Little Miss of Darke County: The Origins of Annie Oakley

By Gary M. Krebs

Based on the true story of an American icon

Darke County, Ohio, 1866. Young Phoebe Ann Moses lives a life of peace and harmony on a farm with her Quaker family and has dreams of living a hunter’s life in the woods.

When Jacob Moses, the beloved patriarch, tragically dies, Phoebe’s life is sent into a tailspin. The

• Language: English
• Publisher: GMK Writing and Editing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9798986173764

Book preview

Part One

Daddy

Darke County, OH,

Late October 1865-October 1866

All bloody principles and practices, we, as to our own particulars, do utterly deny, with all outward wars and strife and fightings with outward weapons, for any end or under any pretense whatsoever. And this is our testimony to the whole world.

—A Declaration from the harmless and innocent people of God, called Quakers

Chapter One

All Hands

Eighteen hands linked around the table in silent prayer with eyes closed and heads lowered. The ritual was customary, but lately, it lasted several minutes longer than usual. The cause of the additional duration went unsaid because it was well known to all seated at the supper table: The image of the unnamed child in his unmarked grave weighed heavily on their hearts.

Phoebe was always the first child to grow restless and sneak one-eyed peaks at Daddy for the official announcement that the prayer was over, and they could, at last, devour their meal. It wasn’t just due to her impatience. The girl cared about the loss just like everyone else, but she felt as if her parents were dragging out the mourning period. It seemed as if they faced one tragedy right after another and were in a constant state of prayer. Phoebe had heard all about how before she was born her parents mourned Catherine; the poor infant was not even a year old before the Lord claimed her.

What kind of life is it to spend all your time praying and mourning for people who didn’t even have a chance to be people? Shouldn’t we be living our own lives?

Jacob Moses’ hulking frame seemed gargantuan and imposing to Phoebe, despite the slouch in his seat from his beleaguered spine. His bushy hair, discordant eyebrows, and thick beard were frosted and true to his 67 years. In spite of his stature and severe features drawn ragged from years of toiling on farmland, he maintained more of a teddy than grizzly temperament with his children—especially when it came to Phoebe, for whom he seemed to have an extra soft spot.

The wait seemed interminable to the little girl, and she began to whistle a country tune. John Henry, her younger brother, giggled while struggling to keep his eyes closed. This was enough encouragement for Phoebe to whistle louder and hum the upbeat chorus. Jacob squeezed her hand tighter, shooting her a disapproving look through his half-open right eye.

This seemed to quiet her down—until a few seconds later, when she began to tap her feet. John Henry burst out laughing. Jacob sighed in defeat. His eyes popped open for the long-awaited word: Amen.

The others repeated it under their breaths in relief. The children wasted no time releasing their hands and lunging for the soda bread and serving bowls brimming with boiled potatoes and stewed greens.

While the others were focused on filling their plates, Phoebe didn’t hesitate to again disturb the silence: Daddy?

Jacob, who had begun stuffing his mouth, muttered: Mn?

When will you teach me to shoot? I want to hunt.

I want to hunt and shoot, too! John Henry bleated on his sister’s heels.

Mary Jane, the eldest sister, tapped a reprimand against her brother’s hand for having gotten involved in their sister’s nonsense.

Phoebe looked at her Daddy with anticipation. She longed for nothing more than to go out in the woods with a rifle in her arms. She’d heard about the great hunters and trappers, and even read some news stories about gunslingers shooting things up out West. It all seemed so thrilling. Though she had never held a gun or rifle before, she practiced every day with any object she could find. While she was indoors, she studied herself posing in a mirror with a broom. When she was outside, she practiced with various tree branches and sticks and aimed at her shadow.

Phoebe didn’t understand her Daddy’s reaction to her simple question. He seemed agitated by it and was gagging on his food. Jacob looked to his left to garner support from Susan, the mother of Phoebe and the brood, who was twenty-four years his junior and still a lovely sight: delicate fair features, long-flowing light brown hair, and a slender figure, despite so many childbirths. Susan’s knowing grin signaled a message of support to her husband.

