History of Natchez and Mississippi railroads

 

Retired Archeologist and Local Historian, Mr. Smokye Joe Frank to discuss the history of the locomotive, “The Mississippi,” built in England in 1834 at the May 27, 2025 meeting of the Natchez Historical Society. 

“Tracking the Tracks: The Natchez & Hamburg Railroad and the Locomotive Mississippi”

Mr. Frank’s presentation will be given at the Historic Natchez Foundation, 108 Commerce Street, on May 27, 2025, beginning with a social at 5:30p.m.  

The locomotive, The Mississippi, was built in England in 1834. It was shipped to New York City and assembled.  From there it was shipped to New Orleans and up the Mississippi River to Natchez. It was pulled up the Natchez bluff by Yoke of Oxen. The Mississippi Railroad ran from 1836 to 1844 in southwest Mississippi. It went bankrupt in 1844. At that time, it was sold to the Grand Gulf to Port Gibson rail line. In 1863, the locomotive was used during the Civil War by both North and South. It was recovered from the river at Vicksburg in 1880 and shipped to Brookhaven, Mississippi, where it was used to haul gravel and lumber. It was acquired by Illinois Central and in 1893 it was overhauled at the McComb, Mississippi, rail yard and, under its own steam, made it to be on display at the Chicago World’s Fair. It remained in Chicago until 2015 and was sold to a company in Knoxville, Tennessee. It is presently for sale.

Joseph ‘Smokye Joe’ Frank is a retired Regional Manager with the State of Louisiana Rehabilitation Services. He has undergraduate and graduate degrees in Social Studies from Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, Louisiana. He has taught Anthropology and Social Studies at two of Northwestern’s extension programs in DeQuincy and Jonesville, 

The program is free to the public.  It is part of a lecture series that is funded by a grant from the Mississippi Humanities Council through funding by the National Endowment for the Humanities.

For more information, call 601-431-7737 or send email to info@natchezhistoricalsociety.org.

 

The Train Station

I'm going to post this, even thought it's not finished and I'm still not sure of all the facts.  But I need to post.

It was a dreary day in 1871 when Anne Gilbert Snyder Munger accompanied her husband, Henry Elias Munger, to the railroad station in Alton, Illinois.  After a tumultuous six years of marriage, Henry left her and her three children, and fled to Texas.  It was the last time she would ever see him, another casualty of the War Between the States.  Anne was a devout Catholic, so divorce was out of the question.

Munger graduated from Union College in Schenectady, New York as a sergeant, 1st lt., Company A. in 1861,   He returned home two years later with the 18th New York Infantry as a company commander, and acting adjutant.  

As a civilian after the war, Munger went to work for the commissary department in Illinois.  On November13, 1865, he married Anne Gilbert Snyder.  Henry and Anne had three children ⏤ their eldest  a daughter, Anne Lucy, followed by  two sons, Henry and Carlton. Henry Elias moved his family numerous times in search of railway jobs, which he quickly lost due to his drinking.  

While living in Hannibal, Anne could take no more of his drinking, took the children and left him.  That day at the train station, he was so drunk, she was nearly paralyzed with fear that he would collapse on a train track and be run over.  But she watched him totter onto a train headed for Texas.   Finally, she turned around and without looking back, returned home to collect her things and moved with her daughter, Anne Lucy, to be closer to family. 

After Henry Elias’ departure, his brothers, William and Lyman took the boys in, cared for them and educated them. Anne and her daughter then moved to Alton, Illinois in order for her to be closer to her family. One of her boys, Henry Snyder, lived with Lyman and Carlton lived with William. She never saw Henry again. 

Around 1885 while on a round trip cruise from St. Louis, Anne Lucy met Anchor Steam Lines purser, William Howard Pritchartt.  Pritchartt had fallen in love with the City of Natchez, Mississippi, and bought two lots on the tall bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, married Anne Lucy, built a home and raised a family there.  Around 1910, Anne Snyder Munger moved to Natchez to live with her daughter and their family.

To be fair, Munger probably suffered from PTSD. The Civil War was anything but civil, and he'd been in skirmishes and seen things that no one should have to see.  He started out as a fresh-faced young man with fair skin and an open, friendly, handsome face.

