Tazewell County IL Archives Biographies.....Pomfret, Michael Emmett June 29, 1832 - December 20, 1888 ************************************************ Copyright. All rights reserved. http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm http://www.usgwarchives.net/il/ilfiles.htm ************************************************ File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by: Norma Hayden orderit101@yahoo.com March 3, 2009, 10:34 pm Author: Michael Emmett Pomfret S K E T C H By Michael Pomfret Edited by Henrietta Pomfret Anderson PREFACE Many times in the flying years since my dear father passed out of sight, “Around the bend in the River of Life”, that brought him in sight of the “House not made with hands,” I have purposed to write these lines of affection of him who was both father and mother to his four daughters for a decade after mother’s death. Half a century has gone by, and still I find my inability inadequate to do him justice. And since my children’s children’s children are here to remind me, my time is short, I will at least try to tell of the loving, wise, tender yet firm ways he had which his own words will not even hint. Such rare love and devotion to his motherless girls, from the baby to the eldest, was seldom equaled and never exceeded by any man. But to the few remaining folk who were fortunate enough to have known him as pastor, teacher, friend, or neighbor, the value of his little volume, will be the self-written sketch of his life, written in those last crucial but triumphant month of his early existence. In this volume I include a few tributes in verse by myself and others. Father selected the Scriptures and text and hymns for his funeral three weeks before his death. The hymns were “My latest sun is sinking fast—“, “My Jesus I love Thee”, and “Redeemed, how I love to proclaim it.” And the text was “By grace are ye saved it is the gift of God, Not of works, lest any man should boast.” And for fifty-two successive “Decoration Days” have the flowers and the Flag been placed on his grave by his children and grandchildren. It is my prayer that someone’s faith may be strengthened, in these days of failing faith by this sketch. Henrietta Pomfret Anderson I, Michael Emmett Pomfret, was born in Preston, Lancashire, England, June 29, 1832. When I was a few months old, my parents moved to a farm about a mile from town, where we lived until I was about nine years old. The farm was in the river Ribble bottom, and subject to overflow, which took place eight of the nine years we were there, and we four boys enjoyed sailing about the back kitchen in an inverted large table as a boat. After leaving the farm we moved back to Preston, and kept a grocery store. Father also had interest in a cheese factory, at Manchester, I think. Father’s health failed, and in March 1843, he died. Just a week before he died, sister Margaret died after a few days illness. She was twenty one years old – the eldest. They both died in faith. Father had long been Primitive Methodist local preacher and class leader and he is still remembered with reverence and affection by the few who knew him, and survive him. After Father’s death, I was in poor health—supposed to be consumptive, and mother took me to Uncle Joseph Willey’s at Seacomb opposite Liverpool, for the sake of the sea air. Change of scene and air benefitted me greatly, and I returned at the end of a month much improved. We saw hard times. There was no income except a small sum each week from brother James’ work (Painting carriages on the railroad) and a trifle Mother earned teaching a few private pupils. So she borrowed some money from cousin James Toulamin, and we came to this country—America, landing at Boston, May 31st, 1844. The next day, a company of us visited Bunker Hill. Somehow I felt as if I were an American from the day I landed. We went to Lowell, Mass., to a friend we had known in England. The older boys soon found work and we lived comfortable. I attended the grammar school from June to December, which was the last schooling I received. In December, 1844, we moved to Perkinsville, about three miles from Exeter, N.H. where mother kept boarding house for girls that worked in the mill. Brother James was Wesleyan preacher at Exeter, N.H. The next September, we moved to Bullock’s facoty (sic) in Holden, Mass., where I began work as a “tearer” in the printing room of the factory. My work was to spread the colors on the tubs in which the printers dipped their “blocks” with which they “printed” the cotton carpets that were woven in the factory. The business failed, and we moved to another village half mile away called Brick City. There I learned to weave. In the fall of that year, 1846, we moved to Smith’s factory village near Barry, Mass., and I went to work as spare hand in the carding room of the factory. My work was to sweep the room, and keep things tidy, take off the full bobbins to the spinning room, and bring back the empty ones; and when any hand was sick or absent, to take their place. It was a dreary life to me. In summer we worked from five A.M., to eight, P.M., with three half-hour intermissions for breakfast, dinner, and supper. In winter we began to daybreak, and ran to eight at night, and the mill clock was kept so slow that we would hear the town clock strike nine, on the way home. Our only relief was Sunday, and this to Mother’s grief, we usually spent rambling over the fields, hunting with the dogs. I think I was at Church only once during the year and a half we lived there. In the spring of 1848 we moved to New Worcester, Mass., and brother Will and I began work in a Mr. Coe’s wrench shop. I liked the work, and life passed pleasantly. Our Sunday hunting habits were continued for awhile, but finally we began to attend Church in Worcester City, going from one Church to another, as the notion took us, varied by a relapse into our hunting ways. In the spring of 1850, a new preacher was sent to Cherry Valley, a village about two miles above us, and he opened services in our