that twelve factories were in operation, though only five submitted reports: Johnstown Cheese Factory, Cross Roads Cheese Factory, George LaDue Factory (Oppenheim), Fulton Factory (Oppenheim), and the Lottville Factory. These operations continued to spring up through the early 20th century, with businesses in Mayfield, Lassellsville, Gloversville, Dolgeville, and Stratford. There were enough factories to establish a local Cheese Factory Association in the late 1800s.

The cheese factories also supported several ancillary industries: coopers, cheese box manufacturing, and butter tub manufacturing. Unfortunately, these closed as the cheese industry declined. As railroads better connected the coast to the country’s interior, Fulton County farmers were now in direct competition with farmers from Wisconsin and Minnesota – and the Midwest won.

Yet there are still some dairy operations nearby, with Fage and the Palatine Cheese Company. Central NY even has its own “Cheese Trail,” which you can learn more about here.

On one rather quirky historical note, Youker’s Cheese Factory in Oppenheim was the host site of the inquest into the murder of Lewis Klose by Charles Halling in 1894. Halling was found guilty of willful and premeditated murder.

Sources:
Allen, Hector J. Oppenheim Chronicles, Volume 2. Dulles, VA: Integrated Books International. 2016.

In the Skies and on the Silver Screen: Sgt. Russell Wilmarth

There was some excitement in the City of Gloversville in early June 1944, when Roy Wilmarth received a phone call from Arloween, his daughter-in-law in Rochester. At her prompting, Roy opened the newspaper to recognize his son, Sgt. Russell Wilmarth, in the D-Day invasion photos published in the Leader-Republican. The photo showed a group of men from the 101st Airborne, 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR) at Marmion Farm at Ravenoville, Utah Beach, France, on June 8, 1944. American paratrooper James Flanagan stands in the middle, holding a captured Nazi vehicle air identification sign. On the far right, leaning on his weapon, is the young Sgt. Wilmarth. It’s believed to be the first image of a Gloversville boy in invasion photos.

Sgt. Russell Wilmarth is pictured on the far right.

Russell Wilmarth’s senior yearbook photo.

Russell Remington Wilmarth was born on June 15, 1919 in Gainesville, NY. The family moved to Gloversville by the following year, and Wilmarth would spend his childhood here and graduate from Gloversville High School in 1937. He was working at the Lake Placid Club as a storekeeper when he enlisted on March 6, 1941. Wilmarth then moved to Rochester, where he met and married his wife, Arloween “Woody” Woodward the following year.

Wilmarth was assigned to the new 502nd Battalion in the 101st Airborne, aka the Screamin’ Eagles. He was one of four Gloversville boys to be a part of the 502nd. The others included Frank Sirovica, Sidney Wilder, and J. Lohse. In October 1941, the Hippodrome played “Parachute Battalion,” an RKO Picture about “the dramatic inner struggle of a young man to overcome his overpowering fear of making his first parachute jump.” The Hipp invited the families of the Airborne boys to attend as special guests at one of the film’s showings.

The 502nd was sent to Fort Benning, GA, where the battalion took part in the grueling training program. They sailed for England on September 4, 1943 and, after some issues that left them stuck in Newfoundland for several weeks, they arrived in Liverpool on October 18th. Wilmarth was promoted to 1st Sergeant that November.

The 101st Airborne played a major role in Operation Overlord, the invasion of Normandy. For D-Day, Wilmarth was assigned to Drop Zone Able, the northernmost point. Their mission was to secure two northern causeways leading inland from Utah Beach and destroy a German coast artillery battery, consisting of 122 mm howitzers, near Ste. Martin-de-Varreville. On June 5th, as the men prepared to climb aboard their planes, Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower spoke to the troops: “full victory – nothing else.” In a photo captured of the meeting, Russell Wilmarth’s face can be seen underneath Ike’s chin. The photo is in the Library of Congress.

Gen. Eisenhower speaks to men of the 101st Airborne on June 4, 1944. Russell Wilmarth’s face can be seen underneath Eisenhower’s chin in the background.

