Sins of the Father, Part III

John Henry Daugherty (1852-1939) with granddaughters
Catherine Rieder (1903-1968) and Mary Prestidge (1915-1931),
Kalamazoo, Michigan, c1919. The girls' mother, Bertha Daugherty,
had died the year before in the influenza epidemic, at the age of 36.

Note to Readers: This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the last entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here: Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings. This post follows from Hoosier Daddy?: Sins of the Father, Part II.  We will explore the male Daugherty lineage whose behaviors mirror that of the man I discovered to be my maternal grandfather.

"My dad had limitations. That's what my good-hearted mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm."  − Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl

John Henry Daugherty

Daniel Daugherty, the enterprising entrepreneur with a knack for disappearing when finances were tight, had farmed out his children by his first wife upon her death in 1846. In the middle of the nineteenth century, widowed men had little to no working knowledge of child-rearing. They needed to work in order to feed themselves, so this act of abandonment is not surprising nor uncommon. But his remarriage to the widow Elizabeth (Lequat) Holstein in 1849 did not create a joyous reunion of his children into the parental home. Daniel's family remained fractured, and Elizabeth's eldest two daughters by her first husband were married off as teenagers shortly thereafter. The only mouth to feed was Elizabeth's youngest son, Silas V. Holstein, who was ten years old at his mother's remarriage. He followed his stepfather and mother to Winona, Minnesota, but he too left the home in his teens to work for the railroad, and later as a millwright and mill builder.

It is hard to say then how the news of Elizabeth (Lequat) Daugherty's pregnancy was received nearly three years into the marriage. Elizabeth was in her early forties, and Daniel was approaching fifty. Was there joy that a child borne of this marriage would be a child of "theirs" rather than of "his" or "hers"? Did Daniel feel remorse for playing a minimal role in the upbringing of his first brood of children and consider this a second chance? Or perhaps more likely it was with reticent acceptance in the rough mid-century Mississippi River shanty towns that a woman's place in the family was to produce children, and so this was no surprise. Business as usual.

John Henry Daugherty began his life on 18 July 1852, in rural New Boston, Illinois. It is quite likely that he was named after his elder half-brother, John Daugherty, who had died of typhoid fever in the barracks of New Orleans in October 1847, seven months into his service during the Mexican American War. He saw no military action or battles. He was 22 years old. Never one to miss a financial opportunity, the land upon which John Henry Daugherty was born was probably the 160 acres about five miles upriver from New Boston that his father had acquired from the United States government as a benefit derived from his late son's military service. A new baby at home was no reason for Daniel to slow his business ventures and stay at home cooing at his new son. He appears in business dealings along a fifty miles stretch of the Mississippi River, signing documents and filing papers in the local courthouses in New Boston, Illinois; Port Louisa, Iowa; Muscatine, Iowa; Rock Island, Illinois; and Davenport, Iowa. Little Johnny was just a toddler when the family relocated to Homer, Minnesota, where his father's general store failed to reap the financial success of which he had dreamed.

John's parents presented him with a little brother, Ira, during their stay in Minnesota. Elizabeth was 46-years-old, and this final pregnancy may have been a surprise as much as a relief that there would likely be no more. But Ira, four years John's junior, would be his only full sibling, as well as being any sibling close in age inhabiting the parental home. Together this family of four left Daniel Daugherty's minimal successes in Minnesota near the end of the Civil War for farmland in Jefferson Township, Poweshiek County, Iowa. Daniel's reasons for moving are unknown although some of his married stepdaughters had preceded him to Iowa, likely informing him of cheap land to be had. Ever the shrewd businessman, Daniel became one of the township supervisors in 1867 and 1868. Although possessed of a farm worth $3000 in 1870, Daniel was never a man of agricultural pursuits. Nearing 70 years of age, he likely was in no shape physically or mentally to pursue a farmer's life. He sold his 80 acres and moved to nearby Guinnville in Benton County, Iowa, in 1871. 

A.T. Andreas' Illustrated Historical Atlas of the State of Iowa, 1875;
Iowa Township, Benton County, Iowa.
Although Guinnville was platted in 1856, and Belle Plaine in 1862,
the railroad stimulated the growth of the latter.
Guinnville was absorbed by Belle Plaine and later ceased to exist. 

 

The boyhood experiences of John Henry Daugherty are unknown. We can only begin to guess the effects of his father's transient nature upon his son. Moving to rural Iowa as a young teen, he may have sought work as a farmhand on local farms of neighbors and relatives, especially with the void left by husbands, fathers, and sons who would never return from the recent war. The first mention of John in the public record is telling of the man he would become.

MAYOR'S COURT. — City-Attorney Bell's office was the scene Tuesday morning of a trial before Mayor Scott of John Dougherty for intoxication — second offense. He was fined $20 and costs, amounting to in all to $25.85.

The circumstances of this case are such as would seem to deserve severer punishment than comes within the province of the Mayor to inflict. Dougherty went home drunk, abused his father and mother with whom he was living, and finally turned them out doors, severely bruising his father's face and otherwise injuring him. Marshall Thompson with the assistance of three able-bodied men succeeded in capturing him after a stubborn resistance. 

P.S. — Since the above was in type Dougherty, through the aid of outside parties obtained a saw and an ax and made his escape. [The Belle Plaine Union, Thursday, 1 August 1872, page 4.]

John was 20 years old. His mother would be dead by the following spring. His younger brother died shortly thereafter.

John's whereabouts as a young man are unknown. He appears to have not remained in the Belle Plaine area. After all, he was technically an escaped criminal and a wanted man now. His father, having a penchant for finding economically advantageous widows, remarried to Galetsy (Gowey) Wright in 1874. She was a Civil War widow with some modest means and real estate. Two years later after "divers unhappy disputes and differences having arisen between" them, they "agreed to live separate and apart from each other during their natural life." A document on file in Benton County, Iowa, states that both parties would retain ownership of any property they brought into their marriage, and neither would claim such upon the death of the other. Daniel would not benefit financially from this final marriage, although the 1880 federal enumeration of Guinnville, Iowa, shows Daniel and Galetsy living together in his Guinnville home, where 77-year-old Daniel was working as a gardener.  His then 27-year-old son John H. Daugherty is nowhere to be found.

Perhaps Galetsy had moved back in with Daniel to care for him in his final illness. He had made his will on 4 February 1880, and he died on 2 November 1880. Although he played a minimal role in the upbringing of his children by his first marriage, he provided for those still living, but he left his youngest surviving son John H. Daugherty $175.00 above and beyond what his other children received. This is no small sum. That sum in 1880 is comparable to nearly five thousand dollars today. Did John need it? Did he deserve it? Or was he merely his father's favorite child despite his drunken beating at his son's hands years earlier? And where was he anyway?

