Lore 269: There Goes My Hero

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It's easy to take things for granted.

Yes, this applies to situations in life or the people around us.

But more than that, it literally applies to things.

Take, for example, that thing that allows you to find a brand new coffee shop or comic book store, the humble GPS.

As wild as it is to believe, people used to get around with maps on paper, sometimes in massive spiral-bound books.

GPS, though, changed the game, giving us a better understanding of where we are in the world and the guidance we need to go somewhere else.

But GPS is older than a lot of us think.

It started in the 1960s, born as a tool to help the Navy track submarines that were armed with dangerous, valuable nuclear missiles, which means that without the military and our obsession obsession with war, it would be a lot harder to drive to that new doctor's appointment today.

And it's more than just GPS.

The effort to be ready and win wars has left us civilians with some pretty amazing byproducts.

Silly putty started out as a research project for better synthetic rubber.

Duct tape, freeze-dried foods, and super glue all had similar origins.

Heck, even the internet itself, the very thing that lets me tell you these stories, was funded by the Department of Defense.

But war has produced other things for us to brush up against and experience, and they aren't new or modern or rooted solely in the 21st century.

War creates destruction on a scale that few other forces can.

It's an event that comes with death tolls that sometimes boggles the mind, and it leaves behind generations who are traumatized and forever changed by its mere existence.

And above all, war leaves behind story.

From tales of sacrifice and heroic victory to painful defeats and horrifying injuries, war has always had the right ingredients for generating powerful tales that haunt us long after it's over.

Because folklore is a place where the battle never stops.

I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is lore.

War.

What is it good for?

Well, that's been a question on a lot of lips since the dawn of civilization.

Of course, it feels as if war has always been a part of life, the counterbalance to peace, the realm of the heroic, the reason for so much of our loss and tragedy over the millennia.

But it's also a bit more complicated than that, because however you might picture war in your imagination right now, it wasn't anything close to that in the beginning.

Truth be told, war owes a lot to something more mundane.

Farming.

You see, for a very long time, humans wandered around and found food wherever they could.

They hunted wild animals and gathered the available resources.

But at some point, they discovered that they could settle in one place, grow dependable crops, and raise livestock.

Thus, permanent settlement was born.

But with it came a new problem.

Once they stayed put and started to gather more and more resources, they became attractive targets to other communities.

At some point in the deep past, one group of people simply attacked another and used weapons once designed for hunting to defeat them and take what they wanted.

Humanity had discovered a new problem to navigate.

War.

Now, we know that some of these earliest conflicts were taking place upwards of 10,000 years ago, but there was no written record of the details.

The first recorded war in history was around 2700 BC between the Sumerians and the Elamites.

For those who like keeping score, the Sumerians won.

Although, in a lot of ways, all of us lost, because that victory served as a model for much of the Mesopotamian area for centuries to come.

I told you a moment ago that whatever you imagine war to be like in those days, to be inaccurate, and here's one big reason why.

Back then, these battles were a one-and-done sort of thing.

They might have taken a few hours, but they were over quickly and never drawn out.

Also, nearly all of those cultures operated as city-states, meaning that every settlement was autonomous, fighting for themselves and their needs.

Each of these cities had their own deity, and most victories were attributed not to the military prowess of the people, but to the favor of their god, which turned war into something new.

It was a way for one group of people to demonstrate the power and dominance of their particular deity.

That's why many of the existing ancient monuments that commemorate a battle show a god at the head of the battle in some way.

Around the 8th century BC, though, something changed.

All of a sudden, conflict was beginning to take days, sometimes weeks or months.

The Persian Wars and the Peloponnesian Wars are great examples, and those city-states started to look more like united regions, kingdoms that were under the leadership of a single ruler.

And the gods were still a part of the process in the story, but those kings became stars in their own right.

In fact, the Akkadians believe that when their king died, he literally became a star in the night sky.

It was the first time in recorded history that a person was given an eternal place in the known universe, living on far beyond their earthly life.

By the time the Romans arrived though, war had evolved yet again.

They were possibly the first civilization to make war a perpetual thing, maintaining a standing military, always alert and ready for war.

And one other idea also entered the picture, the significance and the power of single combat.

