by James Fearn
Stranger in Dixie
The Odyssey of John Fearn Francis, Second Lieutenant, CSA
James Fearn
Copyright © 2011 by James Fearn.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011905041
ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4568-8304-1
ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4568-8303-4
ISBN: Ebook 978-1-4568-9313-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
To my great-grandfather, John Fearn—aristocrat, convict, gold miner, soldier, and hero of the American Civil War—a man of courage, adventure, and self-sacrifice.
To Bill Wannan, noted Australian author, who saw the possibility of an intriguing story in our family history.
To Alan Daley, my dear cousin, who researched the basic family history with me.
To the Sons of the Confederate Veterans whose initial doubts about the veracity of the story led them to unearth facts inaccessible to Alan and myself, and which revealed the heroism of my great-grandfather.
To my grandchildren who have provided me with an ongoing stimulus to write the story of their illustrious ancestor.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Synopsis of the Story
To my great-grandfather, John, upon whose remarkable life and times this story is based.
‘Australia and future generations should never forget the heroic nature of John Francis Fearn, a son of Australia, who went to America to build his fortune and gave his life to save others.’
‘John Francis Fearn is truly an Australian hero to be remembered.’
Sons of the Confederacy, 2010.
Chapter 1
‘Ah! T’ hell with yer and yr rotten Corn Laws!’
The sudden outburst in an unmistakably Irish brogue came from a prematurely greying man showing the marks of suffering on his face. He wore an emerald green cap and a patched blue serge jacket.
‘Y’ve no idea how we harve to live to keep the loikes o’ you in comfort, harve ya?’ His anger was obvious as he bellowed forth and punched the air with his fist.
Consternation could be seen on the moonlit faces of the men of Sheffield as Darcy Applecross of the Anti-Corn Law League tried to speak above the din of the Irishman.
‘It’s you I’m talkin’ to, yer pompous toff!’ His aggression was directed not at the speaker but at one of the corpulent, frock-coated landlords of the district. Small groups of the landed gentry were scattered here and there throughout the otherwise scruffy audience. They had come out of curiosity about the League’s agenda. Was the opposition to the proposed Corn Law amendments as strong as had been reported? Did these people think they could really influence Tory policy?
The scornful comments of one particular landlord had finally driven the Irishman to breaking point. ‘Why don’t yer give us a chance? You grow fat while our families starve. Y’re rents are keepin’ us in poverty,’ he yelled vehemently.
Shouts of approval went up as the angry crowd vented its anger. Sensing that his invective was finding its mark, the scruffy Irishman pushed his cap to the back of his head and protested even louder.
‘It’s bastards loik you who profit from our ’ard work. Yer children go t’ bed with full bellies while ours cry with ’unger!’ An aggressive murmur of assent went up from the angry crowd.
At this, the landlord could contain himself no longer. His eyes blazed with anger, and the veins in his neck stood out in stark relief as he tried to take the initiative.
‘It’s taken me years to get where I am today, and I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and watch it all crumble because of a scum like you. Why did you and the rest of your Irish trash come to this country, anyway?’ The gentry standing near him aired their approval with a restrained mumble ‘Here! Here!’
‘England can do without you lazy, filthy Irish!’ he shouted with increasing heat. ‘Go back to hell, where you came from!’ At this remark, the meeting broke up in wild confusion. Most of the crowd were with the outspoken Irishman and began to look menacingly towards the landlords, who were clustering together for protection.
Suddenly, a well-dressed youth standing nearby, similarly incensed by the landlord’s callous barbs, sprang forward like a wild beast, forcefully pushing aside those in his way. ‘You arrogant parasite!’ he yelled as he lunged at the unsuspecting freeholder.
The watching crowd roared their approval at this epithet, and a great cheer went up as a well-directed blow landed forcefully on the landlord’s flabby chin. The older man staggered back and landed heavily on the muddy grass, grasping his jaw. But his mandibular pain hurt him far less than his damaged pride.
The hero of the moment was John Oxley, the youngest son of Sir Richard and Lady Oxley, a prosperous middle-aged couple from the midland city of Sheffield, a centre famous for its fine cutlery since the seventeenth century.
A youth of volatile temperament, John struggled to calm himself despite the fact that his righteous indignation had been satisfied for the moment.
‘Are you so selfish that you have no compassion for these people?’ he asked in more measured tones. ‘Why do you insult them?’
John Oxley was beginning to feel that justice, rough as it was, had been done when at that moment he felt a large hand grip the collar of his jacket from behind.
‘Incitin’ t’ riot I calls it. Come on young fella, m’lad. Y’re comin’ with me to the station,’ said a stern-faced policeman.
Constable Cartwright, well-known to Sir Richard Oxley, J. P., released his grip somewhat embarrassed when he realised the identity of the offender. ‘Good grief! It’s young Oxley, isn’t it? What are you doin’ in this melee?’
