(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator
George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere
in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Vagabond blood leads to Claiborne’s
historic pathways” was originally published in the July 6, 1995 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Many people go many places to visit and to be entertained.
There are those who go to the coast, and there are those who might go
elsewhere. Don’t think it’s strange, but there are those who find entertainment
right here at our doorsteps. Travel in any direction from the Hub City, and
within a few minutes, places and things of historical interest dot the
landscape.
Tuesday, the 27th of June, found me with nothing
to do, so to speak. This is strange, because I usually stay a week or so behind
on my schedule. The reason for this is that there isn’t enough time in the day
for me to go to all the places that I need to go. There are so many places that
I need to visit until I have a very hard time trying to get around to each of
these places. Each time I hear someone say that they can’t find anything to
keep them busy, I look at them in total amazement; most always, I depart their
company feeling sorry for them.
Throughout the years, I have never really come to terms with
myself and sometimes trying to understand my actions. Please don’t think me
weird, but many times I feel as though I am two different people. On one hand,
I’m telling myself that I need to do something that needs immediate attention.
On the other hand, I feel that I must go at all costs to various places that
beckon in the distance.
As I have mentioned in various other articles, I refer to
these feelings as my vagabond blood getting out of hand. This past Tuesday was
one of those days. So not being able to withstand the pressure any longer, I
mounted my iron horse and headed west toward the Alabama River and the old town
of Claiborne.
As I descended the long hill from Perdue Hill, I found myself
wondering where I would begin this afternoon in Claiborne. If I had told anyone
that I was going to spend the afternoon touring the old town by the river, they
would have probably thought that I could crawl on my hands and knees around the
place and still have plenty of time left over. After all, to an outsider, there
isn’t much to see of the old town speeding up or down Highway 84.
Turning off the highway just prior to going on the river
bridge, I found myself wondering if it was possible to go back in time on a day
such as today and be among the happenings that took place here many years go.
As I rode my motorcycle up the steep embankment overlooking the new bridge and
the vast river and bottom lands below me, I felt that perhaps today this just
might be possible.
Looking downriver, I thought of that day, the 12th
of October 1540, and the river crossing of DeSoto and his army. In the
quietness of the afternoon I could almost see the masses as they struggled with
the crude rafts and restless animals as they made their way to the east side of
the river. I looked at the steep bluff where the watchtower had stood when Fort
Claiborne rested atop the high bank in the early 1800s.
I thought of the many hours of watching for attackers that
might charge the walls of the fort at any time. I thought of the dead that had
fallen in battle there who now slept in the old burial crypts nearby. No record
remains of who they were or from where they came.
Continuing to look downriver, I looked at the high bluff
known as Lovers’ Leap. I felt the agony of the two lovers who chose to end
their lives by leaping into the swift waters below rather than be separated. I
could almost see them standing atop the high cliff as they embraced for the
final time. Then holding hands, they stepped off the high bluff into the
endless depth of eternity.
Looking down on the narrow road that led down to the old
ferry landing, I wondered just how many people had this path down to the great
river. Here, they would cross the river on the old ferry and disappear from
view for distant unknown places far to the west.
I thought of the small children in the wagons, not knowing
what tomorrow would bring. I thought of the hardships and death that awaited
many along the trails that turned and twisted into the distant sunsets. If I
listened closely, I felt I could almost hear the wagon wheels on the rocky
narrow road below.
Starting the engine to my motorcycle, I slowly descended the
high embankment and made my way down this narrow road so rich in history to the
old ferry landing at the bottom of the steep hill.
I would almost feel the activity as the wagons jockeyed in
position to load on the crude ferry and the trip across the great river. I
could almost hear the shouts and the commands as the ferry operators struggled
and pushed to get the laden ferry boat away from the muddy bank and out into
the river current.
I could picture in my mind the nervous horses and mules
being made to pull the heavy wagons up on the large flat-bottomed ferry boat.
And I thought of wet and stormy weather as those who waiting had to postpone
their crossing because of thunderstorms and dangerous winds that swept down the
river.
I could almost see the campfires that flickered in the
darkness. Each encircled by those trying to keep warm until the morning came
and their time to load on the ferry for the river crossing and a journey to
place unknown far into the sunset.
Slowly making my way back up the narrow road to the highway,
I found myself feeling guilty, traveling along with so little effort when so
much suffering had taken place here so long ago. Turning my iron horse into the
old North Gorge cemetery, I knew that here in itself was a page in history, now
fading from neglect when it should have been so carefully preserved.
Making my way to the far end of the old burial ground, I
knew that much tragedy had befallen many of those who slept here. I stopped at
the grave of the Brokenhearted Stranger. He, too, had departed this life, here
on the high banks overlooking the mighty river. His search for his loved one
had ended here; he, too, a victim of the dreaded yellow fever that took such a
heavy toll in the town by the river.
The creeping shadows of the tall pines there in the old
cemetery reminded me that time awaits for no man. The golden sun in the western
sky told me that this day, like many others, had not been long enough. Oh,
well, that’s the story of my life.
I had come here today, and I had been a part of Claiborne’s
yesterdays. I knew I had made the right decision by coming. Strange as it may
seem, there were several places that time did not permit me to visit here in
the old town by the river. Perhaps, another time, another day, and I will
return to the old town by the river.
(Singleton, the author
of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of
79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born on Dec.
14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School, served in
the Korean War, lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County
on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National
Guard unit from 1964 to 1987. For years, Singleton’s column “Somewhere in Time”
appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about
Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. Some of his earlier
columns also appeared under the heading of “Monroe County History: Did You
Know?” He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and
all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the
microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville.
Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship
purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)
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