Ohio History Journal

ANNE SARGENT BAILEY.     MRS. JAMES R. HOPLEY. The quality of bravery is capable of varied definitions. The brave endurance of outward conditions, not subject to improve- ment, or of pain, not subject to amelioration; the brave advance into the decreptitude of years without loss of vital interests or

active optimism; the bravery of those pronounced incurable and who know themselves likely to die violent, painful or  loathsome deaths; the fortitude of others, who await terrible physical ordeals or calmly face living problems worse than death,-these are all familiar examples. Hourly we are made aware of the sublimity of souls close about us and learn that

it is in pain the strong chain is forged, whereby we are united, alike, to God and to our fellows. Below, the links are called sympathy, helpfulness, altruism, and, drawing us upward, be- come aspiration, alikeness, and divine coexistence. But in contradistinction, bravery is seen in another and dif- ferent set of manifestations, unpremeditated, active, of one's own volition, choice and seeking. This is shown by the mere bystander who throws himself before a train, or into the sea, to save a child, a woman, a youth whom he has never before seen; again, in the thousand instances of soldierly daring; the storm- ing of Missionary Ridge, in the example of Von Winkleried, of Hobson and his companions, of Custer or the ancient Aztec warriors. To analyze the promptings of the spirit within us, which makes us endure, or which makes us dare, is the province of the psychologist and it is a province, the laws of which are not likely to be reduced to a science. When these two forms, elective (340)

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Anne Sargent Bailey.                341   courage, and enduring bravery are found to exist side by side and so to continue through years and innumerable tests, the character thus endowed is called heroic. The tremendous value of such lives is hard to estimate. They seem to take the world by the ears and set it forward, sometimes a decade, sometimes a cycle. They precipitate events and clear the path of obstacles when the events loom before us. The timid, the garrulous, the army of objectors, big and little, are swept from the path as the hurrican sweeps the huts of the natives in tropic islands. Such a force was Luther discovering that man is saved by faith. Faith is the saving power here as well as hereafter. With- out it, no great work may be done and faith in himself has made many a man a militant figure.

Up from the valleys of their humiliation, forth from the fields of their heroism, down from the mountains of suffering, the heroic dead glorify the horizon of our imagination and I would see a figure blazoned there more clearly with that of Jean d' Arc or Boadica; Isabella or Daronardla; Theodosia or Martin Luther; it is that of Anne Bailey! With faith in God and faith in the god-like in themselves, how they all pushed the world forward! Voice, pen, sword, brigade or squadron, the commander- in-chief must be faith. Such men and women inspire fear, a wholesome fear, as well as the desire of emulation and they inspire a love and an admiration it is good to feel. Such a character manifested itself in the person of Anne Sargent Bailey

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who was born in Liverpool, England, in 1700, and was named

for Queen Anne, whose coronation, she, with her parents, wit-

nessed in 1705.

When the hazardous undertakings of this woman are re-

viewed; when, with these, are found the usual domestic qualities,

unsullied virtue, the inheritance of a good name, correct moral

standards and the fact that these conditions were present for

more than a century, it is strange that the name and fame of

this old heroine are not widely known.

Perhaps, upon a cherished shelf, in the room of the child

you were, there reposed a blue volume called "Women of

Worth." In the education of some of us, it followed immedi-

ately after dolls. It was probably not the biggest selling book

of the year. It bore a London imprint and was not a bargain

counter book, nor, as Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Coleridge,

"bought from a haberdasher, but a beautiful book, one to caress,

-peculiar, distinctive, individual; written by an author with a

tender whim, all right out of his heart."  In it one reads of

"The Illustrious Matron, The Teacher of the Wilds, The Noble

Dame, The True Wife, The Worthy Daughter, The Worker of

Charity, The Devoted Patriot, The Estimable Governess, The

Sculptor's Assistant, The Friend of Columbus, The Pastor's

Helpmate and The Christian Heroine." Now the reader I knew

best, thrilled and chilled and glowed and wept over these great

souls, yet none of them seem to rise to a more heroic plane

than this woman of our own wilderness.

Seized, while on her way from school, and carried off with

the cherished books under her arm, she was brought to America,

and, at nineteen, sold in Virginia to defray her kidnappers ex-

penses.

Gen. Lewis Newsom, an early resident of Gallipolis where

Mrs. Bailey's last days were lived, seems to doubt the authen-

ticity of this, and says her station was simply that of one sold

out to service on account of poverty and indicates that she

emigrated of her own free will. This mistake is due to the

fact, perhaps, that Gen. Newsom had no acquaintance with Anne

Sargent Bailey till she was nearing the close of her life. He

does not seem to have known that she was finally located by her

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Anne Sargent Bailey.                 343

 

parents, after a long search, and demonstrated her love for

America by choosing this, rather than England, for her home,

so that the Sargents returned without her.

