Harden's Shadows: Ten Generations

By D. Rob Harden

Rob Harden has the gift of passing folk lore and the resolve for life through ten generations. For over 300 years 'Harden's Shadows' share life threatening and humorous stories through the eyes and wisdom of grandparents to their children and grand children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491827697

D. Rob Harden

Rob Harden was thirteen when his father gave him a letter which read: 'You are now the man of the house'. His father died that day at a young age of thirty five. Graduating from Purdue University with a BS degree in Economics, and Ball State University with a Masters degree in Marketing. He became CEO,COO, and International Consultant. His 'Harden's Shadows' shows ten generations of gumption and the will to live.

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Harden’s Shadows

Ten Generations

D. Rob Harden

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AuthorHouse™ LLC

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2013 D. Rob Harden. All rights reserved.

Edited by Pypeline Editing, LLC

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/04/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2768-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2769-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921785

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Shadow 10: Martin Hardewyn (1650-1706)

Rotten Apples on the Seine

Martin to America Points West

Aboard the Adventure

The Voyage 1669

The Black Hole

Landing 1669

A Dutch Wedding

Who pays the Rent?

Shadow 9: Benjamin Sr. (1678-1734)

Land patent from the Crown

Languages blend for a common cause

Shadow 8: Benjamin II (1699-1764)

One Shilling and One Cow

Virginia Fall Harvest Tradition 1740s

Setting on a Stone

Shadow 7: Benjamin III (1736-1802)

Pre American Revolutionary War

Growing up in North Carolina during mid-1700s

When not fighting Indians?

When not fighting Whites?

Shadow 6: John Joseph (1753-1833)

A Little Stone Church

Over Mountain Men

Talk of War

Killed in the Cowpens?

1774 Marriage

Shadow 5: Abraham Elisha (1775-1833)

Elisha a Scout

Indian Folk Lore

Instinctive Shooting 1794

Before the Sunsets

Shadow 4: Henry (1803-1867)

A small pair of glasses

Early 1800s with the hickory stick

On Fall Creek

Indians Further West

Shadow 3: John (1836-1911)

John and Mary Harden in an Amish community.

Civil War-The Shot that Hits the Dirt

Mrs. Julia Brownlow, a Cherokee?

Dam in the Creek

White house is home

Shadow 2: Daniel Harden (1879-1947)

How can Daniel be a farmer?

Model A Lecture

The Wondering Man-Depression

Shadow I: Robert T (Bob) 1926-1961

Schools and Outhouses

A penny a bale

Road Kid-1930s

A thrown tomato

Serving Bread

Hot Coffee Bonding with Pa

The Private Medic

Deployment WWII

Author’s history of two families:

D. Robert Harden 1947 to Present

You are now the man of the house, at Thirteen.

‘Rob’ and his friends in the 1960s

300 years after the 10th Grandfather

Author’s confession

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Harden’s Shadows Chronology

Sources

These stories are situations of life from my mind’s eye, which embrace the life, conditions and experiences of their time periods.

The Hardens, like life itself, saw life’s struggles, beliefs in shadow generational spirits, laughs in distress or cries in times of doubt. Each shadow leaves its own statement of philosophy.

It meanders 300 years and ten shadow generations going back to before 1650. If the link had been broken, then where did author come from? How did he and his children get here? Or as in the life of any family, a shadow and a spirit open the door to receive a new generation.¹

Prologue

At 19-years-old, in 1669, Martin Harden sets sail to the Colonies of America. Almost 300 years later in 1963, at 16 years of age, Rob Harden crashes his car on his first date and at 17-years-old he slides his mother’s car over a bridge carrying three of his buddies. Yet, this is not why this book is being written. If this novel were for only short stories, it would not be read. If it were to establish a history of ancestors, it would soon be forgotten. The author shares the stories he heard from his grandfather and stories handed down through time with a mixture of adventure, gumption and sure enough, fabrication.

Telling a story handed down from memory leaves an impact on future generations. The author chose the Harden family as a link to his past.

