The Wellington enterprise. [volume] (Wellington, Ohio) 1867-188?, 1880-10-14
FIGHTING JOE.

FIGHTING JOE.
"Who and what was hep
/ was standing in the churchyard of
q small town on the borders of
South Staffordshire one bright Sunday
afternoon in April. was stranger in
that part of the country and was pass
ing through the place in the course of
q long walk from the larger adjacent
town, to which my business hau taken
me the day before. The extensive min
ing operations of the last twelve or fif-
teen years had altered the little unpre-
tending village materially and though
the quaint old church and some long
and low buildings, suggestive of
farms and homesteads, still retained
an air of rustic simplicity, they were
being gradually obscured and the place
itself sophisticated by the formal rows
of plain and ugly tenements, built ex-
pressly for the mining population,
which each year was becoming more
and more numerous.
l had amused myself by deciphering
some of the inscriptions on the grave
stones-well nigh obliterated by the
weather-stains and the moss that time
had suffered to find the root-hold in the
hollows of the lettering-when man,
presumably miner, in the Sunday
clothes peculiar to that class, carrying
a little child of two or three years and
followed by another somewhat older,
seated himself on fiat stone. and
opened a conversation.
A civilly-spoken fellow enough,
though with the uncouth accent of
the country. I readily accepted the
fnusfaf,0, ha of III IL,
pleasantly. He had known the place
many years, he told me, aye, long be-
fore it had grown into the town it now
was, when it was nothing but an humble
village, and when the long grass or
ripening corn bowed its head to the
wind on the spot where the unsightly
engine-house and tall red chimney now
stood, and where the heaps of Stag and
cinder marked the busy life of the toll
ers in the earth below.
That handsome marble monument,
he told me, denoted the last resting
place of the late rector, and this broad,
massive piece of granite was the tomb
of certain local Squire, popularity
known as esquire Jack" who, it
seemed, was much given to horserac-
ing, cooking and such kindred sports,
and who, being sad "ne'er-do-well,"
q thoughtless, reckless fellow, but
withal good-natured and easy-going,
was, as such gentry not unfrequently
are. the most popular member OF his
family.
As my new acquaintance pointed out
these objects and others which he
thought, 1 suppose, would interest me,
he had risen from his seat, and we had
strolled leisurely through the church
yard. 1t was in q corner and rather in
hollow, that, before humble mound
of green turf, and deNked with the
pretty spring flowers, carefully planted
in the form of a cross, we both, as of
one accord, paused. 1t had not any
gravestone, but only a piece of wood
supported by two short uprights. On
this were roughly-carved, as if done
with a pocket-knife, these two words:
Fighting Joe."
{" That is a strange inscription to put
over mans grave" L said; and then
added, "Who and what was he?"
The man seated himself on a stone
close by and was silent for few Sec
onds. He had set down the little child
he had been carrying and the two little
things, attracted by the bright flowers,
had found their way to the mound and
Wtrc aOOut 10 Sdtner tneiu.
"Here, you mustn't touch them flow
ers," he said and, taking hand of each,
led them away.
"Well, mate" he then went on to
say to me, in reply to my question, II
don't rightly know who or what he was.
He was a stranger down here, aud neith-
er me nor my mates ever heard tell
where he came from or who he was.
When this here pit, Fenton's Pit we
call it, was first worked we had but few
hands hereabouts and men as could
work had no call to wait long for a job
and got a good wage as well. Most of
the hands were Staffordshire but we
never kuowed where Joe came from,
and / don't know as we asked and
p'raps he wouldn't have told us if we
had. He was quiet and lonely-like and
said but little-that is, when he was all
right; but when he'd had a drop of
drink, as maybe of Saturday night
when he had gotten his wage. of all the
hands 1 ever see to swear, spend his
money, wrestle or fight, there wasn't
one like Fighting Joe."
"And hence his name, / supposeP"
asked. land of course it is the old
story again-drink, a quarrel, a fight
and q violent death; though l cannot
understand, in that ease, the evident
care that is bestowed on the poor fel-
lows tomb-such as it is"
"No, SIR" the man said, gravely,
after a moments pause; 'not quite all
that A violent death, yes; and such a
death as might pray God might me- er
happen to the worst Of us; but it wasn't
drink. nor a quarrel, nor fight with an
other man, that brought him to it. 1t
was more the other way, poor lad
more the other way"
The rough fellow beside me said this
with a gentleness of tone and manner
that was sufficiently out of keeping with
his appearance to excite some degree of
curiosity and told him should like to
learn more of the story.
Its not much as such as you might
care for" the man replied. Here, p"
he said. turning to the little ones who
were straying toward the green
mound again, "you mustn't touch them
posies, thou knows; go and get some of
them," and he jerked a small piece of
coal he had in his hand toward where
some daisies and dandelions were grow
ing among the rank grass.
He worked in Fenton's Pit along o.
me, an, though we never had angry
words, many an many day would