Those who’ve read Stephen Ambrose’s book Band of Brothers or watched the 2001 HBO mini-series of the same name may be familiar with the issues that faced the 101st Airborne as they flew from England to France on that fateful night. Though the book and show follow the path of the 506th Battalion’s Easy Company, the other battalions faced similar troubles. Between a heavy cloud bank, navigation errors, and a lack of Eureka signal (a shortwave radio navigation system used to guide the dropping of airborne forces and supplies), no one really landed where they were supposed to. Commander Lt. Col. Steve A. Chappuis was the only one to land in the correct spot and discovered that the German howitzers had already been dismantled after an air raid. The 1st Battalion was the only group to land on target and this was by sheer dumb luck.

For eight days, Wilmarth fought with the 502nd until he was injured by an exploding shell, shattering his left leg and resulting in its amputation. He spent several months in a hospital in England before being sent to the England General Hospital in Atlantic City, NJ. Apart from this injury, he was otherwise unharmed and wrote to his family not to worry, though he did admit one of the most difficult things he ever had to do was to “write to my wife that I have lost a leg.”

The 101st Airborne went on to participate in Operation Market Garden, the Battle of the Bulge, and the Liberation of Kaufering, where they liberated Kaufering IV, one of the eleven concentration camps in the complex, a subcamp of Dachau. You can learn more about Kaufering at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum website. These incidents were dramatized in the HBO series Band of Brothers.

Wilmarth eventually returned home to his wife in Rochester, where he was hired to work for the Customs Service. He would appear in the 1945 film The True Glory, a production of the US Office of War Information and the British Ministry of Information. Its purpose was to document the victory on the Western Front from Normandy to the collapse of the Third Reich. It’s tagline was: “The story of your victory… told by your guys who won it!” The film was notable for using multiple first person perspectives as narrative voices and included an American GI, a British Tommy, a Canadian, a French Resistance fighter, a Parisian civilian family, an African-American tank gunner, and several nurses and female clerical staff. The film won an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature. The entire thing is available to watch on the US National Archives YouTube page here. The image of Wilmarth with the group that captured the Nazi flag is visible in the film, and when it opened at the Glove Theater on October 10, 1945, a relative recognized him and pointed out his photo in one of the lobby displays.

Russell and Woody had three children. He died on May 21, 1985 in Whitesboro, NY, just before his 66th birthday. Woody would live to reach 99 1/2 years old, passing away December 17, 2018. The couple is buried in Prospect Hill Cemetery in Gloversville.

A Brief Biography of a Bowling Alley

Bowling has always seemed like an old-fashioned activity to me, one I’ve loved since I was old enough to actually push a bowling ball down the lanes (with bumpers). It might be because its in my blood: the names of my grandmothers, uncles, aunts, and grandfathers appear frequently in old local newspapers under the section listing the bowling scores. Or it could be the time I’ve spent in bowling alleys themselves, which always seem to evoke a feeling of stepping back in time for me. It doesn’t matter where: Perry Lanes, Arterial, the old Johnstown Bowling Center, Uncle Sam Lanes in Troy, or the lanes in the Orleans Casino in Las Vegas – they all have the same ambiance, the same smell, and the same feeling that I’ve somehow traveled to the past. Stepping onto the lane evokes a sense of communication with my ancestors, in a way – schmaltzy, I know. And, of course, we know that I love old buildings (isn’t a prerequisite for historians?). Which I guess is why I was so enchanted the first time I drove by Starlite Lanes at 9 Montgomery Street in Gloversville.

Starlite Lanes, 9 Montgomery St., Gloversville, NY. Captured on Google Street View in October 2014.

I’ve lived in Gloversville and Johnstown all my life, except for the six years I was away at school, but there are still streets and niches that I haven’t explored. Several years ago, on the way to somewhere else, I turned down Montgomery St. probably for the first time, and was surprised to find that there in the midst of the residential neighborhood was a huge bowling alley. And the parking lot was full! How had I lived my whole 30-something years in the city, the daughter/niece/granddaughter of regular league bowlers, and not know of its existence? So, as I pondered what might be fun to research for this blog, I decided to look into the history of Starlite Lanes, which is really a look back at the history of the property it sits on.

An 1868 map of the City of Gloversville shows the non-existence of Montgomery St. There’s a small lane coming off of Washington St., but its mostly undeveloped land beyond. Of course, with the city growing as it did over the following decades – with the booming glove and leather industry drawing workers from across the country and from overseas – the undeveloped land didn’t last long. By the early 1890s, the lot in question was owned by Julius H. and Louis Bach of Bach Brothers, a carriage business that began in 1878. Around the turn of the century, they were working out of a “commodious and well-equipped shop” on the property, a two story structure with a 25 horsepower boiler and a 15 horsepower engine and heated by steam. The factory had woodworking, iron-working, painting, and trimming departments and capacity for 100 carriages. The newspaper called it the “most complete establishment of its kind in this county,” and it’s proprietors were “popular and enterprising businessmen and occupy a position of high standing in the community.”

