The Little Cemetery by the Tracks
By
Chris Kervick
My name is Elizabeth Lynch…but since my mother is also Elizabeth, people just call me Lizzie.
I was born in Warehouse Point, which is a little
village on the Connecticut River in the Town of East Windsor, Connecticut.
Both of my parents were born in Ireland but left their native country
seeking a better life in America. My
father, James Lynch was born in 1827. My
mother, Elizabeth Flynn, was born in 1836, as best as I can tell.
Sometimes, she fibs about her age.
My parents came to this area because of the job
opportunities in this town and in the new town of Windsor Locks just across the
river. There are many large tobacco
farms and new factories in the area where an immigrant can find a good paying
job. My parents also came to this
area because they were Catholic. In
many parts of America, the people did not welcome Irish immigrants, especially
Irish, Catholic immigrants. Windsor
Locks was different. The rapidly
growing Catholic population of the Town enabled it to support a full-time
priest. A new Catholic Church was
dedicated in 1852, the first one ever North of Hartford.
The Church was named after St. Mary, just like my little sister.
My parents were married at Saint Mary’s Church in Windsor Locks by
Father James Smyth on April 23, 1855.
Father did not have a steady job, but he was smart
and a hard worker. He had no
problem finding day jobs as a laborer for local farmers or businessmen.
One man that hired my father frequently was Mr. Lucius Chapman, who lived
in a mansion by the lower basin in Windsor Locks.
Shortly after my parents were married, Mother became
pregnant with her first child. Sadly,
the baby was born premature on December 4, 1855. He did not even live long enough for my parents to give him a
name or to be baptized. After my
older brother died, my parents were worried because there were no Catholic
cemeteries in Windsor Locks or East Windsor at that time.
The closest Catholic Cemetery was in Hartford but my parents did not have
the money to take him there. Since
he was not baptized, my parents didn’t know if the cemetery in Hartford would
even allow him to be buried there.
Mr. Chapman told my father about a cemetery by the
canal where many Irish people were buried while the canal was being built.
The land was owned by the Connecticut River Company, which is the company
that operated the canal. When the
railroad came to Windsor Locks in 1844, the Connecticut River Company sold most
of the cemetery to the railroad company. They
laid the railroad tracks right over the top of all those gravesites.
After that, the only part left of the cemetery was a little triangular
piece on the north bank of the lower basin, just West of the railroad tracks.
The Connecticut River Company continued to let Catholic people be buried
there, but they told Father Smyth that he better find some land for a new,
bigger Catholic cemetery pretty soon. Even
though it was loud with the trains coming by every day, the little cemetery was
still beautiful.
My father was so sad when my brother died that he
could hardly stop crying, but he put on his best suit, and walked to the home of
Mr. C. H. Dexter to ask for permission to bury his son in the little cemetery by
the tracks. Mr. Dexter was a very
important man. Not only did he
operate a large paper mill and grist mill in Windsor Locks, but he also had
recently been named President of the Connecticut River Company.
Father was so sincere and polite, and it was so close to Christmas, that
Mr. Dexter just couldn’t refuse, and my brother was buried in the little
cemetery the next day. The
following year, Mr. Chapman sold to Father Smyth a huge tract of land out on the
plains. From that point on, most
Catholic burials in Town were in St. Mary’s cemetery.
It would have been nice to have an older brother.
I used to go visit him at the little cemetery every Sunday after church.
My parents never forgot my older brother (I know
because I could see them crying every time they visited him) but they were
cheered on October 24, 1857. That’s
the day I was born. They named me
Elizabeth after my mother. My
little brother John was born next on September 24, 1860.
Then came even more exciting news. My
father and his brother, Uncle David, put their money together and bought a small
home in Warehouse Point. There was
enough land for a vegetable garden and a small house with two apartments, one
for my family and one for Uncle David, Aunt Honora, and their growing family.
That Spring they planted their first vegetable garden.
Father was so proud. He was
also very excited. As a landowner,
he was now eligible to vote, and he went right out and registered.
Democrat, of course, because that’s what all the Irish Catholics did.
By early summer, sadness had returned to our house.
My parents could tell that little Johnnie was not a healthy child.
Dr. Skinner said he had a brain disease. I can barely remember little Johnnie, because I was not quite
three when he was born and not yet four when he died, only eleven months old, on
August 31, 1861. My parents had
lost their second son.
