OF THE NORTH MANCHESTER HISTORICAL SOCIETY, INC.
Volume IV, Number 3, (August 1987)
By Orpha Weimer
“No! I won’t sign!” declared Aunt Cass, who was being badgered by various nephews and cousins.
“Aren’t we as good as them blasted Injuns? The government is giving them all free, forty acres of land out there in Oklahoma and some of it’s got oil wells.”
“You don’t deserve it! You wanted to be white, now stay that way!” Aunt Cass was adamant and sign she never did.
I’ve often heard my mother, born in 1855, and her Uncle David laugh at this family story. That is why Dallas Johnson Vandergrift of Wabash, and I, never got an oil well. Neither did the others on the Johnson, Bard, Brown and Shaffer family tree. You see, my ever-so-great Aunt Cass was the oldest of the Shaffer line and the only one who could swear to the speck of Cherokee blood in our family lineage. She had come to Indiana as a tiny baby over the “Middle” or “Catawba Trail” up from the Carolinas. My mother was a child, remembers seeing her. She was short, dark and had a decided mind of her own.
The occasion was the aftermath of the sorrowful “Trail of Tears”, when the Cherokee and other southern Indians were moved west. The rather remorseful national government was trying to make amends. There were numerous treaties and fifty-four removals in all, a common method of disposing of the Indian problems. It was also a signpost of the white man’s greediness and the red man’s broken heart. Perhaps the latest and worst handled was the Pottawatomi removal in 1835, historically known as the March of Death or Trail of Courage. Whatever the name, it was a very dark blot on Indiana history.
From time primeval, the land of our western continent had belonged to the red man. It was not owned individually but held by tribes in a sort of “squatters rights” authority. They could not understand the European method of land tenure. At first they welcomed the white men as gods and friends but were quickly disillusioned. The Indian fought back to save his heritage and birthright, but technology and superior weaponry gave the white race too great an advantage. He saw the land was good and was determined to have it but, because the Indian resisted so violently, he actually spelled his own doom.
There were great and noble characters on each side that tried to sue for peace but were not listened to. Justice and human compassion for the most part never entered in. They had matched cruelty for cruelty until they reached a point of no return. Annihilation seemed the only way.
There were far seeing and sagacious red men. Pontiac, the Ottawan chieftan, and Tecumseh of the Shawnee tribe, were competent chiefs, great orators, thinkers and organizers, but they were let down by their own people. Chief Menominee of the Pottawatomi and minor chiefs like LeGros and Logan of the Miamis, knew their people were being cheated and sold out too cheaply but could not cope. One of the most brilliant and crafty of tacticians was Little Turtle of the Miamis, aided by his able nephew, Pechewa or Richardville, often named the Redskinned Napoleon. Little Turtle, once an adversary who defeated Anthony Wayne but who later negotiated with him at the Treaty of Greenville, Ohio in 1794, sided with the Americans in their troubles with the English and implored the Miamis to do likewise. Wayne and Little Turtle judged, accepted and learned to admire each other. Both kept their word, both worked for a fair adjustment and accepted the inevitable for peace. The leadership of these two men did much to mold our present day.
The Indians were not a united governmental entity but held nomadic tribal allegiances so that the white man had to hold tribal councils in dealing with them. This took much time, often leading to accusations of unfair treatment. The process of treaty making went on throughout the entire nineteenth century.
Indiana as a state is much like a crazy-top patchwork quilt. We have been added to and subtracted from many times. We have been known by many names and, since we grew like Topsy in the middle of the great westward land movement, we have had many pieces or ethnic units – a little France, Switzerland, Scotland, Ireland, and Germany, etc. Perhaps one of the most dramatic and colorful pieces of our historic episodes was the Treaty Council of Paradise Springs in 1826.
