Annie Sullivan, On Genesee Hill

[fiona]

Sarah was born in 1845. I do not know if she was born in Utica, at the Miller Seat or on Pompey Hill, where the family lived for several years. I tend to think that she may have been born on Rutger Street, so that makes her 29 at the time of this story. As for D.W. Northrup, the first name is Devillo and he was Milton's brother. I really do not know much about him. You can read about Mr. M. Northrup in the Olb./GF history. His complete obit is on page 58 under the heading MM Northrup died today. LuLu Glenn Northrup was born in Utica around 1870 - 1877. I am not clear on this. She was Milton and Marie's only child. She and Latcher had two children and lived in apt no 6, far north side of the GF. Her girls names were Viollo and Louise. After the Flats burned, the Latcher's went to live in the Kan-a-tenah. Mrs. Latcher drowned ( committed suicide?) while on holiday at the Thousand Islands by falling or jumping into the St. Lawrence on the 21st of July, 1917. Her husband, Seymour Dewitt Latcher had died on December 24, 1916 of a peridontal disease that went into systemic blood poisining.

[fiona]

UTICA MORNING HERALD and DAILY GAZETTE - JULY 15, 1873


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BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER of PROMINENT UTICA FINANCIER EXHIBITS EXTREME HEROISM IN FACE of GRAVE DANGER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Sunday, the thirteenth of July dawned bright and hot, a usual summer's day in Our Fair City, but it is a day that will not long be forgotten and that will live on in the memories of Utican's for years hence!!! And it is safe to say that many of the young men on Whitesboro Street that afternoon, will be respectable greybeards and not a few of the young ladies, comfortable matrons, dandling happy grandchildren on their knees, before the heroism of a certain lovely young lady is forgotten!!!

Our story begins thus wise: Miss Sarah Miller, grand daughter of the former Mayor of Our Fair City, the late and estimable Henry Seymour; daughter of prominent Utica financier Rutger B. Miller; niece of our former esteemed Governor, Horatio Seymour and grand niece of Senator Roscoe Conkling by marriage carried on in the family tradition of bravery and selfless public service on Sunday afternoon last!!!

The scene is set and the actors are upon the stage!!

Miss Miller with her team and coachman left Whitesborough in her father's black Victoria early Sunday morning for a pleasant day or two visiting with her Aunt Julia Conkling up on Rutger Hill. The drive was pleasant enough, it being Sunday noon, many of the carriages and equipages upon the Whitesboro turnpike were either coming or going from church, and the crowd was a gay one.
All went well until her arrival at the foot of the bridge over the canal at Hotel Street! There she encountered a scene of mayhem!! The bridge was blocked and carriages fore and aft could not pass. The rise to the bridge and the road leading forwards on either side were a crowd of people and stalled conveyances!!! Imagine the concern of the drivers for the horses, the rising heat of the day, the noise and the confusion if you will. This is the scene the brave Miss Miller came upon while entering her carriage into the quay.!

The action unfolds!!


It would appear, that the day before, Saturday, being one of record heat, the American Hotel had run low on beer and had sent a note ahead to McQuade's for delivery of six more barrels with all possible haste. McQuade sent back a missive that it was not possible to run the teams that evening, as he had been running them all day and the horses and men needed their rest. He would, however, run them the next afternoon, and that day being Sunday, he would have to pay the men double for working their one day of rest, but since he, McQuade, was a man with considerable concern for the plight of the drinking man, as well as an astute business man, he would run the team on Sunday, but one trip only!!

A Bitter Brew!

That one singular trip proved to be a fateful one. It was a hot day and it is felt that perhaps horses did not have ample rest or water, or the driver was fatigued. The lead horse, a massive beast of a Perchon, stumbled and fell, coming onto the bridge and almost tipped the dray onto it's side. The teamster, Tommy Foley, was riding high upon the box with his young son, Timmy, at his side. When the horse went down and the wagon pitched sideways, several of the barrels worked themselves out, rolled onto to the base of the bridge and exploded!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The father leapt down from the box to attend to the team and young Timmy, being a big strong boy, held the reins. Then two incidents happened. When the barrels went the inside horse reared up in fright and kicked the father in the chest, sending him flying through the air and onto the base of the bridge. At the same time, the force of the explosion threw the young lad from the wagon, in the opposite direction, which probebly saved his life as he may have been trampled by the frightened horse. If he had been riding on the back of the wagon he would have been blown to bits. The debris from the casks rained through the air and the inside horse was impaled through the flank by a long shaft of barrel stave, a fatal injury. A hoggee and his mule were also injured, but not gravley and are not expected to away from their labours for long.

