Month: July 2024

“The Most Righteous War:” The Leadership and Sacrifice of Lt. Col. William Swaim

Wells County Memorial, Erected William Swaim Post No. 169, Department of Indiana, Grand Army of the Republic (G.A.R.), Oaklawn Cemetery, Ossian, Wells County, Indiana, accessed American Legion.

When we look at statues and oil paintings of Civil War leaders today, it’s easy to see them all as career military men trained in strategy and combat tactics with a lifetime of professional experience. But most of those who served in the Civil War were just regular people, not trained soldiers. They were farmers and laborers, trying to make ends meet and provide for their families. And yet when President Lincoln called for volunteers at the outbreak of the conflict in 1861, hundreds of thousands answered, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. Why? What would inspire a Hoosier farmer to leave his wife, children, and homestead to fight an ideological war from which he might never return?

Eight Unidentified Soldiers of 34th Indiana Infantry Regiment (“Morton Rifles”) in Zouave Uniforms, circa 1861-1865, Liljenquist Family Collection, Library of Congress, www.loc.gov.

While some have argued that the average soldier did not understand the causes of the Civil War, leading scholars, notably including the Pulitzer-Prize winning historian James McPherson, have shown otherwise. With literacy rates and newspaper circulation on the rise, Americans were tapped into current events and politics, including ideological clashes over slavery. They formed debating groups and joined political clubs. They had strong opinions about the democratic experiment and preserving the Union. Indiana residents volunteered in great numbers and encouraged their neighbors and family members to do the same. Many expressed a patriotic duty to serve their country, but some also explicitly fought to end slavery. The battlefield letters of one Hoosier farmer, William A. Swaim of Wells County, provide insight into why one such man served and sacrificed.[1]

William Swaim, copy of photograph, n.d., in The Civil War Letters of Lieutenant Colonel William Swaim,  Indiana Collection, Indiana State Library.

William Achsah Swaim was born in New Jersey in 1819. He married Hannah Toy in 1844 and the couple moved to Ohio. There, he worked as a blacksmith and, for a time, manufactured steel plows. In the late 1850s, Swaim moved to a farm just north of Ossian in Wells County, Indiana. From his personal letters it is clear that he was a loving husband and father of five children and that he managed a successful farm, growing corn, rye, wheat, apples, and clover, and raising cows and pigs. He was leading a peaceable, simple, and secure life. But the nation was in turmoil.[2]

Oliver P. Morton to Abraham Lincoln, April 9, 1861, Oliver Morton Papers, accessed Indiana Historical Society Digital Collections.

In the summer of 1861, just days after Indiana Governor Oliver P. Morton wrote to President Abraham Lincoln promising to send tens of thousands of Indiana troops, William Swaim enlisted in the Union Army. Swaim also helped raise a company of volunteers from Wells County, mainly from the small towns of Ossian, Murray, and Bluffton. His ability to inspire these men to enlist attests to his prominence in the community. Among the men who formed Company A of the 34th Regiment Indiana Volunteers was Swaim’s son James who was only sixteen years old.[3]

James “Jim” Swaim, copy of photograph, n.d., in The Civil War Letters of Private James Swaim,  Indiana Collection, Indiana State Library.

Recognizing his natural capacity for leadership, the men of the 34th Regiment elected William Swaim as their captain. The regiment mustered in Anderson in September 1861. Almost immediately Swaim identified issues with the camp and areas in which the men needed to improve and he stepped into a leadership position – even above his official rank – to make the necessary changes. With a dearth of experienced military leaders in the Army at the time, this is something that he would do throughout his service.

He often wrote about serving in such leadership roles in letters home to his wife Hannah. (Modern readers will have to excuse Swaim’s spelling and try to absorb the crux of his words.) Upon arriving at Anderson, he began ordering soldiers to clean up their clothing and belongings. He wrote, “I yesterday acted as comander of the camp[.] You better believe I feelt some what awkerd but I done the best I could have.” He continued, “One consulation, there is plently as green as I am and worse than myself.” His words demonstrate that Swaim was one of many average citizens who would have to rise to the occasion and become military leaders.[4]

W. Stengel, Camp Joe Holt, Kentucky, illustration, New York Illustrated News, July 29, 1861, p. 204, accessed WikiCommons.