Detail of 1868 map of Gloversville by Nichols and Beach. Notice the small lane on the south side of Washington Street that would eventually become Montgomery St.

The property remained a carriage shop even as it changed owners. John H. Meyers headquartered his business there and in 1916 built a new brick structure on the site of his current shop. It was another two story building with a blacksmith shop on the first floor. The second floor was divided into living quarters in the front and the back used for carriage making. Part of the original wooden structure was kept and moved to the rear of the new building, while another piece of the old building was converted for “automobile garage uses.”

Yet as the 1920s approached, automobiles were replacing carriages as more people were able to afford them. Meyers sold to George Kathan and his new and used auto business. Kathan was out in a new location by the following year and Myer and Bloom Expert Auto Painters were in. They only lasted two years; in 1924 the building was bought by Chauncey Miller. Miller’s Garage remained one of the longer-running businesses at the location. After 14 years in business, Miller filed bankruptcy in 1938. He was being sued by three people who paid for cars that were never delivered. (His son, Chauncey G. Miller, would go on to be successful in the automobile business until his early death in 1963 at age 58.)

McConnel Motors operated for a couple of years on the 7-11 Montgomery St. lot until 1941, when Harold Harbinger opened Harbinger Bowling Center. It formally opened on September 4th with much fanfare. Herbert L. Montanye, the commissioner of public welfare and representing Mayor Chauncey Thayer, Fred Geisler of the Kiwanis, and Arthur Tracey for American Bowling Co. had the honor of being the first three to throw a ball down the lanes. The Fulton County Bowling League opened their season there and Harbinger offered an additional $2(!) prize to the highest scorer; Frank Pezzella took home the two bucks with a score of 222.

Ad for Sunset Bowling Alley, 1955.

Harbinger operated the alley until 1946. He had moved to Albany by that point and sold to Alderman Harry W. Mayette. He changed the name to Sunset Bowling Center and kept the popular Ed Shanahan on as manager. Mayette sold to Mr. and Mrs. Garth R. Allen of Albany, former county residents who moved back in 1955 to operate the two-story, eight alley bowling center. Garth was a GHS graduate and WWII Navy veteran who had previously been in the bakery business. They kept the Sunset name.

The bowling alley has gone through a few owners over the past couple of decades, but its clear the popularity of the spot – and the sport – is still thriving. Do you remember when the name was changed from Sunset to Starlite Lanes? Comment below and share your memories!

Jail Break

In January 1929, Raymond Clemons of Gloversville and Joseph Neparty of Schenectady were being held at the Fulton County Jail for burglary. Neparty, a 39-year-old described as 5’11” with brown eyes, black hair, and a “stubby mustache,” had just been brought to Johnstown on a bench warrant after a 12 month stint in the Montgomery County Jail for unlawful entry and chicken theft. Clemons was 27 years old, 5’7″, with a “reddish complexion, dark reddish hair, and brown eyes.” He and his brother Ernest were indicted for 3rd degree burglary: they stole 18 chickens (valued at $50) from Daniel Smith in Ephratah. (Imagining the ruckus 18 chickens must have made, its no wonder they were caught.) This wasn’t their first rodeo, as both men had priors and had served sentences at Clinton (Neparty for burglary in 1918) and Auburn (Clemons for arson in 1921).

Former Fulton County Jail in Johnstown as it appeared in 1933. (Historic American Buildings Survey, retrieved from the Library of Congress)

It must have been bitterly cold on the night of January 4, 1929, when Clemons and Neparty managed to escape from the Fulton County Jail.

Their absence was discovered at 7:30 the next morning by Daniel Gould, the turnkey at the jail, when he went to arrange for the prisoners’ breakfast. The cell lock was broken and a bar on the window had been sawed away. In a stroke of genius that Ferris Bueller would be proud of, Clemons even arranged his blankets so it looked like he was still underneath them during the last round made at 11:00 the night before.

