Recently through Ancestry I was able to contact a descendant of F. L. Warner brother whose name was Frederick L Warner. The descendant lives in Tennessee where the family has been since the mid 1800s. He send me a had written story that was transcribed by his grandmother. He does not know what magazine or newspaper it came from. I do caution that stories told to a reporter like family lore is to be taken with a grain of salt
A Visit with F. L. Warner
“He lives in a house
By the side of the road
And is a friend to man.”
A Visit
with F. L. Warner
On the state highway midway between
Tempe and Phoenix, Arizona, some distance from the west entrance of the Papago
Sahuaro National Park, one can see a sign on the south side of the Road which
reads,” Warner Heights.” Few people, as
they speed along on the concrete highway, notice the small weather-beaten house
resting on the highest of the several granite knolls, at the foot of which is
one of the most beautiful cactus forests in the surrounding country.
A winding road cut around the hills
leads up to this house. What a
delightful breeze one feels as he reaches the summit. The fresh desert air as it fills his lungs
makes him thrill within and as he looks all around at the wonderful view of the
surrounding country he can almost feel the very presences of the God who
created it all.
It was in the late afternoon of an
early autumn day that I found myself standing on the hill by the house,
catching my breath after the short climb from the previous knoll where I had
left my car. Presently the spell of the
admiration’ which the pure air and delightful breeze had cast upon me, was
broken by a soft voice, as I turned toward the door I saw an old and somewhat
feeble woman who bade me come in. “Sit
down, my boy,” she said as she motioned toward a large overstuffed leather
rocker, “and I will bring you a drink of water.”
During her short absence I became
deeply interested in the quaint and artistic furnishings of the room. The long rows of windows on two sides of the
room were draped with freshly laundered scrim curtains, and over-looked a green
wooded river bed about a mile beyond.
The walls were hung with large oil paintings which she had painted and a
bust or medallion of some noted artist filled each corner and nook. A large fern trailing up the wall by the door
waved its soft green tendrils in the sunshine.
The lady returned with a pitcher of water and was followed by her husband,
a man gray and stooped with age, but exceedingly active. After a cordial greeting he sank down in a large
tapestry upholstered arm chair. He spoke
with a broken German accent. A lively conversation was started, in the course
of which he told of some very interesting incidents which he had
encountered. “You must have had an
extremely interesting life, Mr. Warner,” I said, “will you tell me the story of
your life?”
“Oh,” he laughingly replied, “it has
been not very much. I am eighty-eight years old now and I forget so
easily some of my life, but I will tell you as much as I can. I was born in Whitehall, Louisiana, a small town on the Mississippi
River below Baton Rouge. I was named
Ferdinand. My parents had been in the
States only a few years. I spent
my early childhood on our sugar cane plantation and when I was thirteen years
old my mother took me to Heidelberg, Germany where I studied for years. One of the largest schools of Germany is now
at Heidelberg. We traveled all over
central Europe before we returned home to Louisiana where I stayed only one
year. Again I went to Germany where I
studied for two years in Tubingen University and then to Geneva, Switzerland,
where I studied French. Before returning
to America I toured Europe again and went into Egypt. How vividly I recall the trip up the Nile and
our visit to Alexandria, Cairo, and the Four Cities. From there I went across the Mediterranean
Sea to France and then to my home in America.
I spent several years helping my father with the sugar cane crops until
the Civil War broke out.
Being a southerner by birth and father
having negro slaves, I naturally went to a fight for our interests, so I became a member of the First
Regiment of Heavy Artillery, Confederate Army of America, in 1861. I was stationed at Fort Harris on the Mississippi but was
later moved to Fort
Donaldson where I helped build the water battery. It was here that I experienced my first
fighting, when General Grant came up the Cumberland River in gun-boats and
waged a twenty-three day battle. The
general in command of our fort surrendered and I with fifteen thousand other
men, was taken prisoner.
My partner and I slipped past the
guards one night and by swimming the Cumberland River we managed to escape to
Nashville, Tennessee. From there I was
sent to Island Number Ten
where we fought for two weeks when General Mc Call was forced to surrender the island with five
thousand men.
I was again taken prisoner but escaped
to Memphis with five companies of heavy artillery which broke away from the
guards. From Memphis I was ordered to Fort Pillow where I
fought until we were forced to evacuate and then I went to Vicksburg where I stayed
for four months. It was here we suffered
one of our biggest defeats when General Grant came down the Mississippi with flotillas
and General Farragut came up the river with his gunboats and bombarded
Vicksburg. On July 4, 1863 we surrendered and I was again taken
prisoner but was later exchanged, man for man, for a colonel of the Seventh Cavalry
of the Union Army.
I then went with General Forests’ cavalry to attack Fort
Pillow. The fort was being held
by negro troops under the command of white officers. As we attacked the fort the Yankees raised a
white flag of truce. All firing ceased
for a moment and as we started over the barricade to take the fort we were
fired upon. It was too late, however,
for General Forest raised a black flag which means no quarters, kill the very
last man. We did. Most of the officers fled and escaped but we
brutally massacred the negroes, the very thing they had planned to do to us by
establishing a false truce.
On April 12, 1865 General Lee
surrendered the entire Confederate Army to General Grant. There were no
telephones or radios then so it was four days later that we learned of the
surrender and ceased fighting.
Barefooted and in rags I walked to my home. I suffered greatly because my health was
broken by the strain and exposures of the war so I came to Arizona in February 1889, thirty-three years
ago.
I camped on a ranch near the Salt River about two miles
below Tempe and raised a few chickens for a living and a pastime. The west was wild at that time and the
Americans were being killed by the Apache Indians in the Upper part of the
valley. Occasionally a white man was
killed around here so I was always on the alert for the redskins. One day as I was sitting in my shack I looked
out and saw about forty Indians walking slowly about in my yard. Some naked and some wore a few clothes, but
all were armed with bows and arrows or guns.
I sat on my couch, white from fear, with my gun across my lap. For two hours I underwent indescribable
mental tortures with those naked redskins walking about me, peering in at the
windows and cracks. I knew they had come
to kill me and I had decided to kill as many of them as I could as soon as they
made a bad move. Presently they all
disappeared as suddenly as they had come, but that only frightened me the more
for I was sure they had only retreated to make a new and final attack upon
me. I waited but they did not come so I
stepped outside and the whole plot was revealed to me. They had not come to kill me, but to kill
rabbits.
I could see them spread out in a fan
shape going through the brush. As I
watched them they gradually gathered at a wooden pen where they killed their
game. They all got on their ponies and
as they came back past my shack they stopped and watered their horses in a
small irrigation ditch. I felt greatly
relieved as they rode away out of sight.
After a time of open air living my
health was restored and I
moved to Tempe where I started a grocery store, but after seven years my health
again failed and I gave up my business and came to these granite knolls to die,
twenty-three years ago. The fresh
pure air and the beautiful desert flora have aided my good wife to nurse me to
health again, so today I am as strong and healthy as anyone. In fact, I am in my second boyhood.”
As he finished his story the sun was
almost behind the blue mountains in the west.
The few rifting clouds were fading from a delicate pink to beautiful
lavender. Along the mountain tops was a
strip of golden clouds and I did not wonder, as I walked down the hill, that
such a wonderful surrounding had given him such health and happiness in his old
age.
Transcribed
by Hal Perry from a document written by Paul Parry, Oct., 1922 and originally
transcribed by hand, by Mary Warner, Sept., 1925 (then age 16).