According to a passage from The18th New York Infantry in the Civil War:  A History and a Roster by Ryan A. Conklin, McFarland & Co., Inc., Publishers, 2016, Munger landed in Texas and became a vagabond, wandering all over the state looking for work.  He continued to drink and was described by saloon regulars as "ugly and quarrelsome" when drunk.  His last known whereabouts was in Beaumont, TX in 1901, where he failed to pick up his last pension check.  It was assumed that he had died, but how is not known.  His grave can be found in Lufkin, Texas in a pauper's cemetery called Strangers' Rest Cemetery where a small stone plaque  displays the names of known burials from early records.  On that plaque one can find the name, Harry E. Munger.

It took many years of going to the Congressional Library to find when he had died before she was finally able to get her "widder's mite,"  veterans' benefits for the widows of those who'd served.

For pictures of and stories about the house on the bluff, see https://shantybellum.blogspot.com/2011/09/long-farewell.html

Upon arriving in Natchez, Anne had two or three possessions that were valuable.  She was a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln, and, as such, had received a handwritten invitation to his inauguration.  Lincoln was one of those rare people, especially in such early days, to be a celebrity in his own time, and anything signed or written by him was worth its weight in gold.  Lincoln had written to her to personally invite her to his inauguration, which she dutifully kept, but later lost.  She was known as a terrible housekeeper and may have simply thrown it away accidentally. We looked in places she might've hidden the invitation to prevent theft, and upon taking the back off of the following photo, was excited to see a partial address on Pennsylvania Avenue.  It did not turn out to be the lost invitation; however, we discovered it is an original Matthew Brady photo, whose studio was on Pennsylvania Avenue.

H.S. Munger by Matthew Brady

H.S. Diary

She had her husband's Civil-War journal and a large book of paintings of American Indians, which she later sold.

She also had in her possession her brother's (Joseph Baker) naval commission, which he received in 1861, after having enlisted without his father's knowledge or permission.  

He was appointed in June, 1861, as lieutenant in the Marine Corps.  The commission, which is still extant, was signed by Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy and Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States.

He commanded the marine detachment that served the quarterdeck pivot gun on board the U.S.S. Congress during the historic battle at Hampton Roads in March, 1862.  The Confederates had seized the Union's ironclad, Merrimac, and sank the wooden Union ships Congress and Cumberland,  making wooden fighting ships forever obsolete.  He escaped the sinking Congress, however, and was described by a correspondent for the New York Herald thusly:  

"This young officer was twenty-one years of age on the evening before the battle, and is said to have conducted himself with unusual bravery and coolness."

Baker had also fought in the first battle of Bull Run, in which he was badly wounded and carried off the battlefield by his brother, John Pope Baker, who was a Cavalry officer.  He served through the war and rose to the rank of captain.  He was found dead in his quarters at the Marine Barracks, Boston Naval Yard, October 2, 1876, from the effects of Yellow Fever contracted during the war.

Remembering the Enslaved: Delia -- A guest post by Tom Scarborough

This is an oil portrait that has been in my family since the 1840s. It is of an enslaved woman named Delia. 

She was the house servant to my great, great, great grandfather, William Bisland, at Mount Repose, the family's plantation near Natchez, MS. 

It was painted by James Reid Lambdin, a relative of the Bislands by marriage. Lambdin also painted the official portraits of presidents Zachary Taylor, and William Henry Harrison. 

This painting hung in the library of my grandparents' house in Washington D.C. for several decades. I remember being entranced by it when I would visit them. It is currently on exhibit at the Mississippi Museum of Art, in Jackson, MS. 

I went to Jackson last week to see Delia for the first time in at least twenty years. It was strange seeing in a public space, this painting that was a part of my ancestors' history, and a poignant reminder of their implication in the system of American racial slavery. 

William Henry Harrison

Zachary Taylor

Having done my graduate work in the study of the plantation slave economy, I am fascinated by the historical nuances of this painting. 

My Natchez family was deeply involved in the slave economy, owning over 400 human beings spread over five plantations, from Natchez, to Terrebonne Parish, LA. 

