Young Henry Cook working on his home.
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This excursion into Beaver County history began in a desk in a basement in North Sewickley Township. Through letters, receipts, old newspapers and published biographies, a man who lived 170 years ago, became alive again.
Henry Englehart Cook, an ancestor of many residents, was the only one-armed sheriff of Beaver County. A prosperous and respected businessman, he was also a veteran of the Civil War. As he tells his own story in the following account, be assured that the facts are correct, some of the words are Cook's own, but the rest are a gift from the author.
I never knew my father. Still, I respected him. I took his name, Henry Cook, and shared his love of God and Country. I followed his interests in construction and real estate. Though he died when I was two, I owe him for my home and homeland.
He and my mother, who was born Margaret Reuter, were both born in Weingarten, Germany. They were young when they married, he 24 and she 21. Seven years later, in 1838, he took her and my three older brothers, to live in America.
My mother often told me of their voyage, a difficult trip on a sailing vessel. My brothers, Jacob, who was 6 and John Francis, age 4, were often sick from the rolling waters and salty air. She also cared for Christian, who was just an infant, while patiently waiting for the long journey to end.
Despite the bad weather, the ship made a safe landing in New York in September. As soon as they felt well enough to travel, they headed to Pennsylvania, where my uncle was living in Johnstown.
A new family, in a new land, received a new name from the immigration officers. Henry Koch, the name my father was born with became Henry Cook in America. They made the trip to Johnstown by wagon, stage and canal.
Naturally, my father was looking for work. He was a stonemason and glad to the hear the news that villages were being built along the Beaver River, off the Ohio. He brought his family to Pittsburgh by canal and took a steamboat to Monaca, then called Philipsburg. After a brief stay in Bridgewater, he settled on Fourth Street, Beaver.
My father was responsible for much of the masonry in Beaver, including the resevoir. Of course, he built our homestead as well.
I was born five years later, in 1843. My sister, Louise, was my closest companion in childhood, though two years older than 1.
My parents soon felt a part of Beaver, joining the neighbors in church and community activities. My mother decorated the house with the few treasures she was able to bring from Germany. A white counterpane quilt lay on the high wooden bed where I was born. The marble-topped sink and dresser that were in her bedroom were cherished by my family for generations to come.
Amidst this tranquility, tragedy entered our lives. While working on our home one summer, my father was suddenly taken ill. The doctor said it was cholera, caused by drinking water while overheated.
My mother was constantly at his bedside during those somber months, but he died July 14, 1845.
During my childhood, I lost my two older brothers, Jacob when he was 15 and John Francis when he was 21. My brother Christian lost his life in the battle of Wilderness in 1864.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I attended the Beaver Public School, continually encouraged by my dear mother to study. She continued my father's religious teachings, often reading from the large collection of German bibles she had in the house.
I was 13 when I was appointed by James Buchanan to deliver the mail. I rode from Beaver to New Lisbon, Ohio, 28 miles, twice a week. The other four days I carried mail on horseback from Beaver to Rochester. It was often late when I got home, but my mother always kept my dinner warm, as she was proud of my achievements.
I never missed a day, learning early the punctuality that I later became known for. This discipline formed my character which enabled me to handle the responsibility of law enforcement and tax collection when I was older.
In 1861, 1 was given the opportunity to serve the Union. Though I had to leave the comfort of my home and family I was eager to join my fellows and fight against the rebels. I answered the first call for volunteers, October 9, 1861, enlisting as a private, Co. F., 101ST Regiment, Pennsylvania Infantry.
While I was away at war, I missed my family sorely. I worried about their financial needs and waited for our bounty money to come through so I could send them ten or 20 dollars. Many of the boys would spend the money on drink or fine food, but I would rather do without myself than to let my parents suffer.
In 1862, we were camped at Camp Seward in Maryland. I was with many young men from home and every week, someone from Beaver County would come down with packages of tobacco, warm clothing and food. There was a box that came from Vanport one day, filled with provisions. Unfortunately it had been damaged and most of the jars were run through the box. It was the offest mixed up thing I ever saw.
We weren't into the fighting much but trained often. I wrote to my family regularly and they saved my letters. In one I let my concern about their finances show:
"I am very sorry to hear that taxes are so high in Beaver," (I wrote). "But, nevertheless, people must live and have something to eat. If some of the poor folks had some of the grub that is thrown away, they might live very well. I think if the war lasts another year, they will be a great deal higher than they are now but I hope it will not last that long."
