Golden-Haired Ghost of the Old Hunter Mansion

A True Story from Florence, Alabama

The spirit of Alice Hunter appears every year on the anniversary of the day when her lover was brought home to her dead.

Among the first settlers attracted to the town of Florence, Alabama by the picturesque beauty of its location above the swift flowing Tennessee was a North Carolinian, named Richard Hunter. Wealth in those days was counted in the South by the acreage of plantations and Richard Hunter possessed enough for a barony. Richard Hunter had but one child, the sole heiress of his acres and his wealth, and she had just budded under the warm glances of a Southern sun, into womanhood, fresh and blooming as a wild rose. Tall and willowy, with all the lithe grace peculiar to the women of the South, she was, nevertheless, in hair, eyes and coloring, a type of one of her Scotch ancestresses, who, born amid the hills of the highlands, had been transplanted to a congenial home amid the mountains of Western North Carolina.

Alice Hunter was in that period of life where the present is so bright that its glow reaches out and dominates the future. Wealth, doting parents, gratification of every wish were hers, but, above all, she had won the love of the man of her choice and was happiest in the knowledge that Philip Marston’s dearest hope and highest aspiration centered in herself. “Phil” Marston, as he was known to everyone, was young, handsome, free-handed, free-hearted, gallant and all that went to make him an ideal lover. In spite of strong rivalry, he had won his lady love, and the day was set for their marriage. His broad and well-tilled lands adjoined the Hunter plantation, and Richard Hunter knew that it would make almost a principality joined to his own. Nevertheless, Alice was only 17, and so the wedding day was postponed until the following year.

Suddenly, in 1836, the Cherokee war broke out. Philip Marston raised a company of riflemen from among the handy yeomanry of the section and joined the command of his friend and neighbor, General Coffee. Throughout the sharp and decisive campaign that followed Marston bore a part of conspicuous for gallantry until the final battle on the banks of the Coosa. Hemmed in upon a peninsula, bounded, all but a narrow neck of land, by swollen waters of the river, the chiefs and bravest warriors of the Cherokees made their last and desperate stand. Leading his riflemen to a charge Philip Marston fell, mortally wounded.

Bad news travels quickly. It was on a night of furious wind and rain that a hunting-shirted rifleman brought the tidings of Philip Marston’s death to the Hunter mansion. The blast bowing the ancient oaks and the driving rain came down in slanting sheets. Suddenly the great bronze knocker on the door pealed out its summons, and Alice, thinking that none but a lover would brave the tempest and the darkness, flew to greet him. In silence and with bowed head the hardy pioneer pointed to the riderless steed which he led and extended to her a scrap of paper on which her dying lover had traced a few words of farewell.

Pale, calm, tearless, the ghost of herself, she watched the rude but loving mourners bear him to a chamber in the house and lay him, as if asleep, upon a couch. It was the sleep of death, from which kisses on the cold lips or warm caresses on the pallid brow could not awaken him. Day by day she faded like a lily that is denied moisture and within a few short weeks her spirit fled to join him in another world.

Since then the Hunter house has had many owners and many occupants, but every year, upon the anniversary of that stormy night in 1836, the stroke of a horse’s hoofs are heard without, the old knocker clangs, footsteps sound upon the stairs, and the occupants of the south chamber, the same in which Philip Marston’s body lay, receive a ghostly visitant. Such being the case, few care to occupy the apartment during the latter part of June. The last authenticated instance of anything being seen there was as follows:

Ten years ago the house was owned and occupied by a family named Thunsden, among the members of which was a nephew named William Black, a young and rising member of the bar. Early in the summer of 1882 the Thunsdens went on their annual pilgrimage to one of the Virginia watering places, leaving young Black to occupy and care for the house in their absence. He was the sole inmate, as, according to the Southern custom, the servants lived in a separate building, and, indeed, it would have been difficult to have coaxed any to spend a night there at any time. Several days had gone by without incident, until the night of June 25.