village, preaching alternate Sabbath afternoons. He organized the few Methodists of the place into a class. Cousin John Toulamin and wife, mother, a converted Roman Catholic and his wife, and one of the blacksmiths of Coe’s shop, and his wife, consituted (sic) the class. Soon Sister Ann joined, then brother Will, and sister Sarah. Thus I was brought into contact with personal religion more closely. I had meantime become a member of the Sunday school at Cherry Valley. And now came the turning point of my life. There was an evil influence abroad in the village where we lived, to which I was quite susceptible. Lewdness was quite too common among the young men, and there were many devices for dragging them down, chief of which was the dissemination of obscene books and pictures. I was yielding to the influence and in speech was perhaps the most corrupt of any young man there. But the lord saved me just in time. I shall praise him forever for the influence of the Holy Spirit which strove with me nightly. It came about this way. About the third Sunday in June 1850, I had been strolling in the woods after the afternoon service in a wild reckless mood; and as I returned home about sundown, I saw sister Sarah, and cousin Will Toulamin conversing together. Instantly I had a joke to crack on them, and walking up to them, when within a few feet of them Sarah turned and said “Brother, won’t you go to Heaven with us?” It was as if I had been seized by the throat. I did not speak, but whirled about and went in the house and sat down. I retired at the usual time but not to sleep. All the night that question was before me. The next day at the shop. And through that night the question was ever coming up. The same way Tuesday and Tuesday night. Sometime Wendesday (sic) the decision was reached and I said to God, “Lord, I give up.” It was pressed on my mind that this was my last opportunity (sic). How I have praised the Lord since, for that decision. For three months I was simply decided to live for God. But I had not received the witness of the Spirit, until attending a camp meeting at East Brookfield in September. I rested my case on Jesus, and the joy of the Holy Spirit was given me. “Tongue can never express, the joy and the peace that came to me then.” Our class increased, so that we soon numbered about party (sic), and all seemed to feel they had a special mission to save others. Sister Sarah did not know for more than thirty years, the part she had in my conversion. Here let me give the case of a young man with whom I had been very intimate. He was of Roman Catholic parentage, Irish, but he had begun to attend our prayer and class meetings and soon became interested in his own salvation. While at the Brookfield camp meeting, he sought the Lord, and seemed blessedly converted. On returning home, it soon was noised abroad. His relatives were gathered together to sin him back to the Catholic fold. His male relatives threatened, his mother wept and besought him, and finally he yielded to their solicitations and gave up his new found hope. He shunned me ever after, and I think soon left the place. I do not think he could ever be a loyal Catholic afterward. I soon began to think about preaching and three of us, used to meet together to exercise our gifts before each other. Two of them have been for many years, members of the New England Conference: Rev. Wm. J. Pomfret, now (1888) of West Quincy, Mass., and Rev. Wm B. Toulamin of Natick. We soon separated. I came to Illinois with the balance of the family, to Mackinaw, Tazewell Co., where we lived one year on a farm. We were six miles from store, Post Office, and Church. Mackinaw, being the nearest point to each, we usually went to two Saturday afternoons and to meetings on Sundays. Once a month on Thursday Afternoons. The Circuit was large, and our preacher got around once in two weeks by preaching through the week. Here I first became acquainted with the Campbellites, and soon found that their chief mark of godliness, was a readiness to dispute as to the mode of baptism. Reading the “Millinial Harbing”, a publication by Alexander Campbell, and comparing its new version of baptism, which it invariably translated “immersion” with the “Acts of the Apostles” as to the “baptism of the Holy Ghost” satisfied me that the baptism which Jesus performed was always by outpouring So ended my controversy with them on baptism. The year (1850) was exceedingly wet – no crops to speak of, and brother Joseph was to give up the farm, which he had bought on credit, and rent one on Little Mackinaw, where Johnson Myers now lives. Here we stayed several years, and in the fall of 1852 , Uncle William McKay, and Aunt Betsey, and Uncle Nathan Henshaw and Aunt Ann came out to us. I had been having a severe siege of ague, and they said I looked like a ghost. Brother Joseph moved that year to Mackinaw to work at bootmaking, also did William McKay. I continued to farm the place to no profit until 1856, when I gave it up. In the spring of 1854 your Uncle Nathan moved to Bloomington to work at his carpenter trade and I worked there through the spring, hauling wood to the railroad which had just been opened through Bloomington to Alton. In the fall of that year I went to work at Howell’s mill where I worked until his death in 1888. Uncle Nathan’s came to live with us in 1856, and stayed until he bought a place at Hopedale – now a part of the Myrt Smith farm. I gave up the farm in 1856, brother Champ C. Boling (sister Sarah’s husband) having run it the last two years. In the fall of that year, my mind was again drawn to preaching. I had often thought of it when I was in some measure alive for the Lord, but said nothing about it, and did nothing. I remember Mother’s startling me one Sunday afternoon by saying “Michael, don’t you think it is your duty to preach?” I did not like to talk about it and so said as little as possible. But I had been gradually losing my love for Christ, until I was almost ready to seek for happiness in the “beggarly elements off the world.” I was