Swaim and the 34th soon travelled to Indianapolis before setting up at Camp Jo Holt in Jeffersonville, just across the Ohio River from Louisville. Here, they waited for rifles and orders. He wrote, “We expect to go to Kentucky soon as we get our guns and in all probility will find something to do and that is what we all want.” It was important to Swaim to prove his bravery and he wanted to see action. He continued:

In [skirmishes] all places of honor are the most dangerous but that is just the place for me[.] If I come out of this war let me come out honorable.[5]

While commendable, this bravery was not uncommon during the war, largely because of the bonds the men built together. Historian James McPherson argued that because regiments were composed of men from the same region, they were motivated to uphold the reputation of themselves, their families, and their hometowns. This was certainly true for Swaim who instructed his wife to tell the folks back home in Ossian that the company was anxious to join the fight and that when they hear about the regiment “you will hear that [we] maintained our honour.”[6]

By November 1861, the weather had turned cold with three inches of snow. The 34th still hadn’t seen any action but remained in good spirits and eager to serve. The Indiana Herald (Huntington) published “The Hoosier Thirty-Fourth,” a poem, or perhaps song, composed by the men. Among the stanzas was this ode to Swaim:

Capt. Swaim will meet them on the field,
And show them that we fear
No Southerner when they fight
The Hoosier Volunteers.[7]

Oliver P. Morton, photograph, n.d.,
Ostendorf Collection, Lincoln Financial Foundation Collection, Allen County Public Library, accessed Indiana Memory.

The 34th also expressed their devotion to Governor Morton and became known as the “Morton Rifles.” They even appealed to the Indiana General Assembly, encouraging their legislators to provide Morton with whatever manpower and resources needed for the war effort. They wrote:

Then we ask of you that you work earnestly and unitedly to do what you can to crush this rebellion, furnishing all the means necessary, and looking at no expense, so that it may save our country and give our children an undivided inheritance and a permanent peace. Especially we do ask that you would sustain our present worthy Governor, who, since the commencement of this struggle, has devoted himself entirely to the great work of preserving intact the greatest and best republic that ever existed.

They asked their legislators to earmark money for Governor Morton to call up more troops and create hospitals for sick and wounded soldiers and they asked for a “resolution of thanks” to Morton, whom they called “the soldier’s friend.” Swaim wrote that “the document was Signed by Every officer and nearly every man in the Regt.”[8]

“Sibley Tents as Winter Headquarters,” photograph, 1861, Wallach Division Picture Collection, New York Public Library Digital Collections.

The 34th finally crossed over into New Haven, Kentucky in late November 1861, marching to Camp Wickliffe in December and remaining until February 1862. During this stay, it rained often, camp was muddy, and many men caught colds. Swaim and his son James, whom he referred to as Jim, made the best of it, sharing a Sibley tent, eating well, and writing home. Swaim often answered his other children’s questions about camp life, giving detailed descriptions of their dinner – bean soup, crackers, pickles, and black coffee with sugar.[9]

While stationed at Camp Wickliffe, the Wells County men of Company A often performed picket duty, surveilling the enemy lines for any movement. Swaim also rode out to evaluate the men of other companies on picket duty, moving or replacing them as he saw fit. Sometimes this travel allowed him to stay and eat at the home of a local woman. He made sure to write and let Hannah know that he found his host to have a “homely” appearance. Swaim sent Hannah such assurances on several occasions, a sign of his ongoing affection for his wife. He also wrote that he was sure it seemed like the regiment was moving slowly, but that they were indeed preparing for a battle that would be “a grand Sight and one that I have long wished to see.” He explained that he knew “many men will have to be left buryed in the Solders grave but it will be a gloryious death if we conqurer in the end.”[10]

The Army of the Potomac – The Picket Guard, engraving, 1861, published in Harper’s Weekly, November 2, 1861, p. 694, Library of Congress.