I don't know if the family commissioned this painting; if so, it would have been very unusual as slaveowners did not typically commission portraits of their human property. Oil portraits of enslaved persons are exceedingly rare. If they did, however, it would speak to the bonds that sometimes did form between bondspersons and those who kept them in thrall. 

More likely, Lambdin painted Delia on his own initiative, and then gave the painting to his in-laws. 

I love her expression--strong, proud, unbroken. She is dressed in what were most likely her finest garments--for her this must have been an event of special meaning. My aunt and I have both tried to track down any evidence that might indicate what became of Delia, but documentary evidence is scant. What little I have gleaned indicates that she may have moved from Mount Repose across the river to New Providence Plantation, in Concordia Parish, another Bisland plantation. But no records have yet been found to shed light on her life during, or after the Civil War.

It was wonderful to once again see this woman who has been a part of our family for nearly 175 years, though not by her choice. I am delighted that she can now be viewed and appreciated by the public. I encourage all of my friends in Natchez and nearby to make the trip to the museum, perhaps in conjunction with a visit to the new Civil Rights Museum in Jackson.

Tom Scarborough lives in St. Francisville, Louisiana, where he and his wife, Denise, own and operate the Nouvelle Candle Club, and parent a precious, precocious, politically savvy  cat named Andy.

More on South-West by a Yankee - Treatment of Slaves 1835

A description of Natchez, written in 1835 by Joseph Holt Ingraham.
Offered without comment:

"Many of the planters are northerners.  When they have conquered their prejudices, they become thorough, driving planters, generally giving themselves up to the pursuit more devotedly than the regular-bred planter.  Their treatment of the slaves is also far more rigid.

Northerners are entirely unaccustomed to their habits, which are perfectly understood and appreciated by southerners, who have been familiar with Africans from childhood; whom they have had for their nurses, play-fellows, and "bearers," and between whom and themselves a reciprocal and very natural attachment exists, which on the gentleman's part, involuntarily extends to the whole dingy race, exhibited in a kindly feeling and condescending familiarity, for which he receives gratitude in return.

On the part of the slave, this attachment is manifested by an affection and faithfulness which only cease with life.  Of this state of feeling, which a southern life and education can only give, the northerner knows nothing.  Inexperience leads him to hold the reins of government over his novel subjects with an unsparing severity, which the native ruler of the domestic colonies finds wholly unnecessary.

The slave always prefers a southern master, because he knows that he will be understood by him.  His kindly feelings toward and sympathies with slaves as such, are as honourable to his heart as gratifying to the subjects of them. He treats with suitable allowance those peculiarities of their race, which the unpracticed northerner will construe into idleness, obstinacy, laziness, revenge, or hatred.

There is another cause for their difference of treatment to their slaves.  The southerner, habituated to their presence, never fears them, and laughs at the idea.  It is the reverse with the northerner:  he fears them, and hopes to intimidate them by severity."





Related posts:

Southwest by a Yankee

Matters Familia - Ephemera

I used to have a little online bookstore. I loved venturing out to libraries, Goodwill and Salvation Army stores looking for books to sell on my online site. When I first started doing this, I was stunned at the inscriptions and the objects I would find inside books -- ephemera, as it's called -- and how moving it often was.

One day I came across a book written by a mother about her son's suicide. I opened the book and a piece of folded paper fell out. On the outside, written in a child's scrawled hand, was this: "To all the Momis [sic]..."

I opened it up. Inside, was a picture of a sad face (like a happy face with the smile turned down). Next to it, "To all the momis. I'm sorry."

I feel certain it was a suicide note, and wondered if the family who gave all their loved one's books away knew the note was inside before releasing it to the world.

Another time I picked up a book to list it on the computer when I discovered a piece of notepaper stuck inside. The name of the book was Stone Alone: the Story of a Rock-and-Roll Band by Bill Wyman and Ray Coleman. It is, of course, about the Rolling Stones.

I often get a mental image of the kind of person who reads a certain kind of book. So I'm looking at this book on the Rolling Stones and I'm thinking it's probably someone about my age and into Rock-and-Roll. Someone who sowed their wild oats during the '60's or '70's. Someone who's laid back, relaxed, probably divorced by now, contemplating a hair transplant and a neck lift, and is wondering if that cute chick he laid at Woodstock is an insurance broker now.