miserable, and could not sleep of nights, without knowing why. At this point I came across a piece in the National Magazine entitled “I located”, being an account of the death in despair of a man who had left the ministry for a business, and was financially a failure. I felt that this spoke to me, and that night I promised the Lord that as He opened the way, I would go forward I was soon appointed class leader; then, without my consent, I was licensed to exhort. In the fall, four of us agreed to hold prayer meetings from house to house. We had not had a prayer or class meeting for a long time. At one of our meetings Stephen Staples was so overcome, that he fell on the floor and lay motionless for sometime. When he came to, he shouted. At our next meeting the house was crowded; and at the class meeting the next Sabbath, one was seeking the Lord. The local preacher concluded it was time to hold a meeting, and one was begun right away. I think we had four “seekers”, but they could not find peace. One night after meeting, Bro.John Staples, a local preacher, invited four of us to his house to talk matters over, and see what the trouble was. We went, had a prayer meeting. Stephen got happy and fell over, and John Staples also got filled and shouted. I think none of the rest felt any unusual emotion. Uncle Nathan and I started home, having about three miles to walk, and just as we were in Prairie Creek bottom, about where Tom Pippin now lives there came upon me such a rush of emotion, that I shouted till the woods rang. Every little while, all the way home, I boiled over. It was the first time in my life I had ever shouted. The next day I was still full of joy, but I could contain myself. As I went to meeting that night Steve Staples told me when within a mile of the schoolhouse – old Shiloh – that I had to preach that night, that he had heard the preacher say so. Sure enough, when I stepped inside the schoolhouse Bro. John Staples told me I had to preach, as they were worn out with the labor of the week. I remembered my promise to God, and “went forward.” My text was “What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul.” One professed to be converted through the sermon. The meetings went on until about thirty professed conversion. Among these was Israel Sands, Martha McDowell, E.R. McDowell, Joseph McDowell, and Miles Hodson. We had some peculiar scenes and experiences. One night the circuit preacher came to me and said he wished I would find out who was making the disturbance in the northwest corner of the house, as “he would prosecute them.” I went on the disagreeable business. They were engaged in prayer and every head was bowed. I moved quietly in the direction of the noise, which was like some one beating a tattoo, or “long roll” on an empty barrel. I could see no movement, so I placed my hand on one and then another, until I found one trembling violently all over, and his heels drumming ton the floor. I said “Friend, what is the matter?” He said, “I don’t know.” I told him he was under conviction, and he would better go forward. He would not that night, but the next night he went and sought in an agony of prayer and swooned away. When he came to, he shouted and then swooned away again. We had other similar cases. After the meetings closed I made my second attempt at preaching. The house was full as it had been noised abroad that I was to preach that night though no public announcement had been made. I began, talked about ten minutes, choked up, and sat down, much mortified, and satisfied that I could not preach. In May of that year, 1857, our quarterly conference was held, and I was recommended for license to preach. I strongly objected, urging my trials and failure. When I sat down, Bro. J. H. Floyd, rose and said, “Brethern, I was present when Bro. Pomfret made his failure, and as far as he went, Bishop Janes could not have done better. They voted me licensee, signed by John Luccock, presiding Elder, and A. Price. Preacher in charges, my preaching places Mackinaw, Mosquito Grove and Shiloh. I judge I made rather a poor out at it. I talked quite rapidly, and was somewhat inclined to doctrinal and controversial subjects. In the summer of this year, I began to pay attention to her who afterward became my wife. I met with but poor success at first, my offer of marriage being rejected; but afterward, seeing more favorable signs, I renewed my offer and was accepted. We were married October 20, 1858, by Rev. David Van Deventer, a Cumberland Presbyterian minister, at Grandma McDowells. We had our “Infair”, at sister Sarah Bolings. I had to borrow a buggy that morning, as the boys who “shivareed” us the night of our wedding, had carried off one of the wheels of the buggy I had hired. They returned it in about a week. We lived with grandma about a month, and then went to housekeeping on a humble scale at the mill where I had worked so many years. I still worked there when there was anything to do. Timber was scarce, also water, so there was little done that year. During the winter, the owner of the mill died, and the next spring it was put up for sale. I bought it, and thereby “got an elephant on my hands as I had no team or any capital. Logs did not come in, and I had nothing to saw. It took all my bounty and pay while in the army to pay for that mill! After we had been married a few days I received a call to go as junior preacher on the Delavan circuit. I mentioned it to your mother, and she was quite unwilling, so I did not go. I failed to keep my promise to the Lord, that as fast as He opened the way I would go forward. I would have been saved from my mill trouble if I had gone. The way of duty is the safe way. I taught school at Shiloh the winters of ’58 and ’59, and worked by the day as I got the chance, when not running the mill. Occasionally a few logs came in. In the summer of 1860 I cut the logs and sawed them for our house. We sold two acres of land (to get the doors and windows, and flooring, and shingles for the house) to George McCormick. We moved