Young Timmy was more dead than alive when the brave Miss Miller arrived upon the scene. His left arm was broken, and he received a deep bleeding gash upon the top of his head, from which he bled copiously.

A call went out: "Is there a doctor available?" but even among that most august crowd, on a Sunday afternoon, there was none to be found. A man standing in the crowd, a local typesetter for this newspaper named Griffin, at once recognized Miss Millers carriage in the quay and knowing she was a Christian woman of excellent temperament, breeding and sterling character, sent a workman to fetch her to the scene. As luck would have it, she was already descending from her carriage and came upon the scene straightaway, giving such assistance as was necessary to save young Timmy's life!!!

People were crowding round the young injured lad, who was stretched out at the base of the bridge, and not giving him air. He was being attended too by several men, one a rough looking canaler and the other a farmer from up near Frankfort. Miss Miller at once espied that they were being rough with the boy and incorrectly attending to his wound. She ordered them away and with shocked faces they stepped back and she attended to her "patient."

While other men worked upon the almost lifeless body of Timmy's father, and others tended to the wagon, the kegs and the horses, knowing full well the danger of further explosions, Miss Miller tended to young Timmy. Without a further thought for her own modesty, she cut away the hem of her own gown to use as a bandage, she proceeded to offer such assistance as was needed. She called for what she wanted: A sharp small knife to cut away his matted hair, a bottle of strong whiskey, a bucket of water and good, clean rags. These goods were soon procured, passed through the crowd hand to hand. She brought the boy around with the spirits which she held to his lips and bade him quaff. That being done she quickly cut away the hair and exposed the wound, cleansing it with the water, then probing it for foreign matter with her own strong fingers, before bandaging it neatly with ties made from the hem of her own gown. Of the arm she did nothing, preferring to leave that to what she said was "a more knowledgeable type of woman." Timmy, a big, strong lad, is expected to make a full recovery. The father, however, was carried off by ambulance to Hospital and it is feared that his injuries may prove fatal.

Miss Miller, when spoken to by this reporter, would say only that she had once been in the presence of Clara Barton and was simply following in her footsteps. When asked why she never balked, fainted or shed a tear at the sight of so much blood and suffering, she replied, " I never let a patient see me cry. It upsets them." A true lady of the old school, she accepted no more thanks and excused herself at once.

The Foley family had just last month arrived at Albany from West of Ireland, and thence traveled up to Utica two weeks ago via the canal, and have taken up residence down by the Gulf, on Third Avenue. They are cousins of the Ennis's, who emigrated here to work on the telegraph lines in 1845. A collection will be taken at the City Hall on Genesee Street and The Hibernian Ladies Aid Society will call upon the family to see what can be done, as the family is a large one.

Miss Miller will be spending some time on the Hill with her aunt, Mrs. Roscoe Conkling and then will be leaving for a longer trip to Morristown, New Jersey, where she states she plans to stay an indefinate amount of time. She has not as of yet published her at home days, only lately having arrived from Whitesborough this Sunday last.

[fiona]

HERE IS THE BRIDGE OVER HOTEL STREET

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COMING UP FROM HOTEL STREET

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ON HER WAY UP GENESEE TO RUTGER STREET

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[fiona]

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ANOTHER VIEW OF THE CANAL

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[fiona]

NEXT: GOING UP ON THE HILL.

[fiona]

Sarah walked slowly back to the carriage, feet aching and swollen inside delicate leather boots. She was exhausted and dirty, her frock stained with blood, hands fouled with dust and dirt. Her hair, which she had taken such care with that morning, had escaped its combs and the clinging wet tendrils hung about her face and neck like heavy black rope. She didn't know what time it was but she could tell by the sun that it was past four. Some of the shops in the Head and Winston building were beginning to close and here and there she saw a clerk or shop owner come onto the sidewalk, take in the wooden chairs and and crank up the awnings. The Sunday crowd was beginning to thin. A horse ambulance streamed by heading for the bridge. She looked about for her caravan.