Then I pull out a piece of notepaper. In carefully scripted cursive writing is the following:

When one seeks refuge
in a miracle, perhaps
it is that they are not
reminded that God has
so inundated this great
accident of life with
them; that it is perhaps
impossible to fit another
one in. Hence, it is only
a matter of reminding the
seeker of where they
might be found. And, as
common as they seem - they
are not without the
provision of God.

It sounded like the writings of someone with a terminal illness who'd had an epiphany and realized that the miracle they hoped to find is, perhaps, not the miracle they need. That perhaps their small life is not as important to the workings of the world as it is to him or her. I tried Googling the poem, and found nothing, so I assume it's original. That the person who bought the book wrote the poem.

It's really the old books that affect me the most, though. I remember finding a used bookstore one time that was filled to the ceiling with antique books whose owners had died many years before, the inscriptions inside providing clues to their lives, to their hopes, their fears and loves. And I remember becoming overwhelmed with a feeling of loss. I stood there in the stacks and found myself crying. There's just something so sad about lives that are only dust now, remembered by only a few and growing fewer every year.

I was reminded of these discoveries while going through Annet's house yesterday and finding the ephemera, if you will, of my predecessors.

My great, great grandmother, Anna Snyder from Alton, Illinois, was a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln. I've always heard the story that after the Civil War, she was abandoned by her husband. Destitute, she came to Natchez to be near family, clutching little more than her uncle's naval commission, signed by Lincoln, and a personal, handwritten invitation that Lincoln had sent to her for his inauguration. Being one of those rare people who was a celebrity in his own time, she knew that those signatures had more than sentimental value. If need be, she could get money for them.

We still have the naval commission, signed by both Lincoln and the secretary of the navy, Gideon Welles. But the invitation was lost. Annet used to say that Nana was a terrible housekeeper, and throughout all my searches, I had hoped to find it tucked away in a book or trunk tucked into the attic of the house. Alas, I've been through pretty much everything now, and the invitation has not materialized. I climbed into the attic to see what was there, but found that racoons had taken up residence therein and turned everything up there into confetti. If it was there, it's not there now.

But I did find something interesting. During the Civil War, Nana had permission to cross the Union lines. The story goes that she was good at a card game called "Whist," and was allowed to go back and forth to play whist with the officers. So when I came across an envelope on which Annet had written, "Nana's things," my heart skipped a beat.

Rather than the elusive Lincoln invitation, I found the Union pass allowing her passage back and forth. Written on the pass was her hair color (fair), her place of residence (Alton, Illinois), and "peculiarities," on which was written, "Good dance partner." Ha! (photo above) I also found a lock of her hair, the same color as mine. I'm the only one in my family with blonde hair, and had always wondered where it came from.

And yesterday, when I went through the last closet in the house, I found her marriage license, dated 1865, and signed by all who witnessed the ceremony.

Oh! I almost forgot. I think I found the ottoman spoken of in the newspaper article. I'll take some pictures and post them later.

But the most touching thing I found was a tiny little diary that had belonged to my grandfather. Grandaddy was a sweet, gentle, quiet man -- Annet's brother. I knew him as a patient man who seemed to have an aura of quiet sadness about him. For all the years I knew him, he suffered verbal abuse at the hand of Bessie Rose, his wife. She railed at him constantly, berating him for whatever struck her fancy, and he, quiet as always, simply endured it without comment.

Bessie Rose and her sister, Katherine Miller, were well known for meanness. I remember a conversation I had about them with Catherine Meng, who used to receive at Hope Farm for my aunt Katherine. Mrs. Miller had reduced her to tears one day when she upbraided her in front of a group of tourists about how she had delivered her spiel. And on another day, she'd greeted her at the door with, "Why, Catherine, what on earth convinced you to wear that color yellow? It's horrible." Or something to that effect.

