Kate

Dedicated to the children of

Kate & Sam Carey

Preface

The motivation for this book stems from a newspaper article my mother discovered relating to her great-grandmother’s death in Rochester, New York, about one hundred years earlier. She shared both the article and her love of genealogy with me, and over the years, I became somewhat obsessed with the story of Kate Carey. Consequently, I felt compelled to document her story for prosperity.

No one else in the family was aware of the circumstances surrounding her death, nor even where she was buried. She left no personal effects behind, not even a photograph, just a mysterious life led and a death that was never discussed.

I began writing this book sometime around 2012 after I’d retired and found myself with (just a little bit) more time on my hands. Initially, I’d devote a few hours a month to the endeavor, mostly during the winter. As time passed, I realized that if I ever wanted to complete this project, and perhaps have it published, I’d need to devote much more time. So, those few hours a month became a few hours per week, but still only in the winter months.

More years passed, as did more relatives.

Finally, in 2019, I gave myself one more year to complete the project and publish it. I’ve learned so much along the way—about the town I grew up in, the Irish I’m related to, and the respect that these ancestors rightfully deserve.

This historical biography is mostly factual and partially speculation. It falls under the category of creative nonfiction. Every name constitutes a real person, and every date constitutes an actual event that occurred at the time and place indicated. It was written using local newspaper articles, census records, and online searches, all of which are cited in the bibliography.

Prologue

They called me Maggie.

I was born Margaret Elizabeth Leonard, but Maggie seemed like a better fit for most people right from the start. Maybe it was my auburn hair and green eyes that evoked such a lilting Irish nickname. Nevertheless, I went through much of my youth responding to the name Maggie. Or Margaret Elizabeth if either of my parents were upset with me. It was only in my adult life, after my marriage, that I became known as Kate. Kate Carey, to be more specific, which also had a nice Gaelic ring to it. Although, by that time, I was also being called a number of other, less flattering things.

The sad downward spiral of my life began shortly after my marriage to a handsome young Irishman named Samuel Carey. That’s when Maggie became Kate. My life deteriorated after our fourth child was born and I realized I had married an abusive alcoholic, or in the language of the day, a man of intemperate habits.

This is the story of where I came from, the thirty-two years I spent on this earth, and the lingering afterlife that was Kate Carey. But it’s also a story about water. Yes, water. The lakes, the oceans, and the rivers. 

Especially the rivers.

Rivers are the most fluid and dynamic of water bodies. Oceans have currents, but the water in a river is in constant motion and resides in any one location for only a brief moment.

Occasionally, where the topography dictates, rivers manifest themselves into spectacular waterfalls. Very few things in nature can compare to the power of a waterfall, where a river’s energy is on continuous display. Only in the relatively short past has man been able to divert and harness some of this power for his own benefit.

Very seldom do rivers die; they seem to be eternal. They bear witness to thousands of years of life around them and the events affected by them. You could say that rivers are the arteries and veins of the earth.

They can sustain life, but they can also take it away.

Chapter 1

Geneseo

I was born in the quiet little village of Geneseo in 1852, a town nestled in the fertile Genesee River Valley in the western part of New York State. The town’s name evolved from the name of the valley and the river that ran through it. Initially, the first settlement was called Big Tree, after the immense oak tree that stood on the banks of the river nearby. The town was subsequently renamed out of respect for the river, the valley, and its Seneca Indian heritage.

The village, as I knew it, had been in existence since 1790. The Genesee River, on the other hand, was more than twelve thousand years old and originated in a meadow in Potter County, Pennsylvania. At that point, its place of birth, it was just a small meandering brook that you could easily step across. It headed northward, downhill, to eventually empty into the Great Lake known as Ontario, 160 miles away. As it flowed north through New York, it became wider and deeper. It also tumbled over several falls until it passed Rochester and was finally calmed and diluted by the easternmost of the Great Lakes.