Her coachman and driver had pulled the rigs over to the front of Head and Winston's Wholesalers and were watering the horses at a trough. They both rested on a bench under an awning, hats pulled down, legs outstretched, half asleep. The wagon driver sat up when he saw Sarah. He spat along stream of tobacco juice into the road. He poked the coachman in the ribs with his elbow. They both jumped to their feet and stared at her, but she motioned to them to sit down. She was in no mood to talk. She just wanted to be alone. To have a cool drink, to wash her face. "Have you boys eaten?" she asked.

They stared at her dully, not comprehending the fact that she, the Mistress, should be interested in their well being. They were country boys from out near Deansville and hadn't been driving for the family but a few months. They had there own ways, kept to themselves, and Sarah respected that.

"No'em," said the driver. "We was waitin fer you to git back. We ain't et nuthin since this mornin." He scratched at his beard with a calloused hand.

"Well, then," she said, "Take this gold piece and go into the hotel and have a fine dinner and take your time and if anyone gives you any trouble, send the manager to me. I will be right here. I can stay with the horses and rigs." She dipped down into her small purse and handed the coachmen the coin. The coachman scraped his boots along the ground, hesitating.

"Miss Miller", he said, "I ain't never..."

"You have never what?" she asked. "Taken money from a woman?"

"Yes'm."

"Well, this is a new day and women can do whatever they please and I'm telling you can do it."

The two young men looked at each other, then smiled and the driver said: " Miss Miller, you are just the beatenist woman I ever have seen in all my life and I thank ye kindly."

It would be several hours before the bridge was cleared. She sat on the bench and gingerly removed her boots and when she thought no one was looking, pulled off her light cotton stockings, and undid the top three buttons of her basque, removing the cameo, which she dropped into her purse. Having done that she filled a wooden bucket that was next to the trough with water. Then she dipped her hands into it and slopped some of it on her face, letting it tickle down her neck and onto her camisole. She emptied and refilled the bucket several times, scrubbing her arms and hands. People passing were beginning to stare. So, she thought, let them! She refilled the bucket for the last time and plunged her burning feet into the water. How cool the water felt. How pleasant it was to sit here in the late afternoon sun and not have to be a perfect lady every minute of every day.

A clerk came out of a general store and looked at her. He knew she was a Miller and did not connect her with the accident on the bridge. She must've had a fight with her husband, or mabye she went for a swim in the canal! he thought to himself. That's why she looks so God-awful hangdog!

She had been in the store last week buying toilet and mirror sets, tortoiseshell combs, pens and papers. She didn't recognize him. He had recently shaved and his black hair was parted in the middle and severely slicked down with Macassar oil.

"We are closing now, Miss. Is there anything I can get for you?" Yes, she said, "Bring me a bottle of your best Florida Water and be quick about it.!"

The clerk jumped back a little. He was a senior salesman now; paid two dollars a week and while he didn't like to brag, was quite proud of his accomplishments. And he didn't like to be given orders. Not by a woman who was a member of a prominent family and sitting in front of his store on his bench soaking her feet in a bucket. Still, her money was good. As good as gold.

"Yes, ma'am." he said and disappeared inside the shop, mumbling to himself. "Those damm Millers and those damm Seymours think they're just something. Plumb crazy is what they are! Poly-tics has gone to their heads and made 'em sappy. Oh how the mighty have fallen. She looks just like a slattern. Serves her right for settin herself up so high and mighty." But he brought Sarah the Florida Water, the best he had and gratefully received a tip of two bits for his troubles.

She relaxed and watched the boats flow under the bridge, heard the church bells ring the five o' clock hour. People flowed by. No one really looked at her or associated her with the accident or the fine carriage or overloaded wagon. To them she was just a woman from up in the country come down to Utica on a Sunday afternoon to buy provisions, or perhaps a canal woman, who just got tired of sitting on the boat. She opened the Florida water and splashed it on her face, neck and arms. It smelled of mimosa and peach and orange and it deeply refreshed her.

