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| George Buster Singleton |
Sunday, April 26, 1987 was a perfect day. At 2 p.m. the members of the Monroe County Museum & Historical Society gathered in front of the old courthouse for an afternoon outing in and around the old town of Claiborne.
Our first stop was the old Jewish cemetery. Nestled back in the woods near where once was the southeast corner of the town, the remaining markers and tombs stand in almost forgotten memories of the Jewish people who once lived here in Claiborne.
As we moved among the headstones, many of which had fallen over or had been broken due to neglect, one could feel a certain sadness or a feeling of helplessness that seemed to filter from the faint impressions there in the ground.
Many of the ones who slept there among the underbrush and briars had traveled from the far corners of the earth to a town called Claiborne atop the high banks of a mighty river. They came this way looking for a better lift, a life of freedom, a life without fear.
And in the quietness of the moments there among the final resting places, one had only to look around, after all these years, to know that tragedy and heartbreak had been present in the town by the river.
Isaac Jacobson had been a successful merchant in the growing town of Claiborne. His store was growing along with the town. His business required many hours of work, even after hours when the doors were closed to his customers. Many nights he would work into the early hours of the morning, ordering the goods that would be shipped up the river by boat. Life was being good to Isaac. He traveled from Posen, Prussia to Claiborne. He had worked for another merchant until he had saved some money to open his business.
Then one night as he was closing early to go home and enjoy an evening meal with his family, an unknown assassin stepped from the shadows and killed him in cold blood. The faded epitaph relates the gruesome story of Isaac Jacobson’s tragic death that November evening long ago.
Many of the headstones sway drunkenly, leaning this way and that. If you look carefully among the underbrush, your eyes fall upon the small markers of the Metzger brothers, who fell victim of the dreaded yellow fever. The two young brothers were buried within two days of each other.
Pass in review, all the memories
That dwell within my soul.
For now is the time of remembering,
And the ghosts from another time
Cry out to be heard.
Our tour carried us northward to the old town cemetery atop the high banks of what was once known as the north gorge. Beneath the tall, majestic pines, the quietness lay over the few remaining headstones like a heavy blanket. As times passes, I have noticed that the markers within the cemetery have decreased in number. It seems that nothing is sacred anymore in our modern society. When vandals destroy and carry away the old markers and large headstones that have stood for well over a hundred years as guardians in this city of sleep, our priorities and values have reached an all-time low.
A moment’s pause, a quiet recital, the faded epitaph on the tomb of the broken-hearted stranger bring to mind once again the many tragedies that lie hidden in the many graves of the old cemetery.
“I am a stranger,” I heard him say.
“Broken-hearted and lonely, I came
This way – in search of a love who
In anger fled. Too late, too late,
I found her dead.”
Few of us care to known or try to remember the old story of the stranger who came to Claiborne in search of his lost love, only to contract the dreaded fever. As he lay on his death bed, alone and among strangers, he wrote the words of the epitaph that is to be found carved on his headstone:
A doctor, a lawyer, a governor’s wife,
Too, sleep peacefully by a soldier true.
Here on the high banks of the North Gorge, the many victims of the dreaded yellow fever sleep and wait for the final roll call of eternity. The town that they lived in, which boasted at one time over 5,000 people, sleeps in its past memories. Only the sound of the rushing traffic, crossing the new, modern bridge that spans the mighty river, jolts ones mind back to the present and the commitments at hand.
(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 to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “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. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. 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.)