By this time, the Catholics who died in Windsor Locks
and East Windsor were being buried in the new St. Mary’s cemetery on the
plains. Father didn’t like that
idea at all. He said, “Brothers
should stick together in life and in death.”
He was very proud that he had come to America with both his brother David
and his brother John and they all lived close to one another. He was determined that baby Johnnie was going to be buried in
the little cemetery by the tracks right next to his older brother.
Once again, Father went to see Mr. C. H. Dexter and once again, Father
convinced him to allow the burial. This
time, my father gained Mr. Dexter’s sympathy and respect by revealing a secret
that he had not yet even revealed to my mother.
My father told Mr. Dexter that he had signed up to fight in the War of
Rebellion. Mr. Dexter could not say
no to a man so brave.
My father, and his brother John, did sign up to fight
for the Union against the Confederate Rebels. Mother was angry when Father told her he had enlisted.
Father told her he would be fine.
He explained that he convinced the recruiting officer to take him in as a
Sergeant, because he could read and write both English and Irish.
The Irish was important because this was to be Connecticut’s first all
Irish brigade. He told Mother that
he had to go to look after his brother John, because, after all, “Brothers
should stick together in life and in death.”
Finally, Father explained that the Town of Windsor Locks had paid him a
“bounty” of three Hundred Dollars to join.
Mother knew that the money was needed.
She had her own little secret. She
was expecting another baby in the Spring.
It was a sad day when my father and Uncle John Lynch
went off to war. They had joined
the 9th Infantry Regiment, Connecticut’s Irish Brigade. We went with them on Mr. Chamberlain’s ferry into Windsor
Locks. He was joined by other men
as they marched down Main Street to the Railroad Station.
They left for New Haven that morning.
From New Haven, the new brigade went by railroad to Camp Chase in Lowell,
Massachusetts for training. From
there, they went to Boston where they boarded the steamship Constitution.
On November 26, 1861, they left for Mississippi.
When they arrived on December 3rd, they had not yet been
issued uniforms or guns. Nearly
half of the men had no shoes or warm coats.
For the first few days, they didn’t even have tents to sleep in.
Despite their hardships, they did not complain.
During those first few months, the men of the Connecticut’s Irish
Brigade sent home $20,000 to their families, nearly all of their pay.
It was not long before Father and his brave comrades
saw battle. The 9th
fought bravely at Biloxi, Mississippi and was the first Union Regiment to
publicly parade in the streets of New Orleans after it was assigned to defend
that city from counter-attack. In
June of 1862, the 9th sailed up the Mississippi River to Vicksburg,
where it was ordered to dig a canal, diverting river water from the main
shipping wharves in the city. There
is something about the Irish and canal digging.
The men suffered terribly during this effort.
The 9th next fought at Baton Rouge and Carrollton.
During 1863, the 9th was stationed in New Orleans, from which
point they staged many successful missions and raids including those at
Lafourche Crossing and Chattahoola Station.
Finally, in April 1864, Connecticut’s Irish Brigade
was given its first furlough, arriving to a cheering crowd in New Haven on April
15, 1864. When father returned
home, he met my baby sister Mary for the first time. She was nearly two years old, having been born on June 25,
1862. I could see the sadness in
Mother’s eyes when father told her that he had re-enlisted three months
before. But she could not object,
as she knew that the money Father sent home every month was our sole means of
support. I could see that war had
changed Father. He was not so
lively as I remembered him. He had
become seriously ill during the early months of 1863, and he was “reduced to
ranks” as a result. He was a
proud man and did not like being demoted. Watching
him leave the second time was even worse than watching him leave the first time.
Perhaps that was because I was older, and could see how frightened Mother
was.
The 9th Infantry was quickly returned to
service. They fought in Virginia at
Deep Bottom, Winchester, Fisher’s Hill, and Cedar Hill.
At Cedar Hill they suffered heavy casualties.
As a result, Father earned a second furlough and he met Mother in New
York City for a short visit in October. When
Mother returned, she told me that she too had noticed that the war had changed
Father. He was exhausted.
After one more deployment to the Deep South, where it
fought at Savannah, the 9th Connecticut Infantry, Connecticut’s
Irish Brigade, returned home for good on August 3, 1865.
Father’s return was not a moment too soon, as mother gave birth to my
little brother David on August 19, 1865. Father
was thrilled. Once again, God had
given him a son. He prayed that
this child would live a long life and carry on the proud Lynch name.
But even the arrival of David was not enough to rejuvenate my Father.