into it in the spring of ’61, the day Abraham Lincoln was elected President. On November 11th 1860, our first child was born. We were living with our brother-in-law, M.H. Hodson, and I put in my spare time building the house. I farmed a little the next year with a borrowed horse. We had one cow – your mother’s. The next fall we sold some timber land, and traded for the 14 A. north of the house. We got a horse – old Jule – thereby, and I got another horse – Dinah – and so had a pretty good team. Slowly we got along, gaining a little each year. In the summer of 1862 the quarterly conference gave me a recommendation to the annual conference to go out as a traveling preacher. Before the session of Conference, I enlisted in Company A 108, Illinois Infantry; I was afterward transferred to Company K. Thus a second time I failed to go as the Lord opened the way. We were sworn in at Tremont August 14, 1862; and mustered in at Camp Peoria August 28th. We drilled awhile at Peoria, and left there October 6th for Covington, Ky. At Peoria, I caught a bad cold, the night before we left, which finally developed into bronchitis, from which I have suffered more or less ever since. It slowly worked on. We visited in succession, Crittenden, Falmouth, Cynthiana, Paris, Lexington, Nicholasville, Frankfort, Shelbyville, Harrodsburg, and Louisville, resting usually a few days, and then marching on to the next point. At Cynthiana we left two of our company sick – one a son of James Smith – uncle to Nat, Henry, Tom, and Myrt. They both died, being the first deaths in our company. At Nicholasville occurred the first death with the company. Thomas McQueen, who boasted with an oath at breakfast that they couldn’t kill him.. In a few hours he was unconscious, and died about 30 hours from the time he was taken. We expected to go into winter quarters here, and so fixed up snugly, and were just congratulating ourselves on what a nice time we should have, when we heard an officer say, in passing our tent, “We have orders to march at 3 A.M.”. Sure enough a 3 o’clock, we were waiting in line, to march at the word of command, which came after about two hours waiting in the cold – in November. Several incidents occurred in our march worthy of note. On Friday, Oct. 26, while we were in camp at Cynthiana, snow fell six inches deep. This settled some on Saturday; we marched twenty three miles in the slush to Paris, we were soaked and plastered to our waists. We camped in a sugar orchard, where the snow was still on. We pitched our tents in the snow, and started out to find fuel and bedding. We soon had a blazing fire of fence rails. Some of us carried hay from a stack about a half mile away, until it was eighteen inches deep in our tent. Waiting for supper, and lying in the door of the tent, I heard some one say “Look out, or I’ll shoot you,” and I saw one of our company who had left the ranks at Paris and filled himself with Bourbon whiskey, holding a revolver across his left arm. The pistol went off and shot Thomas Williamson, who was a little behind the drunken man, (Albert Whitaker) and off to his left, fell backwards and said “I’m shot, I’m shot.” We ran to him, and found the ball had struck him in the center of the throat passed around his windpipe, but the doctors could not find it. When we left him the next morning he eyes were swollen shut, and not a feature of his face was visible. We never expected to see him again, but in about six weeks, he came to us at Memphis, disabled in his left shoulder, from where he was discharged. Whitaker was put under arrest, but after a few days imprisonment, was restored to ranks. He died the next winter, at Milliken’s Bend, above Vicksburg. The most healthy looking men of our company were about the first to succumb to disease. As we were leaving Lexington for Nicholasville, I got my first letters from home. I was sick and despondent. The other boys had letters several days before. I was barely able to march, but when Chaplain Gue handed my three letters marked “Hopedale” – two from our mother, and one from my grandmother Pomfret, it put new life in me and I marched along comfortably that day. On the third day of this march, the Lieutenant called for volunteers for rear guard and said that those who volunteered would have no other duty to do that day. As that would relieve us from camp or picket duty in the night, a number of us volunteered. We did not know anything of the duties of rear guard, but soon found we had to deep the men from straggling, so that we had to visit every house on each side of the road, and if any had straggled, bring them back to the ranks. We had to carry their guns and accoutrement, and help them to the wagon train, if any of them gave out. The regiment marched 23 miles that day, and the rear guard did not get into camp until three hours after the Regiment, thoroughly tired out. We found tents pitched and supper not quite ready. We threw ourselves down in the tent, congratulating ourselves on having a good nights rest before us, when the order came “Every man not on duty, must go out on picket.” In vain we pleaded the bargain of the morning, exempting us from other duty. We had to go. We were camped by the house of an avowed Southern sympathizer. He came to our Colonel and asked for a guard for his property. As we went out after supper, to our picket duty, passing his house, our Captain was hailed by the Captain commanding the guard over his property. He was angry at being set at that business. He said he had a great mind to hand his sword to the Colonel, and tell him he might arrest him, as he “did not come South to guard rebel property.” Our Captain and he stepped aside and talked a few minutes. We noticed as we stood in front of the yard, that there were perhaps 25 bee stands, and over in an adjoining lot a number of calves and sheep. We went on to our picket station, a mile or so out, out in a cornfield, behind a stone wall. We found the corn shocked, and we took the shock fodder and leaned it against the wall, making a low