Phoebe…my little Annie, he began.

She liked it when he addressed her by her middle name.

How do you know we even possess a rifle?

Phoebe was stymied by the question. She’d just assumed he had one. Didn’t everyone? Then again, she’d never seen a rifle anywhere around the farm. I guess I don’t, she replied.

"But Daddy, we do have a rifle, blabbed four-year-old John Henry. I saw you cleaning it a few weeks ago."

Phoebe lit up with excitement while her father’s head lowered in defeat. Yes, he admitted with embarrassment at having almost lied, something he would never ordinarily do. I have a rifle, and I hardly ever use it. Our faith does not approve weapons of any kind.

Then why’ve we got it? Just for cleaning? Phoebe chirped.

We only use it when there’s danger around, he grumbled, trying to focus on his dinner plate.

This answer had the reverse effect on the girl: Now, she was enraptured. Danger? Like when?

Mary Jane, fed up with her sister’s persistence, cut in: For when we need protection.

Protection? From what?

A wild animal—like a wolf, Jacob answered.

A wolf! Phoebe and John Henry gasped.

All of the other children—Hulda, two; Sara, nine; Elizabeth, eleven; Lydia, fourteen; and Mary Jane, fifteen—trembled. They hadn’t ever considered that they might be in danger of a wolf attack.

Jacob looked to his wife for assistance, but she continued eating and didn’t want any part of this. He raised his hands and overlapped his children until they simmered down. All right, all right. Let’s not fret none about wolves. We’ve lived in Darke County for some time, and I haven’t seen a single wolf. We’re perfectly safe. We have no need for weapons of any kind… As he picked up his fork, he turned sharply to Phoebe to add: "…especially guns. I served our country a long time ago in 1812 when I was a young man, and I don’t want us to have no part in any guns."

Thwarted, Phoebe sank in her chair with grave disappointment: No guns meant no hunting. And yet she could forgive her Daddy for depriving her of her basic right to bear arms because she loved him so much—more than anyone else in the world. He was a big, powerful, and honorable man, whose every fiber of being was committed to his work, his family, and his values—though it was plain that many of his beliefs had been imposed upon him by his wife. This was associated with one of the few things about him Phoebe didn’t like so much: his tendency to preach. She rightly knew a doozy of a Quaker sermon was about to leave his lips.

"We only do what we need to sustain ourselves, such as tend to our God-given land. Life, sustenance, and work are what truly matter. And tomorrow, each and every one of us must focus on our work—we have a great deal to do. We must prepare for winter. This means all hands."

While most of the children groaned at the prospect of a day of toiling at the command of their taskmaster father, Phoebe perked up at the idea. It was a chance to be outdoors, do lots of physical activity, and maybe even work right beside her father.

This also meant an escape from drudging housework and being subjected to homeschooling classes on reading, writing, history, mathematics, and Bible. Phoebe used to enjoy learning, but that ended the moment Mary Jane inherited the role from her mother. When Susan made the announcement about the transfer, she did so with the admittance that Mary Jane is twice as well-read and twice as smart as me.

At the time, Phoebe uttered what her siblings were all thinking: "She’s also twice as boring and three times as bossy."

How would you know? Mary Jane had remarked. You still haven’t learned any of your multiplication tables.

Relieved that she had a day of respite from Mary Jane and her strict ways, Phoebe watched her mother place her hand on Daddy’s hairy hand. He may have been many years senior to his wife and somewhat rough around the edges, but she clearly adored him. Jacob squeezed back.

How good it felt to be at this dinner table and to be part of this family. It all seemed complete and the way it should be, forever—in spite of the fates of her two prematurely befallen siblings.

Phoebe became mesmerized watching her father work. He could lift heavy loads with ease, handle complicated farm equipment with finesse, and break through any challenges without revealing the slightest amount of frustration. He was tireless, rarely pausing for breaks or even a breather.