The men had been assigned to cells three and four on the first floor. It was believed that Clemons hid in an unused cell in the darkness. The Morning Herald reported: “The job was so quietly completed that despite the jail office being close by, no sound was heard.” Fellow inmates Michael Lynch and Ervin E. Hall hadn’t even heard a sound. The escapees left behind eight hacksaw blades, soap, a bunk chain, and a metal brace from one of the heating pipes – the tools of their escape act. They were believed to have acted alone (though Isabelle Clemons, Raymond’s mother, was later suspected of having been the one to smuggle the hacksaws into the jail).

Raymond Clemons’ mugshot, 1929.

At some point, Clemons was caught and returned to the jail while Neparty remained at large. It was discovered that Clemons hid out at Herbert Getman’s, who was fined $500 for his role in harboring the criminal. But Clemons wasn’t content to await his fate and again escaped on February 26th. He was recaptured within hours near the Fairview Farm. The authorities were baffled. How had Clemons managed to get out once, let alone a second time within five weeks? The locks on the cells were the same type used at state prisons like Sing-Sing and Dannemora. They used a double-lock system, with the cell and cell corridor locking at the same time with one mechanism. The police assumed that someone had slipped, that proper care wasn’t taken while securing the prisoners. The sheriff, several officials, and a committee from the Board of Supervisors gathered at the jail to examine the problem.

For his part, Clemons refused to say how he did it. He taunted them, flippantly remarking that he could get out at anytime he wanted. The police, however, didn’t believe him, making disparaging statements about the inmate’s skills. Confronted with the insults, Clemons offered a deal: “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars I can unlock that cell corridor door in an hour or an hour and a half.” Clerk Dunkel refused the wager, but added that he would gift Clemons $5 if he managed to break out while they observed. Clemons replied, “I need that five bucks. Give me them things I had this morning and I’ll take your five.”

After ten minutes of trying, no progress had been made and the onlookers began to jeer at Clemons. Annoyed, he explained that the nails they had given him were too dull. He reached into his pocket and pulled out five more pieces of equipment, most likely leaving the authorities with a little bit of egg on their faces. In five minutes, he had the door open. It’s easy to imagine the group of onlookers watching, mouths agape, amazed at the quick work Clemons made with the lock. Feeling confident now, Clemons went on: “Give me the five. For $10 more, I’ll unlock the cell door in three minutes, and for another $10 I’ll unlock that outside door and be out of here in five minutes.”

Of course, the onlookers refused this newest challenge. Clemons told them how he blocked the locking mechanism on his cell door and had “walked around this place anytime I wanted to.” Eventually, the whole process of the second escape was explained. A small piece of pipe from the sink to the sink trap wasn’t soldered on and easily snatched by Clemons to pry a bar off the window. This time, he had Ervin Hall as his partner-in-crime. The men realized they wouldn’t have enough room to fit through the space they made, so they replaced the bar and the pipe. At this point, Hall had gotten cold feet and returned to his cell – hey, at least he tried! Clemons wasn’t so easily deterred; he hid in a deep window at the end of the hallway and when Gould brought in the breakfast, he slipped out through the corridor.

The sheriff made him empty his pockets, wear overalls, and put him in a new cell. Clemons wouldn’t reveal where he kept getting his tools but he admitted he hid them in his mattress, which was routinely searched.

Clemons was sentenced to ten years of hard labor at Dannemora. The 1930 census listed him as working in the prison cotton shop. He was still listed as an inmate there on the 1940 census, but his whereabouts after his release was unknown.

Raymond Clemons’ receiving blotter, Clinton Prison, May 11, 1929 (New York State Archives)

Joseph Neparty remained at-large while his prison break pal languished away in state prison. In June 1939, he was arrested in Newark, NJ for a charge involving prostitution. District Attorney Bernard Kearney and Sheriff Frank Steenburgh sent warrants to Newark to extradite him after he served his sentence at Trenton. Steenburgh, who was a deputy at the time of Clemons’ and Neparty’s escape and had participated in the search, was the only one who had first-hand experience with the old case. In 1941, after finishing his sentence in Jersey, Neparty was picked up by Sheriff Eugene Smith and brought back to NY. Despite the best efforts of his attorney – who claimed Neparty simply walked out because the doors to the jail were already open – he was found guilty and sentenced to 2 – 2.5 years at Clinton Prison.

