Threw It In The Well
Shakespeare once wisely wrote: “Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot/ that it do singe yourself.” Wise words but few of us heed such sound advice. When our pride or our pocketbook takes a direct hit we immediately think of means to “get even.” Lord Byron attributed “getting even” to the female sex when he wrote: “Sweet is revenge/ especially to women.” The following account of a femme fatale from the Civil War era may label her as one of “Hell’s Belles” but in my opinion her tormentor received his just dessert.
Nancy Hart was a spy for the Confederacy. She didn’t dress in men’s clothing but went boldly in her hoop skirts to help the “cause.” She was captured by the Union forces and held hostage in 1861. The southern bred Mata Hari was threatened repeatedly by a loutish Union Officer, promising her that he would just let his troops have their way with her. Miss Hart put on a brave face and stood her ground until she saw the opportunity to escape. She did escape unscathed but she never forgot her tormentor’s face.
As fortune would have it, the miserable oaf was captured by southern troops and brought to the town where Miss Hart was residing. Nancy shared with the Confederate officer the ordeal she had suffered at the hands of this Union man and asked his permission to deal a big plate of revenge to her former captor.
With a little assistance, Nancy forced the man to dress in female clothing and she paraded her corseted captive around the town for hours while the residents laughed in derision at the man’s misery. Lord Byron may have been correct when he attributed sweet revenge to women.
Nancy Hart’s revenge was aimed at just one man but a woman by the name of Nancy Anderson took on an entire railroad. Mrs. Anderson was thought of by her town as a “little shriveled-up old lady,” who lived on the southeast corner of her town’s square. She had a large garden on a large lot. She dressed in black and took her vegetables in a basket and sold them on the town square. She always asked people to “smell her flowers,” as that is how she referred to her vegetables. In 1856 Nancy had been sent to an asylum for two years, after she had disappeared while fasting in the area’s river bottoms. After twenty-one days, search parties located her and they had her committed. She had been married to a Major Anderson who died while she was in the asylum.
Her little shack of a house had been built in the 1840's and the railroad wanted her vegetable garden for their right-of-way. She wouldn’t sell so they just condemned it and took it anyway. It cut her remaining property into a sharp triangle.
The effect of that railroad on the town was phenomenal. When they came through in the 1880s the town grew by 450 percent. New business in the community abounded. The entire community thought it was the greatest thing that had ever happened except Mrs. Anderson.
To get even and take her “sweet” revenge, the old lady would mix up home-made lye soap and would grease the tracks with it at night. The early engines could not make the slight grade without traction, and the crews would be forced to back up and scrub and sand the tracks before they could proceed. Nancy Anderson was never caught by the railroad although the whole town knew what she was doing.
Mrs. Anderson lived in her little shack just off the square until she died in 1896. Later that year her home was torn down and an elegant new business establishment erected on the site. In her newspaper obituary, the editor wrote: “Peace to her ashes! As she goeth about the streets of the New Jerusalem, asking each to smell her flowers, may none say nay.” Personally I think the editor was remiss in not adding, may there be train tracks and grease in heaven.
In this modern world of today most women have an adequate education and training to support themselves if they are forced to fend for their own needs. A condition that did not exist a century ago. Often you would read or hear that some poor helpless widow had lost her farm or her home because she no longer had the financial protection of a husband. Many times the only recourse for a woman was to marry again as soon as possible. Many times they were successful in this solution because some widower with a large brood of children needed a wife to care for his offspring and his home.
One particular widow was not fortunate enough to be rescued in such a manner and the local banker, known to be both shrewd and heartless, was determined to take her farm. Obviously he had never heard the old adage: “He that plants thorns must never expect to gather roses.” But not to worry, the widow did lose her home but she did have the last word. As they say, he who laughs last, laughs best! An acquaintance voicing sympathy about her plight was told by the hapless widow, “Don’t worry, last thing I did was I killed the cat and threw it in the well.”