Each family has a history, but most are forgotten; yet they should be shared before they are gone.² The adventures focus on family members from each generation as they begin to grow as young adults, forming a link through 10 generations. Everyone should live their life as though they are ready to die!

The author ponders why life exposed to extreme hardships, even deadly situations, are worth living. How could 10 generations be linked with each other? The adventures and accidents in this book are based on existing conditions and events at the time. The use of historical fiction, like a storybook from Grandpa, strengthens the characters and their desire to live. The reader will ponder what is real and what is not, but life goes further.

There is a realistic gift, passed down through folklore and the resolve for life.³ Can you imagine the journey back in time? Can you examine what is true, philosophical and what is Grandpa’s real story? What is the impact of Grandpa’s abilities in these times? And what was the humor in living through a hard life?

This book expresses deep thoughts and feelings through stories of each generation, a passion for living a just life, arching sometimes a gap in our pasts. Thank them, each one of them, for their passion for life or you would not be here. ⁴

Shadow 10: Martin Hardewyn (1650-1706)

Madeleine DuSauchoy (1656-1735)

Martin Hardewyn’s French Huguenots family lived through civil strife starting three generations before him in the 100 Years War in France. This left him in jeopardy. He also had to fight through, escape and jump on the ship that led him to America. Yet, even the ship’s eight week voyage had him relying on unnatural sources before his passage was complete to begin our story of 10 generations of Hardens. Felt by many genealogists, Martin was to be the first Harden landing in the new America. Yet, it had been reported that a Harden was left behind with the Lost People before the founding of Jamestown, and a sampling of other Hardens, had come from England in the 1800s.

Rotten Apples on the Seine

Honey, I’m pleased you came to America, but why? To find me? she asked, while they embraced each other in their homemade, custom, four-poster, pine bed from the lumber mill. The bedframe had dark leopard coloring still visible, offering a black outline against the white tan. They were snuggling with warm, home-sewn patch-quilt bedding, lying comfortably together in long, loose undergarments.

When we met, you were a small child in my eyes. I don’t know what happened, replied Martin. She could tell he was smiling by his new English accent in the darkness. A favorite three-inch ivory white candle sat on the chiffonier dresser with a mirror at the far end of the room where they could watch the flickering light and shadows against the knotty pine wall. Every night since their marriage, Madeleine was lying on her left side close to Martin. He was lying beside her, next to the window’s twelve square grids of filtered soft light with a draft from the cool night.

You knew what would happen if you stayed in France. Your pa knew too, she said. You were falling in love with a French Roman Catholic lady and you being a French Huguenot, whispered Madeleine, my dear, were always fighting Catholic boys."

He grew up knowing how to fight those older Catholic boys. Yet, he was told not to venture far from home and certainly not off the farm in Normandie. To the west, the region followed along a dark shoreline and continued to be seen dropping to the English Channel. This was where he loved to play, just a number of miles from home and the City of Rouen to the East. They lived near the Seine River and watched all the crafts and ships sailing up the river to Rouen, the port for Paris.

I took my licks from those boys early on for sure, but as my body grew in strength plowing the fields, cutting hay into huge stacks, tending to the flock of sheep, I learned by the hard knocks.

Nothing seemed to come easy for him. When he was fighting bigger kids, it was usually his brothers. They taught him the rough and tumble of wrestling. Those Catholic boys had never heard of wrestling Flemish style.

They would be in his face, forcing him backward, pushing until he fell, expecting him to run away. I never did! Oh, I got my butt beat a few times and with my mouth, I deserved it, he said. He would not tolerate bullies, and they knew it, which caused him a black eye or two when he would not run from the pressure.

A bully, Peter, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist showing his muscles, came forward and gave him a shove. Martin was forced, by the thrust, a few feet backward. By now he was old enough to respond, until Peter’s friend slipped behind him and went to all fours. Martin was violently forced to step back, only to fall over the kid and smash his head on the rocks. They were dying of laughter, pointing and saying, Stay down if you know what’s good for you. He did, at least until they began to walk away.