shed, under which we slept until our turn came to go on guard. It was a cold night and we were not allowed to have any fire. My turn came about 10 o’clock. I was stationed over in the next field, about a quarter of a mile away, behind a big oak tree, to stand there till anyone came; to halt them and if they did not stop, to shoot, and then take care of myself as best I could. I could not help thinking “What if a troop of Morgan’s men who were said to be in that region should make a dash in that road what could I do? However I should have challenged them and fired and then run and taken my chances. However, no one came and at one o’clock I was relieved. I was thoroughly chilled; when I returned to the picket station, I found the fodder-shed we had made was filled up, and I could not get in, so I laid me down on the frozen ground, with a single blanket around me, and shivered it out till daylight. When we returned to camp, passing the guarded house, we noticed one bee stand remained and the skins of calves and sheep were lying around the lot. We inquired how this was done and learned that the orders given the guard were to let no one pass the line. The letter of the order was strictly obeyed, but those not on guard on the inside passed the things to the boys on the outside. When we got into camp, we found fresh meat and honey plentiful. I failed more in health after that night’s exposure, and became very feeble so that I could scarcely do any duty at all; but as I would not go to the hospital, the officer could not excuse me. I had a horror of the hospital, though I now think I should have fared much better had I gone. However, the officers favored me all they could, and when we were marching, the Chaplain would walk by spells, and let me ride his horse. We left Nickolasville; after fixing for winter quarters, for Louisville, where we were to take a steamer for Memphis, Tenn. It was about a week’s march. At Frankfort, a few of us broke ranks before the camp guard was put out and went to some houses near by to see if we could get something fresh to eat. An Irishwoman made us welcome to what when had, some bread and milk, and said she was glad to do anything she could for the boys, as she had a son in the Union Army. I thought I never tasted better bread and milk than that. That night I dreamed of home and thought I was holding little Ann in my lap, and squeezing her little fat hand in mine and for weeks I could feel the impress of her dimpled hand in mine. We left Frankfort next morning, marching toward Louisville. On the second night out we camped at Floyd’s Ford, which took its name from being settled by father Floyd’s progenitors. Here, before camp guard was set, Louisville, and passing a field of turnips, a large number of our boys broke ranks and went over into the field. Just then our Lieutenant Colonel, who was officer of the day, came along and made the boys drop the turnips. A few secreted some in their haversacks, so we had a taste of raw turnips. The Lieut. Colonel’s horse disappeared that night, and it was the talk in camp, that it was because he was so strict. He only did his duty. The horse was never heard of after. We marched into Louisville that afternoon over three miles of cobble pavement. My feet were blistered by it. We camped there about a week, taking in supplies for our trip down the river. The side-meat and shoulders supplied us, were green and yellow inside, and so slimy they could not be piled up in heaps, those underneath slipping out as the pile went up. No wonder the boys began to die, as we went down the river! I used as little of it as I could. After a few days we embarked for Memphis, running day time and tying up to the shore as night approached. Two of our company died on the way down. We were so crowded that when we lay down at night we all had to lie the same way, and all turn at the same time. I soon tired of this and took to sleeping under the boiler alongside of a colored man. But this I found was not good for me, as I would be too warm the first part of the night, and when the fire had cooled off in the boiler, it was cold. We went into a camp just vacated by an Ill. Regiment, of which Milton Hane was chaplain. Our chaplain went into his quarters, and I staid with the chaplain, when not on duty, cooking and dishwashing. We found a great quantity of tracts and humn (sic) books which chaplain Haney had left which our chaplain used in our meetings. A woman, whose husband belonged to the regiment that went out, was compelled to leave her behind when they left, without means to go home, came into our meeting, and our chaplain called on her to pray. I do not think I ever heard such a prayer. She evidently took hold of the Almighty Arm! After we had been at Memphis a few days I was ordered to go out on picket duty for three days. One of the boys, Joseph Edworthy, who had been put on camp guard, volunteered to take my place, and I, his. We exchanged, and I was put on guard at the guard house door. This was fortunate for me as I had shelter overhead for it began a steady downpour in the afternoon and kept it up all night. I had gone off guard at 7 P.M., and was to go back at 11 P.M., About 9 P.M. the adjutant o f the regiment came along and said they had taken off all the camp guards, and I believe this was the last time they had camp guards. I rested nicely that night in the chaplains quarters, a one story house of two rooms. As my health continued to decline, an attempt was made by chaplain Gue, and Capt. Lackland to send me home on furlough. The furlough was signed by the colonel, surgeon and postcommander. Just then orders were received from Department commander not to issue any more furloughs. But as it seemed a case of life and death, they determined to send me any how, so they procured transportation, dressed me in a second hand suit of the chaplain’s clothing, and sent me home as a citizen. They scarcely thought I should reach home. The steamer took me from Memphis to Cairo (Ill.) where I took the Ill. Central R.R. for Bloomington. Here