“Township Tales” Episode Two: Between Heaven & Hell

A familiar piano sting plays as high-register keys crash into auditory focus like falling glass followed by a low roar - an airline engine coming to life just before its slow, inevitable crash into some random field.

Then the voice. One that feels both soothing and scarring. 

It says:

“Welcome once again my metropolitan morbidities, as we continue our series on a town you’ve likely never heard of and, after you learn its secrets, you may wish you never had.”

A dramatic punch of sound comes from some mix of piano, drums, and brass instruments.

“My name is Vera Finch… and this… is Township Tales.”

The roar of sound dissipates into a whisper.

🎤🎤🎤

“In our last episode we covered the mysterious beginnings of a man named Joseph Turner, the man whose auspicious beginnings as a vagabond traveler brought him to Detroit in 1860 and into contact with a young girl named Patricia Green - the first known person to be cured of a peculiar malady known at the time as ‘Noccula.’

Now, if you remember that story you will remember that the young Mr. Turner would eventually go on to become the first mayor of a place we know today as Montevideo, Minnesota. A small rural town whose defining characteristic for more than 150 years was that it housed a lighthouse in the center of town far from any coastal waters - even among the state’s famous 10,000 lakes - until one day it disappeared and any memory of its existence seems to have been erased from the collective consciousness of its citizens.”

A low rumbling begins to percolate, seeming to reverberate in your teeth.

“Now, I know last episode I promised we would be headed several years into the future, which we will be; however, we have a bit more history to unpack before we can fully understand the ramifications of what happened in Procyn - Joseph’s last stop before his arrival in Montevideo in the late 1870s.

In order to go forward, we actually need to travel back in time - back nearly 50 years to 1812, when the last of a series of six earthquakes along the Mississippi River that quite literally shook the region to its core; specifically that of New Madrid, Missouri.

Soft piano keys begin to play.

From mid December 1811 through early February of the next year quakes registering from 6.5 to nearly 8 on the Richter scale pummeled four states. However, it was the last quake, on February 7, in New Madrid that is relevant to our story today.

Accounts of the time describe the earth hissing, like steam escaping from a boiler, and the rivers running as red as blood from all the clay sediment being deposited into the Mississippi. In fact, the land was fractured so deeply that forests sunk into the ground, hills were split in two, and the river itself was dissected, creating two-story tall waterfalls to the north and south of the town and even reversing the direction of the current upward..

It is known today as the ‘big shock’ but those who witnessed the destruction had another name to describe it: the battle between heaven and hell.”

☁️ 🔥 ☁️

The low hum of a cello begins to rise in volume and timbre before cutting off sharply with a bow slice as sharp as a knife.

As you can surmise from our last episode, Joseph Turner was several decades away from being born at this point and there would seemingly be no connection between him and the quakes on what we know today as the New Madrid Fault. Seemingly.

However, like all young and able-bodied men, Joseph was honor-bound to help the Union fight in the Civil War, which was already several months underway by the time he left Detroit and, much like the rift that split the Mississippi River in two 50 years prior, there was another battle between heaven and hell that was raging.

Now, you might be wondering - if the original crack opened in 1812, why didn't incidents like Detroit's outbreak begin immediately? According to geological surveys from the 1920s, the New Madrid fault experienced aftershocks and minor tremors for nearly five decades. The breach, it seems, sealed and reopened repeatedly like a wound that wouldn't fully heal. It wasn't until the seismic activity finally stabilized that a fissure of a more human and more political kind emerged.

There are not many records of Joseph’s time in service and it is unclear if he even saw battle on the front lines. What we are able to track, however, are the strange occurrences that were reported - in local papers and in the journals of soldiers - during a five week series of military engagements that took place at the height of the Civil War, from February 28 to April 8, 1862, that ended in the town… of New Madrid, Missouri.

A soft piano begins to play again in the background.

The Battle of Island Number Ten may be familiar to historians as a significant battle in the course of the war and major victory for the Union with the capture of three generals, 273 company officers, 6,700 privates, and more than 120 pieces of heavy artillery.

While this certainly was attributable to the military prowess of the Union forces, there was something… else that may have played a role.

There are medical reports of both Confederate and Union soldiers coughing up what was described as clotted blood, but with a distinctly black color to it. There were no other symptoms noted or causes hypothesized other than a localized infection mixed with the high level of gun powder and industrial soot being breathed in daily by soldiers.

Other records from around the same time also seem to show that a number of soldiers reported the Mississippi River being filled with dead bodies - more than normal during a war that is - and a figure, in the dark, traversing the river northward on their backs.

We’ll come back to this later, but what is important for now is that these particular reports were not taken credibly by commanders at the time because, inevitably, the morning would come and no bodies were visible in the river, let alone enough to fill from shore to shore. While these were deemed what we would call ‘night terrors’ or PTSD today, we know today that these incidents were experienced by both Confederate and Union soldiers.

And then we have journal entries, mostly from privates and officers aboard the gunboats, about a particularly relevant incident that took place on the evening of April 4, the beginning of the final breach to secure Island 10 and New Madrid from the Confederate Army. However, the account we will be reading is from one of the boat’s commanders, Lt. Matthew Goode.

🚢 💥 🚢

Soft chimes begin to play in the background as a soft but ominous drum beat begins to play.

“April 4, 1862, 10:30 PM.

Weather conditions are favorable for our purposes. A heavy storm is rolling in from the southwest with thunder masking our approach. The men are anxious, but determined.

11:26 PM: The storm is upon us now in earnest. Lightning illuminates the river in bursts - this makes navigation at once easier but more treacherous. Our men have begun reporting shapes in the distance. Not soldiers. Perhaps local wildlife.