Indiana is like a crazy top also in its land acquisition. It was about 160 years after Columbus before a white man set foot in Indiana. The first was probably LaSalle, a Frenchman who came down the “Oubache” River from Canada in 1679, thus claiming the land for France. The Indians then gave land to the French traders. The French and English struggle for territorial possession did not stop the American pioneer infiltration. These hardy folk often stopped at Kas’-kas-ki-a (1712) and We-aw’-ta-non, Lafayette (1720) or Vincennes (1727)
Tired of French-English bickering, the state of Virginia sent George Rogers Clark and a small troop of men in 1778 to lay claim to the land for the United States. Later a grateful government gave Clark and his men land rights to Clark’s reserve or grant. After the Battle of Fallen Timbers, 1795, the Indians gave up a wide strip of land near our present Ohio Border. Territorial Governor, William Henry Harrison, after the Treaty of St. Mary’s in 1712-1818, was able to purchase for a few baubles, the large south central tract known as the New Purchase. This left only about 1/3 of the land in the possession of two strong tribes, the Miamis and Pottawatomis, and allowed for the establishment of a new and centralized State House.
When Indiana became the 19th state in 1816, we were not very large. One third of the northern portion of our present state was held by the Indians. Ohio had been partitioned off in 1788 with Ft. Washington or Cincinnati as its capital. Illinois land had its boundary lines set in 1809 and Michigan territory by the Great Lakes in 1805. A strip 270 miles long at its extreme edge, to the Ohio River, and an average of 140 miles wide, was left. We were now Indiana Territory with an acreage of 36,350 square miles of which 440 acres was water. Our land was good. Much of it was still covered with virgin hardwood forest. Immigrants surged in, mostly to the south. By and 1815 census there were 63,897 persons, well above the 5,000 free white males required for statehood. The petition was granted and the state was established in 1816. Ninety percent of all whites lived in the seventeen organized counties along the Ohio and White Rivers.
Most of the land had been purchased bit by bit, except for the Clark and French reserves, in a variety of treaties. The first treaty was at Greenville, Ohio on August 3, 1795, and the last one did not occur until June 2, 1872. There were 54 of them in all, and there were still several large reserves held by Indians.
The Indians were growing restless and becoming more and more aware of what was happening. He was fast losing his birthright for a few gaudy trinkets and a small handful of silver. But it was not the Indian nature to mourn. He lifted his head, carried his hurt in his heart and went on. This is well exemplified in the story of Paradise Springs.
The government had called for a conference and even the Indian leaders urged them to attend, taking their little skin bags for the white man’s silver with them, saving as much as they could for their children’s children.
For years the Indian had been pushed around, infringed upon, denied citizenship, vilified, spat upon, shot at, and often forced to see his family murdered, all because the white man coveted his land. He had no sympathetic nation to back him up, while the white man knew he would not be punished for his wrongdoing. Of course the Indian had tried to fight back but by now he could not. He was called a blank-blank Indian, no better than a beast. Robbed and distrusted, he grew sullen and vengeful. They came to the Wabash Valley although they still owned about 1/3 of the land in northern Indiana.
It took considerable effort and time to set up a conference of this size. Cabins had to be built for the U. S. Commissioners and for storehouses. Ground had to be prepared for the Indian camps and places to feed them. But all was in readiness by October 16, 1826.
The following account was written by James M. Ray, Assistant Secretary for the government, and was published in the Indiana History Records of 1945:
The U. S. Commissioners were Lewis Cass of Michigan, James M. Ray of Indiana, Gen. John Tipton from Fort Wayne and an Indian agent. Calvin Marshall of Lawrence County, Indiana had been chosen Secretary, but due to illness, was unable to attend. He was replaced by Ray. The Conner brothers, William of Indiana and Henry of Michigan, served as interpreters. There were several hundred Indians, mainly Pottawatomis from the far north, and a smaller band of Miamis under Chief Richardville, from the Mississinewa area. The Miami were by far the more peaceful tribe and were more accustomed to the white men who had filtered up from the south much to the disapproval of the Indians.