My personal concerns were tobacco, warm socks and heavy shirts for the cold weather. In November, 1863 we were near Brandy Station, Virginia. The Rebs attacked one picket line and captured four calvery, and we joined up with the regement of reserves.
In March, I was still in good health and spirits. My attitude might not have been so bright had I known what the next month would bring.
We were garrisoned in Plymouth, North Carolina, a seaport on the Roanoke River. The Rebels had constructed an iron clad ship, the Albemarle, at a point further up the River. On April 17th, with the Albemarle and three brigades of infantry, they attacked the post.
We had just received our first installment of veteran bounty and were anxious to go home on furlough. We were well dressed in preparation for the sale back north. But the trip was not to be.
After three days of fighting we were forced to capitulate. Those of us who were still alive were taken to Andersonville Prison in Georgia.
In my last letter to my mother, I asked her to pray to the Lord to spare my life until we met to see each other again. I am sure it was her prayers, and my determination to survive the prison, that saved me.
The eight months I spent in Andersonville were a terrible time and I do not like to remember them. I left my boyhood there, for no one can endure the starvation, disease and human degredation of the prison without aging. Twenty-nine percent of the soldiers who set foot in Andersonville died there and most of my companions passed away that summer.
While there, I met John McElroy, who later published his recollections and presented me with a copy of the book. In it he tells of my unit's arrival at the prison.
"We awoke one morning, in the last part of April, to find about two thousand freshly arrived prisoners lying asleep in the main streets running from the gates. They were attired in stylish new uniforms with fancy hats and shoes... and each man had a large, well-filled knapsack of the kind new recruits usually carried on coming first to the front. They were the snuffest, nattiest lot of soldiers we had ever seen.
"By and by, the "fresh fish", as all new arrivals were termed, began to wake up and then we learned that they belonged to a brigade consisting of the 85th New York, 101st and 103rd Pennsylvania.
"They were made up of boys from good New York and Pennsylvania families and were, as a rule, intelligent and fairly educated. They had had comparatively little of the actual hardships of soldiering in the field.
"Their horror at the appearance of their place of incarceration was beyond expression. At one moment they could not comprehend that we dirty and haggard tattterdemailions had once been clean, self respecting, well-fed soldiers like themselves, and at the next, they would affirm that they knew they could not stand it a month, where we had then endured it for four to nine months. They took it, in every way, the hardest of any prisoners came in."
By the end of May there were 18,454 prisoners in the stockade, cooped up on less than 13 acres of ground. (This is the combined 1978 population of Beaver Falls and Chippewa Township, in an area less than the size of Blackhawk High School grounds, or about 1,500 men to an acre.)
On cold nights the men crowded together for warmth. Though we tried to keep our area clean, the ground was always filthy. Food was meager and infested with bugs. Our clothing became ragged. In warm weather the swamp in the center of the prison became horrible; it's slimy ooze filled with white maggots.
Men were killed daily, by the guards, for attempting to get fresh water from the creek, or a bit of food from the guardhouses. Many, many others died of starvation and disease. My simple desires for a warm shirt or a cigarette, seemed to be those of another man in another world.
Some of the ailing prisoners were transferred to other prisons where medical facilities existed. One of my tent mates was very ill and was to be transferred the next day. When he died during the night, I took his dog tags for my own and was transferred in his place.
I was moved to Charleston and later Florence, South Carolina. By December 1864, 1 was repatriated up north in exchange for some rebel prisoners in one of our camps. When I made the parole camp in Annapolis, Maryland, the officers immediately granted me a 30 day leave on account of poor health.
I was home for Christmas. Never did clean sheets and the warmth of my mother's hand feel so good, When I was well I returned to my regiment and was granted an honorable discharge in May 1865.
-MARRIAGE and ADULT RESPONSIBILITIES-
Back home I was content to live with my mother, visit my sister Louise and her son Francis. I did some carpentry work for the neighbors and for a short time sold lightning rods.
At the age of 27, 1 decided to take a wife and married Sarah Sheldrake, a local girl, daughter of Josiah and Elizabeth Sheldrake. She was 24. 1 was delighted with my wife and thrilled to the birth of my
first son Fredrick in 1871. Sarah gave me two other sons, Charles and Harry, who all followed in the family trade. Frederick was the most successful. By the time he was 23, he was a partner with James T. Anderson in Anderson & Cook, a general contracting business. In the early days they worked out of my home and I was glad to see that Frederick had a complete mastery of his trade as well as a sharp business sense.
