history

This account of school days in Waterford in the early 20th century comes from John E. Divine in his book When Waterford and I Were Young, written with Bronwen and John Souders. The school he describes in this excerpt was the school for Waterford’s white children through the early 1960s. It is now called the Old School and is where the Waterford Foundation offices are currently housed. The school on Second Street that served Waterford’s Black children is also discussed in Divine’s book as well as other Waterford Foundation publications. Find more information about that school here.

With few exceptions, Waterford School was blessed with good teachers. They certainly were not in it for the money–salaries in 1904-05 were just $27 per month. 

It is always dangerous to rate or even name teachers, lest some fine ones be overlooked. I will nonetheless mention two who made a great impression on me.

My first grade teacher, Miss Mary Shawen¹ led her pupils gently from freedom to the discipline of academic life. Miss Minnie Russell², who lived on Patrick Street, was a great mathematician for the 6th and 7th graders. Miss Minnie taught at least two generations of students–the parents of some of my classmates had studied under her.

Miss Minnie was a stern task-master with but one aim: make every student ready for the next grade. I can picture her with her starched white apron and high black collar standing in front of a class after we had not performed to her standards in a quiz. “Well! I’m ashamed of you! But I promise you, you will learn this work or we will still be on these pages at the end of the school term!” These were not idle words, for you did learn it as you were afraid not to respond. A great regret of mine is that on her death I could not stand at her grave and say, “Thank you, Miss Minnie.” A World War II date with Uncle Sam had taken me away from Waterford.

From the heartland of America came a Hoosier schoolteacher, Winifriede Elliott, who made contributions to the social, as well as academic, life of the village. “Frieda” married in Loudoun, forsaking her native Indiana to become a true Waterfordian in every sense of the word.

The name Frieda Myers became synonymous with education at the high school level, church work, and with the broader family life of the community. She became principal of the high school for a term and a half, after Mr. Vivian Ayers resigned midterm in 1926. She brought with her a discipline that the school had not previously known; of this, the writer of these lines has first-hand knowledge. Never again did a 16-pound shot, used in track, ever fall down the ventilator duct, nearly shaking every window loose.

Not that Mrs. Myers lacked a sense of humor. She told a story that captured life in Waterford at Christmas time, when friendliness reigned supreme: Mrs. Myers had a near neighbor and, in the custom of the time, she invited this neighbor in to visit and sample her fruit cake. This fine lady had but one fault: occasionally she would speak without thinking. On that day, as they ate the fruit cake, Mrs. Myres remarked thoughtfully as she tasted it, “I think it needs a bit more spice…” Whereupon the guest replied, “Most anything that was done to it would have helped!”

For a school so few in numbers, we had good athletic teams–girls basketball, men’s baseball, and mixed tennis. In 1925, we won the county baseball championship, defeating Round Hill 4-3 in a real thriller for the title. One of the great days in our young lives was the following Monday morning, when at assembly, the principal, Mr. Ayers, made a speech of congratulation.

Mr. Ayers, by the way, was courting a teacher that year who boarded with Mrs. Flave Beans in the rooms over the present Waterford Market. There were two large buckeye trees in front of the building, and Mr. Ayers would park with the bumper of his new Durant auto against one of them when calling on his lady friend. 

One night some boys wired his bumper to the tree and hid nearby to see what would happen. Mr. Ayers finally came out and started the car, which immediately choked out when he tried to back away. The next attempt he applied a little more gas, with the same result. The third time he applied enough gas to make his wheels spin. This brought him out of the car and revealed the reason for his troubles. 

Not until well into the 1930s was there county school bus transportation. Some of our students came by horseback, some by horse and buggy, and maybe a couple by auto. But the greatest number came on foot. It was a sight to see twenty or more pupils forming a group to walk out the road to Paeonian Springs at the end of the school day.

Find more stories from Waterford’s history in When Waterford and I Were Young by John E. Divine with Bronwen and John Souders.