Jacob was also a strong-willed supervisor and a good teacher when it came to passing along his wealth of farming knowledge. The children were content with the various roles he assigned to them, just as long as he didn’t bark out criticism. Even Phoebe dreaded the sound of his booming voice when something did not meet his standard; on those occasions, she hoped and prayed she wasn’t the one at fault. His words pounded their ears and caused embarrassment among the ranks—especially if a child was caught lazing about or goofing around. Even his well-intended protective safety warnings could cause reddened cheeks: Watch for that sharp edge!, Use your gloves—I don’t want to be pulling splinters out of your palms!, or sometimes, Hammer straight or you’ll bust up your thumb!

Even then, the children respected Jacob because he was consistent, fair, and worked harder and longer than all of them put together—except, perhaps, for their mother, who fussed inside the house all day while minding young Hulda. He made certain to inspect how his young soldiers were faring while performing their various tasks. There was nothing more meaningful to the children than when he would pass along a hard-earned compliment or lighten up for conversation, if just for a few fleeting seconds.

Phoebe was in the barn milking Pink, their prized cow, when she heard Daddy approaching. She leaned in closer to the animal to accentuate her diligence. She whistled while nimbly tugging on the animal’s teats.

How’s the old girl doing today? he asked.

She’s doing good, Daddy—'xcept for one thing.

What might that be? he asked, studying underneath the animal to assess his daughter’s progress. She looks fine to me. The bucket’s already more than half-full.

Her milk still isn’t pink, Phoebe grinned.

Jacob withheld his smile. Work was work; laughter was reserved for play. He patted the animal’s side and ruffled Phoebe’s hair. She longed for more attention when her mother appeared with Hulda in her arms.

Look, Hulda, look! Susan giggled, pointing to the cow. "This is Pink...Pink, can you moo for us?"

She’s been pretty quiet today, Phoebe reported.

Jacob kissed Hulda on the forehead before turning to his wife. Everything all right?

Yes, she answered, bouncing the child in front of the cow. I just thought Hulda needed some fresh air. And you?

We have much work left, much work, he said. We have to get all the vegetables in and mount the fence before sundown.

Could you use my help?

You already have your hands full, he dismissed.

Susan struggled to contain the fidgety child, who flailed her arms and legs toward Pink. She inched forward, figuring Hulda might simmer down if given the chance to pat the animal.

Look! Phoebe pointed. Pink is licking Hulda’s toes!

So she is! Susan chortled. Pink, you are such a sweet animal...

Phoebe and her mother laughed as the cow’s tongue flicked at Hulda’s exposed baby toes. Hulda cooed with delight. Only Jacob held out, impatient for everyone to get back to work.

Don’t you think it’s funny, Daddy?

He nodded affirmatively as he ordered, "Finish milking her. I need you and the others for much bigger tasks. All hands."

Yes, Daddy, Phoebe said, watching him hustle out of the barn.

It doesn’t matter, Pink, Phoebe whispered into the cow’s ear. We know what’s funny, don’t we. We’ll get him next time.

The morning was already half-spent when the Moses children gathered together in the garden to pick the last of the season’s offerings: cabbage, beets, turnips, parsnips, and radishes. They paraded the crop yield via wheelbarrows to a location not far from where the fence was to be installed. On reaching their father, Mary Jane, Lydia, Elizabeth, Sara, Phoebe, and John Henry—whose wheelbarrow was more of a toy than anything capable of hauling much more than a clump of radishes—deposited the vegetables on the ground. Jacob promptly set to work with his hoe, meticulously folding the vegetables into layers of hay.

Daddy, why are you planting vegetables we just picked? Phoebe asked.

This is how we preserve them, he explained. We want them to be cool but not frostbitten during winter. Fetch me that rake.

Phoebe presented the implement to her father. He began to whisk the hay back-and-forth to ensure it was evenly placed with all of the vegetables sufficiently insulated. A gust of wind caught him off-balance, and he clutched his chest. Jacob took an uncharacteristic breather while leaning on the rake. Before Phoebe could ask him if he was all right, he instructed, Tell your sisters to pick the rest of the corn so we can lay it out in the corn crib. I’ll catch up with you there.

Yes, Daddy, Phoebe said, sprinting toward her older sisters.