The Unsolved Murder of Veronica Lechner

August 11, 1907 was a Sunday. It was hot and humid, the tail end of the Dog Days of Summer. Mrs. Louise Busse of 244 Bleecker Street set out in the late afternoon heat, heading up the Bleecker road (modern-day W. 11th Ave. Ext. or St. Hwy. 309) to visit her elderly mother, a trip she made several times a week. The road was dustier than normal, but it wasn’t unusual in the intense summer heat. Traffic was a bit heavier than on a typical Sunday, what with the clam bake going on at the Empire Hotel just up the road. Those who headed out of the city in an attempt to escape the stifling heat would have been disappointed to find no relief in Bleecker.

When Louise arrived at her mother’s cottage, a small one-and-a-half story dwelling with two rooms downstairs, the shades were drawn. Not strange to Louise, who assumed her mother must have been trying to keep the house cool. What was odd, however, was that the front door was closed and locked. Unable to enter, Louise stood on the vine-covered front porch and knocked several times to no avail. She spotted a window that was slightly ajar, lifted it up, and climbed through.

She was unprepared for the grisly sight that greeted her.

On the floor lie 82-year-old Veronica Lechner, her rocking chair tipped over next to her. She lay in a large pool of blood, the wall nearby also splattered. Her nose was broken and her face was covered in injuries. Louise ran back toward the city, desperately seeking help.

Headline from the Fulton County Republican, August 15, 1907.

Veronica (alternately also called Beronika and Leona in newspaper reports) was a German-born widow who lived on her own. Her husband, Gotthard Lechner, died in 1899. He was a farmer and a brewer, as well as a Civil War veteran – Veronica was granted a pension of $8 a month after his death. She enjoyed living on her own, and though described as having a “frail little body of average height and below weight,” she was “able to care for her little garden plot and do her housework.”

Reporter Tom Bradley, also of Bleecker St., was out walking with his baby when a frantic man approached him asking for the nearest telephone. When Bradley asked what all the excitement was about, the man exclaimed, “They have just found an old woman murdered in her house out here on the Bleecker road.” Bradley ran home to leave the child in his wife’s care before hoofing it up the dusty road. The horse-drawn carriages of Coroner Dr. Robert Palmer and other officials passed him by. When he finally arrived at the house, finding the front door locked, he did just what Louise Busse had done and crawled through the window. As his legs appeared, Dr. Palmer exclaimed, “What in –?”

Veronica’s cause of death was determined as crushing of the breast bone and ribs, causing the patient to bleed to death. The facial and head injuries were not fatal, but the object used to make them could not be found anywhere at the scene. The only clue that was uncovered was the butt of a Cycle brand cigarette next to the victim. Apparently Cycle was cheap, favored among young boys who were short on cash and “drunks and degenerates who are cigarette fiends and who generally purchase as many sticks as they can for five cents.”

The police tried to create a timeline of Veronica’s day. That morning, Veronica received her milk from Milkman Aesch, who said she seemed happy and “as spry as ever.” Little Etta Brumaghim, the daughter of a neighboring family, walked by Mrs. Lechner’s house on her way to Sunday school around 11:00. She stated that Mrs. Lechner waved her handkerchief at her, and that all the curtains were open. When she returned at 1:30, the window shades and main door were closed, but the woodshed door was open. Etta thought this strange but decided maybe the elderly woman was taking a nap. Michael O’Connor, the farmer across the street, was cleaning his revolver, and around 1:00 he fired several shots. He stated that Veronica came to the door and peered down the road. He was probably the last person, apart from the murderer, to see Veronica Lechner alive. Louise discovered her body around 5:00.

Close-up of a 1905 Map of the Town of Johnstown, showing approximate location of the Lechner cottage. The O’Connor farm can be seen across the road.

As for motive – again, unknown. Veronica’s purse, with a small amount of money inside, was undisturbed, as was the food in her larder. So robbery did not seem to be the goal. Why would someone want to murder such an unassuming old woman who enjoyed tending her garden?

All attendees at the clam bake down the road became suspects, but one in particular interested the police. James Tripp, a small-time nuisance with a record of public intoxication and petty theft, was one of these suspects: he smoked Cycle brand cigarettes and had apparently just purchased some from the roadhouse nearby. He also apparently had a long-held grudge against Veronica, who stopped him from stealing chickens some years before. He was arrested, but ultimately released, because he had an alibi. Besides, he was described as a “light built chap” who didn’t have the strength needed to perform such physical violence as was inflicted upon poor Veronica Lechner.