1. The Shawens are an old Waterford family. In 1815 Cornelius Shawen was one of 12 directors of the Loudoun Company, the county’s first bank. Miss Mary (1858-1925), who lived at Old Acre, was descended from those early residents. Her sister Frances (Fanny) married Waterford’s Frank Myers of “ Lige” White’s 35th Battalion–but only after keeping the hardened cavalry officer in uncertain torment for several years. ↩︎
2. The Russells have also been prominent around Waterford for many years. Miss Minnie (1868-1942) lived in town with her unmarried sisters Ida (1859-1928) and Edmonia (1870-1945). Edmonia was postmistress for 25 years. ↩︎

Excerpt from Between Reb and Yank: A Civil War History of Northern Loudoun County, Virginia: Chapter 21 – After Gettysburg, Chamberlin and Souders, 2011.

Late June [1863] found the Loudoun Rangers attached to a brigade assigned to protect the B&O tracks west of Baltimore, although as it turned out Stuart’s cavalrymen did minimal damage to that railroad as they hurried to Pennsylvania. On 25 June, when Lee’s intentions were still unknown, Army Chief of Staff Henry Halleck ordered Capt. Sam Means to strip the surrounding countryside of horses suitable for military use, to prevent their capture by the Rebels. In compliance, the Rangers marched to Tenleytown, outside Washington, and began working their way north through Montgomery County. They spared farmers with just one animal but otherwise took horses without regard to their owners’ loyalty, issuing vouchers redeemable through the Quartermaster Department. While some citizens “at first refused to part with their stock,” showing them Halleck’s order silenced most complaints. Means’s command reached Harford County by early July and began collecting horses along the Maryland/Pennsylvania border.

Samuel Carrington Means (August 5, 1827 – March 2, 1891), founder and first captain of the Independent Loudoun Rangers, a Union cavalry unit raised in Virginia in 1862.

The Rangers’ horse detail ended with the Confederate threat, and they returned to Point of Rocks on 15 July to await the arrival of Maj. Gen. George G. Meade’s army on its way south from Gettysburg. Means set up camp at “Dripping Spring,” just north of town. The site was in a dense forest at the foot of the Catoctin Mountain. In short order the Virginians cleared out a shaded courtyard in front of their tents, which was used for morning roll call and as “a reception room for the company’s numerous lady visitors.” Not all, apparently, were ladies. Within a few weeks Sgt. Joe Divine, for one, found himself in the hospital in Frederick being dosed for syphilis. Still, Briscoe Goodhart declared the camp the best they would have during the war. Yet, even in this Eden, there were several serious fights. One pitted Sgt. William Bull and Cpl. Sam Tritapoe in a dispute over spilled coffee. As Goodhart explained, “the Rangers were fighting for principle, and as there was more or less principle involved in a cup of coffee, there was no reason why they should not fight for that as well as to fight [the Rebs].”

On 27 July, while the command was at Dripping Spring, Thomas Fouch enlisted, and gained the distinction of being the youngest Ranger. Like other members of the Fouch family, he had worked on farms around Waterford and Goresville but found himself all alone after his father Temple and brother Henry joined Means’s company in the summer of 1862. Fouch’s father claimed his 5-foot, 4-inch son was 17 and was joining to avoid Confederate conscription. Tom was, in fact, barely 15 (a postwar medical report put his age at enlistment as just 13 years and 4 months).

***

Meade wasted far less time getting the Army of the Potomac on the move than McClellan had after Antietam, although he retraced roughly the same route south through Loudoun County. After assembling his forces at Berlin and Sandy Hook, the Union commander sent the 5th Corps across the river on pontoon bridges to occupy Lovettsville on 17 July. At the same time, Kilpatrick’s cavalry division scouted ahead to Purcellville and Waterford. The next day a tide of blue engulfed north Loudoun, as Meade established his headquarters in Lovettsville and the 1st Corps crossed at Berlin and marched into Waterford that same morning. To the west, the 2nd and 3rd Corps crossed at Harpers Ferry and camped near Hillsboro, while the 5th Corps advanced from Lovettsville to  Wheatland. These masses of men pushed farther south a day later to bivouac at Hamilton, Purcellville, and Woodgrove, and were followed by the 11th Corps, which camped south of Waterford, and the 12th Corps, which skirted the base of the Blue Ridge. Racing to beat Lee to Culpeper, Meade’s entire army passed beyond Loudoun’s southern border by 23 July.

View of Loudoun across the Potomac from Berlin. Double pontoon bridges speeded the crossing of Meade’s army into Virginia (October 1862 photograph by Alexander Gardner, Library of Congress).