This is demonstrated super well by a Roman named Lucius Sicius Dentatus, who lived in the middle of the 4th century BC.

The story goes that during battle against the Volcians, a whole Roman legion was taken captive as spoils of war.

Dentatus, though, wasn't about to let that happen, so he mounted a rescue mission to set his former soldiers free.

In the end, he won their freedom by single-handedly fighting his way in and back out with his countrymen.

And the Romans loved this.

They told and retold his story for years and years to come, turning Dentatus into a sort of folk hero as a result.

And through that process, the notion of the solo hero, the one who puts themselves up against impossible odds to take down the enemy all by themselves, was given new, prominent life in Roman culture.

Honestly, it was inevitable.

These evolving traditions of war and the soldiers who fought them were bound to give us something more than recaps of massive battles.

Soon enough, people were writing and reading about individual players on the stage, people who became the perfect focal points for some of the darker aspects of war.

Some topics are limited.

The well is shallow and there isn't a lot we can draw out.

Sadly, war is not one of those subjects.

In fact, if it was a well, it would seem almost bottomless.

So while there are countless examples of folklore born from battle, I think our journey today could benefit from some focus.

Let's narrow the scope and really drill deep into one particular conflict that most of us can resonate with.

The American Revolution.

And we all know the basics, right?

British colonists in North America rebelled against an oppressive monarch and set up a new nation of their own.

Patriots, rebels, early Americans, call them whatever you want.

They were one side of a brutal conflict.

On the other side, of course, were the British and the folks in the colonies who still supported them, the Loyalists.

A great story that illustrates the complexity of this relationship is that of a guy named Richard Brown.

But I need to back up and give you a bit of context.

On September 1st of 1777, the Americans engaged the British in Saratoga, New York, in a battle creatively known as, are you ready for this?

The Battle of Saratoga.

Over the weeks that followed, the British launched one failed attack after another, which is why on October 17th, British General Johnny Burgoyne surrendered to the American General Horatio Gates.

And when that happened, roughly 6,000 British soldiers became prisoners of war.

Oh, and as a side note here, do you want to know how big of a deal this was?

Their surrender at the Battle of Saratoga was the first time the British Army had ever surrendered to another country, ever, in world history.

So, yeah, a big deal.

Now, the Americans needed to put all these prisoners in one place and keep them from rejoining the war efforts somewhere else.

So they marched them to Cambridge, Massachusetts with the intention of putting them in houses there.

But the rebel patriots in Cambridge were having none of that, so they refused.

In the end, the prisoners wound up in an old army barrack nearby, but with a bit more freedom than you might expect.

Apparently, these Brits could just sort of come and go as they pleased, but there were sentries stationed around the area to keep them in check.

Which is why, on June 17th of 1778, one British lieutenant, Richard Brown, was out cruising in a horse-drawn carriage with some lady friends when an American soldier stopped him and told him to turn around.

Actually, what happened was a bit more tense.

The sentry raised his gun and told Brown to go back.

Brown pointed to his sword to show the sentry that he outranked him.

And the sentry, well, he just sort of stepped in closer and shot Brown in the face point blank.

There was a trial, of course.

The sentry was acquitted, though, and then life seemed to move on.

But death isn't so compliant.

In fact, the old Anglican church in Cambridge where Brown's funeral was held has become the location of multiple ghost sightings over the years.

Some have seen Brown standing among the pews, while others say that he haunts the burial ground outside where his body is interred.

Clearly, Brown is still refusing to stop roaming around, although this time I doubt a gun could stop him.

Speaking of prisoners of war, the British took their own fair share of captives during the Revolution.

In fact, after Major General William Howe took 4,000 rebels prisoner after the fall of Fort Washington, he struggled to find a good place to keep them.

So rather than look on land, he headed out onto the water.

The HMS Jersey was an old gunship that had been decommissioned in 1769, with all 64 of its cannons removed and the interior set up to be a mobile hospital.

But in December of 1778, all those prisoners were taken there and crammed in, creating a horrifying death trap that many American soldiers never returned from.

Built to hold a crew of just 400, the Jersey became a prison to three times that number.