But where the river passed Geneseo, there was barely enough incline to keep the stream moving north, giving rise to the local term for that area as the flats. This characteristic provided the smooth, fertile land so ideal for farming, but it afforded no protection from flooding when the river would swell with heavy rain or melting snow.

As early as I could remember, I’d been fascinated with history. I never got tired of hearing adults tell stories relating to life in the past. I found it fascinating to think about how people lived and what they did before my time. My hunger for learning was seldom satisfied, and I’d ask so many questions that I must have been an annoying little girl to all but the most tolerant adults.

In school, I was taught our town’s name was an English version of Jo-nis-hi-yuh, the Seneca term for beautiful valley. Yet, I couldn’t help but notice the similarity of our white-man’s village called Geneseo with the large Seneca village called Chenussio, which had previously existed in the vicinity a century before. My teacher never did give me a satisfactory explanation for that coincidence.

There weren’t any Indians living in the town when I grew up there, only stories. Some of those stories were not so pleasant.

The Seneca had sided with the British and the Tories during the American Revolution. After the conflict was over, nearly all of them escaped westward, in fear of reprisals.

About midway through the war, General George Washington sent 3,500 troops into western New York to destroy the Seneca villages and food supplies. General John Sullivan’s troops were camped at the southern end of Conesus Lake. They knew they were within a few miles of the largest Seneca village in the area. On the night of September 12, 1779, Sullivan ordered Lieutenant Thomas Boyd to organize a scouting party consisting of twenty-three men, including Sergeant Michael Parker, to discover the village’s exact location. The following day, the scouting party was ambushed by a much larger Seneca force, and seventeen men were killed. Several escaped, but Boyd and Parker were captured and taken to Little Beard’s Town, the Seneca village they were searching for. The two captives met with a slow, agonizing death at the hands of Chief Little Beard and his warriors.

The scene of their death was just outside the Seneca village on Little Beard’s Creek, a small tributary of the Genesee River, just south of Geneseo.

Two days later, Sullivan’s army discovered the ambush site, and subsequently, the gruesome remains of Boyd and Parker in the now-empty Seneca village. The village was burned to the ground, and acres of crops were destroyed.

As I say, some of the stories were not pleasant.

That was just one of the many stories I heard from my neighbor, Mr. Silas Whitney. I would spend hours sitting on his front porch, listening to him explain who had lived in this area before we did and how the first pioneers settled the town. Sometimes he’d have a small group of us, including my friends Catherine Houston and Miranda Davis, and his son James, listening intently to his colorful history lessons. But most often, it was just James and me who sat as his captive audience. I think he enjoyed telling these tales as much as we enjoyed listening and imagining what it must have been like.

James Whitney was a year older than me and lived at 71 North Street with his parents and older brother, Charles. His father had purchased the vacant land in 1845 for just over $100 and constructed his house shortly thereafter. Mr. Silas Whitney was somewhat of an inventor and made pumps, right there in a shop behind his house. Occasionally, we’d sit on stools in his shop and listen to him as he worked, but when he was relaxed, sitting on the porch on a summer afternoon, he’d go into great detail on the history of the area.

One particular lazy summer afternoon, he must have been in the mood for a great long story of how our little village came into existence. In 1852, he began, the population of Geneseo was just under three thousand, which included newborn Maggie Leonard. He always tried to make the stories personal, so they had more meaning to us. But, as Mr. Whitney went on to say, the population, just sixty years earlier, was less than ten.

He said that it all began with the arrival of two brothers from Durham, Connecticut, James and William Wadsworth. These gentlemen, he went on to say, were indirectly responsible for my being born here as well. Their father’s cousin, Colonel Jeremiah Wadsworth, was one of the wealthiest men in Connecticut after the American Revolution. The colonel had invested with a pair of land speculators named Oliver Phelps and Nathaniel Gorham, who, in 1788, purchased more than two million acres of land in western New York from the Iroquois Confederacy. This vast tract of land was known as the Phelps and Gorham Purchase.