Phoebe passed the order along to her siblings, and the children raced to the cornfields, where they set about their work. Again they marched with their wheelbarrows, filling them up with husks of corn. Phoebe laughed at her dopey brother when his wheelbarrow hit a bump and the contents within—just four or five cornhusks—scattered. He fell behind the others to retrieve every last one.

Jacob, who had somehow managed to beat them all to the corncrib, began directing traffic while bent low inside the hut made of sticks: Come, Sara! Faster, Elizabeth!

An assembly line formed. The young women passed piles of corn to their father in waves. When it was Phoebe’s turn for the handoff, she again started up with a question. Daddy, why don’t we bury the corn in the hay with the other vegetables?

The corn needs to dry out here in the corncrib, he answered. Now, please, back to work—no more questions.

When Phoebe exited the corncrib, she noticed that not all hands were working. Little John Henry was seated upon a rock devouring an object. As she drew closer, she realized he was gnarling on raw corn.

John Henry, what the heck are you doing? You’re going to break your teeth!

You’d be right, the boy grinned, revealing a significant gap between his front teeth. I jes’ lost a couple of baby ones.

As Phoebe deliberated about whether to berate him or tell Daddy, she was distracted by the sound of a gunshot off in the distance. She spun around to pinpoint the source and direction.

Three more gunshots echoed in succession. This was more than Phoebe could bear; she had to see for herself what this was about. Jacob’s back was turned within the corncrib, which offered her the ideal opportunity to track down the origin of the sound through the cornfield.

She skipped away, her instincts leading her into a field of tall common reeds, which were several inches above her head. She plowed through them until she heard a shot close by, followed by the sound of a yapping dog. She poked her head through an opening in a bundle of reeds. Just a few yards away, she saw a hunter in a straw hat and a cigarette in his mouth take aim at flock of ducks in the sky.

The hunter’s next shot missed, but undeterred, he remained patient and firm. Three ducks soared out of a thicket; the hunter’s rifle traced after them. He pulled the trigger; the creature spiraled down—a direct hit. The hunter exhaled smoke and slapped his knee. The mutt materialized to greet his master, who commanded: Go get it, boy— now.

The animal darted through the cornfield. After a wipe of his forehead with a bandana and an adjustment of his hat, the hunter followed the dog’s path into a cornfield.

Phoebe’s eyes remained transfixed until his figure began to fold within the husks. It was only then that she heard a voice calling her name: Phoebe! Phoebe! Come on!

She stood firm, refusing to allow the hunter to escape her view. She snapped out of it when she felt a tap on the shoulder. Are you going deaf and dumb? John Henry asked. We’ve got to go. Daddy’s gettin’ plenty sore he can’t find you! He needs your help with the fence. All hands.

Okay, okay, I hear ya’, she relented.

As she trailed after her brother, her gaze remained on the spot where the hunter had stood. Did you see that hunter’s shot?

Nope.

It was downright sensational, Phoebe marveled. He plucked that duck right out of the sky.

Wow.

I’m sure I could do just as well as that hunter—if’n I was given the chance.

John Henry stopped abruptly, causing her to nearly barrel into him. She was about to rail at him when he turned and said something that took her by surprise: I bet you could, too.

Jacob plunged his shovel deep into the ground with such force Phoebe swore the earth trembled. His torso, legs, and arms repeatedly drilled downward with his back leveraged as a firm anchor.

He paused with the shovel in mid-air as he saw Phoebe and John Henry, side-by-side, skipping and whistling toward him. Phoebe braced herself for the inevitable tongue-lashing for having disappeared, but instead, he shook his head and rammed the shovel back into the ground.

Phoebe and her brother stood at attention while awaiting their orders. Their father continued his assault on the ground as Mary Jane and Elizabeth approached bearing a stake of sawed lumber. By the time they reached the area where Jacob was digging, the hole was ready. He took the wood from his daughters and thrust it in with his bare hands.

Mary Jane and Elizabeth squatted on their knees to steady the stake from the bottom while their father pounded it at the top with a hefty mallet. The wood deepened several inches with each swing.

