Bound: Francis Gilbride

This blog post is part of the "52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks" writing challenge by genealogist, blogger and podcast host Amy Johnson Crow. Week Ten prompt: Bachelor Uncle.

"What a life I've had," was the thought which flashed through Francis' mind. He was seated on a rush chair in his small home. It was chill November night. The farm was quiet, the air still. His heart had finally settled enough to enable him to collect his thoughts.

The men had left a few minutes ago, leaving open the door. He could see a few stars from where he sat. He began to twist his hands to and fro, trying to loosen the ties around his wrists. He was bound.

The rough, scratchy rope cut into his skin. He saw in his mind's eye the thick ropes on the Liverpool. Such a long time ago - 50 years now - to set sail on a ship was every boy's dream. Wasn't it his family's salvation?

The famine had taken everything from them. Father, along with his brothers James and Owen, and his sister Rose, had boarded the ship. Mother would come later. The sky was a brilliant blue that day, and the sun so bright, he could almost believe that it was its glare which made his eyes water as the ship pulled away from the dock. But deep in his heart, he knew better.

Maybe if tonight is the night I die, I will see Ireland again, he thought.

An owl hooted in the distance. His mind returned from its wandering and he recalled his situation. The men had been rough with him, pushing, demanding his money. Their voices were vaguely familiar, though, as if he had overheard their conversation while walking in Hawley some past day. Maybe they were voices joined with his at Mass some Sunday at St. Philomena's. No matter, without seeing the faces behind their masks, he could never be sure.

Why they would bother with him was beyond his comprehension. He lived peacefully on his farm, tending his animals and keeping up with the place. He loved the wilderness around him, especially the forest surrounding his farm, which changed their leaves each season like a woman changes beautiful gowns. The sound of the wind soughing high in the trees was like a symphony in his mind, and he would never tire of it.

Of all the brothers, it was only natural that he inherited this land from Father. Hadn't he been by his side toiling together from the start? He was there when Mother died so soon after arriving here, just a few years really. His heart ached with the missing of her, even now. Her softness and her smile, her blue eyes and her hair like spun copper.

He didn't blame the others for leaving him to it, for didn't they have their own lives? Owen married and working the canal. James down in Scranton with his sons working the coal mines. Rose and her family living in Scranton's north end. They all had to make their way.

But the farm suited him, he thought. His solitary musings and quiet ways. Here he could pay the Heavenly Father back for the blessings of his life in America. He could steward this land and its offerings.

For wasn't he an American now, for more than thirty years, and this land was his own as much as any man's, he thought, as the ropes got a bit looser. This was a land of opportunity, as the handbills back home had all said.

The men had wanted money. Money. If they knew him at all they would know he poured every penny back into the place and to the church. There was no money here.

And then they asked if George Shearer kept money at his place, as if he would know. As if he would tell them, he thought. How could he betray his neighbor to save himself? Fools. They know me not at all, he thought.

But in the minutes past, he thought they might harm him further than the ropes and the gag they had placed in his mouth, as they tossed his belongings about the place, mistrusting his word. Didn't they know he would never lie? But their anger had risen even as they emptied his chest of drawers, and tossed aside his bed pillow, looking for anything they could take. They had even broken a crock, smashing it on the floor.

In those moments, before they left his home, and the air was thick with tension, he had prayed to the Heavenly Father that he could live just a few more days. He wasn't quite ready to leave this life yet. He still had work to do. For the fence needed mending before the snow got much worse. He still had some patching to do on the house, to keep out the bitterest cold that was coming. He could already feel the edge of it slipping under the door like a knife.

And he had promised his dear sister Rose he would come for a visit at Christmas, taking the wagon to visit her brood down in Scranton. It would take the better part of a day, if the weather was fair. How he loved his Rose, the spitting image of their mother, and so like her too. He always felt at home with Rose, and she cared for him when he visited as if she would care for him forever.

One hand was now free, and with it, he loosened the ropes further still, and released the other. He rubbed his aching wrists. He stood, and steadied himself.

He had to warn George, and there was no time to waste. He looked around the room, thankful, and stepped out the door.

This above passage is a work of fiction based on the newspaper item above, about the actual robbery of my fourth great uncle Francis Gilbride, in 1900, by three masked men. It appeared in The Scranton Republican on 20 November 1900. The post is interspersed with facts about Francis taken from research and documents, noted below.