Though Tripp was the only arrest made in the case, there was one other possible suspect. George Giese, described as a “local police character,” was heard telling someone that he knew a woman had been murdered near the Klondike Hotel on Bleecker Rd. The problem was that he had this conversation around 4:00 – a full hour before Veronica’s body was reported. An informant told police that Giese appeared very pale and “visibly affected.” It was a possibility that Giese had come across the murderer at a tavern in Cromer’s Corners on accident, but nothing ever came from this piece of information and Giese was not apprehended.

The police worked tirelessly to search for evidence and the missing murder weapon and to uncover a motive. They hired well-known private investigator Charles J. Casey out of New York City, as well as paying for services from the Central Detective Association in Albany. The closest thing to a development in the case came a week after the murder, when a woman was assailed by a stranger in her home on West State St. He entered her kitchen, where she sat at her sewing machine, wearing a blood-stained shirt. In the bedroom off the kitchen he changed his shirt and then stabbed the woman in the cheek “with some unidentified instrument” before running off. The search for him was unsuccessful – the mysterious stranger was never found.

A quarter of a century later, the Lechner Tragedy was still on the minds of the citizens of Gloversville. It appeared in the newspapers periodically. In 1932, the paper reported that it was unlikely the identity of the murderer would ever be discovered. The event was covered again seven years later by Ray A. Mowers, a former reporter and editor for the Leader-Republican, in his column “Vignettes of Old Gloversville.” To this day, the murder remains unsolved.

One interesting footnote of this terrible tragedy appeared in an article a year after it occurred. The Lechner house had remained empty for some time after the murder. In early June 1908, a family who was unaware of the cottage’s history rented it for the summer. The first night was enjoyable and all were tired from a long day of travel and slept well. But the second night, around 9:00pm, everyone was in bed when a “blood-chilling clatter” was heard on the first floor: “It sounded like a death struggle until finally a body struck the floor ‘with a dull, sickening thud’ as members of the family describe it, followed by the sound of a series of blows as if with some heavy instrument.” Upon investigation of the first floor and seeing nothing that could have caused the noise, the frightened family remained awake the rest of the evening. They left the next day to “parts unknown.” The name of the family “could not be found,” the paper said, despite the fact that there were locals who were “in the know.”

Who Was William Tryon? Part 2

Read Part 1 here!

When we last left William Tryon, he was serving as Governor of the Province of North Carolina from 1765-1771. Tryon then traveled north, where he served as the last provincial governor of New York. Things were heating up in the colonies. News of the destruction of tea in Boston in protest of the Tea Act soon reached New York. The Sons of Liberty were so active in New York City that Tryon finally had to give up trying to get tea into port, saying it would happen “only under the protection of the point of bayonet, and muzzle of cannon, and even then I do not see how consumption could be effected.” A few weeks later, the governor’s mansion and all of Tryon’s belongings were destroyed in a conflagration.

Tryon spent a year in England between 1774 and 1775, but was called back to his post in New York. Tryon returned on June 25^th, just over two months after the Battles of Lexington and Concord. To say that the situation in New York was tense would be an understatement. The colonists were in open rebellion. This was one of the most volatile and dangerous times in American history.

In the summer of 1776, Tryon was involved in a plot to kidnap General George Washington, along with NYC mayor David Matthews. One of Washington’s body guards, Thomas Hickey, was a co-conspirator. Fortunately for Washington and the American cause, Hickey had a big mouth. While serving time in prison for counterfeiting money, he bragged to another prisoner, a man named Isaac Ketcham, all about the kidnapping plot. Ketcham, a dubious character himself, was in jail for the same crime as Hickey. He eventually became an informer for the Continental Congress, working in the prison. Make no mistake that Ketcham’s motive wasn’t pure patriotism: he worked only for himself. Hickey was court-martialed and hanged for mutiny on June 28^th. Ketcham was soon pardoned of his crimes. Tryon was forced to seek refuge on British sloops in New York Harbor for nearly a year. After Sir William Howe gained control of the city in the fall of 1776, the governor returned. 