While the vast army’s transit of Loudoun was fleeting, it was memorable. The 1st Corps began pouring into Waterford at 10 A.M. on 18 July and, with their departure and the simultaneous arrival of the 11th Corps the following day, the village was awash in blue. Rebecca Williams counted 600 wagons in the supply train, and, watching all the infantry and artillery regiments pass, she assumed, incorrectly, that it must be the greater part of Meade’s army. The 1st Corps set up its camps close to the village, with a large body along Catoctin Creek and others on Amasa Hough’s farm at the northwest end of town. As they had twice done the year before, residents turned out to welcome their Union heroes and feed, or at least give water to, as many as they could. The 7th Indiana Infantry had fond memories of their brief stay.

This part of Loudoun County had a preponderating Quaker population, among whom … we found Friends indeed. On nearing the outskirts of [Waterford] our advance was met by a party of citizens who on learning the purpose to go into camp soon one of them, pointing to a large bluegrass pasture nearby said “There’s grass for thy horses, a fine spring for thy men and beasts, and ricks of cordwood for thy cooking.” The invitation was accepted, gratefully, and it needs not the telling that no order touching top rails was necessary during our stay there.

Sunday afternoon, 20th[sic, 19th] again on the march. It was oppressively hot; as we passed through the village the street was lined with citizens–men in broad-brimmed hats and drab coats, women dressed in the modest garb of their sect, and young ladies and misses slightly more fashionably habited than their mothers–all extending to us their fare-thee-well. Here and there, close by the roadside, was a group of three or four to a half-dozen of these demure young Quakeresses–all sisters, one would judge from their appearance–astonishing the number of thirsty men in the line; to be honest, even I must plead guilty. [In a footnote the author acknowledged that one of the girls encountered that day, Lizzie Dutton, later married a member of his regiment and was, at the time of his writing, secretary of their veterans’ association.]

It had been noticed that among our many visitors there were but few youngish men. Inquiries as to why this was brought the answer, “Many of them are in a Maryland Union regiment.” How do you reconcile that with your religious faith? was asked of one. “We do not call this war, but correcting wayward children.”

21st: [sic, 20th] lay all day near a miserable Secesh town named Hamilton, in the same county, and the day following moved to Middleburg….”

While no one else met his future bride that day, others had equally pleasant memories. A member of the 39th Massachusetts Infantry called Waterford “a right smart place” with about 600 mostly Union inhabitants. American flags waved from some of the houses and women stood in front of their homes offering water to the troops. The New Englander had heard that “several hundred [sic] Union soldiers had enlisted there” and noted, “They do not take Reb. Scrip.”

A soldier in the 84th New York Infantry was similarly impressed.

[After] passing through Maryland and across the Potomac [we came] through the greatest little Union town of all we had seen yet. Nearly at every house, on the porch or stoop, and on the sidewalks, were the beautiful ladies, passing water, and bestowing their real cheering words and blessing, for the soldier-boys, smiling such sweet smiles, which none but real Union ladies know how to smile. Flags and white handkerchiefs were waving at nearly every house–such is the picture of the Union town of Waterford, Va.

Many passing through the village that weekend were struck by the profusion of Union flags. One banner had been hastily sewn by the three young Matthews sisters, Annie, Edie, and Marie, almost certainly for this occasion. Its 35 stars suggest it was made shortly after West Virginia became a state in June, and their concentric arrangement in the “Baltimore pattern” reflects the family’s ties to that city. Although the flag would later be proudly displayed whenever Union troops passed by the family farm, Clifton, the girls would have been in town that day, probably at the home of their aunt, Maggie Gover. At other times, the “treasonous banner” had to be hidden under a floorboard in their attic, where it survived several searches by Southern soldiers.

Clifton, home of Annie, Edie, and Marie Matthews, circa 1860.

The Loudoun Rangers accompanied the 1st Corps to Waterford and remained there for several days. Briscoe Goodhart quoted an account of a grand ball staged by officers of the 24th Michigan Infantry in the town’s honor. 

Waterford, a most beautifully embowered and intensely loyal village. It seemed strange to find so patriotic a place in the Confederate dominions. That evening the merry maidens of the place with elastic step tripped the fantastic toe with our army officers. The streets were lined with smiles and beauty. Windows and balconies were filled with matrons, maidens, and children, who waved handkerchiefs and the starry flag, and cheered on the Union troops with many a hurrah for the Union. God bless Waterford!