As a result, food, water, and basic sanitation all became impossible to manage, throw in outbreaks of dysentery, smallpox, scurvy, and yellow fever, and it's no wonder that upwards of 12 bodies were removed every single day.

The dead, by the way, were tied up with a length of rope and lowered over the side of the ship, before being taken to the beach nearby and buried just a few inches under the sand.

It's said that it would only be a matter of days before these decomposing bodies were exposed to the tide, and as they disintegrated into pieces, would wash out into the harbor and then back to various places along the coast.

So many bits of human remains were recovered that locals actually gathered them up and buried them in a group crypt in Brooklyn's Fort Greene Park.

As for the HMS Jersey, well, it's estimated that over over 11,000 American soldiers died on that prison ship alone.

And although it eventually sank in Wallabout Bay, its shape could still be seen poking out of the waves well into the early 1800s.

And then, it seemed to disappear.

For a while, at least.

In October of 1902, workers at the Brooklyn Navy Yard were expanding the docks there when they suddenly struck something under the water.

It was the HMS Jersey, and their construction efforts had literally pierced the wooden hull.

When they did, it was reported that something trapped inside had been let out, a noxious, horrifying stench that had somehow been trapped inside, only to rise to the surface after being set free.

That, and something else.

Otherworldly screams said to be heard floating up from the darkness below.

Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention.

We've all heard the old adage and probably repeated it a few times in our own lives.

Sometimes the circumstances we find ourselves in demand an adaptation, a change or invention that helps us survive or thrive.

Francis was one of those sorts of people.

His family had moved to the colonies way back in 1690, Protestants looking for a way to escape persecution by Catholics in France.

When his grandparents arrived on the eastern coast of North America, they settled in what is today South Carolina, buying land for a plantation near Charleston.

That grandfather, Benjamin, would father a son named Gabriel, and Gabriel would father six children of his own.

Francis was the youngest of that generation and the only boy, but his early life wasn't easy.

It's recorded that he was, and I quote, not larger than a New England lobster at birth, although to be fair, lobsters back then were a lot bigger than they are today.

Francis was raised on the farm, more of a country mouse than a city mouse.

Eventually though, he grew bored with the rhythmic, repetitive life on the plantation and decided to move on and try his luck elsewhere.

At first, that didn't turn out so well.

In 1747, at the young age of just 15, he became part of the small crew on a ship headed for the West Indies, but that voyage ended in disaster.

The ship was wrecked by a whale, and all six of the crew were forced to retreat to the small boat they used to get between the main vessel and the shore.

Some of those men died from hunger and thirst, but a few survived to be rescued and returned home.

Francis was one of them.

Upon returning to his family farm, Francis suddenly seemed pretty fine with that monotonous agricultural life.

Then, 10 years later, his father Gabriel passed away and he was managing the whole operation.

A year after that, he built a new home in Friarson's Lock and life moved on.

And then, all of a sudden, war broke out.

At that time in North America, there was a conflict going on that's known today as the French and Indian War, but there were smaller regional conflicts within it, and in South Carolina, it was known as the Cherokee War.

Maybe out of more of that boredom with agriculture, or perhaps driven by the cultural xenophobia of the time, Francis joined the military as part of the cavalry and entered the conflict.

And those battles were hard.

The Native Americans of the area were just playing better at using the landscape to their advantage.

In a region that was densely wooded and cut through with impassable terrain like rivers and ravines, the orderly British were outpaced.

Their only advantage was their military technology, and truth be told, without their superior firepower, the Native Americans would have decimated them.

Over the years, Francis rose through the ranks, and eventually, like any lucky soldier, he was able to return home when the war was over and pick up where he left off with his farming life.

But as the 1760s gave way to the 1770s, something new began to permeate the social consciousness of the colonies, unrest and rebellion.

So when South Carolina raised a number of regiments to help the war for independence, Francis once more signed up.

As you would imagine, though, fighting the British was a different sort of problem than the Cherokee War had presented Francis.

Before, they were able to use their better weapons to overpower their adversary.

But the British had the same supplies, the same training, and the same guns.

Francis Marion, now a colonel with his own command, needed to to find a better way.

And he found it in those early military memories.