He spied a round, two-inch granite river rock and let it fly, toppling the biggest fellow to the ground. Just as he kicked gravel behind him, Martin was on the next smaller one in a flash, smashing him in the mouth.

While Martin was bleeding from his fall, the stocky kid had a lump the size of a chicken egg and the other a bloody lip. They had enough for that morning. Martin said, Visit me boys, anytime. He turned, not looking back and walked the five miles home.

It was not the last time he was attacked by two or more Catholics; it was just how he grew to be a teenager. Then it got real interesting and mean. Especially when he began looking at girls!

On the farm they would ride the wagon to town every Sunday for their Presbyterian Church service or to the market on Saturday morning when the fruit was ripe. In those days, the market was large, sometimes accompanied by a circus. Traveling shows and merchants had been coming to Rouen for the past 400 years, since 1,200 AD. Thousands of people would flock to the giant tents and traveling wagons, which were filled with merchandise from Russia, Asia and Africa and with wild animals. The locals would set up tents lining the roadways, selling fresh produce. The bigger circus acts, the three rings going at the same time, were in Paris; yet, the smaller towns got their share of clowns, fire sword acts, and the lions and elephants.

But Martin got his thrill watching the trapeze. He dreamt of flying as he watched strong men upside down catching pretty women. What got his attention were the muscles and the dexterity required to make the artistic movement. He began practicing on ropes, hanging from the farms tallest trees that overhung the river.

He would climb on a knotted rope 15 feet over the slow-moving water, swing from rope to rope climbing higher, then do a back flip into the depth below. He would complete a half gainer, a backward flip landing, or two with half flips into the air, extending his arms and legs as he sliced the river. He grew his strength pulling himself up the rope. Doing the flips gave him his dexterity. Swimming with the current gave him the opportunity to hold his breath under water for over two minutes without surfacing. His friends would try to keep him underwater, but could not hold him, as he would dive deeper. In turn, each let him go as they came up for air. Then they would search for him, thinking they had actually drowned him. He would swim letting the water carry him further downstream for 40 to 50 meters before coming up for a breath. He never tired of the game or the games on the high ropes.

Later in the summer, feeling a little brash, he walked the seven miles to the City of Rouen. He knew better, yet, as a loner he was known to do things he should never do; it was not a smart thing to do as a Protestant in a town dominated by Catholics. They had the schools, the books, the learning and even college. They had the higher paying jobs, the political offices, the sheriffs and a sizeable share of hooligans in different sectors of the city. Many gangs ran their neighborhoods with a vengeance against intruders or foreigners. Most Protestants were tolerated in businesses and many owned or rented as prosperous gentry. Yet, there was always a tension between the sectors that went back over 100 years.

He knew his wisdom was from homeschooling and the study of mathematics and science. He genuinely liked the classics—Plato and Aristotle. He also studied common law, everything from how their government should respect its citizens to how it could care for the indigent. Of interest was the question, why did the Roman Catholics and the Calvinists never seem to get along?

His thinking at the time was: if their beliefs are in Jesus and one God, then it should unite us or we should include acceptance of our differences or at least tolerances. Yet, both sides resorted to gang tactics, starting with the hooligans, run by uneducated young men looking to make terror.

If you are going to grow up in the City of Rouen, you should be prepared. He was ready to embrace them that day. He was going to walk the streets freely. He was not looking for trouble, but he was not backing down. He had an errand to deliver for his pa. He called him by name in the market, John Wesley Hardewyn, their French name. He was asked to drop off an invoice for apples to the grocer off the main street leading to Paris, Rue Rolon, near the circle ‘Eglise Sainte—Jeanne-d’Arc.

Be careful. Use only the populated areas of the street and please stay out of another fight. You’ve had three this summer.

Not my fault, he retorted.

Makes no difference these days, was John Wesley’s last comment.

Martin had a desire to walk by this lovely Catholic girl’s house, who was eyeing him at the fair; it was just off the main street a few blocks. She attended the school run by Jesuits, Lyc’ee Pierre-Corneille, which taught children of aristocracy.