Elsewhere in the county interaction between citizen and soldier was less cordial, especially with memories of the carnage at Gettysburg still fresh in the Federals’ minds. Members of the 49th Pennsylvania crossed the Potomac on the morning of the 19th and camped on Robert Wright’s “plantation” at Wheatland. Having marched all day with no time to eat, the foot soldiers were angered to discover the former militia general had put a chain on his water pump. One foraging party got into a dispute with a nearby farmer who would not give them any food. (His stacks of grain were later set on fire.) At the next farm a soldier held a gun on the owner, while a second went under the house to retrieve geese, chickens and eggs. That night General Wright’s barn was deliberately torched. The soldiers later heard that the owner had “one of his negroes tied up for telling the Yankees who he was.” 

Mrs. John Janney was appalled by the destruction of “the best built, and the finest barn in the county,” along with large stores of flour, a carriage and “superior” farming equipment. Alcinda’s mood grew even darker when she heard that the soldiers had taken everything Wright had “in the way for food,” leaving his neighbors to feed him and his family. “He is almost literally ruined. This done by the enlightened North, to the Southern savages. Oh! How hard it is, really, to forgive your enemies, but vengeance belongs to God. He will repay it.”

Maj. Gen. Oliver O. Howard’s 11th Corps passed through Waterford on 19 July and camped between that town and Hamilton. Howard took over Israel Warner’s home for his headquarters, and while he treated the owner with respect, there were problems. When soldiers broke into Warner’s corcrib, he persuaded the general to station guards there to see that the corn was measured before being taken away. Yet even though the farmer got an accurate voucher for the grain, he was never paid for his loss. Two horses also disappeared, but the corps quartermaster refused to issue a voucher for “stolen property.” Howard’s men also camped on the nearby farm of Bushrod Fox., where two horses, wheat and hay were taken.

Farm products like these oxen at Clifton and the haystacks in the distance are examples of some of the resources commandeered or destroyed by Union soldiers passing through Loudoun in July 1863.

Such losses were the norm throughout the county. On 22 July, two and a half miles west of Hillsboro, tenant farmer George Virts found himself hosting members of Gen. John Geary’s command, then part of the 12th Corps, which camped at the farm he rented from the Thompson family. His loyalty to the Union proved no safeguard against losses. The soldiers took nearly all of his livestock and poultry, along with tools, harness, the food out of the kitchen and pantry, and even blankets off the beds and a keg of vinegar stored in the cellar. When Virts complained to Geary that night, the general told him to come back the next morning, but the entire command headed south before the matter was resolved.

Evidence suggests that Halleck’s earlier order to impress horses in Maryland was used to justify similar action in Loudoun. Nettie Dawson wrote that Meade’s army was “taking all the horses, but few they will find with southerners. Wheat is all taken to feed to the horses.” The wheat had just been harvested, and in many cases what the Federals did not use they burned. Whatever their loyalties, farmers throughout Loudoun breathed easier after the immense swarm of blue locusts passed.

Read more about how the Civil War impacted northern Loudoun County in Between Reb and Yank: A Civil War History of Northern Loudoun County, Virginia by Taylor M. Chamberlin and John M. Souders, available online here.

One of the joys of summer is enjoying a cold drink on a hot day. Before electricity and modern refrigeration, Waterford residents, like those in other rural American villages, had to rely on naturally produced ice harvested in the winter and carefully stored to last into the warmer months. In this excerpt from When Waterford and I Were Young, author John Divine explains Waterford’s ice houses, several of which still remain today, although not in use!

Before modern refrigeration came to Waterford, residents in and around the village relied on spring houses and ice houses to keep food and drink cool during the warm months of the year. Spring houses were not common in the town itself, as there were only a few reliable springs to work with, but many families had an ice house. I can remember at least a couple of dozen, although only a few remain today. One of the best is on the south side of Patrick Street, a well-built stone chamber about 12 feet square and as many feet below ground. A weatherboard shed above keeps the elements out.

Cutting and hauling ice to stock these structures was a regular winter chore. In a hard winter any still body of water would freeze thick enough to provide good blocks of ice. If a broad, slow-moving creek or mill pond was not at hand, some farmers would maintain a small pond just for the purpose.