Tossing aside the rigid fighting style that the British had mastered, Francis and his men retreated to the wilderness and struck the British just like the Cherokee had shown him all those years before.

Their method for hiding in the dense countryside rather than fighting on the open battlefield quickly earned Francis a nickname too, the swamp fox.

And it worked.

There's a tremendous amount of irony in that transformation too.

If it hadn't been for the example of the local Native Americans, there's a good chance the rebellion's efforts in South Carolina for sure, but possibly elsewhere, might have been much less successful.

And by adopting this more organic fighting style, many historians believe that Francis Marion became one of the first Americans to engage in what is widely known today as guerrilla warfare.

War has always left wreckage in its wake.

Sometimes that's as literal as burned out houses and broken war machines.

More often than not, though, it's the lives of those who fought and died, mingled with other losses that tend to follow a battle.

War is dark and painful, and so very hard to justify.

And yet justify it, we do.

Francis Marion's justification was independence.

His family had escaped religious persecution by one nation, only to find itself under the iron thumb of yet another.

So he rode to war with the goal of finally being free.

Of course, that freedom would be complex and costly.

To win it, Francis employed his prior experiences and his company of soldiers.

But he also added in another layer, espionage.

In fact, he had a whole network of local spies who who kept tabs on the British, helping the newly born Americans get a leg up on their foe.

And one of his star spies was a young woman named Anne Wragg.

Anne was in a tricky situation.

Her father, a wealthy plantation owner named Samuel Ragg, was a British loyalist.

Anne, however, wanted what the rebels were after, so she used her position there on her large country estate to rub shoulders with British officers and gather key information for Francis to use.

As the story goes, some of the men serving under Francis were captured and actually imprisoned on Anne's family property.

Naturally, Francis asked her where their quarters were so he could put together a rescue mission.

And yes, echoes of our old Roman friend Lucius Siccius Dentatus are appropriate to point out.

So, they got to work.

Using information that Anne passed to them, Francis and his men picked the night of a large social gathering at the plantation house, knowing that it would draw most of the soldiers into the house and away from the prisoners.

And sure enough, when Francis rode through the gates of the estate, only one single man was standing sentry.

Assuming the incoming hoofbeats were just more British soldiers arriving to join him, the sentry stepped out into the dark road to greet them.

Francis raised his pistol at the same moment the guard realized that it was a trap and both men fired at each other at the same time.

Amazingly though, they both missed.

A heartbeat later, one of the men who had followed Francis rode swiftly past his commander, swung his sword, and lopped the sentry's head clean off.

And in one literal fell swoop, their plan was a success.

His men were freed, and they rode away into the safety of the night.

They did leave something behind, though.

According to the folklore surrounding the plantation, the murdered sentry has refused, in the words of Dylan Thomas, to go gentle into that good night.

Just a few nights later, one of the enslaved peoples working on the plantation spotted a terrifying figure slowly stumbling up the drive into the estate.

He ran inside to tell others about it, but no one believed him.

And by the time he returned, the figure was gone.

Several nights later, Anne Ragg herself spotted the same mysterious figure.

As she looked out through one of the windows in the house at the darkness beyond, she claimed to see the bloody figure of a British officer ride up to the house, climb down to the lawn, and then stumble away awkwardly into the night.

It was the murdered sentry.

She was certain of it.

Why?

Because of the most defining visible feature the figure possessed.

His body was headless.

I really do hope you've enjoyed today's journey through some of the Revolutionary War's most terrifying tragedies.

Just like any war, it's a period period filled with pain and suffering, and, as I've shown you, a few ghosts as well.

But we haven't covered all of them.

In fact, my team and I have put together one last tale that's sure to give you chills.

Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it.

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Anthony came by his nickname Honestly.

He had served in the American Revolution and in one battle, the Battle of Green Spring in Virginia, he boldly led a bayonet charge against the British forces who outnumbered them and successfully.

It was a move that some of his men felt required a bit of insanity to even attempt.

So Major General Anthony Wayne became a much more simple and entertaining Mad Anthony.

And more importantly, his story became the stuff of legend.

Not too shabby for a young guy from Pennsylvania.

Anthony was born in Chester County there in 1745.