John H. Daugherty's obituary from 1939 states that "he attended college in Illinois for three years" without naming the institute or location. Two descendants living today from separate families relay a similar story of John's early adulthood. One states that he was a college professor who was fired for having an affair with another professor's wife, while the other states he fled college as a student because of a similar affair. Knowing his deep Daugherty roots, this behavior seems entirely plausible. Having escaped the enumerator in the 1880 federal census, we find John Daugherty accepting the disbursement of funds from his father's estate in Muscatine, Iowa, in the Spring of 1881. There is nothing surprising in this finding, as John had a half-sister in Muscatine, and this river town would not have been completely foreign to 27-year-old John.

Tracking a John Daugherty through the Midwest isn't as difficult as a John Smith or John Miller, but it's not much better. The name is common, and it is difficult to discern the footprint left by our John versus the many other John Daughertys in the area, but the 30 September 1878 entry of The Muscatine Journal is likely our man, differentiating him from another man of the same name in the community of good standing:

The Police Court was the liveliest place in the city Saturday evening. First came John Dougherty with a plain drunk. He was sent up to work out $8 worth. Note: — This John is not the other John Dougherty — remember that now.

John H. Daugherty's childhood and young adulthood, although sparsely documented, reveal a pattern that repeats over and over again throughout his adulthood. How he met his wife is shrouded in mystery. How she remained married to him is an even bigger one.

Where To From Here?

 

Yes, it's been nearly two years since I've blogged.

Yes, I feel incredibly guilty about it. After all, I was raised Catholic. Guilt has always been an unpleasant motivator in my life. And yes, I am giving a lecture this weekend on the power of blogging for your genealogical research. So now in addition to guilt, I feel like a fraud.

So here I am.

For those of you familiar with this blog, it began as a story regarding the confirmation of my mother's identity and the search for my maternal grandfather. If you are newly stumbling upon this, the story begins at Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings. It is a narrative, so you need to start at the oldest post and move forward in time. Although the story began several years ago, it is still a story that will resonate with many. The entries may be older, but the story is timeless.

Did I finish the story? No. Since I was writing about my search in real-time, just like the rest of you I had no idea how the story ended. Sadly, it did so in a horrible way that even I couldn't have anticipated. As it unfolded, there was no dispassionate way I could write about it. Seven years have since elapsed. 

SEVEN! 

I have toyed with the idea of picking up the story again, but after so much time who is even interested anymore? When I started writing, the idea of DNA surprises and unexpected results was novel and shocking. Now it's so passé that human interest articles pop up nearly daily of someone switched at birth, someone finding a long-lost relative, or someone finding their unknowing daddy — all with the power of DNA testing. Crimes are being solved and the bodies of Jane/John Does are being identified regularly. How is my story even unique anymore?

I was approached by a publisher to finish the story in book form. That was tossed around for a while, which put off blogging about it even further. That idea has been abandoned. So do I pick up where I left off? 

Readers will also see that my more recent posts have been devoted to genealogy as it pertains to current events. I enjoy writing, and if I feel passionate about something, I like to put it into words. That is always an option.

I also love genealogy. I love teaching. I love researching. I love sharing my knowledge. Do I write about helpful databases, research stories, new publications, or current events in genealogy I find exciting? Aren't there enough genealogy bloggers that do that?

Do I write about my own ancestors? God knows I have my share of murderers, criminals, social outcasts, and shysters in my family tree to write about until the day I die. And frankly, I always bemoan how organized and documented my client research is compared to my own. Perhaps this would motivate me to practice what I preach — write as you research.

Do I write about my own life? Through the years you have gotten snippets of my past, and although baring my soul to the world was never my motivation or intention in blogging, it resonated with a lot of readers. Those blogs generated the most sincere, meaningful responses that really touched my heart and soul.

I have been lecturing professionally now for nearly twenty years (Lord, how did I get so old so fast?). Many of you have heard me speak. Many of you have read my blog. Maybe some of you are new to all of this and just have an interest in genealogy or story-telling or DNA testing. So I am asking you, dear reader, what do you want to read? What can I do to enrich your day with snippets of the garbage sloshing about in my head? How can this be different than every other genealogy blog out there?

Feel free to leave your comments below. Of course, if you are going to try to sell me herbal supplements, erectile dysfunction remedies, or exciting job opportunities, I will assume you really aren't interested in my well-being and will be deleted. (wink)

Use me. I am all yours.

Racism and Genealogy (or The Musings of an Ignorant White Man)

Illinois National Guard questioning a black man, Chicago, 1919

A black youth dies as a result of an angry outburst of abuse from a white man. His crime? He was black. His encroaching presence within an unspoken and predominantly white area made people nervous and uncomfortable. When the police were summoned, they arrested a black man on a minor complaint of a white man, while letting the perpetrator of murder go free. This was the spark that ignited eight days of rioting and the death of dozens. While blacks protested inequitable treatment by the police as well as that experienced in employment and housing, disenfranchised white men looted and destroyed and burned African American businesses and neighborhoods, while also setting fires in neighboring white neighborhoods to incite violence against blacks. The National Guard was called. The police arrested predominantly black participants. Formal charges were almost exclusively brought against blacks, while whites were allowed to go free.

Sound familiar? This scenario has played out over and over and over again with a cast of different characters yet with only minor plot twists. But this isn't George Floyd in Minneapolis in 2020, or Eric Garner in New York in 2014, or even Rodney King in Los Angeles in 1991.

It was Eugene Williams in Chicago in 1919.

White people have been writing the same script for well over a century while casting unwilling and unwitting black people to play the foil ‒ over and over and over again.

How does any of this affect a middle-class white male genealogist in Indiana?

I grew up in a racist household. No, we didn't have Confederate flags hanging in the living room, nor did we engage in white supremacy rhetoric at the dinner table. This is an important distinction, as those who love to exclaim, "I don't see color!" really do. The stereotypical skinhead with his myriad swastika tattoos is easy to spot. Those who are filled with passive racism are not.

My grandmother was born in 1917 and raised in Kentucky. Although she moved to northern Indiana shortly after high school and married an Italian, her new name and new home belied her Southern heritage. She and her sisters would tell stories of their father, who even as a coal miner was obsessed with his personal appearance. Prematurely graying, he dyed his hair when men doing so was unheard of. He loved fine clothes, and he took great delight at impressing the ladies with his presentation, even though as my grandmother said, he'd come back home from the mines "black as a n----r."

My grandmother had an illustrated version of The Story of Little Black Sambo. Although meant to be a story about a South Indian boy when it was first published in 1899, later American editions -- and the copy my grandmother owned -- had changed the portrayal of the main character into an unflattering stereotypical black boy.