He was tired and he was sad. He
had seen too much suffering over the course of his short life.
His faith was intact, but his spirit was broken.
He died on June 17, 1866 at the age of thirty-nine years.
He was buried in the little cemetery by the tracks beside his boys.
This time, nobody had to ask Mr. Dexter for permission.
The whole Town knew that it was Father’s place.
Sadly, it soon became the place of all the Lynch males.
Little David came down with Scarlet Fever and died on March 25, 1869 at
three years and seven months. He
joined his father and brothers at the little cemetery by the tracks.
The following October, I turned twelve.
I left school and found a job at a woolen mill.
I worked ten to twelve hours a day and my hands ached so by the end of
each day. I was also afraid of the enormous loom machines in the mill.
Every morning I took the ferry to Windsor Locks and returned on the ferry
every night. Sometimes, there were
drunken men on the ferry who frightened me, but the ferryman was a nice man who
looked out for me. I hated working at the mill but I never complained.
How could I after all the suffering Mother and Father had undergone in
trying to raise their family? My
little sister Mary was now seven and still in school.
I decided that one of us must survive.
If at least one of us survived and went on to live a full life then all
of my Mother and Father’s suffering would not be in vain.
So I never quit, I got up every morning, worked as hard as I could, and
gave every penny I earned to Mother. Still,
we were barely surviving. Uncle
David still lived with his family in the apartment next door.
He had a good job in a gin distillery, but he did not make enough money
to raise two families.
On September 16, 1870, mother married a Protestant
man from Windsor Locks named Richard Griswold.
He was only twenty-eight years old and mother was nearly forty, but I
don’t think she told the truth to Mr. Griswold. I had all I could do not to laugh out loud at the wedding at
St. Mary’s Church. Father Smyth
frowned at he wrote the word “Protestant” in big black letters above Mr.
Griswold’s name in the marriage register.
He then winked at me and smiled when he entered my mother’s age as
thirty-five in the same book.
Mr. Griswold was a good man.
He wasn’t like my father, but he treated my mother well, and was kind
to Mary and me. He moved in with us
in Warehouse Point and we did our best to make a family.
He lived to a ripe old age of seventy-two before he died on May 7, 1910.
My mother lived even longer. She
died on May 23, 1916 still living in the little apartment in Warehouse Point.
Her death certificate says she was eighty, but I know otherwise.
As for me, I did not live so long.
The strain of hard work on my young body took its toll.
I felt like and old woman by the time I was seventeen.
I died on March 7, 1876 at the age of eighteen years, three months.
By this time, Mr. Chapman had purchased the land upon which sat the
little cemetery by the tracks. But
before I died, I made Mother promise that she would bury me with Father and all
my brothers. I was the last person
to be buried in the cemetery. Mr.
Griswold and Mother saved up and placed simple but beautiful stones at each of
our burial places.
The best news of all is that my little sister Mary
survived. She finished school,
married and went on to live a full and happy life.
Her life was the reward for all of my mother and father’s suffering.
That makes me happy.
There is one thing, however, that makes me sad.
After me, there were no more burials in the little cemetery by the
tracks. For a time, mother and some
of the other relatives of people buried there tried to keep the grass cut and
the bushes pruned. Eventually, it
proved to be too much work. After my mother died, there were few people left who had
loved ones buried here. Eventually,
the place was forgotten entirely. The
stones fell down and were buried or removed.
The weeds and bushes took over. Nobody
came to visit.
If it isn’t too much trouble, I would be ever so
happy if some kind people took the time to clean the place up.
Perhaps you do not think that my simple family deserves the effort, but
if you could have known my Father and my Mother and my brothers, you would have
loved them as much as I do. God
bless.
The above is a
somewhat fictionalized account of the sufferings of the Lynch family.
The Lynch family is very real and all names, dates and places are
historically accurate based on extensive research.
Speculation by the writer was inserted only when necessary to “connect
the dots” between events. The sources used in compiling the historical data are the
Land Records and Vital Records of the Towns of East Windsor and Windsor Locks;
U. S. Federal Census records of 1860, 1870 and 1880; St. Mary’s Church
Baptismal and Marriage Registers; Charles Hale 1937 Index of Connecticut
Headstone Inscriptions; Military Records of Individual Civil War Soldiers,
Historical Data Systems, Inc. Provo, UT; and
American Civil War Regiments, Regimental Histories, Historical Data Systems, Inc. Provo, Utah
Chris Kervick,
Windsor Locks, CT