British troops landing at Kip’s Bay in 1776, unknown artist

After Howe placed NYC under martial law, Tryon remained governor but had little power. In 1777, he became the major-general of the provincials and invaded Danbury, Connecticut. At the Battle of Ridgefield, he defeated patriot forces under command of General David Wooster and Benedict Arnold. It was a tactical victory for the British, but a strategic one for the Americans. The attacks invigorated patriot sentiment in the area, and enrollment in the militia rose after the battle. These factors, in addition to the resistance of American troops during the battle, deterred the British from attempting a landing by ship to attack inland areas held by the colonials during the remainder of the war. Although there were more raids on Connecticut’s coastline (another led by Tryon in 1779 and a later raid by Arnold after he had defected), British troops were unable to reach far into the countryside.

In September 1780, Tryon sailed home to England. He continued some light military duty there, eventually being promoted to Lieutenant General.  He died on January 27, 1788 and is interred at St. Mary’s Church in Middlesex, England.

William Tryon’s burial site, St. Mary’s Church, Twickenham, Middlesex, England

After the war, the Americans were still stuck with reminders of their shackles to the British Crown in the form of place names. To have a county named after William Tryon was detestable. On April 2, 1784 the new state legislature of New York voted to dump Tryon’s name and replace it with that of Richard Montgomery, a war hero and general of the Continental Army who was killed at the Battle of Quebec in 1775. When it was decided to move the county seat from Johnstown to Fonda in 1836, a group of Johnstown citizens, led by Judge Daniel Cady (father of suffragist Elizabeth Cady Stanton), petitioned for the formation of a new county. Fulton County was created by an act of the New York State Legislature in 1838. It was named for Robert Fulton of steamboat fame, and a relative of Cady’s wife. The county seat was placed once again in Johnstown.

William Tryon – or the fictional version of him, at least – has appeared on several television shows within the past decade. He was a relatively minor character played by Randall Newsome in AMC’s TURN: Washington’s Spies, a heavily fictionalized drama series based on the Culper Ring operating out of New York and Connecticut during the war.

Tim Downie as Lord William Tryon in Outlander

Tryon appears more heavily in the Starz adaptation of Diana Gabaldon’s highly popular Outlander series, in which newlywed and former WWII nurse Clare Randall accidentally travels back in time from 1945 to 1743 and falls in with a group of rebel Highlanders from Clan MacKenzie. Out of necessity, she marries Highlander Jamie Fraser and the pair fall in love. The couple eventually find themselves in North Carolina just before the outbreak of the Revolution, where Governor Tryon (played by Tim Downie) offers Jamie a land grant in exchange for the parcel’s development and his sworn fealty to the Crown. The show portrays Tryon’s role in the suppression of the Regular Uprising.

Who Was William Tryon? Part 1

Many locals are probably familiar with the name Tryon. We see it in various local place names, like the Tryon Technology Park. Or perhaps you know that the area that is present-day Fulton County was once enveloped in a much larger county called Tryon. Where did the name come from? And how did we get from Tryon to Fulton?

1764 map of the Province of New York

Prior to 1772, the area that comprised Albany County was quite expansive. As colonies tried to annex lands, ignoring unofficial border claims, counties appeared, disappeared, reappeared, expanded, and shrunk. Albany County was no exception; it sometimes grew to swallow parts of present-day Vermont, and other times receded as new counties were created or expanded. Its northern border was pretty much set at Canada, with the western edge cutting through central New York. In 1772, Sir William Johnson, who had already established John’s Town and built his baronial home there, convinced the Governor of New York, William Tryon, to divide up Albany into three smaller counties: Albany, Charlotte (named for Queen Charlotte, wife of King George III), and Tryon. I’m sure you can guess who the last one was named for.

Only alleged likeness of Gov. William Tryon. This portrait hangs in Tryon Palace in New Bern, North Carolina. The inscription on the back reads “Govr. Wm. Tryon of No. Carolina — J. Wollaston, pinxt. New York — Anno D. 1767.” It is widely believed this is not, in fact, a portrait of Tryon.

William Tryon was born to Charles Tryon and Lady Mary Shirley on June 8, 1729 at their estate at Norbury Park, Surrey, England. Tryon entered the military as a lieutenant in the 1^st Regiment of Foot Guards (now known as the Grenadier Guards) in 1751, and was promoted to captain that year. He married heiress Margaret Wake, whose dowry was £30,000.