When my grandmother recited eeny, meeny, miny, moe, she didn't catch tigers.

I was a teenager before I knew they were properly called Brazil nuts.

Was my grandmother a racist, or can we just brush these examples off as she being a product of her time and place? The latter is the excuse used most often amongst those casually dismissing their racist remarks and attitudes. I look back at my grandmother, and I don't see a racist. But sadly the signs were all there. She used inappropriate terminology when it was something ingrained within her psyche, like within a rhyme or a story, but in her day-to-day life she called black folk "the coloreds". She used to laugh when I would respond, "well what color were they?" Nevertheless, I do recall the big annual summer garage sale we'd have at my grandmother's house. She lived on a major thoroughfare that would invite more buyers, so we would lug all our used and worn-out garbage to Grandma and Grandpa's for the weekend. For three young boys, this was a chance to spend a weekend at our grandparents' house, but it also meant two tedious full days of pricing, placing, hauling, cleaning, and interacting with strangers. With my mother, my grandparents, and occasionally other relatives involved, there was always someone to man the card table set up for purchases, but invariably it would occasionally be left unattended with everyone darting about.

I recall making iced tea in the kitchen with my grandmother while she surveyed the sale from her window. The cigar boxes neatly labeled with the names of yard sale participants were lined up on the table for deposits of money to be placed upon a sale. These were all sitting unattended when my grandmother stiffened a bit while gazing outside, and casually exclaimed, "Oh, I best get outside and watch things! There's some colored people here!"

It is virtually impossible to say within modern society that we have not all been exposed to that kind of casual and passive (and not so passive) racism. We are raised with the underlying message that White is Good and Black is Bad. The racial doll study often repeated since its inception in the 1940s shows that children as young as four years of age identify dark skin tones with being bad, ugly, dumb, and undesirable -- even amongst African American children. It means we have to start far, far, far earlier in the lives of those who come ahead of us to turn the tide of subtle, silent, passive racism that has infected our society today.

Unfortunately, not all the racism I was exposed to was passive. My father was an officer with the Mishawaka Police Department from 1968 to 1988. Sadly, my father was an entrenched member of the Good Ol' Boy Club. He abused his power by garnering sexual favors in trade for ignoring crime, helping himself to criminal evidence if it suited his fancy, inflicting physical harm upon those who questioned his authority, and getting his kicks out of terrorizing black people.

Mishawaka was a sundown town. There was no law on the books, nor was there any signage to identify it as such. But black people knew that they were not welcome in Mishawaka after dark. In 1970, Mishawaka had a population of 35,517 people, of which only 107 were black. Many times I recall my father laughing with glee after pulling a night shift. Any black person was stopped after sundown.

"Hey, you! Where's your passport?"

For obvious reasons, this would garner only a quizzical look of confusion.

"Boy, you better have a passport to be in Mishawaka after dark, because n----rs belong in South Bend."

This would often follow with detention, placement into the squad car, and transportation to Logan Street, where the east side of the street is Mishawaka, and the west side is South Bend. They were instructed to cross the street and not come back, regardless of what their business was in Mishawaka. I never heard what punishment was meted out if someone was found in Mishawaka twice in the same night, but I have a sick feeling it wasn't terribly pleasant.

He too was a product of his environment. Raised by his Italian immigrant grandfather on Eddy Street in South Bend, he grew up in a home that was purchased in a working-class white neighborhood in the 1940s, but was becoming largely African American in the 1960s. By all accounts, my 4'11" ex-convict Italian great-grandfather would sit on his porch with a gun to "shoot any n----rs that caused him any trouble." This racism was far from passive.

Yes, I heard that word a lot growing up.

Even when I joke to friends that I come from a long line of poor, white trash, I invoke the silent racism behind the origins of the phrase. Yes, many of my ancestors were poor with few resources and lived a meager existence, but they were white trash. The adjective implies that even though they may have been on the lowest rung of the socioeconomic ladder, it was a ladder built for whites only. They were still superior to blacks.

Do I still have racists in my family? Oh yeah, definitely. How did I escape it all relatively unscathed? I can't answer that. I certainly wasn't exposed to black culture growing up. By the time I entered high school, Mishawaka could boast a whopping 10% black population, yet in my graduating class of 315 students, I only recall two people, neither of whom I was close to, being black. I went to veterinary school at Purdue University with sixty or so white colleagues. I took a job in Granger, Indiana, in 1991, where I live today, that according to the 2010 census is only 2.54% African American.

Perhaps growing up gay in white suburbia allowed me to develop a degree of empathy for those who don't follow societal norms. Don't get me wrong. I am a white male, and I know full well what privilege that affords me. I know I've worked damn hard to get where I am from roots entangled amongst blue-collar workers and high school dropouts. But I also know that a black man in the same circumstances would have never gotten where I am. Societal roadblocks would have been thrown into his path at every turn. As a gay man, if I happen to show affection to another man in public, regardless of how minor or innocent, I am suddenly aware of who is watching, what the level of risk might be, and how to best escape if confronted with hate. It is minuscule compared to what a black man or woman experiences on a daily basis. My tiny taste of persecution is nothing compared to the smorgasbord of hate awaiting people of color when they awaken each morning. I can hide my perceived "flaw" under my white skin, and if I were killed for being gay, it would more likely be from a religious zealot and not from the people paid to protect me. I often think LGBTQ folks side with Black Lives Matter because we get it at the most basic intrinsic level. We came of age hating ourselves so thoroughly for something we had no power to change, that we have empathy for those whose hate is also received through no fault of their own other than their mere existence.

I am a flawed person, but I am cognizant that change really needs to happen. And it needs to start in a million different ways. But I am a privileged white dude. I have read numerous articles lately from black activists indicating they don't want to hear from white allies who can't possibly understand what they are protesting. I've read essays from black people exhausted from placating the guilt of their white friends. "Yes, you're a good white person. Yes, I appreciate your concern. No, you don't really understand." Jimmy Fallon, recently called out for his use of blackface in 2000, is yet another stupid white guy like me.

"I'm not a racist. I don't feel this way."

"What I kept getting advised was to just stay quiet and not saying anything. And that was the advice because we're all afraid. I took the advice and thought, 'God, I'm going to do this wrong. You're right. I'm going to say something and get myself into more trouble.'"

It is long past time to cease the silence. That includes silence in voice as well as silence in action.