I found there had been a change of weather, and a keen bracing N.E. wind seemed to put life in me. I do not remember how I got out from Bloomington to Danvers, but at Danvers I got Otis Hull to let me have a horse, and go with me to Uncle Nathan’s at Hopedale. Here I stayed most of the time slowly gaining; meanwhile sending a monthly report from Dr. Harvey as to my health, to Capt. Lackland. I stayed at home until the next October, when I returned to the regiment at LaGrange Ill., along with Capt. Lackland and several others who had been home on furlough. I was left behind at Memphis to get a clerkship in the provost marshal’s office, but not being sufficiently good as a scribe, I returned to the regiment. While waiting at Memphis, I was out on the street, when the patrol guard came along and demanded my pass. I had none. I was staying at the Soldier’s Home and could have had a pass from there, but I had never thought of needing it. I told them where I was staying, and why, and that I expected to go to the regiment a LaGrange the next day. The officer in charge of the guard said his orders were to arrest and put in Fort Pickering all soldiers found without but as “I was an honest looking man,” he would let me go, but advised me to get a pass from the Home, which I did forthwith. Ft. Pickering was the place where all criminals, and deserters from the ranks were confined, and it was a place o be dreaded by an decent man. On reaching LaGrange, Tenn., I found the regiment camped in huts built by other regiments, and expecting to stay there al winter. So we went to work and built a log meeting house, covering it with shakes, and had just finished it when we received orders to march to Pocohontas, Tenn. Here the regiment stayed a few days, and then left for Corinth, Miss. When we got to Pocohontas, our supply train had not come in, owing to bad roads, and we had nothing for supper; so Sam Stout (your mother’s cousin) and I went over to the Tishamonga hotel for supper, and after waiting quite awhile we were served with some black stuff called coffee, made out of burnt rye, and some biscuits which were solid, and of a blue color. This was all the bill of fare, and we did the best we could with it and paid 25 cents each for the treat. The said it was all they could do. I was left behind at Pocohontas to look after two convalescents in the hospital, who were recovering from typhoid fever. As soon as they were well enough we joined our regiment at Corinth, Miss. We had been there but a few days, when a sergeant from the government blacksmith shops came around seeking mechanics. Sam Stout and I went as carpenters, and Isaac Bright as blacksmith and Theodore Zimmerman as harness maker. We roomed together in a little shanty that had two double bunks in it. Here occurred a case of honesty I am glad to record. When I returned to the regiment I had never drawn any pay, and at LaGrange I drew over a year’s pay besides commutations for rations and clothing I had not drawn. It amounted to over $200.00. Part of this I sent home by express and thought I would send the rest (for safety) at some future time, so if one remittance was lost, the other might perhaps get through. I made me an oilcloth belt and put the one $120.00 or more in it, and wore this around my body, under my shirt. One Sunday morning I bathed and took off my belt, laying it on the bed. I left it there and went to meeting, and never thought of it again, until after I had lain down at night. I remembered laying it on the bed in the morning, and with a very faint hope of ever finding it, as our shanty was open to any one, I groped about the bed to find it. Isaac Bright heard me and wanted to know what was up. I told him, and after scolding me for being so careless, told me to lie down and go to sleep – the money was all right. He had come in the shanty soon after I left, he saw the belt lying there and had taken care of it for me. I was much relieved. I always felt grateful to him. Poor fellow, he was captured the next summer in the Guntown raid, and taken to Andersonville, where he sickened and died. I worked in the coffin shop, a melancholy business, but I soon got used to it. Occasionally I had to make a desk for an officer. I was working there at the time of the awful blizzard of January 1st, 1864. Up north it was terrible. With us, it was sudden and sharp. I went to dinner in my shirt sleeves, and when I went home at 5 P.M., the ground was slightly frozen, a very unusual thing in Miss. The severe weather continued for about two weeks, and brought some blessing to the private soldier. In the commissary building were stored large quantities of potatoes intended for the use of the officers. These froze, and so would be useless after thawing. So the boys were told to help themselves, which we did gladly. After this I was put in charge of a room in the commissary building, as clerk. My business was to keep account of what went out of that. Sometime in February, the place was evacuated by our forces, and I had to pack up the goods in my charge put them on cars, and then turn them over to the quartermaster at Memphis. While I was engaged in this, a man came around with an order for William C. Comfort to “return to his command.” This was handed to me, as being the one for whom it was meant. I showed it to the quartermaster, and he told me to hand it back to the man who gave it to me, and tell him to give it to Mr. Comfort, when he found, him and for me to go ahead till I had delivered the goods to Memphis. After turning over the goods at Memphis, I returned to the regiment and after a few days duty at camp and guardhouse, I was sent to the wharf to guard cotton. There in the government sheds, were a n umber of white refugees, the most hopeless and forlorn people I ever saw. A little girl died amongst them and not one of them seemed to think of doing anything for her. We washed and dressed her and saw that she was buried decently. While here, an order came sending me to Columbus, Ky., to report to Capt Buntin, the