Black had started to go to bed, but was suddenly seized with an unaccountable loneliness and distrust of his solitary condition, and upon reflection recollected that this was the anniversary. He was a man of noted courage and physical strength and not a bit superstitious. Nevertheless, like most of us, the coincidence gave him a creepy feeling and he resolved on having company. Taking his hat and cane, he went in search of a fellow barrister of his own age and with whom he was intimate, one John T. Jones, who held forth upon the Courthouse Square and kept a bachelor’s hall over his office. Ascending the narrow staircase, he found his chum ensconced in bed, but not yet asleep.

In response to Black’s invitation to go and spend the night with him he good-naturedly consented, and they were both soon en route for the Hunter mansion. It was about 11:30pm and as beautifully calm and clear a moonlit night as heart could wish when they entered the house, and, after locking the hall door, when to Black’s room, the south chamber. Young men make short work of toilets, so they were quickly in bed, and, neither being sleepy, Black started to tell Jones the story of the haunted room. He had just finished when the old cracked bell in the Courthouse tower struck midnight, and as the last reverberations died away a horse’s hoof strokes could be distinctly heard upon the gravel walk without.

Suddenly and without warning the windows commenced to rattle in their casements and a noise resounded from the roof as if torrents of rain were descending upon its weather beaten shingles. All this time the moon was throwing its bellow rays into the room, lighting it up to a mezzo tint and the shadows cast from the trees showed that no breath of air was stirring. Then came the clang of the old knocker upon the hall door; the noises ceased as quickly as they had begun and all was silent.

Jones and Black were brave enough, and would have faced the devil and all his imps in broad daylight, but this was more than they had bargained for. The noise had been startling, but the silence that followed it was so intense that it was almost palpable. Then “tap” – “tap” – “tap” – “tap” – came the unmistakable sound of footsteps upon the stairs, slowly and wearily mounting. They ceased for a second or two upon the landing outside, the door swung noiselessly open, and a figure, clearly seen in the moonlight, entered and crossed the room.

Both men, lying on the bed, saw it plainly and afterward described it as that of a young and beautiful girl, tall and slender, with golden curls framed around a face of marble pallor, wide open blue eyes and clothed from head to foot in fleecy white, with a single white rosebud nestling above the ear. Advancing slowly to one of the windows, the figure stood a moment with clasped hands looking wistfully out into the night and with the full flow of the moonlight upon its upturned features; then it turned, approached the side of the bed where Jones lay, stooped and placed a hand, cold as death itself, upon his forehead.

Up to that moment he and Black had been too frightened to move or speak, but when that icy hand was laid upon him the spell was broken. Human nature could endure no longer, and with a yell both of them tumbled out of the other side of the bed from where the figure stood and bounded down the stairs. How they ever unlocked the hall door or got outside neither of them could ever tell, but when they came to themselves sufficiently to take in the situation they were making record time, clad only in their night clothes, towards Jones’ office. They did not go back to the Hunter house that night, in fact, it was some days before they could summon nerve enough to go, in daylight and get their clothing.

Since then the night of the 25th of June in each year finds that room untenanted. Singularly enough, the noises described are never heard elsewhere through the house but if anybody is earnest in a search for new sensation, he can easily obtain it by visit at the proper time and a night spend in the south chamber of the old Hunter mansion.

The above story was first published in the Philadelphia Times newspaper in 1892. Shoals History repeats it here as originally written.

Sheriff Killed During Bloody Tragedy in Tuscumbia, Alabama

[As written in the Florence Times on Friday, April 11, 1902]

Bloody Tragedy in Tuscumbia – April 6, 1902

Nine Men Shot by a Desperate Negro.
A Battle Lasting Half a Day.