When the ice was several inches thick and ready to harvest, it would be cut into manageable blocks with special coarse-toothed saws. My father [Jacob Elbert “Eb” Divine (1874-1966)], by the way, invented a set of giant tongs to drag the blocks from the water. The tongs were hitched to the horse traces, and the harder the animal pulled on a chunk, the tighter the device clamped. The blocks were then hauled to the ice houses and laid down with a good layer of straw or sawdust all around as insulation. Emma Myers still recalls cold lemonade in the summer-delicious despite the bits of wet sawdust embedded in the ice.

In warmer parts closer to the coast large quantities of ice were routinely brought in by ship from New England and other points north. Most years, though, Waterford had no shortage of winter to produce all the ice it wanted.

A local farmer recorded with obvious feeling one spell of such zero- degree weather in December 1867: “Cold all day. Very cold but thank goodness the wind has stopped blowing…Too cold to think of doing anything. Almost froze by the fire.”

That was not just a figure of speech. On Christmas day in 1848 Mary Reed wandered away from her house south of the village and disappeared. Her neighbors searched high and low, but it was three weeks before David Birdsall came across her frozen body on Mrs. Thurza Rice’s place.

January 1912 must hold the local record for bitter cold. At Clifton, an old farm just south of town, Leroy Chamberlin’s wife Charlton noted in her diary on the 6th that things were freezing in the house and cellar, despite the wood stoves. On the 9th a high wind brought in still colder temperatures, accompanied on the 12th by heavy snow. By the evening of the 13th, the thermometer read 14 degrees below zero, and even heavy covering could not keep the apples in the cellar from freezing. The next morning the mercury stood at minus 25! ” Went to the barns at 5:30 A.M…horses literally covered with frost. Decidedly the coldest weather that has been known here. 30 below in Waterford….”

The struggle with January continued. On the 16th, ” Very high wind all night and today. Snow drafting badly. Tried to go to milk train [at Paeonian Springs] in morning. Could get only halfway-road completely closed. All the streams frozen, had to cut holes in branch for stock to drink…all stock suffering from cold. 17th…went with horses to help open roads. Three teams and about 15 men out. Assisted in cutting through about a half mile drift…reached Paeonian at noon. Brought back empty [milk] cans.” There is a lot to be said for central heat, insulation and snow plows.

It was another modern convenience, electricity, that eventually ended the era of the ice house-and changed a lot more besides. Service finally reached Waterford in the 1920s, provided by old Leesburg Power, and one by one families wired their houses.

One of the biggest changes was in lighting. To a village long used to making candles or trimming the wicks and cleaning the sooty chimneys of coal oil lamps, the workings of electricity, and even the new vocabulary, took some getting use to. In one family, the elderly maid, on encountering her first electric lamp, tried to extinguish the light by blowing on the bulb. A more forward-thinking resident couldn’t wait to “get the church electrocuted.”

Find this and other anecdotes from Waterford’s past in When Waterford and I Were Young by John E. Divine with Bronwen and John Sounders, 1997

Excerpt from Reb and Yank, A Civil War History of Northern Loudoun County, Virginia by Taylor M. Chamberlin and John M. Souders

Chapter 26: Blockaded; January-February 1864

The New Year found Capt. Albert M. Hunter of Cole’s Cavalry stranded deep in “Mosby’s Confederacy.” Two days earlier, with orders to scout to Rectortown in Fauquier County, he had led sixty men out of his battalion’s winter camp on Loudoun Heights, opposite Harpers Ferry. They started on the road to Hillsboro in late afternoon but, aware that Rebels maintained lookouts atop outcrops on the Short Hill and Blue Ridge, Hunter disguised his plans by cutting back across country after dark to seek shelter among Lovettsville’s Unionists. 

Leaving the German Settlement on the last day of December, the Marylanders pushed on through sleet and snow to a farm two miles outside Upperville, where they spent their second night. A brief skirmish the following morning confirmed that the enemy knew of their presence, but Hunter felt compelled by his orders to proceed into Fauquier. Riders shadowed his movements along the way and, after sending an advance party to briefly reconnoiter Rectortown, the apprehensive captain ordered his men to return directly to Harpers Ferry.