Now they needed land agents, Mr. Whitney explained, to personally move here, survey and improve the land, sell parcels, and promote settlement. Colonel Wadsworth himself purchased two hundred thousand acres in the new territory as an investment. To entice James and William to assist with the endeavor, he offered each of them two thousand acres of prime land at his original cost of eight cents per acre. They would be allowed to purchase additional land at a reduced rate and would receive a substantial commission for the sale of any of Jeremiah’s property. They accepted his proposal and headed west.

The two Wadsworth brothers had distinctly different personalities, functions, and responsibilities. James Wadsworth was a Yale graduate, studious, and served as the planning partner in the relationship. He had a shrewd mind for business deals and was a talented negotiator.

William Wadsworth was more down-to-earth, a working farmer, and considered himself a man with the common touch. He was a rugged, hands-on type and handled the farming aspects of the business. Together they were a highly successful team, and, as the settlement grew, they also served the community in elected supervisory positions.

During the last decade of theeighteenth century, James traveled to New York City, Philadelphia, and Boston to advertise the sale and encourage the settlement of Genesee Valley land. He even sailed to England and the Netherlands to further promote their endeavor.

Back in Geneseo, on August 28, 1797, James and William Wadsworth served as hosts for the Treaty of Big Tree. This treaty effectively extinguished all Indian claims to the land west of the Genesee River and established reservations for the Seneca in New York State.

As the area developed and more settlers arrived, the Wadsworth brothers devoted their time to farming. By 1800, they had acquired over thirty-two thousand acres of the best land. It was once said that a Wadsworth could ride his horse from Geneseo to Rochester and never leave his own land. Subsequently, most of this property was leased to tenant farmers with the option to buy. 

The Wadsworths had a great admiration for the stunning oak trees scattered throughout the valley. As they cleared the wilderness, they spared as many as they could. Even when leasing land, they required the tenants to preserve these magnificent trees.

It was during this time that western New York State became sectioned off into counties. The area encompassing Geneseo became Livingston County. With Geneseo being the largest town, and almost geographically centered within the county, it became the county seat. As such, a county courthouse and adjacent jail were built at the north end of town. Gradually the town evolved with all the necessary professions to sustain a growing community: a blacksmith, carriage maker, an innkeeper, and various merchants, along with a gristmill and a machine shop.

By 1832, the village contained two schools, five churches, two banks, a library, and about two thousand inhabitants.

Not only did the Wadsworths help build the population of Geneseo, but they did much to promote the development, enlightenment, and overall betterment of the growing community. James Wadsworth was heavily involved in establishing the first school in Geneseo. The Geneseo Academy, located on Temple Hill on the east side of the village, was erected in 1826. He personally selected a young man to serve as the schoolmaster and paid his wages himself.

Throughout my lifetime, the Wadsworth name remained synonymous with the Genesee Valley, and that legacy would continue far into the future.

The street map of the village, as I knew it, couldn’t have been simpler. It was nearly a perfect square, about a mile on each side. North Street and South Street served as their respective sides. Main Street formed the western boundary, and Temple Hill Street formed the parallel eastern side. Center Street ran east and west, bisecting the town in ........ the center. Second Street ran north and south, one block east of Main. Third Street, which later became Elm Street, was opened right around the time I was born. It also ran north and south, one block east of Second Street. It wasn’t very imaginative but it was simple and easy to understand.

This whole block of a village was set on the side of a gently sloping hill about three hundred feet above the valley floor.

Court Street extended in a westerly direction, from North Street, past the courthouse and down the hill to the river. Before you get to the flats and the river, down at the bottom of Court Street was the train station. The railroad line ran north and south at this point, and the depot and tracks were far enough uphill that they weren’t in jeopardy of getting washed away by the spring floods.

Main Street was an actual street only between North Street and South Street. Beyond those intersections, it was just a country