Tuscumbia, April 6. —

  1. Charles Gassaway, sheriff, shot through the bowels and arm fractured, mortally wounded.
  2. Wm. Gassaway, brother of the sheriff, shot through and through, also fatally wounded.
  3. Pat Prout, shot through and through will die.
  4. Jesse Davis, shot through the head, will die.
  5. Bob Wallace of Riverton, killed.
  6. Hugh Jones of Sheffield, killed.
  7. James Finney, flesh wound in the arm.
  8. Robt. Patterson, shot in ankle.
  9. Jim Payne of Sheffield, shot through left lung; seriously injured.

The foregoing represents the bloody work of a desperate negro with a Winchester rifle in this city today.

About 12 o’clock, Sheriff Gassaway went to the home of Will Reynolds, for whom he had a warrant charging him with obtaining goods under false pretenses from the furnishing store of James Isbell. The sheriff was accompanied by Isbell and, calling to the negro that he was wanted, the latter came to the door and, remarking that he would be ready to go with the officer in a moment, stepped into an adjoining room. When he emerged he had a Winchester rifle presented, which he fired twice at the sheriff. One of the bullets penetrated his bowels and the other shattered the officer’s right arm. After being shot down the officer returned the fire with his revolver, but without effect.

Intrenched For War.

After shooting Gassaway the negro sought refuge in the upstairs of the building, where he intreated himself and, from the partially hoisted windows, poured a deadly fire into those who exposed themselves.

Wm. Gassaway, the sheriff’s brother, was shot while standing behind a tree with a rifle in hand, fully 300 yards distant. The negro proved himself a perfect marksman, and with nearly every shot wounded or killed the person aimed at.

Prout was shot in the back, the ball passing entirely through his body, the same bullet penetrating Payne’s left lung.

Young Patterson was an interested spectator, and in an unguarded moment exposed himself and a bullet from the brute’s rifle crashed through his ankle.

Finney, a boy about 15 years of age, was shot through the arm while endeavoring to get a shot at the negro from a vacant building just across the street and Jones, peering from the corner of another building, received a bullet in his brain.

The excitement was intense as the bloody work continued, the citizens being powerless to dislodge the negro. A rush upon him meant the sacrifice of possibly a dozen lives more, and for hours the crowd seemed at a loss what course to pursue. The building occupied by the negro was in a hollow, with every advantage in favor of the fiend. Dynamite was resorted to without avail and, fearing that darkness would come on and the negro escape, the Governor was wired to order the Wheeler Rifles of Florence to the scene of carnage.

Military in the Battle.

Under Capt. Simpson a score of military reached Tuscumbia about 3 o’clock. Taking positions behind buildings, trees and fences, they poured volley after volley into the windows and all apertures of the hiding place where the negro was barricaded, literally riddling the house, but the negro kept up his deadly firing. About dark, as a last resort, it was decided to burn the adjoining dwellings, and by this means force him out. Balls of cotton saturated with kerosene and turpentine were lighted and thrown upon the buildings, both houses being destroyed, but failed to ignite the house in which the negro was secluded.

After the destruction of the two houses the efforts of the determined crowd were directed to the building occupied by the desperate negro, but it was not until nine o’clock that their efforts to fire the house were successful. Two or three members of the Wheeler Rifles bravely exposed themselves to the negro’s unerring aim and rushing to the front and rear galleries, poured buckets of kerosene upon them, and dropping burring balls of cotton on the oil, soon started a conflagration. Hundreds breathlessly watched the courageous men, expecting to see them shot down, but the escaped, fortunately doubtless for them the negro having taken a position in an outhouse while the fire raged in the adjoining buildings.

At this juncture Jesse Davis and Bob Wallace rushed to the east end of the burning house, and while the former was firing through the upstairs window he was shot through the head, falling in his tracks. Wallace shared the same fate.

Negro’s Tragic End.