The Commissioners were invited to meet with the Pottawatomis first and to be introduced to their chiefs. At first they would not accept Mr. Ray until one of the Conners explained that his name meant “First Dawn.” After that, the Indians called him Wa-sa-augh and were ready to smoke the peace pipe of which each man present took one puff.
The session actually lasted several weeks. There were two or three public councils with all Indians present and then several smaller private meetings of the Commissioners and Chiefs with the interpreters helping. Chief Richardville, a white man who had been captured and raised by Indians as Little Turtle’s nephew, rarely appeared but was usually the main speaker in the smaller private groups.
There was much jealousy between the tribes as to the land in question and over its relative value. During this time the Indians were fed generously but were given only limited measures of the white man’s whiskey. This, Little Turtle had begged so often for the whites to stop since the red man could not assimilate it. One night after much angry bickering among themselves, the Indians were not satisfied with the firewater rations and demanded more. Several of the more aggressive tribesmen tore off a chimney from the storage cabin, thus reaching the whiskey barrels. Soon they became, as they termed, “heap drunk.” Naturally the drink soon circulated among all the tribesmen.
A goodly number of the Indians armed themselves, shouted and banged on Governor Ray’s cabin door, yelling, “Whisk! Whisk! Wau-sa-augh!” With the help of the interpreters and a few of the more responsible chiefs, difficulty was averted. The more belligerent ones were rolled out in their blankets to sleep it off. Next morning before the more boisterous ones sobered up, the Commissioners had the good sense to have the whiskey barrels rolled outside and emptied into a small stream and the barrels smashed with axes. A few Indians ran alongside, made dams with their hands and tried to continue slacking their thirst. The little stream that morning was attacked for more than the morning wash. However, they were sober enough to keep a wary eye on the man with the axe.
Like conventions today, entertainment was to be had. The Indians put side their sorrows to take part in dances and acrobatic feats, forming circles in the newly fallen leaves. At night the Commissioners supplied candles for the performers.
In one leaping dance, a prominent brave, brightly painted as most of them were, whirled with a loud shout onto the path, keeping time with music of a rough drum. He beat time as he passed around in a circle. Instantly he was followed by several brightly dressed girls who thus singled him out as their favorite. Soon they were followed by other braves who joined in the laughing, shouting dance, always leaving space between for their sweethearts to join in. The audience, too, was hilarious, giving loud shouts when the girls chose their own special favorites. Some of the braves had a long string of girlfriends while other had only a few. There was, of course, much jeering from the crowd when one had to dance by alone of with only one or two girls following. The leader would vary the dance steps somewhat and there was much good humor far into the night.
On another occasion, leading chiefs and horribly painted braces engaged in a war dance around a tree. During a rest break, some warriors came out shouting and yelling of the scalps they had taken and brandishing their tomahawks while boasting of their power. Finally with a yell, one threw his tomahawk into the tree trunk. Several took turns while the audience clapped and yelled to show their approval. Some few were received with jeers and groans.
The occasion generally ended with a beggar dance. Here, one fellow who was stark naked, burst in with a loud yell. He was covered liberally with mud from head to foot. The thick Wabash River muck dropped off in great clots as he danced. After a circle or two amid the laughter of the crowd, he yelled once more and sped away.
Rev. Mr. McCoy had a good-sized group of his students present from the Indian school. These earned youth were from the Little Baptist Station up north on the St. Joseph River. They were much jeered at by the wild and rough members present. But they were trying to gain a good, well-planned settlement for their tribes.
After days, the terms were finally agreed upon and announced to the general assembly. There were several concessions on both sides, but in general most agreed upon the terms as stated. Mr. Ray was asked to make three copies; one for the Commissioners and government, and one each for each of the two main tribal groups. These copies were considered carefully and then signed on the following night. Governor Ray politely asked Governor Cass of Michigan and the visiting Commissioner to sign first.