same quartermaster I had been under at Corin, Miss. I gladly went, and was put to work in the government wagon shops, and was set to repairing wagons and such other work as might be needed. I sent for your mother to come down and stay awhile; so about the last of the month (March), she came bringing Ann with her. She had been there but a few days, when one night, just after she had lain down, the corral master thrust his head in at the door and said I would better put your mother and Ann on the boat, as the place was about to be attacked at daylight. I told you mother to lie still until I had orders from the quartermaster, to move. She worried about it all night. In the morning the quartermaster who said he expected it would be better to send them to Cairo (Ill.) as a demand had been made for the surrender of the place. I went to the boat, but there was no room there. The next boat safe place was at the foot of the bluff on which the fort stood. This we found was crowded with people, among whom was one smallpox case. Just after we got there a gun was fired from the fort, making your mother spring up in the air, with a slight scream. A few shots were fired from the fort, and the scare was ended. A guerrilla captain with about 100 men had made the demand or the surrender in the name of Gen Forrest. We had another scare about a month later caused by some of the “hundred day boys” on picket. They heard something coming through the bushes and called “Halt”. But as it did not halt, they fired, and came in and reported the enemy at the picket line, but no enemy came, and next morning a cow was found dead in the bushes. Your mother did not get so uneasy this time as before. About the first of June, I was taken suddenly sick. I had been feeling poorly a few hours, and stopped work to go home. In going through the blacksmith shop I fainted and should have fallen but that some of the boys caught me and carried me home. When I found myself falling these words came into my mind with peculiar force “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” After I recovered sufficiently, I was sent home on twenty days furlough, arriving there July 2nd, 1864. When my furlough expired, I returned to the hospital, and reported. The first salutation I received from the surgeon in charge was “Do you want to die?” I said, “No.” “Well,” said he, “You’ll die here.” I then told him to make out application for a discharge. He did so, and in a week or so, a commission of medical men examined me, and one of them said “I do not see but this man might recover.” And that was the last I knew of it, until about six weeks after, an orderly handed me an official envelope, containing my discharges. I had not written anything home about it, as I was not at all sure, and did not want them to be disappointed. But your mother had written to Captain Buntin, urging him to get me a discharge. He had prelied (sic) “The grist was in the mill, and all we could do was to wait. I got home Sept. 16, 1864, happy to be free. My health was fair, until the next spring when I had another attack of bronchitis, which gave way when warm settled weather came. The same was true the next spring, 1866. On Dec. 1st 1865, our second daughter was born. In the fall of ’66, I joined he Illinois Central Conference, as probationer, and was appointed to the SpringLake Circuit. Groveland and Sand Prairie were on the circuit. Here I labored two years, and had some success. I had seven appointments each two weeks. My health again failed, but recovered by Conference time, in 1868, when I was appointed to Towanda and union. We had a good revival at Towanda some thirty professing conversion. My first reception on this circuit was rather cool. I had been directed to call on a certain brother for entertainment, but not finding him home, I inquired for some other Methodist brother, and was directed to one who was unloading a car of lumber. I went and inquired for the brother named. A man put his head out and wanted to know what I wanted. I told him I was the Methodist preacher appointed for that circuit and wanted a place to stay all night. He said nothing at first, but eyed me from head to foot several times, and then said, “And so they’ve sent you, have they? Why we expected Frank Smith.” As Bro. Smith had been Presiding Elder on the district, I felt at once I could not fill the place. I began my work there under a heavy load. I met the same remark in several other places. In the revival at Towanda, I had the pleasure of seeing the daughter of the man referred to, converted and he became a firm friend ever after. In the spring of 1869 I took the spotted fever (spinal meningitis) and had to give up the charge, and in June 1869 returned to Hopedale. -------------------------------- This part is not in father’s narrative, but I had it from mother and Grandma McDowell. When the epidemic of spotted fever swept the country, people were afraid to go to the homes of the stricken. And father and mother went from one place to another helping people. And the Robbin’s family was the last one they visited. There they “laid out the dead,” and there were three others down with it. Father came down and mother brought him home to die - - to grandma’s. And he was so low that Conference retired him as super-numerary. I, also, had the fever – very lightly they said, but I’ve wondered if that was why I staid little so long. Henrietta Pomfret Anderson ----------------------------------- After I got better, we stayed on the farm, and after about a year I began to preach again as a local preacher, at Union S. H. at No. 6 Sch. H., Hopedale, Boynton and Armington, having usually two appointments each Sabbath. In the fall of 1873, I was elected School Superintendent of Tazewell Co., the duties of which I endevered (sic) to fulfill, but never felt myself qualified for the position. ---------------------------------------- Remarks by H.P.A. When father was first elected, any day we at the farm might expect some applicant for a certificate, with some friends to drive