Unlike his brother, George, and his sister, Eliza, John was an adventurous soul unwilling to conform to the expected family norms. The last of the offspring of an increasingly busy executive in the family firm, John had received less of his father’s attention and guidance in his formative years than had his siblings. His flamboyant and, at times, headstrong manner was as attractive to his friends as it was disturbing to his conservative father.
Lady Oxley, on the other hand, had always had a soft spot for John, and her feelings for him often clouded her judgement. She was a lady of considerable intellect and breeding, well-read, and thoughtful. She cared little for bridge parties and needlepoint but was a great asset to Sir Richard as hostess at the frequent dinner parties that she arranged in support of her husband’s business interests, although he would not readily admit it.
From his earliest days, John could remember the interesting dinner party conversations and debates on business, politics, and religion that took place in his home. He was intensely proud of his mother, particularly when she challenged the conservative views of some of his father’s friends. Sir Richard would finger his collar awkwardly when his wife seemingly displayed a greate
r knowledge of a subject than did his guests. But John loved it when they squirmed with embarrassment. He learnt from his mother that an argument is not necessarily logical because it is presented in a loud, authoritative tone. In later years, John was to acknowledge his mother’s influence upon his considerable debating skill.
By the time Constable Cartwright had collected his wits, the enormity of John’s misdemeanour had diminished somewhat in his mind. With as stern a look as he could summon, he gave the young offender a lecture on respect for his elders and the virtue of peacemaking.
In an unusually chastened manner, John apologised for his folly and assured the relieved constable that he would show more restraint in such situations in future.
It was not until the next morning that Sir Richard and Lady Oxley heard the news of their youngest son’s outburst. They appeared concerned as they strolled leisurely through the rose garden pondering John’s latest escapade.
‘He’s going to land himself in really hot water one day. Mark my words! He’s far too headstrong for his own good. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a dozen times to think before he acts. You wait and see. He’ll drag the family name through the mud if he doesn’t mend his ways soon,’ complained Sir Richard. ‘Last night’s mischief was just the last straw. I’ll have to take sterner action with him.’
The heavy scent of American beauty roses perfumed the air near the door of the conservatory as Sir Richard held it open for his wife to enter. She spoke gently to her agitated husband, ‘Don’t be too hard on the boy, my dear. He’s a lad of vision and courage. I’m sure he inherited those qualities from you. Don’t try to stamp them out of him. He’s not the ne’er-do-well you seem to think he is. There might be more to last night’s events than you imagine, Richard.’
Sir Richard was quite used to John’s more exuberant behaviour, but last night’s brawl raised the prospect of a minor scandal; not the kind of publicity he wanted his name to be linked to. Born into a highly respected industrial family in the English midlands, educated as a young business executive, and engaged to be married to Charlotte Hedley, the daughter of one of Sheffield’s most influential businessmen, John Francis Oxley would surely have the world at his feet.
John cut a striking figure in his beautifully tailored coat and matching cravat while a shock of auburn hair and mischievous blue eyes gave him the air of an adventurer. The large gold signet ring embossed with the image of a white stag, which he wore ostentatiously on the fourth finger of his right hand suggested a young man of significant social standing. But there were traits in this eighteen-year-old character and social and political influences in his native land, which were to propel him to undreamt of worlds of opportunity and tragedy.
The 1840s had produced hard times for the people of Sheffield as it had in all of Britain. Increasing unemployment, poor crops, and rising food prices all contributed to an instability, which was slowly but surely eroding the spirit of this respectable community. Many of the young men of the district were showing very obvious signs of frustration and seemed prepared to give vent to it in any wild scheme. But John’s adventurous personality had by now matured somewhat beyond the level of the practical joke and the provocative display. There was usually a political motive to his daring, as there had been on the previous evening.
It was later that night when John’s father summoned him into the study of the stately Georgian home that stood on the outskirts of Sheffield. The house had been built by John’s great-grandfather and was exquisitely ornamented with English Worcester porcelain and landscapes of the Yorkshire countryside.
Dominating the wall of the beautifully carved staircase was a stunning portrait of this patriarch glaring ferociously from behind a large greying beard and generous sideburns.
The children of Sir Richard and Lady Oxley held their illustrious ancestor in awe, and from their earliest days, had wondered how anybody could possibly have merited such a colossal portrait. Their father had told them of the exploits of their grandfather, of the old man’s establishment of the family firm, of his earlier prowess in the Royal Navy, and subsequent voyages of discovery in the South Pacific. As a special treat, Father would show the boys their forebear’s naval uniform and decorations, which were revered among the family treasures. As a reward for work well done they were sometimes allowed to wear the elaborately embroidered Captain’s peaked cap.