Nicka Sewell-Smith, a genealogist of African descent and the driving force behind BlackProGen LIVE!, wrote about racism in the world of genealogy in 2016 in her blog post The Problem of the Color Line. I loved that post. It certainly wasn't love borne out of its content. It boggles the mind that as recent as 1960 the members of the National Genealogical Society nearly lost their collective minds when a black man had the audacity to apply for membership. It is ironic that Alex Haley's 1976 book Roots: The Saga of an American Family, a compelling narrative of his slave ancestors that was turned into a 1977 television miniseries, touched off a near-hysterical renaissance of American genealogical research that has culminated in a billion-dollar industry today. As Sewell-Smith pointed out in 2016, it's a revival tailored for white people. Four years later, still most national genealogical conferences offer just one African American track -- four to five lectures -- out of four days and nearly 200 lectures, banquets, workshops, and events. Less than three percent of conference time is devoted to 14.6% of Americans of African descent.

Society does enough to strip black Americans of a meaningful future. We must be better as genealogists at offering them a gateway to their past.

The Farmer, George Washington
Lithograph, 1853
Who knew slavery was so idyllic?

I have given a lecture numerous times using my ancestor, Thomas Daniel (1740-c1809), as a genealogical case study. It is a methodology lecture on problem-solving and analytical thinking as well as utilizing the knowledge of social history to better understand your ancestors and thus your research. Thomas married well, and upon his marriage to Elizabeth Stith in 1770 he was given a slave woman named Frank as a wedding gift by Elizabeth's uncle. I show my audience that following a man with a very common name like Thomas Daniel through Virginia and Kentucky can be tied together by following Frank and her children.

Thomas acquired Frank in Stafford County, Virginia, in 1770. He argued in court in Caroline County, Virginia, for his right to own her and her two sons, Reuben and Humphrey, "and all her increase" at the settlement of his uncle's estate in 1782 and 1783. Thomas was taxed on slaves Frank, Reuben, Humphrey, Clary, Sally/Celia, and Jude in Louisa County, Virginia, in 1782 and 1783. In 1795, Thomas Daniel of Jefferson County, Kentucky, sold Reuben, aged about 25; and Humphry, aged about 24; to Robert Breckenridge.

In 1797, Thomas Daniel divested his fourteen slaves in Jefferson County, Kentucky, to his children.  Apparently, Reuben and Humphrey were back in his possession, as Frank and Reuben were given to his son Thomas Daniel Jr., while Humphrey went to his son, Stith Daniel. The bottom line: where you find Frank, Reuben, and Humphrey, you will find the correct Thomas Daniel roaming around Virginia and Kentucky.

Sound research, yes. But I really hate this part of the lecture. Every time I give the lecture, I scan the room for black men and women in my audience before I start. I don't know if I should make eye contact with them or look away when I talk about Frank, Reuben, and Humphrey. Does this bother them as much as it bothers me? Do they care on a deeper level about what I am teaching other than methodology? Can anyone ever lecture about slavery casually? I sweat a little too much at this point in the lecture, and my face flushes. Like Jimmy Fallon, I am the dumb white guy who thinks he's going to say something wrong, or insensitive, or stupid. So I don't address the elephant in the room, and I move forward. Do I apologize for the deeds of my ancestors? Or do I continue talking knowing these ancestral attitudes are not mine and assume the audience knows this? What do I owe to the descendants of Frank as a descendant of the man who owned her?

I am uncomfortable. And it took me a while to be at ease with my discomfort, or at least understand that discomfort is an appropriate feeling. More problematic are those who don't feel or see or understand the far-reaching negative impacts of slavery and the Jim Crow south on the African American community today. It's not my story to tell. It is my place to listen and read and research and understand. I can't say it any better than the woman featured on Last Week Tonight with John Oliver on 7 June 2020. Although I recommend the whole clip, I cannot begin to fathom the pain and anger and frustration shared by Kimberly Jones at the 31:25 mark. If that doesn't move you closer to understanding, buddy, you have more hate and blind privilege in your soul than I can address in one blog post.

What can I do? What little part can a white male Midwestern genealogist do that can make a difference? I can do what I have been advocating to genealogists for decades now. Tell your stories. Tell the stories of your ancestors. Tell the stories of your community from a black perspective. Help your black friends discover their pasts and tell those stories. Only by understanding the adversity overcome by men and women of color in our country's past, can we begin to humanize and understand the generations of power imbalance and repression in this country that needs to change today. Only by seeing history's events unfolding with the eyes of African Americans can we even hope to grasp the white privilege people like me are granted, and to which many are blissfully unaware.

I deal in history and the deeds of the dead. As statues of Confederate generals are dismantled in this country, and the statue of 17th-century slave trader Edward Colston is thrown into the River Avon in Bristol, England, I constantly hear the defiant refrain, "You can't rewrite history!"

Ummmm.... yeah, you can.

And it's about damn time.

Anyone who has read my blog from the beginning should know by now, history is constantly being rewritten. Personal histories are turned upside down by DNA findings. New documents or discovered artifacts may significantly alter long-held historical dogma and change historical "fact". History has always been fluid in its telling and retelling. It has to be. There is no right nor wrong way to tell the stories of those who came before us as long as we adhere to the facts, because the stories that need to be told arise from dozens of different points of view.

Let us circle back to where we started. How does the story of the Chicago Race Riots of 1919 read if told by Eugene Williams' mother? What does the story sound like if told by the black men who were beaten or lost their homes? What about the story of the sharecropper who fled the Jim Crow south in the Great Migration to find poorly paid work in the Chicago meatpacking plants, who then had to make the decision to continue struggling to feed his family or stand up to the Irish mobs burning his neighborhood and risk arrest by the Chicago police? These aren't revisions of history -- they are completions of it.

It's time for white folk to shut up and listen, to think and reflect, to understand and empathize, to read and to educate themselves. It's time for white men and women to immerse themselves in a black history that is currently impossible for them to grasp.

There are stories that have been begging to be heard for 400 years. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was born to a Dutchman and a black slave in New York in the 1670s. I may never know her mother's name, let alone her story, but that tiniest fragment of African DNA still shows up in her descendants today. Were it not for her story, I would not be here to tell my tales, so I will do my best to tell hers, and those of the Franks, Reubens, and Humphreys I find along the way.

Black Lives Matter.

Black Lives have always mattered. For many, that awakening is long past due.

Copyright, Contracts, Commitments, and Human Decency: Resolution

The issues detailed in my previous blog can successfully, happily, and agreeably be put behind me. My issue with the National Genealogical Society (NGS) has been resolved thanks to the helpful intervention of the Association of Professional Genealogists (APG). The president of APG, a dear friend and an advocate for professional genealogists, knew that if NGS’s president heard the entirety of my story he would seek a reasonable solution. She volunteered her time and her car to drive several hours out of her way so that all three of us could meet in Granger, Indiana, after the conclusion of the 2019 NGS Conference in St. Charles, Missouri.  The meeting was fruitful and productive, and we learned that we all want the same thing: for NGS speakers to have their individual needs accommodated whenever possible and for speakers to know and feel they are truly appreciated by NGS and the genealogical community. On a broader level, we all value the contributions of genealogists everywhere, and we all strive to be inclusive and welcoming to professionals and hobbyists alike. My passion for researching and lecturing is matched by the passion that both NGS and APG have to further promote education, advocacy, collaboration, and ethical standards in the field of genealogy. I hope through the resolution of this issue that all of us can achieve a greater good for genealogists, speakers, and societies alike.