As various leaders of the 34th resigned, moved to other regiments, or fell ill, Swaim again acted in positions above his rank as captain at Camp Wickliffe. On January 19, 1862, he told Hannah that he had been acting as colonel for the past week, drilling the regiments and meeting with the “Brass.” And a week later, he wrote that he was acting as “Captain, Major and Colonel and shall have to till the staff is filled.” He stated that he would not be surprised if Governor Morton approved a higher appointment for him very soon. He was correct. On February 16, Swaim was commissioned the rank of Major.[11]

Meanwhile, Hannah Swaim ran the farm, cared for the children, and arranged business deals – selling corn and grain and making payments on their house. She often wrote to William for his advice, but never asked him to come home. He praised her for this support and told her how much he wished he could see her and “the little ones,” but stood firm in his desire to do his duty to his country.[12]

Map showing the system of Confederate fortifications on the Mississippi River at Island No. 10 and New Madrid, map, 1862, Library of Congress Geography and Map Division, accessed https://lccn.loc.gov/99447227.

In March 1862, the 34th Regiment finally saw action, joining the Siege of New Madrid (Battle of Island Number 10) on the Mississippi River at the border between Tennessee and Missouri. The 34th joined the siege, but Swaim reported that their field guns were too light compared to the Confederate gun boats firing on them from the river. He wrote to Hannah about shells passing over their heads in their wooded position three-quarters of a mile from the main action, where they were stationed to protect a battery of field guns. He said that as the shells “howeled pass they make a screaming noise” until they “burst in pieces and fly in every direction.” He reported that while some of the boys turned pale, “give them a chance and they will fight to all distruction.” Before signing off, he told Hannah: “If we shall fall in battle it would be a gloryious death and an honorable one.”[13]

Harper’s Weekly 6, no. 275 (April 5, 1862): 212, accessed Archive.org.

Larger artillery soon arrived and Union forces took New Madrid before combined Army and Navy operations led to the capture of Island Number 10. (Learn more about how “Union Army and Navy commanders maneuvered their forces to capture the most formidable Confederate river strongpoint north of Vicksburg” from the U.S. Naval Institute). With the capture of strategic Confederate positions along a bend in the Mississippi River at New Madrid, Missouri and the small nearby island, the Union gained control of the river all the way to Fort Pillow in Tennessee. Swaim had proved his leadership in battle and was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel June 15, 1862.[14]

As the 34th continued South, they saw action at Grand Prairie near Aberdeen, Arkansas before serving on garrison duty in Helena, Arkansas. Swaim described the changing scenery as they marched by abandoned fields of corn and blooming cotton. He and his son James experienced bouts of dysentery, but were able to recover fairly quickly. He complained about inaccurate reports of troop movements in the newspapers. He often wrote about the new draft and hoped that the numbers would fill the places of those in his regiment who had been killed, injured, or fallen ill.

And he seemed puzzled and indifferent to a sick Black man attempting to travel with the regiment. He wrote in dehumanizing language about this ill man, potentially a self-emancipated formerly enslaved person looking for protection.[15] But while he likely held prejudices against Black southerners, or Black people more generally, Swaim was also vehemently opposed to slavery. He believed not simply that it should not be extended into new territories, like many anti-slavery advocates at the time, but that it should be abolished. And he was ready to give life for this ideological belief.

Timothy O’Sullivan, Fugitive African Americans forging the Rappahannock, collodion negatives, 1862, Civil War Photographs, Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/resource/cwpb.00218/.