11:45 PM: The first battery is opening fire in concert with a lightning strike, hitting a stalled battalion. But…

11:49 PM: I apologize for how this may sound, and I am pleased to report that our previous strike was a success – and yet, in the flash of lightning and gunfire I saw gray uniforms manning the northern battery. Something was wrong with them. They did not react - neither to the tempest or artillery.

Then we jump ahead to 12:05 AM, where the lieutenant says: There is no question. These soldiers are not of God. And they are multiplying. Ten, twenty, three score standing on the main deck - across an entire fleet - just standing and staring as mortar shells rain down. We must claim victory. Lord. Let them surrender peacefully.

Then 12:10 AM: The beasts have begun their attack. Something is wrong with their eyes.

And 12:20 AM: A man - a private by uniform, yet I see no insignia - wears Union blue and has emerged from below deck holding a book. Not the bible, though it resembles such in its parchment and binding. He is making his way toward the bow. Into the line of fire.

12:22 AM: What is that sound? What are they-”

12:28 AM: The man with the book is standing like Washington crossing the Delaware - rain drenching his hair and uniform as he points a finger toward the Confederates. He is reading from the book but the words are unintelligible over the storm. The thunder seems to somehow be coming from above and below.

12:30 AM: Oh god. Oh GOD!

A crash of cymbals hit and then fade out, the sound of waves overlaid.

1:45 AM: The storm has broken… and so has my understanding of what constitutes reality. I cannot ascribe anything more than my own account to the actions taken here today but I can already feel the memories fading - as if being drained from my mind like a sieve.

The man in the Union jacket, the one with the book. He continued to read from it as the lightning grew more violent and the thunder crashed - until suddenly every man on the Confederate side collapsed at once - like puppets released from their strings.

The stranger closed his book and then fell to his knees before collapsing into the arms of some of our men and before being taken below deck. In that instant, the clouds began to part as did the garrison in front of us. Our fleet pushed forward to find the enemy dazed and confused - not just about the night’s events but an entire fortnight of battles.

As soon as I could confirm we had command of the enemy’s forces I headed below to demand answers but the bunks were empty and untouched. I demanded an explanation from the crew but they had no memory of the man - just that the enemy had surrendered following our ballast attack during the storm.

I am ordering a full search. He must be found.

Then, the next day. April 5, 6:50 AM.

Dawn has broken and the night was restless. We hold several hundred Confederates as prisoners following last night’s events. A true victory for the Union. One that will make Lincoln proud.

But I am ill at ease reading my records of the evening.

I have no memory of them.

Or any man with a book.”

A soft piano begins to play. A choral reprise filling in the gaps until it slows, throbbing like a pounding heartbeat.

📖 📖 📖

And if you're wondering, listeners, why I'm calling attention to this particular aspect of Lieutenant Goode's account, it is because this memory loss, like water through a sieve as the lieutenant put it, has echoes of what is happening today in Montevideo.

The same way Lieutenant Goode forgot the man with the book.

The same way the Confederate soldiers forgot an entire fortnight.

The lighthouse I mentioned in our first episode has also been forgotten, or destroyed, or both.

Lieutenant Matthew Goode would go on to serve with distinction for the remainder of the Civil War. He was promoted to Captain in 1863 and returned to his home in Massachusetts in 1865, where he lived until his death in 1891 at the age of 58.

His journal was eventually donated to the Massachusetts Historical Society by his daughter in 1903 before being transferred to the Missouri Historical Society soon after in 1905, where it remained largely forgotten until several months ago, when it was requested, and transferred to, the Montevideo Public Library upon special request by an unnamed city official.

Whatever was on the banks of the Mississippi River 164 years ago may now have the power to erase stone and steel from the collective mind of an entire town… and someone knows why.

A low, ominous hum begins to build.

“Now, listeners, I want you to consider something.

In 1860, Joseph Turner arrived in Detroit and cured an outbreak that had plagued the city for over a year. The method worked. The sick were healed. The madness stopped. At least… that’s what records we have indicate.

Two years later, a man who - though never officially recorded - resembles Joseph Turner - intervened at an unexplainable and seemingly unverifiable incident in the same spot where “a battle between heaven and hell” emerged fifty years prior.

Notice the escalation. In Detroit, the entity caused madness - chaotic, individual suffering. At New Madrid, it possessed entire groups simultaneously, moving them like chess pieces.

And what about that mysterious figure traveling north on a path of bodies? The Mississippi River flows northward from New Madrid toward the Great Lakes. From there, smaller waterways branch northwest into Wisconsin and Minnesota. The entity wasn't traveling in a straight line - it was following the water. From New Madrid in 1812, to Detroit in 1860, then Procyn, Wisconsin in 1866 – these aren’t random destinations; they are a very deliberate journey.

Well, I am pretty sure Joseph Turner had the same question, which is why we get an official confirmation of his arrival in Procyn, Wisconsin, four years later, in April of 1866, just months following the last battle of the Civil War and one year to the day of Lincoln’s assassination.

Now, you would be right for asking ‘Vera, why are you spending all this time on some Twilight Zone Version of Forrest Gump? What is going on in Montevideo’ and I understand… but good things do come to those who wait… and sadly for the main character in our story, his eagerness to engage in whatever this  presence was that had been lurking and feeding along our country’s lakes and riverbeds, only ended up making it more powerful.

A leggiero piano chimes in once more, a bookend from the opening leading us like a lost spirit toward finality.

But that is a story for next time - and, this time I swear I will remember my promise to tell you all about Procyn and the tale of the ‘Black Blizzard.’

Until then my name is Vera Finch, this has been Township Tales, and I hope to see you on the other side.