Michael D. Lacopo, DVM

Ben Spratling, JD, President NGS

Billie Fogarty, M.Ed., President APG

Copyright, Contracts, Commitments, and Human Decency

I received a royalty check from the National Genealogical Society (NGS) on 20 April 2019.

Cool, right? I am making money, and all I have to do is sit back and let the cash roll in!

The problem with that concept of "free money" is that the National Genealogical Society had nothing of mine to sell. So what was producing royalty checks? Unfortunately, I had an idea. And I didn't like it.

A few computer keystrokes were all it took to confirm my fears. Lectures that I had delivered for the National Genealogical Society's yearly conferences in Raleigh, North Carolina, in 2017; and Grand Rapids, Michigan, in 2018; were recorded and presented for sale by NGS. Many speakers opt for their presentations to be sold in this manner. I do not.

There is this little contract provision found in both of my 2017 and 2018 documents that states "I do not want any of my lectures to be recorded." The bold is not my addition. It is written as such in the contract.

I would never consider myself a hot head. I rarely act out irrationally in a fit of passion. Trust me, I learned to be incredibly patient with people after a quarter-of-a-century as a veterinarian. One learns to find their internal happy place when berated by pet owners with unrealistic expectations, or to be a source of calm and reason when pet owners are justifiably upset with their fur baby's health issues.

But yeah, I was angry.

I understand that errors occur. I understand that something as simple as checking the wrong box or adding my name to the wrong list allowed my lecture to be inadvertently recorded. I understand that there was no malicious intent to make money off my hard work. But even the most innocent of errors have consequences, and as an independent researcher, lecturer, and author, who has to pay his mortgage by genealogical research and lecturing, these are very significant consequences indeed.

There's also this little thing called copyright. Dictionary.com defines it as "the exclusive right to make copies, license, and otherwise exploit a literary, musical, or artistic work, whether printed, audio, video, etc." Sadly, genealogists are absolutely the worst at respecting copyright law. They are the masters of the cut-and-paste, presenting work as their own and never crediting the author or researcher who spent years of time, effort, and money producing a masterful work of reason, logic, and analysis. It is such a pervasive problem that Judy Russell has covered it repeatedly in her popular blog "The Legal Genealogist." Books have been written about copyright exclusively for the genealogist. It's a big deal. A really, really big deal.

I immediately sent an email to the long-standing conference manager employed by NGS voicing my displeasure, hoping that my email would make it to the powers-that-be for some sort of resolution.

What does resolution mean to me?

Let me repeat. I am a reasonable human being. Sure, I want to be compensated in some manner for the improper reproduction and sale of my work. Sure, I think there should be some sort of penalty or remuneration for repeated breaches of contract. But remember, I am a genealogist. I gave up a life of monetary riches when I decided to chase dead people full time and abandon my medical profession. This was not an opportunity for me to see dollar signs rolling in my eyes like some sort of Warner Brothers cartoon. Not by any means. So what do I think would have been an appropriate response?

"Oh my God, we made a HUGE mistake! And we did it two years in a row! Yikes! We are so sorry! What can we do to fix this?"

In a world torn apart by divisiveness and nasty rifts borne out of race, religion, and politics, human decency goes a long, long, long way with me.

What did I receive?

Yes, I got an apology. Kind of.

I got an apology for being sent a royalty check.

Ummmm.... okay. That wasn't quite what I was looking for. This was followed by an explanation that only a handful of my lectures were sold, so it was no big deal. Get over it.

Remember that silly thing called copyright? It is apparently so important to the National Genealogical Society that it is mentioned twice on their website regarding Social Media Policy for Conference Attendees. "NGS does not permit photography nor audio or video recording in the lecture rooms at the NGS Family History Conference. Presentations, including slides and handouts, are protected by copyright and may not be reproduced." This is followed by encouraging a social media presence by conference attendees as long as "copyright law is observed." NGS conference organizers have in the past required speakers to include a slide in their presentations reminding attendees of this policy. They also have a script at every podium for speakers to read out loud regarding this policy before even beginning their lecture. In the past, NGS has threatened to remove attendees from sessions if they are caught snapping photographs of a presenter's slides.

It seems then that copyright should be a big deal for this organization, yes? Apparently it is not when they are the offenders.

Not pleased with a curt dismissal, I wrote again to the National Genealogical Society on 28 April 2019, asking for resolution -- not for excuses, dismissal, or denials. This time the entire Board of Directors was addressed. I also expressed reservations doing further business with them until this matter was resolved.

The tricky part? I was already contractually obliged to present two lectures and two luncheons for the 2019 National Genealogical Society's annual conference in St. Charles, Missouri, to be held 8-11 May 2019. I had spent many hours preparing a brand new lecture for this event, as well as producing a never-seen-before luncheon talk. National conferences are a wonderful way to reconnect with old friends and colleagues, as well as to meet new people willing and eager to chat for hours about musty records, remote repositories, crumbling tombstones, out-of-print finding aids, DNA findings, and long dead people. I was excited to do some book signings for the chapter I wrote in the recently-published Advanced Genetic Genealogy: Techniques and Case Studies. This conference had been on my calendar for a year, and I was prepared to drive twelve hours round trip to attend and speak even though I was scheduled to arrive home from a speaking gig in Santa Rosa, California, just the day before hitting the road to Missouri. Additionally, I had obligations to two additional respected organizations to give luncheons that they had generously sponsored. I am not going to lie. The thought of doing further business with an organization presently treating me so poorly was not topping my list of favorite things to do, but at least the conference's rapid approach might stimulate some sort of discussion and pathway to resolution on the part of NGS before I had to hop in my car for a six-hour trek to St. Charles.

I was wrong.

Silence.

Loud, deafening, telling silence. That was the response I received.

The beginning of May found me at the annual Ohio Genealogical Society Conference in Mason, Ohio. Those of us who give genealogical lectures are a relatively small group. We see each other all over the country, so much so that none of us can remember when and where the last meeting occurred. "Was that Burbank? Or Columbus? Or Fort Wayne? I can't recall. But hey, how are you?" I have already told you that I think myself to be a reasonable, level-headed man. But I also like to talk to my friends and colleagues. And I am an easy read. Sad, frustrated, angry, confused, happy, joyful: it's incredibly easy to tell what I am feeling, and I am profoundly transparent in my conversations. There's little in my life I won't share with others who ask (or sometimes don't ask). Many of the speakers and vendors got an earful regarding my present dilemma. Not so surprisingly, I also got my share of many, many "this is how NGS screwed me over" stories from other genealogists and vendors. I also got shared outrage. Misery certainly does love company.