At six o' clock the men came back, looking well fed and happy. The coachman had purchased a big cigar and was intermittently puffing upon it. The driver had a fresh lump of chew in his left cheek. She was still sitting with her feet in the bucket, immensely enjoying her holiday. A gang of men were just bringing down the remains of the wagon, some were sweeping up, the dead horse was unceremoniously loaded upon a trash wagon and hauled away. A large red colored tom cat came up and rubbed at Sarah's skirt. He had half a tail, a limp, one ear was gone, his head was pie bald from fleas and he meowed plaintively. Sarah picked the cat up and held it close to her face. It smelled like straw and horse manure. She set the cat down, but it came back again, rubbing and purring, rubbing and purring. "Why you poor thing," she laughed." You're just like me. I never had a kitty of my own and you look just like my Uncle Roscoe with all your great red mustaches and chin whiskers. I think we belong together."

She let the coachman assist her into the carriage and he handed her shoes and the cat. "I think I'll call you Roscoe." she said off handedly. " After Mr. Conkling. You're a politician too. Quite definately a bombast! I can see it in the cut of your whiskers. You have my vote!"

Roscoe immediately curled up at Sarah's feet. He had had a good many street fights, a good many nights in the ashcan and now, he too felt he was on his way home; on his way to better things. Sarah was his person and he would protect her through good and bad.

The sway of the carriage; the plodding of the tired horses, lulled Sarah into a light sleep and at seven o' clock they were passing up John Street and heading for the Hill. Roscoe slept on. He was dreaming of an endless supply of mice; one after another and they were all delicious.

[dgriffin]

From Fiona:


A hazy purple dusk was descending upon the city by the time the bridge was cleared and the queue of carriages and wagons allowed to pass. It was almost seven o' clock and the sonorous bells of Grace Church were ringing in the eventide as the carriage and the wagon turned up John Street, heading for The Hill. All the travelers were exhausted, the sound of the horses hooves no longer a sharp clip, but a dull clunk as they trotted along over the brick cobble stones. Sarah, struggling up from her nap, felt curiously light headed, as if she was rising to the top of a from deep dark pond. Roscoe, still curled at her feet, stretched, yawned, scratched a flea on his neck and went back to sleep.

Supper hour was over and the smell of cooking, horse manure and new mown grass hung in the air. The Third Avenue frog chorus, tuning up in the Gulf, would go on continuously rising and falling, until day break. Soft breezes rattled the top most leaves of the tall elms and brought the scent of the Mohawk River and the canal. Later, when the moon was fully up, people would close their windows against the damp odors, the night miasmas, but now they welcomed the little freshets after the long sullen heat of the day.

The coachman, still chewing on the remains of his cigar, had fallen into a type of gentle reverie and was now sure he was in love with Sarah. He loved her for her gentle ways, her breeding, her bravery- her ability to soak her feet in a bucket of water on Hotel street, right in full sight of everyone - and not care what anyone thought ! If he could only hold her in his arms just once, he reasoned, surely she would accept him. After he had proposed , they would go to her Father and ask for his blessing . She would hold his hand and say, in the most heart felt manner:

"Father, Isaac Wilson is a good man. A fine man. He may not be established, but he can work him self up in the world. And I love him… I Love HIM…"

Then she would glance up at him side ways, cooling herself with an ostrich feather fan, and blushing at the thought of their extended wedding tour. Once they were married, he would sit in the library sipping brandy with the other men, smoke a Cuban cigar and sport a fine gold pocket watch. They would have children, many of them, who would gather round his chair, tug on his great mustaches , tickle his chin and call him Pa-Pa and in the evening Sarah would sit by the fire knitting a little cap for his head… she would bring him his pipe and slippers… if only, if only… and he pondered upon it in the most mighty fashion.

