Stanley, L. L. 1971. A Rough Road in a Good Land. Chapter VI pp. 40-44.
Chapter VI
The Law Ground Fight on Big Rock Creek
About sixty years ago, the writer at his old home in Gilmer County, Georgia, watched an old man ride past this home a number of times. He rode a big grey horse, and had a grey beard. Some times he stopped to talk to the boy’s father, and he nearly always stopped at the boy’s grandfather’s home further down the valley. His name was Swinfield Stanley, and grandfather was his nephew.
In those days when it rained and fields could not be worked because they were too wet, mountain people went visiting to the home of their kinfolks if they did not live too far away.
Upon many rainy days the boy walked with his father about one mile to grandfather’s house where they sat before a fire in the fire place and he listened to stories told by grandfather, grandmother, uncles, and his own father, about the Stanley family migration from North Carolina to Georgia.
Many of these stories involved old William Stanley who moved from North Carolina in 1842, with his children and grandchildren. Some of the stories were about Swinfield or Swinn, as he was called, and his fourteen children, and their families who had moved in the eighteen nineties from the same section of North Carolina.
Old Swinfield, had lived in Georgia with his father, and brothers at the time of the Civil War. At the end of the war, he went back to North Carolina and did not return for nearly fifty years.
It seemed to the small boy who listened that the only reason for William Stanley’s move in 1842 was a desire to find cheap and better land and like Daniel Boone, a search for a little more elbow room in this new section of Georgia, from which the Indians had been moved a few years before. It also seemed to the boy that when they discussed Old Swinfield’s move back to Georgia after nearly fifty years absence, that they did not give a good reason for this latest migration.
The boy, as he listened to the stories, had the impression that the Stanley name was held in ill repute in North Carolina, especially by law abiding citizens. This reputation was brought about by the actions of some members of this old man’s family that finally resulted in the old man’s determination to remove his whole family back to the area he had lived in at the time of the Civil War.
This boyhood impression remained with the writer until he was grown up and had begun to do some research on family history.
He well remembers the day about twenty-five years ago, when he went into the record room to see the clerk in this North Carolina County. His purpose was to request permission to see the records that might be helpful in tracing this family from England to Virginia, and from Virginia to North Carolina and Georgia.
A fine looking white haired man named McKinney was the record clerk. The writer upon being introduced to this man made the mistake of saying, “You, sir, appear to be old enough to remember this family name and to recall the trouble this family caused in your county before they moved to Georgia in the eighteen nineties. I feel that perhaps I need to apologize for asking about a family whose record in this county was not the best.”
The courteous old gentleman took the writer by the hand, shook it hard, and said, “Young fellow, if I were you, I would not apologize for this family name again. Sure, I was here when they had their troubles, and I knew most of the members of this family. You need to remember that this rough country helped to make them what they were.”
“Remember one more thing, they had convictions about what they believed in, or in the struggle to keep alive, in their day. They had the courage to do whatever they thought they had to do to live up to their convictions, which is one of the qualities that more men need in the kind of world you and I live in.”
That was the last time the writer felt apologetic, for the people who lived in that county years before, who happened to have the Stanley name. The record clerk helped to find the records and seemed delighted that someone had reminded him of a family who had been pioneers in that county before Mitchell County existed.
The real reason for the migration of Swinfield Stanley, and of his big family was a fight that occurred at the law ground, or election ground on Big Rock Creek at the junction with Beans Creek that involved two of the old man’s sons, Brownlow and Elisha, and a Garland family and their friends on the other side.
The writers great, great grandfather married a Garland in this Rock Creek Valley. He moved his family to Georgia in 1842. At least four other members of this Stanley family married Garlands so these two families were kinfolks. This did not prevent the fight that caused Swinfield’s family to move away from this county.
This unfortunate battle between the Stanley’s and Garlands was caused by political differences dating back to the time of the Civil War, when both families were forced to take sides either Union or Confederate.
There lived on Big Rock Creek until recent years a man who told the writer that he was present at the law ground that day when the battle began. He said the two Stanley boys had been drinking, which was not an uncommon occurrence in the Southern mountains in their day.
One of the Stanley’s made the mistake of going around in the crowd singing a mountain song, entitled “Cumberland Gap”. Alan Lomax in his book “Folk Songs of America” quotes the words of this song, however, at the time of the Civil War verses were added to this old song. These words had reference to the struggle for this strategic gap in the Cumberland Mountains by Union and Confederate Armies. One of the verses of this song contained the lines:
“Talk about your butter, talk about your fat, Fleas in the rebel camp as big as any cat.”
Brownlow Stanley who had been named for the famous Union newspaper editor of East Tennessee, Parson Brownlow, who during the Civil War went to prison for his remarks about the South, began to sing the song. His brother, Elisha, joined him. The Garlands resenting the rebel camp line, as a reflection on their political affiliations, began a fist fight with the two men.