Mr. William P. Buell writing in ₁88₅, makes no mention of

her under the name employed by Gen. Newsom. She became

the wife of John Trotter of Virginia, then of course, an English

colony belonging to Great Britain. They had one son, who was

named William, to whom she was deeply attached, as was Sarah

to Isaac, for he was born in her old age.

At the bloody battle of Pt. Pleasant, her husband, with his

Colonel, was killed by the Indians, and from that hour she

became devoted ardently to the interest of her country, and the

avenging of her husband's death.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay", saith the Lord. But

how many men owe their defeat and how many causes owe

much of their success to the tremendous force, the invincible

will to repay in some adequate measure of pain or frustrated

ambitions, the evil done to those dear to us. Christian ethics,

this clearly is not, but God, by whom we are enjoined to honor

our parents, can hardly look with pleasure on the child who

presses the hand of his father's unjust enemy or fawns upon

the creature who has broken the heart of some one near and

dear, upon the wheel of disloyal friendship.

As for some of us, such creatures, either have no part, do

not exist in our world of genuine and eternal things, or they

exist for us to loathe, to disain and to humiliate. Shakepeare's

imagination never conceived a situation more revolting to the

normal mind than the espousal of Hamlet's mother to her hus-

band's murderer.

Not so with this woman of our wilderness. The murderers

of the husband of her youth, were to be hunted, harried, exter-

minated if possible. And avenging his death she furthered the

cause of freedom, made way for liberty, life, and good order, in

the new world. For this became her passion and her services

to the settlers as scout, soldier, provisioner of forts and as

teacher of their children, were hooks of steel, by which, her

devotion having been tried, they bound her to themselves and

themselves to her.

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Anne Sargent was of good family and her people in Eng-

land, people of comfortable fortune. She was intensely fond of

books and on coming to Ohio in 1818, taught a school near

Gallipolis, though she was then past the century mark in years.

She enforced her discipline, and, as many of her pupils have

since testified to the soundness of her learning and the ad-

vantages secured through her instruction, it can not be gain-

said, that for mental and physical vigor, she is one of the most

remarkable women of any age. Her eventful career has been

linked with that of the soldier, whom, after many years of widow-

hood she married John Bailey, of Virginia. Mrs. Bailey, was

not tall, was very sturdy in figure and of necessity adopted

the dress of the pioneer soldier of the border. Her face was

bronzed by exposure and marked with the conflicts of her soul

and the sorrows which had robbed her of even the little ease a

pioneer settler's wife might enjoy. She hunted and fought like

any soldier of her time and enjoyed hazardous journeys in con-

veyance of information to commandants of scattered forts in the

Kanawha valley.

Her husband had been assigned to duty with the garrison

at Fort Clendennin, the site of the present city of Charlestown,

West Virginia. From there she was to accomplish the most

hazardous of her many journeys, and there she was to render

the most signal, tile most heroic service of her career, the most

heroic possibly, of that of any woman in any time.   Mrs.

Bailey had become an expert with the rifle and her prowess as

messenger, scout and spy were so celebrated that she had been

called the Semiramis of America. Her aim was absolutely un-

erring, and, as she rode upon her splendid black horse, Liverpool,

- the gift of the soldiers of the fort, and named for her English

birthplace -she was an object alike of fear, veneration and love.

She had not the soft, timid ways of a protected life, and would

have offended us doubtless, by her striking characteristics and

untrammeled ways of speech and conduct. But the virtues of

the pioneer, the fire of patriotism, the love of all that is true and

brave shone from her bold eyes and glorified her in the field of

her operations.

The latter lay in that stretch of valley at Pt. Pleasant to the

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long distant settlements of the James and Potomac in Virginia.

Sir Galahad upon his white charger adventuring forth in search

of the Holy Grail does not lay stronger hold upon the imagina-

tion than does this lone woman upon her black horse riding in

sunshine and darkness, in frozen bleakness or dewy spring

dawns, through rugged canyons and beautiful valleys, over lofty

mountains and densely wooded hills in the holy cause of free-

dom. Such is the instinctive prejudice of sex however, such the

marvelous glamor of time, that this woman unsung and almost

unknown, holds with difficulty, our interest for the moment only,

in comparison with Tennyson's well sung, remote man-hero

further weighted with youth, beauty and magnificently set forth

in the paintings by Abby. A grateful people may yet show its

appreciation, and the memory of Anne Bailey may be perpetuated

in some other enduring form, if not in literature or song. Among

hundreds of instances of her daring these are selected as illus-

trative of what has been said. Upon one of these long jour-

neys from Pt. Pleasant to Charlestown, a band of Indians dis-

covered her and raising the war whoop, came in hot pursuit.