The most surprising thing to come out of my lecturing in Ohio was the one most unexpected. That being an ongoing, daily string of information from colleagues and organizations that they were being actively recruited to fill my lecture and luncheon time slots at the NGS 2019 Conference. Apparently, NGS's solution to the problem at hand was to remove me from the program without any form of communication. This is what would be classically called the "You can't quit. You're fired!" move. It seems that they expected me to show up in St. Charles, Missouri, to inform me that my services were no longer needed. A curt dismissal would have angered me, but I didn't even get the benefit of that. So now we can add a third year in the row that NGS has failed to live up to their contractual obligations, as well as depriving me of income that I rely on to make ends meet.

Still, I got only silence.

Why am I writing this? There are multiple reasons.

Firstly, as genealogists, lecturers, and conference attendees, I think you all should know the duplicitous nature currently employed by the National Genealogical Society. Their actions indicate that copyright law seems to be only applicable when and where it inconveniences them the least. Additionally, those who continue to do business with NGS or will be asked to lecture or vend at the 2020 conference in Salt Lake City, Utah, might want to take pause and rethink their decisions based on my experiences. Contracts are apparently meaningless slips of paper. I have been humbled by the outpouring of support by my genealogical colleagues, whether that be messages stating "stand your ground!" or the refusal by other speakers to fill my lecture slots in St. Charles out of a unified principled stance. I truly love those who share this insane genealogical obsession with me.

Secondly, I like to think that those who see me lecture can sense my passion for genealogy as well as my exuberant joy in sharing my knowledge and teaching. I deeply regret disappointing those who came to St. Charles, Missouri, expecting to see me lecture or those who paid additional money to attend a luncheon that I will not be presenting. I want all those wonderful genealogists presently in Missouri to know I am there with them in all their totally geeked-out, genealogy-everywhere-around-them wonder and joy in thought and spirit. I wanted to be there bodily and in person. I truly did. Those who showed up at a lecture or a luncheon or book signing expecting to see me deserve to know why I am not there.

Thirdly, take a look at those serving on the Board of Directors for the National Genealogical Society at https://www.ngsgenealogy.org/bod/. If you happen to run into any of them in the conference halls in St. Charles, Missouri, you might want to ask them what copyright infringement and contractual obligation means to them. Maybe you will get an answer. If so, let me know, I still I have not. Or perhaps snap some photos of some slides during one of their lectures and question them with bewildered amazement when they seemed perturbed or upset at your audacity to flaunt the law.

Fourthly, for loyal readers of this blog, you know writing is cathartic for me. From my father's suicide to my flooded library to my present frustrations, I gain some sort of calm by putting it all in writing. I gave a luncheon talk in Ohio about the benefits of genealogical blogging, and I felt like a fraud because I have been on hiatus for so long. I had mentioned that in addition to telling the story of my maternal grandfather (which will be told to completion -- I promise), I thought this might be a space to repurpose and remold into sharing other genealogical tidbits, research nuggets, and stories of successes and failures.

Consider this my first repurposing. It is one of frustration, anger, and sadness.

EDIT: For those who come across this blog post by itself,  you can read the joint statement crafted by the National Genealogical Society, the Association of Professional Genealogists, and myself at Copyright, Contracts, Commitments, and Human Decency: Resolution.

Sins of the Father, Part II

Daniel Daugherty would run from his debts in Ohio in 1839 to end up here, nearly 500 miles to the west, to start a new life with a new wife.

Note to Readers: This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the earliest entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here:  Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings. For those who have read the blog up to this point have accompanied me on my journey of discovery, we will now explore the life of the man I discovered, the meeting of father and daughter, and the ramifications thereof.

"The fathers eat the sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge." − Ezekiel 18:2.

Daniel Daugherty

Daniel Daugherty (1803-1880) had spent a lifetime on the move. Born in Virginia, his father moved him to the wild, sparsely-populated plains of southwestern Ohio by the time he was nine years old. Daniel was the oldest child to accompany his family on their westward trek. He was old enough to recall his mother's death the year before and likely a weighty sadness at knowing he would never see her grave again. His father, Thomas, had quickly remarried in the fall of 1811, and by the spring of 1812, they were on their way westward. So many changes had befallen the family in such a short time, and young Daniel was coming of an age where it all made little sense to him. One thing of which he was blissfully unaware was his father Thomas's ongoing legal problems. Thomas Daugherty and his father-in-law had concocted a fraudulent land sale nearly a decade before, and clear title and restitution were still being argued in the courts. Thomas, the only living person left to bear the brunt of the crime, likely found it easier to leave the state with a new wife two decades his junior in tow.

This new bride barely in her twenties, pregnant with her first child, and struggling with home life on the frontier with two brand-new stepsons would soon face her struggle alone. Shortly after arriving in Ohio, and while Daniel was still a boy, he was forced to take on the role of the "man of the house" when his father enlisted and left home for active duty in the War of 1812.

Thomas returned the following year, and several more children filled the household over the next decade. Daniel Daugherty took his first wife in 1824 and started his own family at the same time his youngest half-sibling was born. His stepmother died the following summer, and he watched these much younger half-siblings farmed out by his father to be raised by neighboring families. This lack of familial cohesion would repeat itself in Daniel's own family two decades later, and in all the Daugherty lines to follow.

Daniel operated a small mercantile business and storehouse in Jeffersonville, Ohio, under the name of "D. Daugherty & Company". The Panic of 1837 left him with debtors who refused to pay on their accounts and creditors who repeatedly took him to court. The Circleville Bank and the Bank of Xenia were pressuring Daniel through the courts to pay on his outstanding notes. Daniel defaulted on his loans and skipped town. By 1839, all court cases stalled indefinitely because Daniel Daugherty's whereabouts were unknown. His business partners were left with his share of the debts.

Daniel Daugherty hid from his creditors, but he also disappeared from his family as well. Although his siblings scattered all over the Midwest, many surviving documents indicate a consistent attempt to remain in contact with each other... that is, with all of them but Daniel. Perhaps just not knowing where to find him, they gave up. And he hid well. Not only do I have no idea where he was during the 1840s, neither did his own children have a clear recollection as they reached adulthood. Those born during this decade never consistently knew their own place of birth. Ohio? Indiana? Illinois? Somewhere around there. Some reported later on census reports that their place of birth was just flat "unknown."