The stately red brick homes, fronted by small neat lawns and cast iron fences, slipped slowly by. Oil lamps glowed softly from behind slender lace curtained windows . Children played on the grass and side walks, while servants in long black skirts and white blouses, watched from a discreet distance. A spotted dog chased the wheels of the victoria, then raced to join a boy in a sailor suit trundling a hoop on the sidewalk. Three small girls in grey taffeta dresses played at tea under a pink rose arbor and a boy in short pants and a straw hat dug for worms on the lawn. Two well dressed women, in bright summer frocks and Sunday hats, recognized the carriage and called out gay greetings. An old colored woman in a long gingham dress swept a front stoop, grizzled grey head bent to her work. She did not look up. A young girl with blond sausage curls rode a brown pony in the road, harness held tightly by a mustached Pa-Pa in shirt sleeves and striped pants , and a group of Irishmen in rough working clothes, gathered on the corner , tipped their soft caps to the little caravan as it passed.


**************

The carriage jolted across Rutger Street and up the brick drive into the main heart of the estate. The mansion itself was a great square mass of a house, the tall windows and main front door standing open to the breeze, the whole of the buildings and grounds sinking into shadow as the sun retreated slowly into the west. A massive overhanging willow guarded the low stone wall that fronted the park, it's
long silvery fronds dusting the lawn. Fragrant peonies, red, pink and white, hung heavy with evening dew. The last of the purple and white lilacs , white snow balls and syringias in thick profusion, formed a dense mass of green against the wall. A tall pine stood to the east and near that, a hoary old shag bark sycamore, planted long ago by Sarah's grandfather, Judge Morris Miller, shaded the portico and threw long dark shadows onto the lawns. Beneath it's welcoming branches sat several cast iron benches, upon which bright colored pillows were tossed in gay abandon and a book, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, lay open upon the grass, its reader away for just a moment... perhaps in the yard savoring the last of the golden light. In the cool shade between the houses, facing west, giant ferns spilled over the footpath. At the front door, A blue Chinese jardinière sat on a cast iron stand and in that grew a large parlor palm. Someone had placed large pink conch shells on the steps. Fireflies, their minute lamps a small blessing, sparkled over the front lawns; wrens and sparrows were settling in the trees. Above a round window at the far east side of the house, under the eaves, a pair of grey mourning doves billed and cooed, signaling the end of another day.



Thomas Feeney was at his usual post by the low stone wall, sweeping the drive, corncob pipe clamped between his teeth. He worked without hurrying, lost in the thorough enjoyment of the task and the quiet warmth of the evening. His wife Eileen was head cook, together they had worked for the Conkling's since the close of the War Between The States. He considered this his home until they planted him in the earth and Julia Conkling the kindest of mistresses. Now that he was so much older , hobbled and arthritic with painful war wounds, she always gave him light duty, and he was grateful for it. He wore his Sunday evening suit, a yellowed frock coat, dark blue pants and a broad brimmed hat, his "seeing in suit for the best of company" those graceful slender waisted ladies and dapper gentlemen in tall silk hats who came to call; for Julia kept an open house and he, the "Ambassador of Rutger Park", as he was called, had to be ever at the ready, for a Senator, a Congressman or maybe even a King!

"Evening Miss! And it's a lovely one, I'm sure!" he called to Sarah as the carriage and wagon rolled into the front yard. Lifting his hat to the coachman and the driver, Thomas bowed low with a sweeping gesture. "Jacob Israel's in the barn tonight. He'll take ye in. Twern’t expectin ye, but there's always room for one more by the fire.. I'll have my Misses put the kettle on."

The coachman swung the carriage around the circular drive to the broad front steps of the house. The horses, in anticipation of a good rub down, a pleasant meal and a nights sleep, stepped up the pace just a bit. Jacob Israel Titus, the colored stable boy, came running around the side of the house to assist with the carriage. He slowed them to a walk and then dipped into his pockets for the sugar lumps he always carried. Tall and thin, with ropey muscles on his dark fore arms, Jacob was only twelve years old, but already a senior stable boy and would be a coach man some day, driving only the best Four-in-Hand. He was sure of it. The horses knew him and gratefully accepted his treats. Slowing to a walk, then a halt, a ripple of pleasure went down their flanks as they showed their teeth over the sugar lumps.

Sarah was home again and felt as giddy as a sixteen year old after a first kiss.