My two daughters, Carrie Louise and Mary, were beautiful girls. They cared for me in my old age, as neither one married.
I have always believed in the Presbyterian Church and the Democratic Party. I was a respected member of Beaver First Presbyterian Church, and never bought a newspaper on Sunday. A member of Attorney Agnew Hice's Sunday School Class, I later taught a class myself.
My political interests kept me more active. Though I had lost an arm in a hunting accident, my friends trusted me enough to elect me constable of Beaver. I served in that post, maintaining law and order until 1881.
In 1882 1 was elected Sheriff of Beaver County by a majority of over 200 votes. I kept my pistol in a secret compartment in my desk but hung the certificates of my office on the wall in my study. It was presented to me by Governor Hoyt following my swearing in at the courthouse in Beaver.
Most of my business as Sheriff was routine. The mail would bring messages from the prothonotary, Stephen Stone, asking me to take an individual, "late of your county yeoman if he be found in your baliwick and him safely keep so that you have his body before our Jury at Beaver at our Court of Common Pleas the first Monday of March next..."
I arrested men who had reneged on promises, settled old debts for money and property, even when it was a six-pocket-pool table.
In my second year as Sheriff, on June 29, 1884, 1 was called to Beaver Falls on the occasion of a riot. The men were accused of striking at Hartman Steel, and causing a general disruption in the city.
At the trial, Michael Crown said that several men had been turned out at the mill. The foreman told them, "Every one of you get out of this mill. I will keep it shut until hell freezes over before any of you get to work again."
The workers went to McDunn's house to induce the new men not to go to work at the mill. They were heard chanting, "Save your money and buy a mule and ride the black sheep to Sunday School."
I got to Beaver Falls after 10 p.m., found Mr. Hartman and Police Chief White. We went up to Cedar Street. There were 300 or more men in groups. I found three men guarding the house where stones had been thrown. I'd say it was a dangerous crowd. There were 200 men and boys there, maybe more.
Well, I made a proclamation ordering them to disperse and go to their homes. Thank God most of them agreed to go peaceably. I guess they'd gotten the anger out of them by that time.
I had to take 20 men to jail, charging that they had assembled to commit a riot and breech the peace. Four were convicted and sentence was suspended. "Those in jail were released and happy to get out," it was reported in the Beaver Falls Tribune on September 19th. "All's well that ends well."
I still pursued my real estate interests, adding a story to my mother's home and purchasing one acre on Fifth Street to build a home for my family, surrounded by fruit and shade trees. Later I divided the estate on Beaver Street into five lots and sold them to three prominent citizens.
Following my term as sheriff, I was appointed deputy revenue collector for 23 districts. Until 1890, my desk was crowded with tax receipts and check stubs. My fountain pens were always uncapped and the ink well continually ran dry.
In 1885, the Beaver Post 423 Grand Army of the Republic was founded. Naturally I was a charter member and later was elected Junior Vice Commander. I was also a member of the United Veteran's Legion and thoroughly enjoyed their meetings and service activities.
When my years as tax collector was over, I was employed as a supervisor and manager of the Beaver Valley Electric Light and Power Co., Beaver Falls.
After my wife Sarah passed on, I was lonely and married Mary Metheny, daughter of John and Carolyn Metheny. We had no children but her nieces and nephews frequently stayed with us. Of course we always enjoyed the company of my children and later on, grandchildren.
I remained active in community activities and was elected president of the Beaver Cemetery Association. It was important to me that the graves of the veterans be properly decorated on the Fourth of July. I was also voted a director of the First National Bank of Beaver. The Star Publishing Co. was founded in 1895 and I was on the board.
In 1908, my beloved mother died, leaving an empty house in Beaver and a hollow space in my heart. I was entrusted with her estate. The lawyer's words, "we duly grant unto Henry E. Cook, who was qualified well and truly to administer the good and chatels, right and credit which were of said decendent..." were spoken without my hearing them.
My mother, long a pillar of our family and community, had passed from our lives to live only in our memories. Never was I more impressed with my own mortality and thankful for the fullness of my own life.
(Henry E. Cook died at age 79, April 21, 1923 at 4:10 p.m. following a year of suffering from cancer. The funeral was held at his home, Rev. D.W. McGraham officiating. Scores of friends attended and, according to his obituary, "Myriads of flowers attested mutely to the affection and esteem in which he was held. "He left five children, 14 grandchildren and six greatgrandchildren. He was buried in Beaver Cemetery.)