By 1846, Daniel begins showing up in places along the Mississippi River between New Boston and Rock Island, Illinois. Sometimes he is on the Iowa side, sometimes on the Illinois side. Never does he stay anywhere long. In the Spring of that year, his wife died, leaving him with children ranging from 21 years to six months old, strangely reminiscent of his father's predicament two decades before. His response was identical. The elder children were left to fend for themselves, while the younger children appear to have been taken in by strangers wherever he seemed to drop them on his travels up and down the river.

In 1849, Daniel made the acquaintance of a widow, Elizabeth (Lequat) Holstein. In her late-thirties with three young children, she had been widowed for almost five years. Her father, Shadrack Lequat, had come to Rock Island County, Illinois, in 1838, and was a prosperous merchant at Drury's Landing. This bustling, growing town boasted one of the first steamboat landings in the area. Boats stopped for wood to refuel, for passengers to disembark, for trade and commerce. Elizabeth was not in a hurry to remarry. She could rely on the financial support of her family as well as the proceeds generated by the 80 acres of land her late husband, Henry Holstein, had purchased in 1841.

Daniel Daugherty married the widow Holstein in the Spring of 1849. Perhaps her economic future was less certain, as Elizabeth's father had died two years previously, and nothing had been accomplished regarding the division of his estate. Elizabeth was no fool though. She protected the land she had acquired from her deceased first husband. The day before her marriage to Daugherty, she sold to 80 acres of land to her 18- and 12-year-old daughters and to her 9-year-old son.

The records are silent regarding the reception of Daniel Daugherty into the Lequat family. At the time of his death, the elder Shadrack Lequat was caring for his namesake grandson, whose guardianship was a matter of heated debate between his new stepfather, and his deceased father's family. Although the younger Shadrack died as a child just months after Daniel Daugherty entered the family, Daniel was the one appointed administrator of his estate, much to the dismay of both parties feuding over the child. Both the elder and younger Shadrack's estates became intimately intertwined, and it was Daniel Daugherty who took the lead filing accounts in no less than three different counties in Iowa and Illinois, selling land and goods in multiple locations and bringing the matter to a close. Was he an outsider new to the family whose business acumen was needed at just the right time? Or was Daniel's evident financial success achieved only after his fortuitous marriage looked upon with disdain by the in-laws who only saw him as an opportunist?

The two families were permanently united with the birth of John Henry Daugherty in 1852. Daniel had none of his children living with him, and Elizabeth had already married off her eldest daughter. Daniel Daugherty was presented with another chance at fatherhood. Maybe he was overcome with a newfound sense of responsibility, or maybe he was just a man turning fifty with a baby who decided he needed to stop racing up and down the Mississippi River. In 1855, he reclaimed into his household his youngest daughter by his first marriage. Nine-year-old Rachel was living with her recently widowed eldest sister in Rock Island County, Illinois, when she rejoined the paternal household. Elizabeth's youngest son by her first marriage, Silas, was 16 years old, and the last one of her children to remain at home. That year, Daniel, Elizabeth, Silas, Rachel, and baby John, journeyed nearly 250 miles northward into the newly settled Minnesota Territory. Daniel Daugherty likely heard the buzz the year before on the many Mississippi River docks he frequented. Promoters as far-flung as LaCrosse, Wisconsin, and St. Paul, Minnesota, had invested in a new town to be built on the Wabasha prairie on the west side of the Mississippi. Willard Bunnell, the developer of the town, had been on good terms with the Wabasha band of Sioux Indians for years, and he had already built a hotel and a number of buildings in his new river town. The town of Minneowah or "Snow Water" was born in 1853, and Daniel saw it as a perfect location to start a mercantile business with the rapid and endless flow of settlers into the Minnesota Territory by way of the Mississippi River.

The whole plan was a disaster.

Willard Bunnell was a successful Indian trader, but he was a lousy town builder. He had neglected to register the land upon which his fledgling town was growing much to the chagrin of his investors. Once the land office opened, it was open for any squatter to claim. The first one in line was Daniel Daugherty.

Daniel laid claim to not only the land upon which his store and warehouse were located but also to the hotel and other choice pieces of real estate. This so infuriated Bunnell that his confrontation with Daniel quickly became physical. Some sources say that Daniel Daugherty bit off Bunnell's thumb, or that he bent it back so far and mangled it, that it had to be amputated. Nonetheless, Daniel kept his land while Willard lost his digit.

Bunnell's investors quickly sold their shares in the failed venture, and Willard responded by platting a new town, Homer, immediately to the south of Minneowah, in 1855. Bunnell was still seeking riches and success as the new Minnesota boom town on the Mississippi River. Both men − Daugherty and Bunnell − failed to realize their dreams. Just five miles upstream on a location Bunnell had previously dismissed as a miserable sandbar prone to flooding, the little town of Winona became the success story that Bunnell yearned for. From the laying out of town lots in 1853 to the end of 1856, Winona's population grew to 3,000. Homer never surpassed a couple hundred inhabitants. Minneowah ceased to exist, being considered merely a northern extension of Homer. Daniel Daugherty was left with a store in a tiny failed town. Willard Bunnell would die shortly after in 1861.

On the Mississippi, Near Winona, Shower Clearing (1868) by Alfred Bricher
This scene depicts the downriver stretch below Winona as you approach Homer, Minnesota

Was Daniel Daugherty a man prone to violence who ran from responsibility? Was he more concerned with his own financial advancement to give much thought to raising a family? He was apparently trusted by the people of Homer during his stay in Minnesota. He was elected chairman of the township supervisors at the first election held in newly formed Homer Township in 1858. He submitted a bid to the Minnesota House of Representatives for a contract to carry mail from Winona to Burr Oak, but lost it in 1858. He was business savvy enough to be chosen as an administrator for the estates of fellow townspeople during the 1860s. But on the family front, Daniel still seemed to fail at maintaining a nuclear family. His daughter Rachel, not even a teen, left the home shortly after their arrival in Minnesota to live in the household of an unrelated local family. His stepson, Silas V. Holstein, also left in his teens to work on the railroad and to spend his youth exploring the Midwest and learning the trade of mechanic and millwright on the verge of the Civil War.

Shortly after arriving in Minnesota, Daniel and Elizabeth welcomed their last child. These two young children by Elizabeth gave Daniel a second chance at fatherhood. As a man approaching his mid-50s with some apparent community respect and a moderately successful commercial business, he could raise his two young sons with measured patience, discipline, and understanding − something he could not provide to his first bevy of children, now grown and scattered throughout Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, and Kansas.

It is not known what paternal guidance and affection Daniel Daugherty bestowed upon his youngest sons. It is not known if the lessons Daniel Daugherty learned from his own father and gained from his own life experiences were imparted upon young John and Ira. Whatever life path upon which Daniel Daugherty tried to guide his sons, fate would continue to produce Daugherty men in the molds of their fathers.