His concern was warranted. Although Mosby was out on a scout, a subordinate, Capt. William R. Smith (Co. B, 43rd Va. Cav.), sounded the alarm for the partisans to assemble. Their number surpassed 35 by the time they reached Rectortown, but the Yankees had already left. Galloping off in pursuit, the Rebels caught up with their quarry at a crossroads four miles to the north. A running fight ensued that continued almost to Middleburg, where Hunter’s troopers broke ranks and began to flee in confusion. At this point the captain was thrown from his saddle and taken prisoner. Left unattended while his captors went to retrieve his horse and equipment, he concealed himself in the underbrush and escaped detection on their return.¹ 

The captain emerged from hiding that afternoon and set off on foot toward the Union lines along the Potomac, thirty miles away. His first obstacle, Goose Creek, was so swollen with slush and ice that he could not wade across. Skirting its banks, Hunter stopped at a small log cabin after dark, where he obtained food and an old hat to ward off the bitter cold. But no amount of persuasion, or offers of payment, would induce the fearful tenant farmer to guide him to safety. “I dare not do it, my boss would know before sundown tomorrow and I would have to go into the army.”

Armed with directions from his reluctant host, Hunter pressed on alone to Pot House, a crossroads north of Middleburg, where he spotted a horse tied to a gatepost. Concluding it safer to “play infantry” than ride, he passed by – a fortunate decision he later learned, as the steed belonged to Mosby himself. As the night wore on, Hunter lost his way and again risked seeking help rather than freeze to death. This time, he walked up a lane to a substantial house that signified a well-to-do farmer. Things got off to an inauspicious start when the door was opened by “an old negro woman,” who answered “No sah,” when asked whether her master was  Union man. Still there appeared to be no choice but to identify himself when the owner appeared and explain his predicament. Like the man in the cabin, his new host knew about the fight earlier in the day and informed Hunter that not more than half of his men had managed to escape, “which was the truth, as [the captain] afterward learned.” The secessionist farmer agreed to provide directions to the Goose Creek Meeting House, but only if the officer would sign an order enabling him to purchase supplies at Point of Rocks. An agreement was reached, and Hunter filled out the necessary authorization, while his host outlined the best way to reach the Quaker community.

The weary Yank finally staggered into Goose Creek at sun-up, seeking refuge in the first house he came to. Although put off by his scruffy appearance, a Quaker woman allowed him to enter and take some breakfast. The captain then fell into a deep sleep until roused in the afternoon by a man named Steer, who offered to drive him to Waterford. To hide his uniform, Hunter was given gum overshoes and an old gray overcoat, which along with his battered hat, gave the appearance of a common laborer catching a ride. At Hunter’s suggestion, Steer drove him to John Dutton’s home in Waterford. The exiled shopkeeper had returned to spend the New Year with his family and was well acquainted with the captain. Once, the two had tried to skate on the canal from the Point to Georgetown, only to be forced back by rough ice. Even so, Dutton did not recognize the strange-looking man in the carriage until Steer identified him. Seeing an opportunity to play a joke on his family, he invited the two in, but told Steer to introduce his companion, still in disguise, merely as a “friend.” The visitors were in the parlor conversing with the family for a half hour before the youngest daughter (11-year-old Annie) finally recognized their guest. After supper and a night’s rest at the Duttons’, Hunter resumed his disguise and was driven to the Point by Steer. Not wanting to offend his benefactor by offering money, the captain presented him with his spurs and left a fine pocket knife in the carriage. His arrival by train at Harpers Ferry caused quite a stir, as he had been reported wounded in the fight at Middleburg.²

1. Albert M. Hunter, “Account of the War Between the States,” part II; Mewborn, In Mosby’s Command, 14-7; Maj. Mosby’s report 4Jan64, OR, 33:9; and Keen and Mewborn, 43rd Battalion, 98-9. Hunter mistakenly placed the initial skirmish at Middleburg. He also recalled losing half of his 60 men, whereas Mosby estimated Hunter’s force at 78, of whom 58 were casualties, a figure Mewborn reduces to 39. ↩︎
2. The driver was probably William B. Steer, 69, an abolitionist elder of Fairfax Meeting and husband of Quaker minister Louisa Steer. Hunter was fortunate to reach safety; three of his men were captured near Waterford on 2 January, while making their way back to Maryland (Williamson, Mosby’s Rangers, 118-9). ↩︎

Read more from Captain Hunter at the Emmitsburg Area Historical Society website.