In order to escape, she dismounted and crept into a great hollow

sycamore log. The Indians coming up, sat down to rest, upon

the log in which she was concealed; soon others secured her

horse and finally led him away. After their departure, she left

her hiding place and taking up the trail, followed it till late at

night when she came upon the party fast asleep. With incredible

daring, she crept forward, untied her horse, mounted him and

escaped, reaching the fort in safety. The tale that the Indian

lays gentle hands only on the squaw, or that she was unharmed

because they believed her demented, does not appeal with any

convincing power to the intelligence of the reader to-day. No

one insane could invariably proceed with the calm intrepid

and always successful plans this great woman carried out nor

could she have failed to be the victim of the Indians' vengeance in

wigwam or before the council fires had she fallen into his hands.

It was necessary when encamped, to walk back some distance

on the trail to escape the vigilance of the savages, so that she

was compelled always to let her horse go free, thus nightly cut-

ting herself off from means of escape should she be surprised

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and surrounded.  The exploit which is not paralleled any-

where in our history and which exhibits the high and sustained

character of Mrs. Bailey's heroism, occurred when the garrison

under Captain Clendennin was notified by a runner sent from

Captain Arbuckle at Pt. Pleasant, that a great attack upon him

was being planned by the Indians. They had a large force and

would be upon the fort within a few days. Settlers were imme-

diately summoned and with their women and children came into

the fort. At this juncture Clendennin found that the supply of

ammunition was not only low but was nearly exhausted. About

one hundred and fifty miles lay between Charlestown and Lewis-

burg where the ammunition might be had, (Pt. Pleasant).

The country was the hunting ground of the savages and not a

settler's house dotted the entire distance. Volunteers were called

for. Who will be the man to immortalize his name by undertak-

ing the journey? Only one can be spared. He must go forth

alone. Not one of the brave men who listen, though each is a

man of daring and fortitude, is willing to face the hideous perils

and almost certain death by torture, wild beasts or starvation. In

this crisis a woman steps forward.  She is short, unprepossessing

in her stout boots and skirt, short, flowing locks and man's coat.

She speaks briefly, "I will go." This woman would, alone, climb

the mountains, swim the rivers, meet the perils hideous to the

minds of men, tenfold more hideous to the mind and person of a

woman. Her trail would be followed for hours by wolves

waiting to attack her horse; when encamped, and night had

set in, she would be compelled to make fires to keep at bay the

creatures of the wild. To protect herself, should she dare to

slumber, she must construct a bed by driving into the ground

forked posts, adjust upon them rails and slats, cut boughs and

lay herself thereon, to escape the deadly rattle snake and copper

head. To rest her aching body, she must sleep amidst the buzz-

ing of innumerable troublesome insects, the howling of wolves,

and the screaming of panthers. At the very earliest break of

dawn she must replace her load upon the back of the faithful

horse, if he lived through the journey and go forth to meet

the still greater perils of day. Her resolve was instantaneous,

but made with entire knowledge of what was to be encountered.

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Anne Sargent Bailey.               347   The commandant yielded and accepted the heroic service. His- tory has preserved sufficient records of the journey to enable us to trace it on the map. Doing so, we marvel at the sublime daring of this woman, the terrific force of hatred, the majestic power of loyalty and love. Mrs. Bailey made the 300 mile journey. The fort could not have been saved except for the timely arrival of the ammunition which she brought, thus achiev- ing a feat unparalleled even among the many instances of hero- ism in the history of that period. Near the close of her eventful life she came to her son's home at Gallipolis. Having so loved the wild and free life of the frontier, even this son could not tempt her to live under his roof, but her independent mind craved her own roof-tree. In her own log house therefore, she held court.   Rough and strong, the fiber of both mind and body never lost its resiliency. The people fairly idolized her. She was loaded with gifts of every sort and treated with the greatest respect and kindness. She was never ill. She only ceased to breathe. Having heard a great voice saying, "Come up higher," her soul answered swiftly and silently. She was said to have been 125 years old. Her services to her country, to the cause of freedom, and the inspiration of her brave deeds should be ample reason for the raising of some fitting memorial to her name. Instead of this, only the delvers in old records, only the curious seeker after the unusual, finds her name, and the place of her burial is on a lonely hill, near the site of her son's home, "in the solitude of the woods, unmarked by a headstone." Bucyrus, Ohio.

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