It was a wild time to grow up, too, knowing what we all know today.

So many of the names we recognize from the War for Independence were a bit less recognizable at that stage in the game.

For example, after Anthony graduated from the Philadelphia Academy and became a surveyor, he worked way up in Nova Scotia alongside a guy named Benjamin Franklin.

Small world, I know.

Years later, he became part of the Pennsylvania General Assembly, sort of the colonial version of the state government, which meant that when the rumblings of revolution finally arrived, he was right there in the middle of it all.

Anthony's biggest military achievement was also at the end of his life.

It was the 1790s and he had just wrapped up a campaign in what is today Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio, along with a victory at the Battle of Fallen Timbers.

That led to a treaty which paved the way for Ohio to join the Union.

Not a small accomplishment in hindsight.

On his way home, though, Anthony became sick with gout, causing him to stop at a fort in Erie, Pennsylvania to get medical help.

Tragically though, there were no doctors present when he arrived, so Anthony sat down in a nearby chair while a messenger was sent to Pittsburgh to get a physician.

That doctor arrived on December 15th of 1796, hours after Anthony had passed away.

Now, this was an army base after all, and Anthony was a general, so they did the best they could and placed his corpse in a plain wooden coffin, hammered some brass tacks into the lid in the shape of his initials and death date, and then buried it beside the garrison's blockhouse.

Fast forward 13 years to 1809, Anthony's daughter Margareta had become seriously ill herself.

So in preparation for what she knew was coming, she asked her brother Isaac to travel to Erie and gather up their father's remains.

That way, when she finally died and was buried in Chester County, her father could be interred beside her.

Naturally, Isaac did as he was told.

He grabbed his small two-wheeled cart, hitched it to his horse, and rode off toward Erie.

And when he got there to the fort, he was greeted by Dr.

John Wallace, the very same physician who had arrived too late to save his father.

They chatted, Isaac made his request, and soon enough, they were watching Anthony's grave be opened.

Inside, they found a miracle.

Despite 13 years in the grave, against all odds, the famous general's body was almost entirely preserved, which was, well, complicated for Isaac.

You see, he was certainly glad to see his long-dead father one last time, but he had expected a coffin full of bones.

Heck, that's why he had only brought along his small two-wheeled cart, just big enough to transport a wooden crate full of bones, but not much else.

So, he and the good doctor had to get creative.

Wallace proceeded to dismember Anthony's body, cutting it up into pieces that were small enough to fit into a cauldron.

There, those chunks were boiled in a process called rendering, which essentially melted off the flesh until only bones bones remained.

And if you're thinking that it was a messy task, you are 100% absolutely correct.

In fact, it was so messy that when it was done, Dr.

Wallace threw his surgical tools into Anthony's coffin, dumped in the liquefied flesh, and then had it all reburied right there on base.

The bones, though, were clean.

Isaac packed them up and then headed home.

But the road was bumpy, and along the way, some of them just sort of bounced out of the cart and got lost on the roadside.

All of a sudden, Isaac had become a macabre version of Johnny Appleseed, sprinkling human remains as he traveled.

Try getting that out of your head, I dare you.

Anyway, Anthony received that hometown burial that he deserved.

But because most of his soft tissue was reburied in Erie, he's technically buried in both locations.

Something that might have made him a bit angry if he had known it was going to happen.

Now, if you're a fan of this sort of tourism, you can still see the chair he died in, as well as the cauldron he was boiled in.

Both are on display in Erie at the Hagen History Center.

And those discarded medical instruments that Dr.

Wallace didn't want to clean, they were recovered about 70 years later and are on display at the Erie County Historical Society.

And one last thing.

In 1939, artist Bob Kane needed a secret identity for a new comic book hero he had drawn up.

So he asked his friend, a writer named Bill Finger, to help him out.

Bill later recalled how he pulled the final name from two of his favorite historical men, Robert Bruce and Mad Anthony Wayne.

Which is why, when readers opened up issue 27 of Detective Comics, they were introduced to a rich, handsome, intelligent playboy whom moonlighted as a crime-fighting superhero-a man named Bruce Wayne.

This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Jamie Vargas and music by Chad Lawson.

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