In the 1650s, Martin was glad to be alive and preferred the countryside to the big city, where waves of stone fences crested over the hillsides. At times, he felt the power of the City of Rouen drawing him, much how Frenchmen felt when England controlled Paris and Rouen during these early periods of French history. Like his forefathers, when entering the city, he often questioned—how had life changed over the past two hundred years of turmoil?

Yet as teenager, Martin was thinking of more romantic thoughts. They had a few words and both seemed interested, so he would see where it went. No harm trying. He was by now a muscular 17-year-old with a strong chest and biceps. He had a small waist and firm thighs on a five-foot-nine inch frame with blue eyes and golden brown, almost blonde, hair to his shoulders. He usually wore a cap, but today dressed up with clean trousers and white linen shirt. He gave it a second thought and decided a light blue cap would look stylish.

The town was unusually busy for a Monday morning. The merchants were placing their wares in market stands, the artists were uncovering their sale items and the horsemen were looking their finest as they proceeded down the street. He was not paying too much attention to the surroundings, as an inner-smile led him past the market down several blocks to the corner where he could see the young lady’s house. It was a gingerbread bat and board house with a steeple over the front oak door.

Knocking on the solid door his mind was on their last words together at the circus.

I mentioned I might be in town on Monday, would it be fine to stop by? Her dark eyes lit up and she said, Please do. I will be home. Dad will be working. Then she added, My mother will be at the market for the morning.

That’s why he got an early start. She smiled with her eyes and asked, Would you like to come in?

I certainly would, however, it is a gorgeous day. Why don’t we sit on this bench and enjoy the sunshine. With a lump in his throat and a stutter step, he regained his composure as they sat on the small bench facing the street.

They exchanged some small talk—how have you been? What are you doing in town?

Then she probed some more, qualifying him. He was thinking, What’s an old country bumpkin doing at this gingerbread and granite stone house in an affluent district of town with a beautiful girl? Then she asked him, What have you done?

He spoke slowly and said, It’s not about what I’ve done… it’s what I’m going to do.

I have not figured that part out yet, he said jokingly. I could join the circus; I’d be pretty decent with fire swords, as a clown or the man swinging on the trapeze. That would be fun catching those lovely young ladies.

I’ll bet you would be good at it too, she said as she nudged closer.

He was beginning to feel hot; his face with a farmers tan was dark so she did not realize it, but he did. He had to get out of there while he could still think. He rose and said, It’s been a pleasure and maybe we could do it again soon?

They stood facing each other; Martin was inches from her lips.

In a whisper she said, Yes, I would like that. Maybe next Monday. Mother goes to the market every Monday morning.

He was looking directly into her dark eyes. Their lips were about to touch when, at the tree-lined street, he heard a familiar voice and a scuffle. He saw the fear in her eyes as she was facing him. It was Peter; he was bigger and wider than before, outweighing him by thirty pounds.

Martin said to her, Please excuse me. I have an important matter that will not wait and you might want to step inside your home. With that, he turned to face Peter with two hard hooligans rounding the corner.

Sometimes it was best to retreat; this was not one of those times.

Martin walked deliberately up to Peter. The move surprised him as he thought Martin would retreat. Martin was sure he had a couple guys in the back of the girl’s house, just in case he tried to run through the house. He had no intentions of running.

With that last step, Martin didn’t wait; he hit him hard in the stomach. When there are three, you need to take one out fast. Peter bent over from the pain; Martin gave him an uppercut, knocking him backwards. Martin stepped left quickly, swinging a left into the oncoming little hooligan’s jaw and impeding the other to his left. He stepped behind one, suffering from his first blow, tripping him on his back. He was down and did not move. The bigger one reached for Martin, but tripped over the one down. That was what he was waiting for; he hit him as the thickset man fell towards him. He stepped aside, as the stocky one kept moving forward, falling on the street gravel.

Martin glanced back. The gingerbread window curtain was just closing. He was not waiting to see how many were behind the house. It made him think, Did she put these guys up to it? Then he remembered he never got that first kiss.