up to the gate, put the team in the barn and come in for “examination”, which was oral. Then it was catch and kill and pick chickens and get a regular company dinner for that crowd of strangers, who never paid a cent. Mother an Anna rushed around cooking dinner I have known as many as eight at one meal. Well, sometime, father eliminated the 3rd grad certificate (about a 7th grade rating) and established regular times at various points in the County for a 2 or 3 day intensive study and review -- the last day being for exams, for 1st and 2nd grad certificates, and no other opportunities. He also prepared the tests beforehand. Other adjoining counties fell in line. And I think he was eminently qualified. ------------------------------------------ “I did not seek re-election, and so went out of office in 1877. “While I was Supt. Of Schools, our fifth daughter, Margaret E. was born. Little Mattie was born Aug 12, 1870, and died in Sept. 1871. In October 1872, the fourth daughter, Martha J. was born, Your mother was never well after that, and died May 27, 1878. We buried her beside little Mattie, in Shiloh graveyard. Bro. Avery conducted the service. In February of the next year 1879, a group of holiness workers held a convention in Concord Cambellite (Disciples) Church. A few professed conversion and quite a number of our people, professed sanctification. I was induced to attend, and there began seeking entire sanctification. After a severe struggle of about four weeks, during which time the meeting had been moved to Hopedale, I received the witness of the Holy Spirit, that the work was done. I sang from the depths of conscious experience – Glory to God, my spirit is free, Glory to God. He sanctifies me. It as blessed to know that it was true of myself. I rise to walk in Heaven’s own light Above the world and sin With hear made pure and garments white And Christ enthroned within. Such complete trust in Christ, such joy in service, such love for God and man, such eagerness to serve the Church, such an unfolding of God’s work, I had never known before. My soul was completely satisfied in God. On December 20th 1883, my mother, Sarah Emmett Pomfret died. She had been living with us eve since your mother died. She was sick a long time, much of the time being out of her head. She was quite sane, a day or two preceding and up to the time of her death. She said the Lord had called her and she must go to Him. After her death, in the fall of 1884, I offered myself to the Illinois Conference to be received as a probationer, but it was thought I was too old, so I was sent as a “supply” to Mansfield Ct., Champaign Co., Bro. M W Everhart was P.E. I found the Church discouraged, prayer and class meeting given up. During the winter the Lord blessed us with a good revival, some 90 professing conversion, and the Church was strengthened by over 50 members being taken in full connection. How I praise the Lord for the memory of that meeting. There were two points on the circuit, Mansfield and Blue Ridge, where there were a good many M.E. South members. We stayed in this charge two years. The record year the Central Ill. Holiness Ass’n held a meeting in our church in Mansfield, and about thirty professed entire sanctification, mostly of our members, but embracing some United Brethren and South Methodists. Some of them fell back into their old half-hearted service, but most of them are holding on. What a difference it made in our meetings! Hearts were on fire, and tongues were loosened that had been slow to glorify God! At the close of the second year we were moved to DeWitt circuit. (N.B. Against the unanimous request of the church and other denominations and business men. H.P.A.) This was a difficult field. I had six appointments, thus preaching 3 times each Sabbath, and compelled to drive 13 miles one Sabbath, and 22 mi. the alternate one. Had little success – four additions to the church on probation. Some 20 professed conversion in a union meeting held by the Methodist Protestant pastor and myself. I was re-appointed to DeWitt in 1887, but the girls wanted to come to California and as there was a good opening to get a homestead, we came. We left Ill Oct. 24, 1887, and arrived at Tulare Oct. 30th. (N.B. As father was getting on the train at Needles he was thrown against the railing by the impact of a switching engine, and injured his side. H.P.A.) The move seems to have been unfortunate for me, as I have not seen a well day since I came. I am slowly sinking into the grave, but I have no fear. I am kept in peace in the severe suffering, and expect soon to be with Christ, which is far better; trusting my family of girls in the hands of God. (Father went to his reward Dec. 20th 1888. Three weeks before he left us, he held a service in the home – family and neighbors present. For his funeral text he chose “By grace are ye saved, it is the gift of God. Not of works, lest any man boast.” We sang, “My latest sun is sinking fast”. H.P.A.) THE END (Postscript – Michael Pomfret, his daughter Margaret, his daughter Kittie and her fiancé Winfield Clinesmith are all buried in a family graveyard located near old Famoso on a parcel of land set aside from their homestead. Famoso is located just north of Bakersfield, California. Helen Littleton, a cousin who died at age ten, is also buried there. Norma Hayden) Additional Comments: This manuscript is an autobiography written by Michael Pomfret and edited by his daughter Henrietta (Pomfret) Anderson. The original obelisk grave marker for the family at the Pomfret Pioneer Cemetery was stolen sometime after 1985. The graveyard is in a very remote area surrounded by agricultural land. With the help of the Delano Cemetery District and the Grand Army of the Republic, a Civil War headstone placed for Michael in 2008. Photo: http://www.usgwarchives.net/il/tazewell/photos/bios/pomfret1530gbs.jpg File at: http://files.usgwarchives.net/il/tazewell/bios/pomfret1530gbs.txt This file has been created by a form at http://www.genrecords.org/ilfiles/ File size: 48.9 Kb