The eye witness mentioned above, told the writer, that the women folks had taken their knitting and gone to the election ground with the men. There was a saw mill at this creek junction. Several lumber stacks near the saw mill furnished seats for the women, who were sitting on the lumber stacks with their knitting in their laps, when the fight began.
They fled up and down the road toward their respective homes, scattering half knitted socks and knitting needles along the way.
The fight which began with fists, ended with round rocks from the creek bed and long bladed jack knives being used by both sides.
At one time, there were fifteen men on the Garland side, against the two Stanleys. A witness told the writer that every time a thrown rock hit one of the Stanleys, it bounced off like a rubber ball thrown against a wall. He said that every time one of the Stanleys threw a rock and hit a man he went down and stayed down.
Brownlow and one of the Garlands held on to each other and cut each other with knives. Brownlow was cut to pieces, and Mr. Garland was on the ground so badly cut up that the Stanleys thought him dead. His friends that were left on their feet are said to have run away leaving the two Stanleys on the field of battle.
Mr. Garland lived until a few years ago. Brownlow Stanley lived until he was about ninety years old. The writer saw this man many times during his boyhood days.
The resulting law suits was one of the major reasons why old Swinfield sold the tract of land he owned on Bad Creek and moved to Georgia.
One of the persons who was a witness to this fight, was a very short man named George Jones. While the fight was going on this man who had married Swinfield Stanley’s daughter Jane, was able because of his short statue to hide in a crevice in one of the lumber stacks. Through a hole between two boards he was a witness to the whole battle.
When his father-in-law decided to leave North Carolina, this man elected to take his family and go with him. There were four children born to George and Jane Jones in North Carolina. About the time he made this move to Georgia his wife died.
George Jones married a second wife. There were two or three children born to this family. These children attended school with the writer, when this family lived at the old Martha Rackley farm on the edge of the mountain wilderness in North Georgia. The writer saw this little man many times when he was a boy.
The wagon train that brought this large family from Mitchell County, North Carolina followed the old wagon road across Yancey, Buncombe, Haywood, Jackson, Macon, and Cherokee Counties by Burnsville, Asheville, Waynesville, Sylva and Murphy, North Carolina to make this great journey across Western North Carolina. They stopped by the roadside near a spring or stream when night over took them, built a campfire, cooked a meal, ate by the light of the fire, and slept on the hard ground beside the wagon when the weather was good. They brought food along in their wagons, occasionally they purchased food supplies from the small towns they passed through. Old Swinfield, was so far as is known, the only person in this caravan, who had been over this road, and his journey was made about fifty years before, changes must have been made in this country from 1865 to about 1898, the approximate date when he moved back to Georgia.
During the writers boyhood days, his father bought a farm from a man named Luther Weeks. Mr. Weeks’ old house was included in this purchase. This house stood in an old apple orchard and was leased to an uncle who had married one of the daughters of George and Jane Jones. She was one of the children on the wagon train that made the journey described above in this narrative.
The writer played with the children in this home. He was invited to spend the night with them, this he did. The uncle was away from home and the mother started to tell stories about this journey one night as we sat around the fire place. She was a young girl when the long journey began. She had most vivid memories of the journey through Nantahala Gorge. It took three days to bring the wagons through this gorge. They had to cross the river which was in flood, five times. It took two teams to drag the wagon through the ford. The men cut green trees by the road side and lashed the logs to the up stream side of the covered wagon box. The women and children were put in the wagons. The men waded on the upstream side, and held on to the logs to keep the swift current from overturning the wagon box.
She told about the children crying, the mothers kept telling them not to be afraid that the men would not let the wagon turn over and drown them. She was one of the children who cried.
There was also a story about how hungry the children were! They were forced to walk because the hills and mountains they crossed were so steep that it took all the strength the teams had to pull the heavy laden wagons to the top. She said that at times the road was one mud hole after another when it rained. When it was dry the wagon wheels kicked up the dust and the weary children walking behind the wagons were covered with dust.
No one today can experience the lonely tree shaded dirt roads, mud to the wagon axle when it rained. When dry they were filled with a cloud of choking dust. Steep mountains where they used two teams of oxen or mules to draw the wagon to the top. Before they started down the cutting of a tree top which was tied to the wagon behind to act as a brake on the steep slopes. The mother who told the writer these stories was named Matilda Jones Aaron. She was married to the brother of the writers mother, and was typical of these pioneer people who where forced by circumstances beyond their control to move for long distances across eastern America, less than one hundred years ago. The writers great, great grandfather with all of his children and grandchildren had moved in 1842 over the same road or trail. They covered the same distance from Mitchell County of today to Fannin County, Georgia. When the writer was a boy, only one person who made this first journey was left alive to tell about it. She was born in 1839 and was too young to remember much about the journey she made.
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