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Francis Gilbride was the youngest son of James G. Gilbride and Mary Catherine Hart Gilbride, born about 1841, likely born in County Mayo, Ireland. He immigrated with his father and several siblings aboard the ship Liverpool, arriving in New York harbor on 3 April 1850. The ship manifest below shows that he along with his family were bound for Pennsylvania.

Francis is listed as 8 years old boy "Frank" in the entry for the Liverpool's manifest.

In records he next appears as "Frank Kelbird" in the 1860 United States census in Paupack, Wayne County, at age 19, working as a farm laborer on his father's farm, in one of the northernmost counties in Pennsylvania, bordering New York in the foothills of the Pocono mountains.

As the Civil War began, and men were beginning to be drafted to swell the Union Army ranks, it appears that Francis was exempted from this service due to "alienage," meaning he was subject to a foreign government. He had not yet become a United States citizen, however, I find it also likely that his father James needed his help on the family farm. By 1855 Francis' mother Mary Catherine had passed away, and his older brother Owen was newly married and living in nearby Hawley. Rather than try to prove this case for exemption, it seems plausible that Francis opted to take the alienage exemption instead.

This item details the reasons local individuals were exempted from Civil War draft, including Francis. It appeared in the Wayne County Herald on 10 Dec 1863.

In a few short years, however, Francis declared his intent to become a citizen. On 10 Sept 1868, he filed his declaration of intent in Wayne County.

No. 2756 shows Francis making his declaration of intention, showing his arrival date, and the he currently is subject to Queen Victoria. Note his father James is listed directly above him, however, it is not clear that James ever became a citizen.

That same day, Francis' petition papers are filed, and after appearing in the Court of Common Pleas in Wayne County, he is granted citizenship that same day, 10 Sept 1868.

In the 1870s, Francis establishes himself as a productive citizen even further with land ownership. In this stunning map of Paupack from 1872, F. Gilbride marks out the location of his property, just north of Wilsonville.

Northern portion of Paupack, Pennsylvania, 1872. (Map courtesy of Wayne County Historical Society)

Francis Gilbride property, just north of Wilsonville. Note the C. Shearer property to the west. I believe that is the neighbor Francis wishes to warn about the robbers.
(Map courtesy of Wayne County Historical Society)

Sadly, this section of Wayne County was transformed in 1926 when the Wallenpaupack Creek was dammed  to create Lake Wallenpaupack, swallowing up the Wilsonville of that time. All the properties in that area, including where Francis' land, are now under water. The photo below shows Wilsonville as it may have appeared around the turn of the century.

Vintage photograph of Wilsonville as it may have looked when Francis lived there. (Photo courtesy of Wayne County Historical Society)

Francis continues to farm in the 1870s, along with his aging father James, in Paupack township. In the 1870 United State Census, Francis is listed as age 30. His sister Bridget, age 26, keeps house for their small family.

James at that time owned his land, which had a value of $500 ($9,600 in 2019 dollars), with a personal estate valued at $300 ($5,700 today). After having left Ireland a mere twenty years prior to make a new life, James amassed an estate worth more than $14,000 today. It speaks volumes to the sweat and toil that must have gone into carving out a life in the rugged eastern edge of rural Pennsylvania.

That Francis dedicated his life to helping his parents with their farm is evident in the provisions for him in his father James' will, probated in May of 1872. Other than $5 each given to James' other living children--Martin, Michael, James, Owen and Rose--all his other possessions and his land were willed to Francis, who was also named executor of the will.

Francis continued to farm in Wayne County, and died on 9 Oct 1904, in the home of his sister Rose Gilbride Cavanugh, in Scranton. He is buried in what was then called Hillside Cemetery, used for St. Philomena Catholic Church, (now known as Queen of Peace), in Hawley, Pennsylvania.

Francis' will stipulated that "one hundred dollars be paid to the Pastor of St. Philomenas church for five Masses for the benefit of my Soul, my Fathers, my Mother, my Brothers and my Sisters Souls and further that a sum be set apart not to exceed one hundred dollars for the erection of a monument over the lot in which my Father and Mother is buried and where I direct to be buried out of my estate."

Francis Gilbride obituary, which ran in The Scranton Republican, 18 Oct 1904. (It incorrectly lists his date of death as 9 Sept.)

 

St. Philomena Catholic Church, circa 1905, is shown in this antique postcard postmarked 1906 in Hawley. This is the church as it would have looked when Francis attended there.

The headstone of James Gilbride, Mary Hart Gilbride and Francis Gilbride, Queen of Peace Cemetery, Hawley, Pennsylvania, which was provided for in Francis' will.