Remembering The Old
Jail and Mr. Albert H. Travis, Jailer, 1901-1908
A Crittenden County
Folks Story
When buildings we grew
up with are being torn down it causes us to think of memories of
what we remember about the place all the years it had been there. So
it was with Mrs. Dulcie Travis Dillard in 1974, when plans for a new
jail were in progress. She shared some of her family memories with
the Press about their life when her father was jailer from 1902 to
1909. Writing and sharing old family memories are a good way to
preserve some of our history from the past, that otherwise is lost
forever.
***
1974 - Although I have
lived in Detroit, Michigan for 47 years, I have always managed to
keep track of events in my home town of Marion through regular
subscriptions to The Crittenden Press. Thus it was that I came
to know something of the current plans to “phase out” the present
“old jail” and replace it with a new one. This being the case, I
thought readers of The Press would like to read about some of the
adventures my family had during my father's eight years (1901-1909)
as Jailer at Marion.
My father, Albert H.
Travis, was elected Jailer of Crittenden County in November 1900, and
took office in January 1901. The new jail was being built at that
time but still lacked a little being ready to move into. It was 1902
before the jail was ready for us to move into it.
(Albert Henry Travis and his wife, Ida Cain Travis.)
Some of the happenings I
am about to relate I can't remember; I only heard them discussed in
the family through the years. However, my father was elected for two
terms of office and by the time he had worked eight years, I was well
onto nine years old and so remember a few incidents quite well.
Saloons were prevalent
in Marion at that time and the jail was a busy place on Saturday
nights, locking up the fellows who had indulged in a few too many.
We also got our share of
the mentally ill people who had to be kept until their trial was held
to declare them insane enough to be sent to institutions. One woman
in particular I remember was quite violent and had to be put into a
“straitjacket” to keep her from doing bodily harm.
My father was a prisoner
once in his own jail. Two of the inmates made it up between them one
night that they would tell my father that there were bedbugs on their
beds and they could not sleep (knowing my father would not stand for
that) and so would start a renovation of their cells the next day.
That is what he did – came up armed with disinfectant, mop and
pail, and when he unlocked the door and stepped inside to unload,
these two fellows ran out the door and turned the key, which my
father had unthinkingly left in the door. They fled, taking the key
with them and left my father locked inside. By the time my father
attracted my mother's attention to his plight, which took quite a
little while, and she in turn had gotten hold of a locksmith to come
and saw the lock off the iron door, the two prisoners were well on
their way.
They had to flee on
foot, of course, for back then there were no cars. But the Sheriff
was notified and he, with a posse and the help of a couple of
bloodhounds, finally tracked them down. They had made it to the Ohio
River and were waiting for the ferry to take them across to Illinois.
Needless to say, there were no bedbugs in their cell. By the way,
the key was later found by some children a few houses down the
street. One of the prisoners had evidently dropped it as he jumped
over a fence.
The spring of 1905 –
when the town of Marion burned, was a trying time. My father
happened to be far out in the country on horseback when Marion went
up in flames. Somehow he happened to hear about it during the day
and he immediately started for home, running his sweating, panting
horse every step of the way, not knowing what had happened to the
jail, the prisoners or his family.
At the height of the
fire, some officials would come down and tell my mother not to worry,
that the jail was made of brick and iron and would never burn. On the other hand,
others would say, “Better be getting your things out and freeing
the prisoners for it is sure to burn.”
Some of the businessmen,
however, had such confidence that they jail would not burn that they
had all their merchandise carried down and piled in the jail yard.
Needless to say, there was quite a lot of looting going on.
My mother kept
reassuring the prisoners, who was frantically hollering and banging
on their doors, that she would not let them burn up, that she would
free them first. The heat was so intense in the jail house yard that
it was almost unbearable.
During this
nerve-wracking time, a neighbor woman was so worried and upset that
she took a sum of money out of her house and buried it and, yes, you
guessed it, forgot where she had put it.
Lynching mobs were
prevalent in the early 1900's. A criminal stood a good chance of
being taken from prison and hung. Several times this was threatened
and the jail was guarded while we slept.
On one occasion, when a
lynch mob was gathering, I remember my Dad took a man out of the jail
and into the country and he and the Sheriff guarded him all night.
They were hiding in a woods and at one time some of the would be
lynchers came so close to them that the three “fugitives” could
hear them talking. When my father knew they were getting near, he
had the prisoner, who was of very slight build, crawl into a hollow
log.
My dad and the Sheriff
hid behind some huge trees. One of the lynching party crossed over
the log, in fact, stood upon it for a second and was heard to say.
“We might as well quit searching and go home as they must not be in
these parts.” The prisoner was saved that time as it was very dark
and all the light that any of them had was lantern light.
There was a large barn
on the jail premises and my Dad always kept a saddle horse, a milk
cow and chickens. My mother made her own milk and butter. She did
all the cooking for the prisoners as well as for her own family of
five children.
There was one teenage
boy who was repeatedly locked up for larceny. He made the remark one
time, as the jail door closed on him, that he had to come back to get
some more of Mrs. Travis' good cooking.
For entertainment of the
visitors, my Father would hire a three-seated hack at the Livery
Stable, Mother would pack a picnic lunch and we would all drive to
one of the historic spots around Marion, such as The Crittenden
Springs, Old Piney Camp Ground, or The Jim Pickens Spring, and spend
a happy day.
I hope the readers of
The Crittenden Press have gotten some enjoyment out of my reminiscing
about the old but then new jail. Today, whenever we three
children get together, my brother, Hobart, sister Bertie and I, one
of us will invariably say, “Remember when we lived at the jail?”
***
All these Crittenden
County folks in the story have long passed away, but thanks to Mrs.
Dillard's story her family and their part in our past history lives
on in the pages of the Press.
Mr. Travis died Feb. 26, 1954 and Mrs. Travis died Dec. 4, 1944. Both are buried in Mapleview Cemetery.