The men were tired and exhausted from the long strain, so it was after 1:00 a.m. before all of the chiefs had signed. Just as all had quieted down, a light tap was heard on the back door and Chief Richardville slipped in to sign also. Governor Cass rebuked him as being cowardly and for failing to advocate the treaty in open council. Now he wanted to creep in to share in the reservation allotment. He merely smiled and replied that the Governor did not know these people as well as he did. As a matter of fact, he had been out rounding up the several disgruntled chiefs and getting them to sign. Thus he was doing the Commissioners a favor, for without their signatures, the treaty was invalid. Chief Richardville was a sincere friend and Governor Cass was man enough to apologize later.
The treaty facts went to the government but Governor Ray’s recollections of the period October 16th to 23rd, 1826, and its many interesting events, were published in the “Indianapolis News”, preserving for us all a first-hand eye witness account of the dramatic and colorful time surrounding this epoch-making event with all its pathos and tears. One culture gained the land and the other lost its birthright.
THE LEEDY MOTOR COMPANY
105 North Mill Street
MEMORIES OF HOWARD C. WARREN
The building that was occupied by the Leedy Garage was built by the Knull Motor Company, Inc. in 1919. This company formed by people in Fort Wayne and North Manchester, had businesses in Fort Wayne and in Pierceton. They sold Reo cars and trucks and a few Chevrolets. The Chevrolet cars were not very popular because the Ford Model T was still offering strong competition. Karl Knull, president, was quite a promoter but not very successful as a businessman. His brother, Franz Knull, was the sales manager. The firm went into receivership in about 1924 with Karl leaving for California and Franz taking over the obligations. At about that time, Harry Leedy purchased the building.
Harry and his brother, Homer, had lived in Cerro Gordo, Illinois, where they had been engaged in the electrical contracting business and also operated a Chandler automobile business. While they still lived in Illinois, Homer had gone into military service. When he returned from the war he was surprised to find that Harry had sole the business and moved to North Manchester. Here they continued to work in the electrical business, but after Harry purchased the Knull property and had been granted a Chevrolet franchise, they set up separate businesses. Homer continued in the electrical business. They each brought their personal Chandler cars with them. They were fine cars and the only ones that I ever saw.
Harry soon developed his business to cover the general repair of all makes and models of automobiles and to provide storage space for some of the cars owned by people who lived in town.
The repair shop was upstairs in the building and that created quite a problem in getting disabled cars up and down a steep ramp between the first and second floors. The damage caused by the ramp sometimes exceeded the benefits of the work done in the repair shop. In 1903, Harry changed all this and located the repair shop on the first floor. The storage area was on that floor too. I was always interested in the cars that were stored because of their variety and the individuals who owned them.
Gene Oppenheim had a Packard Sport Sedan. It was red an a real snappy automobile. Each fall we would load it on a railroad boxcar and ship it to Florida. He would not drive it that far. He would ship it back each spring.
Ben Oppenheim was more conservative. He was not much interested in automobiles, but he had a Packard Sedan and did not seem much interest in driving it. Mannie Leffel, who worked in the Oppenheim store, was his chauffeur when Ben went to Fort Wayne and other places out of town.
Isaac Oppenheim, not to be outdone, owned a Cadillac. His chauffeur was Louie Conner, the town taxi driver.
John Snyder, who lived on South Maple Street and owned a cabinet factory in Huntington, drove a Pierce Arrow. I always admired that car. It was a beauty.
Josh Billings, the newspaper editor, had an Apperson Jackrabbit, the only one I have ever seen. Actually, I never saw him drive it. It was a top-heavy thing and when Josh would get it out on the road with a high crown, he would frequently upset the thing. It was not one of the best cars in town.
Worth Walrod had a Hupmobile Sport Coupe and that was a fine car.
Max Drefkoff drove a Peugeot. He owned the Syracuse Cabinet Factory on South Wabash Street. Max was a Russian Jew and an outstanding individual. I recall that he had trouble turning his head because of arthritis. He would scare me to death by remarking that he could not see behind the car in backing up and then, back he would go like a shot! During World War II he served in some official capacity in Washington, D. C.