This time, John Henry Daugherty, the toddler who may have watched in horror as his father tore the thumb from his adversary, would bring the meaning of familial responsibility to a new low.

Sins of the Father, Part I

Note to Readers: This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the earliest entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here:  Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings. For those who have read the blog up to this point have accompanied me on my journey of discovery. We will now explore the life of the man I discovered, the meeting of father and daughter, and the ramifications thereof.

"When positive masculine energy is not modeled from father to son, it creates a vacuum in the souls of men, and into that vacuum demons pour."   -- Richard Rohr

James Daugherty, a middling prosperous landowner and businessman in post-Revolutionary War Rockbridge County, Virginia, was experiencing his mid-life crisis. The last of his children were leaving home, marrying, and starting lives of their own. Unable to waste his money on a crimson red sports car and take up recreational drug use, he did the next best thing a man his position can do in the mid-1790s. He ran off with his housekeeper.

Having "went off with an idle woman of the name [Lucretia] Vanscoit to the County of Wythe where he had a valuable plantation", James Daugherty had resettled nearly 120 miles away down the Shenandoah Valley and left his wife Hannah with no means of support. Hannah Daugherty may have soon believed that her husband got what was coming to him. Shortly after his departure, he was "found dead, and died by a visit of God in a natural way" in 1799.

Hannah Daugherty took up residence in the household of her son, David Daugherty. It may have pained her to see her son follow in his father's footsteps. In 1815, David's wife Ruth filed for divorce. Her husband had for some time past been involved with a married woman, Betsey Carson. Betsey's husband, Martin, testified before the Rockbridge County, Virginia, Chancery Court that his wife told him "that the said David Daugherty had informed her that he intended to poison his wife that he might have the better opportunity of connecting himself with the said Betsey, and she acknowledged that he was the father of two of her children." Like his father James, David abandoned his wife into the care of his son and moved 175 miles down the valley, with no judgment made on his divorce.

Thomas Daugherty, another son of James Daugherty, may not have been as outwardly cruel to his spouse as his father and brother appeared to be, but then again, he rarely had time to tire of a wife. Repeatedly widowed, he married in 1791, 1800, 1811, and 1827. He left Virginia immediately after his marriage to his third wife, and headed for the wilds of southwest Ohio, an area having only been settled within the previous decade. Perhaps he had an adventurous spirit. More likely, he conveniently escaped prosecution for fraud in a complex legal case in which he was accused of marrying his second wife only to procure land, of which clear title was in question. His absence caused the case to cease without judgment.

Immediately upon settling in Ohio, Thomas Daugherty joined a regiment to fight in the War of 1812, and supposedly saw battle on Lake Erie. A thrilling adventure for a young man in his 20s, but Thomas was in his mid-40s and recently settled in an untamed wilderness. He may have experienced an adventure of a lifetime, but he left behind a new bride two decades his junior to care for a slew of children and step-children. Upon her death in 1825, many of his younger children were distributed into other families to raise. Although Thomas lived well into his 80s and fathered ten or more children, statements taken after his death in 1852 indicate none of his children showed interest in visiting him, even though some of them lived neaby. Ephraim Daugherty cared for his father, Thomas, only upon agreement that he would gain sole possession of military bounty land in Indiana upon his father's death.

Another of Thomas Daugherty's son, Daniel Daugherty, was a shrewd and cunning business man. Much like his grandfather James Daugherty, he invested in property. Not content to live the mundane  agricultural life of his peers, he invested in small businesses in his adopted home town of Jeffersonville, Ohio, that had only been laid out in 1831. He started a wholesale drygoods business and local store with backing from prominent figures in Fayette County, Ohio, political circles. Married in 1824, and already with a household full of children, his businesses failed in the Panic of 1837. Dozens of law suits followed. Banks and creditors demanded money from him that he did not have. He unsuccessfully sued those who owed him money. Business partners were angered by the debt he had accrued in their name, and even angrier when he failed to appear in court to answer their questions. Although Daugherty men in previous generations had run away from domestic problems, the solution was the same for financial ones as well.

He skipped town.

Daniel Daugherty's whereabouts for nearly a decade thereafter are unknown. He was crafiter than the generations before him, having effectively disappeared, evading those seeking him for unpaid debts. He reappeared in Mercer and Rock Island Counties, Illinois, shortly before his remarriage in 1849 to a wealthy widow from a prominent local family, his first wife apparently dead. Within months of marrying his second wife, he inserted himself aggressively into business dealings of his new wife's family. Reminiscent of accusations leveled against his father in Virginia decades before, documents uncovered in Illinois, Iowa, and Minnesota accused Daniel of marrying for money and social leverage. Daniel maintained business contacts along a 300-mile stretch of the Mississippi River, all the while depositing children from his first wife amongst families in a tri-state area, relieving himself of the need to care for them.

In 1853, Daniel Daugherty removed to the fledgling town of Homer, Minnesota, on the Mississippi River. Willard Bunnell, the first white settler of the area, had plans for the town he created on the western bank of the river, initially dubbed Bunell's Landing. Although Willard had built a hotel and other buildings in his fledgling town, "he did not have the aptitute, patience, or the tact necessary to successfully organize and develop a town site." One of his oversights was filing a claim to the property he had developed. When the federal land office opened in Winona in 1854, Daniel Daugherty unscrupulously claimed all of Willard Bunnell's land. None too pleased, Bunnell angrily confronted Daniel Daugherty, and in the ensuing "fight Daugherty seized Bunnell's thumb in a vise-like grip and held on until Bunnell surrendered. Bunnell lost not only the fight, but also his thumb, which was so mutilated, it had to be amputated."

Daniel Daugherty followed members of his wife's family to Poweshiek County, Iowa, by 1865, where he purchased a modest 80-acre farm. When he was widowed again in 1873, it took him less than a year to marry another well-to-do widow, Galetsy (Gowen) Wright. The couple removed to the nearby town of Belle Plaine, Iowa, but the marriage lasted only two years. This time a Daugherty wife took a stand, and left her husband after "diverse unhappy disputes and differences" and the two "agreed to live separate and apart from each other during their natural life." Galetsy made sure she maintained sole rights and custody of the real estate and property she brought into the marriage.

When Daniel Daugherty penned his last will and testament in February 1880, he had only nine more months of life left in him. He left bequests to six children by his first wife that he had little part in raising, some of them unknowingly already dead.

From James to Thomas to Daniel, the legacy of Daugherty fathers was one of abandonment, deception, violence, and selfishness. The ensuing three generations of Daugherty men only magnified and built upon an already deeply ingrained and established theme.

The grand finale would end with a daughter.