Intriguingly, the memories of one’s childhood seem to lie just below the surface of consciousness, waiting to emerge when triggered by some unexpected event. The apprehension of the first day at school, the stomach ache from the green apples stolen from the neighbour’s orchard, and old Uncle Fred’s whiskery kisses; they were all there, memories of the past ready to pop up like so many submerged corks.
John remembered vividly the make-believe ship the children created occasionally from the drawing room furniture. Standing on top of the table dressed as Captain Oxley, resplendent in great-grandfather’s peaked cap, John would command the great vessel on a voyage of discovery across the seas. On one occasion, miscalculating the slipperiness of the poop deck, the would-be captain lost his footing and fell ‘overboard’. From that day, the small scar on John’s head had been a vivid reminder of his childhood ignominy.
A tradition of achievement and leadership had been instilled into the Oxley children from their earliest days, and they were constantly confronted with the expectations associated with it. But George and John could not have reacted more differently to these influences and John’s recalcitrant behaviour was beginning more and more to create tensions between him and his father.
‘What’s this I hear about the affair with the police last night?’ growled Sir Richard, a portly gentleman attired in a richly embroidered silk smoking jacket. He looked disapprovingly at his younger son. ‘How on earth did you get yourself arrested?’ he asked, frowning at the miscreant.
‘No, Father, I was not arrested; only cautioned. But I’ll do it again, if necessary,’ said John with conviction. It was obvious to the perplexed father that his son’s sense of justice had been grossly offended by the incident, whatever it was.
‘Well, what happened? What’s at the bottom of these protests you get involved in? Why are you so troubled?’ His father’s tone reflected a blend of impatience and judgement. John seized the opportunity to speak his mind.
‘Well’, he began. ‘Did you read what the Prime Minister had to say in the House last week? He was arguing that the Corn Laws are doing more harm than good in this modern industrial age, and I think he was right. When Britain restricts imports, our country is making it harder for us to export our products. International trade is going to be the economic salvation of Britain, and we must develop it, not restrict it.’
‘But, my boy, how is this nation going to feed itself in time of war if we start relying on cheap corn from other countries now?’ challenged Sir Richard, his bushy eyebrows raised in readiness for verbal battle with his son’s presumed naivety. ‘Our farmers simply won’t be able to compete and the industry will die,’ he added.
‘Father, other people won’t buy British produce if we won’t buy their corn. There’s surely a need for some compromise,’ appealed John with growing exasperation. ‘Think of the benefits to our own industry, for example, if we can freely export to the whole world.’
Suddenly, John’s tone of voice changed. A pensive sadness seemed to soften his words. ‘But have you ever thought what the Corn Laws are doing to the poor, Father?’ queried John. ‘When there’s little competition in this country the price of flour goes up and so does the rents of the poor. These people are repressed by these restrictions on food imports. Driven into economic slavery! That’s what the Prime Minister was getting at, and I respect him for it.’
Sir Richard was obviously wrestling with his conscience as he rose and moved slowly towards the French window. Turning to face his son, he poked the air with the stem of his reeking pipe
to emphasise his words.
‘Look, John, your idealism is praiseworthy, but it must be tempered with realism. You can’t change the practice of centuries overnight. The Corn Laws have been with us since the Middle Ages. They’re an institution in this country.’
‘But, Father, I can’t stand by and do nothing when these people are suffering so horribly,’ retorted John with impatience. ‘Wasn’t it you who taught me that evil triumphs when good men keep silent?’
Sir Richard was unnerved to hear his words coming back at him from the lips of his own son. ‘I believe it’s immoral that the poor should starve while those of us with land and capital continue in our lavish lifestyles.’ John lowered his voice and continued philosophically.
‘Sometimes, I feel guilty myself, Father, at the way we Oxleys live. We can buy a full stomach without giving it a thought. But there are families even here in Sheffield who have never known what that means—children who have never enjoyed three meals a day and infants so thin and gaunt that you wonder how the poor devils could survive the winter.’
John folded his arms and stared at the ceiling as if he was seeing again the street urchins who looked up at him so pathetically the other day as he drove along Marlborough Street in the family landau. He lowered his eyes and looked at his father. ‘There were others on the street with consumptive coughs and skin infections caused by malnutrition,’ he added, holding his father with a piercing gaze.
‘And no one seems to care in the slightest if they die. Too bad they were born in poverty! That’s how life is! As in nature, so in society! The weak go to the wall! God endows some and deprives others. Weird sense of justice, if you ask me!’
At that moment, John’s sister, Eliza, a young woman in her early twenties appeared at the door of the study. Both men turned affectionately towards her. Well educated and charming, Sir Richard’s daughter usually busied herself in charitable interests with a fervour that reflected more than the usual motives of the young socialites of Sheffield.