Bessie Rose did the same type of thing, not only to me, but to others, as well. She lost several good friends because of it, but never stopped her behavior. Mrs. Meng told me that she thought maybe Bessie Rose was jealous of the attention her sister got for her efforts with the Pilgrimage, and I think she's right.

"The more attention Katherine got," recalled Mrs. Meng, "the meaner Bessie Rose became."

Many of my grandmother's friends lived in antebellum houses passed down through the generations. Grandaddy, however, was an insurance salesman, and although they lived comfortably, never lit the world on fire financially. She would bully their friends to buy insurance from him and berate him for not doing the same. Toward the end of his life, he told my father that she'd told him he was never a good provider.

"That's a tough thing to take at this point in my life," he muttered. "A tough thing."

It would be fair to say that my grandfather lived Thoreau's life of "quiet desperation." So, when I opened the little diary and found that my grandfather had had another love before his marriage to Bessie Rose, I was delighted to see a playful, happy side to him that I had never seen before.

The diary begins on January 1, 1919, when he was 21 years old and working at a bank in town. Every entry in the diary refers to a woman named Kate, who apparently lived in another town and with whom he was completely besotted. Tucked into a pocket in the front of the diary was a little calling card: "Miss Kate Doniphan Prichard"

I sat down and read every entry out loud to Sherry, who was helping me clean the house:"I took an eight-mile hike in the morning - wrote to Kate in the evening. A full day!"
"2 a.m. up and off for a hunt. Had a three hours' row. Broke the stock of my gun and killed one goose. The day was very cold -- ground frozen. Wrote to Kate."
"Had a busy day. Collections took a lot of time & I only made two. Am gaining speed on the machine. off at 9:10 p.m.. No letter from Kate."
"Got my balance off early today but statements kept me till 6:30. Went down to the river & arranged for a boat for Sunday. Spent remainder of evening at home. No mail."
"Still no mail from Kate. Am getting worried. Finished work and wrote to Kate and went home."
"Got up at 1 a.m. Had a five-hour row. Percy [Benoist] and I hunted all day & never shot at a goose. Came home and wrote to Kate."
"Got a letter from Kate and read it three times, as usual. Wrote to her and now I am going to read hers again. Good night!"
"Just finished a rather interesting serial in Harper's. It furnished much food for thought. I can't decide whether it was disappointing or not. Wrote to the sweetest girl on earth -- alias Kate."


Remembering my sweet, kind granfather, I got a lump in my throat. My eyes welled up and tears started to fall. I had to stop and pause several times before going on. I think I scared Sherry half to death."This whole week will be heavy. Today was fairly so but watch tomorrow and Wednesday (underlined) I had another date this evening. Good-night, Kate dear. I am going to write you tomorrow."
"Rode around with Percy a little this morning & we went rowing this afternoon. Got a special delivery from Kate (underlined with a little arrow here pointing at Kate) and {red ink}. Wrote to her." 
"Another letter from Kate. She is treating me splendidly. Wrote to Kate."
"Wrote to Kate this evening. Kate dear, I have been more lonely for you than ever today. I tried to tell you all about it in my letter. I am more in love than ever, dear."

At one point, he frets because he's done something to upset Kate, and he promises never to put her in a bad humor again. From the looks of things, though, he was more infatuated with Kate than she was with him. The diary stops on January 17 with nothing particularly notable. I guess he just petered out, as I did with my own diary attempts when I was young.

When I got home, I called my father.

"Who's Kate?"

"That was Kate Don Brandon," he replied, "Mary Ann Jones's mother. Her maiden name was Prichard, like ours but spelled differently. We'd always heard they had a thing for each other."

I called Mrs. Jones.

"Yes," she recalled. "We'd always heard there was a thing with them, and now we've got proof!"

Mrs. Jones mused that her mother was probably away at school at Newcomb at the time. Grandaddy was 21 years old. He married Bessie Rose in 1924, five years after the last entry in the diary.

Kate Don and he had both spent their lives in Natchez, married to other people. I wonder now if the flame he carried for her was ever truly extinquished. Did he love her from afar? Was she a reminder that life could hold better possibilities? If so, he never said anything to anyone, and never showed an inappropriate emotion.

A wonderful but bittersweet discovery in the leavings of the house on the bluff.