The large, well-equipped repair shop was the main source of income. I started keeping books for Harry in 1928. It was sort of by accident, having come to town to install a set of General Motors accounting books that were new to the dealership. Walter Boyer had been keeping books, but he had just been elected to the office of Town Clerk. I told Mr. Leedy that I would keep the books until he could find some other person to do the job, and so I was with him for fifteen years.
The annual sales during the period from 1928 to about 1930 were something like 150 new cars and trucks and about 600 used cars. Today that would hardly be a month’s work. A new Chevrolet cost about $600 and a Buick about $1,000. Of course, the price depended on the way the car was equipped – a trunk on the back, bumpers front and rear, a spare tire, a rearview mirror, and a windshield wiper.
Mr. Leedy expanded into the bulk gasoline and oil business mostly to meet the competition of the Wilcox brothers who came to town and offered to see six to seven gallons of gas for $1.00. Harry’s brother, Elda Leedy, was manager of this business and the drivers who served the farm and the heating trade were Otto Perry, Lloyd McFarland, and Artie Lowman.
In those days cars were not brought to town on big trucks. The dealer had to send or take drivers to Flint, Michigan, to drive them home. Harry had a regular crew of boys, mostly from Liberty Mills, that he would load into his Chandler Sport Sedan and drive them to Flint. He was particular about this car and no one else could drive it. The Morrisey boys and other drove the new cars home and in all that time that I worked there, I cannot recall that they ever put a scratch on any of those cars.
Individuals who worked in the sales department were: F. S. Knull, Sales Manager, a very efficient operator and to my knowledge, a man who never mistreated a customer; George Winesburg, a professional salesman; Paul Park; Melvin Heeter; Walter Metzger, well known as a good salesman for many years; Dean Hill of Silver Lake; Floyd Carver of Roann; and Clair Snodgrass of Pierceton. In the office, in addition to myself, were: Margaret Little, Norma Deck, Irene Leedy, and Donna Mae Jerew. Those in the repair department were: Vinson Stuckey, senior mechanic; Rudy Stuckey, brother of Vinson; Robert Floyd, whose son now operates a service station in town; Roy Nichols, and paint man; Russell Kreamer, in charge of used car repairs; and Lamoine Enyeart. Those in the repair later included: Paul Hostetler, Service Manager; Vern Hostetler, his brother; Bill Weesner; Art Morrisey,; Harold Tyner; Lloyd Bolan, frame alignment; and Arden Carter, who established a dealership in Wabash. Homer Leedy was in charge of the parts department.
The lack of new cars, tire rationing, and the mechanics going to the armed services and to Baer Field during World War II, put an end to the agency and the garage. There was almost nothing left to be done.
In 1943 the building was leased to the Bryan Manufacturing Company which has since become United Technologies.
Harry Leedy retired to his farm near Bippus and that ended my very interesting career with the Leedy Motor Company.
[Note: Howard C. Warren, age 83, lives on his farm about a mile west of Liberty Mills, Indiana.]
A CIVIL WAR LETTER
The following is a letter written during the Civil War by a local soldier. It has been typed exactly as it was hand written, including misspelled words. Letters in brackets have been added by this editor to help in understanding the writer’s meaning. There was very little punctuation or capital letters used. Where the writer did use capital letters, they are typed that way. It is hoped that the meaning of the letter has not been misinterpreted. Special thanks to Judy Scheerer for the loan of this letter.