John Wesley Hardewyn was not pleased upon his son’s return home, not even with the red-tailed deer he shot with the bow. He was near home, when down by the river, he saw this six point buck. He was careful not to spook him; he slung the bow over his shoulder and headed back down the dirt road. At the crossing, he picked up his trail, stocking closer to the deer within bow range. He hit him just below the withers, or shoulder blades, making him go down immediately. As deer were pretty much hunted out in this region, it was only his second deer kill. What was he thinking? That Pa would be pleased? After his little roust in town, he thought a small gift would help. But when his pa found out he forgot to deliver the invoice and got in a fistfight, Martin understood Pa’s feelings.

Martin thought, Sometimes I am a little slow! And now I will pay for it!

You cannot run with wolves and not become one.⁵ John Wesley was steaming. I am your father and I am afraid where you are headed. Your grandfather and his father fought because they had to, but why are you picking fights?

I think this pretty girl set me up. By the way, Pa, it was not one but three fights simultaneously. I was not looking for one, but won’t run from one either.

Well Son, you’re going to have to think this through. Those boys will never quit either. There are more of them than you and you will be watching your backside every day. I know you are like me; on more than one occasion I’ve had my back to the wall and fought my way out, wondering every minute if I would live to see this day. And now it’s passed onto you, Son. He brought up the kitchen chairs and motioned Martin to sit. Had he seen Pa do this before?

"St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre was started how? You know the facts; it was 1572. You’re great, great, great grandpa, Pierre, was only 32 and his father, Pierre, was 57. We’ve been fighting for a long time. They know about terrorism; it came from both sides. Here in the City of Rouen the following years we had outbreaks. The Protestants kicked out the officials and the Catholics captured the fortress of Saint Catherine.

Pierre was there. It took the queen of England sending troops to help us. Then French Royalist troops returned capturing the City of Rouen. Your family was in the middle. Your grandfathers even traded with the good Catholics. Remember, some people will use any excuse to build a war chest or to destroy you by death. John Wesley looked at him and noticed how much stronger Martin had grown. But was he wiser?

"You did not deliver the invoice. Some people may use our differences as a reason to kill you or me and not pay the debt. Some say the king authorized all those killings! It was political brought down to its lowest level. Hooligans are running the streets, the government has devoted Catholics in power and the Protestants are aware of the king’s financial difficulties of governing France. Your grandfathers lived through this turmoil.

Frankly, when they were your age at the time, I don’t see how they made it to become adults. You cannot be governed by two religious political parties. We Huguenots have strong defensive and political positions in key cities, yet we are not fully accepted by traditionalist Catholics.

Martin had never seen his father’s face so beet red. He thought he was going to have a heart attack. John Wesley sensed his emotional capacity was at its peak and said a vital key phrase, It’s up to the pope.

The past 100 years in the City of Rouen, while they as individuals embraced Calvinism, the Catholic Community pressured them to conform to their standards of conduct. The Reformed Church members were one-fourth to one-third of the population. Their businesses needed to be prosperous and their farms to be fruitful in growing Rouen.

Why can’t the pope and the clergy, as well as the preachers of The Reformed Church be more tolerant?

To defuse the situation Martin said, Father, I’ll take the invoice back to town and I promise to stay out of trouble.

No Son, I’ll do it. You stay on the farm until we work through this.

Pa, it’s been going on for 100 years, he announced dejectedly. I am not staying at home. I will leave.

Where will you go? England? Or to live with the Dutch? John Wesley questioned Martin. They are more tolerant. Or the Netherlands? There are many French-speaking Huguenots in the Netherlands."

I’m going to the Colonies. I’ll save my money and next year, I will board a ship and sail. I am sure they respect religious freedom.

In the year of our Lord 1669, I will set sail, stated Martin.

Son, I’m proud of you. You could go out of here with a hot head and fight to your death. Those hooligans don’t care; you cannot win the war against them. You are being smart to think this through and plan. To be successful you must plan and daily work the tasks at hand. I am telling you to write. Always write down what you want to accomplish in life and never stop dreaming.⁶

John Wesley made the statement, "I dream of the day the pope shows all Catholics to be tolerant of other faiths and for us