A glimpse of the negro was secured by scored of armed men as he attempted to get out of his perilous hiding place, which was by this time becoming unbearable on account of the intense heat, and in a moment hundreds of shots were fired into his body. He fell dead, never a muscle twitching. Instantly the infuriated crowd rushed upon him, firing several hundred more shots into his lifeless body, piled burning faggots around hime and left the scene.

It has been the bloodiest and most exciting day in the history of this city, and the memory of the awful experiences will not soon be forgotten. Men and women thronged the streets from the moment the first shot was fired until the tragic end of one of the most brutal, fiendish and desperate negroes brought to a close the day’s events.

Sheriff Gassaway has a wife and several children, and was a brave, fearless, popular officer. His brother was unmarried.

Jones was a man of family and an iron molder at Sheffield. Davis was also married, and a young man esteemed by all who knew him. Prout is unmarried. Wallace came from Riverton yesterday to accept a position in Sheffield tomorrow. All of the dead and wounded except Payne, Jones and Wallace are citizens of this county, where they are all well and favorably known.

The negro who sold his life so dearly was formerly a brakeman on the Southern Railroad, but more recently from Birmingham. He was about 35 years old, of medium build and was known as a crack shot with either a rifle or revolver.

Relic-Seekers Busy.

Relic seekers cut off the negro’s fingers and such parts of the body as could be procured.

No fear of an uprising among the negroes is anticipated.

Several horses were killed in the battle. So deadly was the negro’s aim that it was possibly an hour before the body of Prout could be recovered. Not a shot was fired by Reynolds that did not tell when those whom he was firing upon could be seen.

Fully 2,000 people from Florence and Sheffield were here and every surgeon in the two towns were pressed into service.

Ancient Native American burial mound uncovered in East Florence, Alabama

Lo! The Poor Indian.

The Tide of Development Disturbs His Peaceful Sleep,
On the Banks of the Rolling Tennessee

August 15, 1891

Gentlemen: We have been digging up prehistoric men for about a week, thick skulled fellows. Today we discovered a skull in place that ante-dates the others by a “long spell.” I have been making measurements but am entirely unequal to the task. Can’t you have a good surgeon come here and investigate the subject while it can be done. I think it will prove one of the most interesting cases of the kind.
Yours truly,
DANIEL KING

This month marked 125 years since the accidental discovery of an ancient Native American burial mound picturesquely lying in the fork of Sweetwater Creek and the Tennessee River in East Florence. Workers from the Philadelphia Furnace, located just West of the Florence end of today’s Singing River Bridge, were digging a pit to dump their rubbish, when they began uncovering prehistoric human remains. A total of eight graves were found in a mound that measured four feet high and thirty feet in diameter. All the bodies, except for one, were buried with their heads toward the Northeast.

Below, I have included a complete transcription of the Florence Times article that ran on August 15th, 1891. More research needs to be done to find out if any further documentation was made, any more excavations were uncovered, and whether or not the bones have been preserved with city records. My gut feeling is that this entire discovery has been completely forgotten in the name of ‘progress’ as the workers made way for the Philadelphia Furnace’s refuse dump.

Burial Mound location
This is the approximate location of where the burial mound was discovered. The image on the left is of the Philadelphia Furnace as it was located on an 1899 map. The image on the right is a current view of the same area from Google Maps.

TRANSCRIPTION: August 15, 1891 – The Florence Times

In compliance with the above invitation from Mr. King, the General Manager of the Iron Department of the Cotton and Iron company, a Times representative, in company with Dr. Percy Price, went down to the Philadelphia Furnace on Wednesday, and along with the crowd dug around among the decayed bones of the “prehistoric men” whose bodies have lain for lo, these many years in a mound in sound of the surging waters of the Tennessee.