In Rear of VicksBurg
June 5th, 1863
Mr. John B. Tyer
My old friend,
John having read the letter you sent directed to Ed or myself and having enterogated Ed this evening to know w(h)ether he had answered your letter or not he told me he had not. I concluded to penn a few lines to you myself and in the first place I will say to you Ed’s health was never better in his life and my health is firstrate although I feel as though I needed some rest for I (am) pretty well wore out. I assure you as I have b(e)en on the go for the last four months nearly all the time and have had but very little help from either of my Sgts. And for nearly two months now atall during all of our hard marching, hard working hand fair and most thundering hand fighting mixed in thick and fast. I will not pretend to give you any full account of any of our fights at this time as I have no time for letter writing but will just say I have no anxiety to get another as warm place as the fight at Champion Hills. I got off well however with my company having but eleven killed and wounded, a list of which will be published in the Wabash paper. We are at this time engaged in the siege against the Southern Gibralter, namely VicksBurg. How much long it will last I can(n)ot say, but think not long as they are entirely surrounded and in short we have got them where Cale had the Hen, so it (9s) only a question of time in the takeing of VicksBurg and the entire Army. John the world history has never recorded as many victorys in so short a time as Grant’s Army has achieved since we crossed the Mississippi at Grand Gulf on the 29th of April ’63. One victory after another has crowned our efforts in rapped succession although some of them (were) pretty dealy bought. John if you can dry up the butternuts in the north this war will soon end. O that a speedy retribution may await them for their hell deserving conduct. They are the most lothsome, depraved and degraded of all beings on God’s footstool. Not was they a place amongst good people. John I would like to write you a long letter but have not time to do so at present. I will say however I have not received the letter you spoke of in Ed’s letter nor did Ed get his. Ed receives his Wabash paper as regular as any of us. Our mail was very uncertain for a while. We are getting mail matter more regular at this time however.
The sign and wounded from Indiana are all being sent up the river at this time which will save a many a brave boy’s life as this warm country is a bad place for a wounded man. John just as soon as VicksBurg is ours and we get into camp all qu(i)et-I am comeing home and will fetch Ed with me and then I will tell you some long yarns. Sure give my love to all enquireing friends. Write often. With respect, I remain your old friend.
Jas. R. Bruner
EXAMINING DAY by Orpha Weimer
Aren't mothers the real odd ball? They hoard the craziest things, like baby pictures showing lots of pink skin and embarrassing poses, a lock of ribbon-tied hair or maybe a little shoe. But no matter, they're all pretty much alike and some dads join the ranks too. I opened a dust covered box in the attic not long ago and it was full of things mother put there forty-seven years ago and marked on the outside, "keepsakes". At the bottom of the box under the many other items was a tissue paper packet. It was my copy of a State Exam that all students had to take by law in Indiana if they wished to graduate from elementary school and go on to high school.
I certainly remembered it. I was so scared and tense. I remember that I did leave the Court Building where the exam was being given, for lunch that day, but then I just sat around waiting for the afternoon session to begin. Some of those questions I'm not sure I could answer today, but lucky me, I passed with flying colors. Bless Mother, that was a big event in my life. None of my three degrees since has been such a big moment to me.
All elementary students who planned to go on to high school gathered at the county seat and took the exam together. Mother had driven the ten miles to Delphi, my county seat, with a horse and buggy to take me in for the exam. She hadn't yet learned to drive the Ford. It was a cold, blustery April 5th, 1918, the last year Indiana required the exam to be given. I do not know when the law began. Thank goodness I made it on the first try, but I was positive I would fail. What a wonderful relief! Maybe the good hot oatmeal breakfast mother insisted on helped.
Later, the first of June, all successful candidates returned to Delphi for a county-wide graduation service. It was held in the largest church in town. Strangely, I don't remember much about this. The parents were more elated than we students were.
I do recall I wore a white voile dress, the first "good dress" that I had ever made for myself. My mother and Miss Brower, my home economics teacher, saw to that. I guess they thought I should graduate in dressmaking as well as everything else.
The speaker for the day was a bit on the sober, serious side. I don't remember a thing he said except that he hoped some of us would go on to college. Really, we kinds got a big bang out of the orchestra. They played some pop tunes we all knew and the violinist got a big round of applause when he made his violin sing "Mary Ha A Little Lamb." To us that was a brilliant accomplishment.
Since this was a state law in Indiana until 1918, perhaps there are others who remember Examining Day.