Mary Jane and Elizabeth, meanwhile, struggled in their efforts, which didn’t go unnoticed by their father. Keep it still now! Hold tighter! Don’t let it move!

Phoebe longed to help. She was convinced she could do a better job than her sisters, even though she was several years younger and half their size. She remained silent, awaiting her turn.

Her older sisters braced themselves for the next succession of blows. They held firm until Jacob determined the wood was in far enough. The girls, wiping the dirt from their knees and shaking out their sore hands and arms, rose to their feet.

Good work, Jacob complimented them, dropping the mallet in favor of the shovel. Only another eleven to go.

Noticing that his daughters nearly collapsed on hearing his words, Jacob summoned Lydia and Sara to assist planting the next piece of wood.

Daddy, Phoebe implored, "I can do it—I want to do it."

No. You wandered off when we needed all hands, he admonished her.

But Daddy—

Her words fell on deaf ears. Jacob preferred to have his four other daughters rotate handling the difficult task eleven times over, rather than allow Phoebe to have a turn. It didn’t matter that all four sisters were sapped of their strength, and each one—except perhaps Mary Jane—would gladly have changed places with her.

The sky began to darken as the temperature plummeted. A blustering wind swept by. Jacob knew the clock was ticking and felt compelled to work even harder and faster. It all seemed daunting and insurmountable, but his unrelenting determination inspired his daughters to stay with him. By the twelfth stake, only Mary Jane was able to continue; Elizabeth, Lydia, and Sara were totally spent.

Jacob looked down at his eldest daughter on the ground, prepared to do her job. There was no way she could hold the stake well enough by herself, especially in her depleted condition. He looked around for another child, any child. His young son—who was way too young and underdeveloped for this task—was fast asleep in his wheelbarrow. Before he could scout any further, Phoebe was already under his feet and holding on to the stake opposite her sister.

Daddy, she can’t do this, Mary Jane alerted him. She’s not strong enough.

I am too, Phoebe argued, noticing that Mary Jane’s hands were bleeding from open calluses and blisters. You don’t look like you’re in such great shape, yourself.

Enough! Jacob silenced them. Both of you need to work together. This fence must get done, and we have a lot of work left. Be ready and hold it steady.

Jacob sledgehammered the mallet several times in succession. Phoebe’s hands stung from gripping the wood with her bare hands, but she refused to give in—especially since Mary Jane was able to withstand her own pain. One after the other, the mallet thundered down. Jacob seemed to be gaining strength while his daughters were losing theirs. They closed their eyes and braced themselves for each impact until, finally, the hammering ceased.

The girls opened their eyes and breathed a sigh of relief when they saw that their father had moved toward a thick roll of chicken wire. Come along now, he called to them. Help me with this here.

Phoebe and Mary Jane helped him unroll and raise the chicken wire. As they stretched out the wire, Jacob feverishly set about attaching it to the posts he had just planted in the ground. When they reached the fifth post, Susan charged out of the house to signal that it was time for the children to wash up for dinner.

Darn it, Jacob groaned; the job wasn’t nearly completed.

The girls’ wounds, bruises, filth, and obvious fatigue suddenly became a source of pride. We’re not finished yet, Mother, Phoebe implored.

You’ve had more than enough for one day, Susan countered. It’s cold and dark. You both must come inside now.

Jacob wasn’t about to argue with his wife. He knew he had pushed his daughters to the limit. Thank you both for your hard work, he said to them. Now, listen to your mother and go inside.

But Daddy—

"Now, Annie, he commanded. And don’t forget your brother."

Yes, Daddy, Mary Jane and Phoebe said in unison.

Phoebe obediently carted the wheelbarrow containing John Henry toward the house. When she reached the door after her mother and sister had already entered, she noticed that her father had resumed work on his own in the dark. She spotted him clutching his back and wincing in pain—a weakened moment that could only be exposed now that no one was looking.

Despite all her blisters, calluses, splinters, grime, exhaustion, and hunger, Phoebe couldn’t abandon her father. She shook the wheelbarrow to awaken her passenger. John Henry—get up! Dinner time!

John Henry raised his head and looked around in befuddlement.

"C’mon, get out