The workmen at the furnace, engaged in excavating a dumping place for the refuse of the great establishment between the cast house and the river, had come upon a mound, about four feet high by thirty feet in diameter, round in form and ascending from the base all around to the top. In the work of removing the earth they found eight graves, or places where graves had been, each distinctly marked in the red clay soil by the outlines of the bodies in the dark-colored earth; and in several of the graves the bones of the Indians were found, though in the larger number of graves, every vestige of flesh and bone were gone and only the distinct dark outlines of earth in the red clay showed where, years ago, the bodies had been laid. In one grave a hollow thigh bone was found and in two places were discovered skulls still in shape, with teeth almost perfect. A measurement was made of one of the skulls by Mr. King, which showed a large, broad, flat head, the figures showing the proverbial high cheeks, with heavy jaws. This latter feature called from Mr. King the reflection that his chief business in life seemed to have been to eat. All the bodies (excepting one) were buried with their heads toward the Northeast.

The men engaged in these excavations and whose interest was naturally aroused relative to their interesting discovery are Messrs. Daniel King, general manager, Daniel Knepper, foreman, and G.W. Thomas and G.F Merrill.

How long have those Indians lain here? What is the history of this pretty little mound, so picturesquely lying in the fork of Sweetwater and the Tennessee? Who can unravel the mystery that appeals so strongly to one’s curiosity?

The natural scenery around the Philadelphia Furnace is strikingly beautiful. With the clear rippling Sweetwater creek on the West, the swift-flowing Tennessee river on the South, and North and East the ground rising abruptly and with natural terraces and undulations to East Florence Heights, it must have been, before the hand of the “Pale Face” mutilated it, a romantic spot indeed.

View from Lover’s Leap on the Tennessee River

In the late 19th century, a traveller revisits the area around this scene of “Lover’s Leap” after being gone 22 years. He beautifully recounts the horrors of the Civil War mixed with the unmistakable beauty of the Shoals area on a trip down memory lane searching for the name of his first love carved into a tree a quarter century before.

“On the bluffs overlooking the Tennessee is one of the most beautiful landscape views, looking north, vision ever beheld. The heaven-reaching church spires, and church bells a ringing, viewed and heard in the beautiful glint of a Sunday sun — what more would mankind desire to prove the existence of an Almighty Being? But in the ramble I came across some very forcible reminders of the 4-year disagreement.

In my search for a name engraved on the bark of a beech tree that had been cut there twenty-two years ago, I found several others that may be of interest to your readers:

“R.M. Rasser, Lumsden’s bat’y, ’62 Tusk., Ala.”
“W.N. Rubanbo, 1864. 6th Reg’t, Co. C.”
“W Merchant, Drummer. [Balance of inscription unintelligible.]”

Where are these soldier boys now? Possibly their bones are bleaching on one of many fields of conflict, and again they may be occupying the position of good and useful citizens.

There on that little rise 300 feet from the edge of the cliff is where a Federal officer committed suicide by hanging. His body was not discovered until it was very badly decayed. When the citizens found it they made away with it, fearing that if it was discovered by Federal soldiers that they would not believe the “suicide” part of the story and wreak vengeance on them.

But in the rambling search we are again brought back to the grand river, and what a grand sight bursts on the vision! An unbroken panoramic view of Florence from Canaan to Hotel Lauderdale — more than three miles. Then as the needle points from the river to the University with the big water tower as the background. The picture is one the masters would hesitate to transfer to canvas.

From the ledge to the water below, perpendicularly, is at least one hundred feet, with not a shrub to obstruct the view. It is just such a place as the romancer would select for a “lovers leap” and tell how some great young Chieftain cleft the atmosphere chanting his death lullaby, because some aboriginal princess had been bitten by a rattle snake — or words to that effect.”

Shoals Innovation – A history of patents in the Shoals, Alabama

For as long as people have lived in the Shoals area, there have been innovators. These are citizens who took that next step and helped put Florence, Sheffield, Tuscumbia, and Muscle Shoals on the map as an area of innovation and entrepreneurs. We are still an area of innovators. All it takes are your ideas. Get your ideas out there. Take that next step.

Posters are available for sale of each of these. Contact us for details!