During the Seven Years’ War (more commonly known in the US as the French and Indian War), Tryon was part of the St. Malo and Cherbourg raids (1758). British troops destroyed French fortifications and the port at Cherbourg. At the Battle of St. Cast that same year, in which the French troops were successful, Tryon was injured in the thigh and the head. He was also promoted to lieutenant-colonel that year. The financing of this expensive war is one of the reasons why Parliament levied new taxes on the colonists, leading to the unrest that helped spark the American Revolution.

On April 26, 1764, Tryon managed to secure the role of acting Lieutenant Governor of North Carolina. That October, he arrived in NC with his family and architect John Hawks to discover that the previous governor, Arthur Dobbs, had not left and would remain there until May. Despite his title of acting governor, Tryon had no source of income until Dobbs left. Fortunately for Tryon, and unfortunately for his predecessor, Dobbs died in March 1765 and by July 10^th, King George had promoted Tryon to official governor.

During his first year as governor, Tryon received a visitor from the Tuscarora nation, one of the Six Nations of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, sent by Sir William Johnson. In a letter dated June 15, 1766, Tryon writes to Johnson about the visit. The man arrived very ill with the mumps and was attended to at Tryon’s temporary home in Brunswick. The Tuscarora had lived on lands that eventually became part of North Carolina, but migrated north after a series of wars against English colonists and their Native American allies. In 1722, they were accepted as the Sixth Nation of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy.

The delegate was apparently meant to sell the Tuscarora land in North Carolina and bring those living there to New York to join the Six Nations. Unfortunately, he would have to wait until the next meeting of the assembly in October to do so. He was at first unwilling, but “upon [Tryon’s] assurance to acquaint his Nation thro’ [Johnson] of the necessity of his waiting till the meeting of [the] General Assembly, he consented to go to his People settled in [the] province till the above period.” The man gave Tryon strings of wampum and an “Indian name” at his request. “He honored me with his own name,” Tryon wrote, “Diagawekee, in testimony of his regard for the care I had taken of him in his illness. This name is to remain to all future Governors of North Carolina.”

That spring, British Parliament had passed the Stamp Act, requiring a tax be paid on every piece of printed paper: legal documents, playing cards, newspapers, and other printed items all fell under this tax. Parliament claimed the taxes were being used for the colonists’ protection – the money would finance the placement of troops along the Appalachian Mountains. The issue with the tax was not that it was imposed; it was the reason why it was imposed. In the past, taxes were used to regulate commerce. However, this tax was a direct attempt to raise money by the English government. Governor Tryon did his part by forbidding the NC colonial assembly from meeting between May 1765 and November 1766. This not only prevented them from passing a resolution opposing the Stamp Act, but it also kept them from sending delegates to the Stamp Act Congress in New York City. He also requested troops to enforce the act, but it was repealed in March 1776.

During his tenure as Governor of North Carolina, Tryon built an elegant Georgian-style mansion at New Bern. The home was designed by his architect, John Hawks. The state legislature appropriated £5,000 for the project, but Tryon was unhappy with this amount, claiming that it couldn’t be done for less than £10,000. He convinced them to raise taxes to fund his opulent mansion. Angry at this new tax burden, the colonists derisively began referring to it as “Tryon Palace.” It was completed in 1770 and it was the first permanent capital in the state. The home was destroyed by fire in 1798, but it was rebuilt using original architectural designs and re-opened to the public in 1959. (Coincidentally, I visited this mansion on a trip as a kid, without knowing the connection between Tryon and my own hometown.)

Tryon Palace.

Although Tryon did some good work as governor of NC – he established the state postal service in 1769 – he is most remembered for suppressing the North Carolina Regulator Uprising, which took place from 1768-71. The uprising was a result of Tryon’s raised taxes for his mansion and tax abuse and fraud by officials in the western part of the state. In May 1771 the militia defeated 2,000 Regulators at the Battle of Alamance. Seven of the uprising’s leaders were executed for violating the Riot Act. Passed in 1714, the act defined groups of twelve of more people as unlawfully assembled. Six of the other Regulator leaders were pardoned by the King. Tryon again raised taxes to pay for the militia’s actions at Alamance. Some historians see this uprising as a precursor to the American Revolution.

William Tryon’s stint as North Carolina governor ended in 1771. That year, he and his family traveled north. On July 8, 1771, he was named Governor of the Province of New York. His role as governor of New York and subsequent actions during the Revolution will be explored in part two of this series.