In August 1862, he wrote to Hannah about a letter he received from Han Platt, a relative of the Swaims. Platt had written of news from home but also that she was encouraging her family not to enlist. She called it “a Negro war” and said “the Abalitionest and Negros ought to fight it out.” Swaim was livid. He told his wife:

I answered her by saying that I had been an Abalitionist for nearly thirty years and Gloryed in it . . . I told her that I had one Son with me in the Armey with me and if he either died by Sickness or by bullets from the Enemey it would be a great consolation to me to know that I had one relation who had curage enough to face Danger with me in Defence of our Countrey.[16]

In a September 1862 letter home, he praised the “splendid” cooking of two Black women, a mother and daughter, who had self-emancipated from enslavement as “house servants” and were travelling with the camp as cooks. He wrote of their desire to return North with the regiment and that the colonel was going to employ them in his home after the war. Before closing, Swaim expressed his “contempt for such men as bye [buy] and sell and abuse” Black women. It is possible that as he got to know more Black people, his empathy and understanding increased. When he wrote to Hannah again in December (after she had come in person for a visit) and reported on everyone’s health, he made sure to include: “We are all well in our Mess including the 3 Negro[s].”[17] [Learn more about Black freedom seekers in Union camps through the National Archives.]

Matthew Brady, Group of 7th New York Infantry, photograph, NAID: 167250882, National Archives, accessed https://catalog.archives.gov/id/167250882.

When the 34th left Helena in January 1863, Swaim told Hannah that a “Black boy Gorge” (likely George) continued to travel with them. But a Black man named “Corneleous” (likely Cornelius) had to stay behind because he had a wife and General Sherman was not allowing and women or citizens south of Helena as he prepared for a major offensive at Vicksburg. Swaim paid Cornelius thirty dollars in some sort of business transaction and “told him to take his money and with it find a place of Freedom . . . he said that was his intentions.”[18]

In another letter, Swaim expressed concern over leaving so many freedom seekers behind, worried about what would happen to them, and hoping that the war would end their plight. He wrote in a February letter:

We think at this time we have a fair prospect of victory ahead . . . over that monster Slavery, which has cost us So meny lives and so much truble[.] Every Senciable man and well wisher of his countrey now admits that it must be distroyed to insure us a lasting piece.[19]

In April 1863, the 34th joined the Vicksburg Campaign as part of Brig. Gen Alvin Hovey’s Division. (A native of Mount Vernon, Indiana, Hovey would go on to serve as the 21st Governor of Indiana). Maj. Gen. Ulysses S. Grant’s Vicksburg Campaign would cut supply lines and destroy manufacturing centers before marching on the Confederate stronghold at Vicksburg. As the 34th headed towards Vicksburg, the greatest danger they had yet faced, Swaim told Hannah:

I feel that we are in the most Righteous war that ever any body was in and if we fall we fall in a good cause — if we get into fight I expect to do my Duty as an officer and leave no stain upon my Character or disgrace upon you or my children[.] I wish you to act the part of a Soldiers wife take things as they come and be redy for the Worst.[20]

Indeed the worst was yet to come.

On April 30, 1863, the 34th Regiment crossed the Mississippi at Bruinsburg and then “marched all night and engaged the enemy at daylight” during the Battle of Port Gibson. The regiment made “a charge during the battle . . . capturing two field pieces and forty-nine prisoners.” They suffered heavy losses.[21]

Major General Grant moved his forces towards Vicksburg, which Jefferson Davis described as the “nailhead” holding the Confederacy together. Taking Vicksburg would give the Union control of the Mississippi and split the Confederacy in half, isolating both sides from reinforcements and supplies. On May 16, 1863, Swaim and the 34th were among Maj. Gen. Grant’s Union forces who engaged Gen. John Pemberton’s Confederate forces in the Battle of Champion Hill, the bloodiest and most significant conflict of the Vicksburg Campaign.[22]

“Champion Hill, May 16, 1863,” American Battlefield Trust, accessed https://www.battlefields.org/learn/maps/champion-hill-may-16-1863

According to the American Battlefield Trust, Maj. Gen. Grant ordered and attack on Pemberton’s defensive line at around 10:00 a.m. This attack was led by divisions under Maj. Gen John A. Logan and Brig. Gen. Hovey, which included the 34th. By 11:30, these two Union brigades reached the main Confederate defensive line and by 1:00 had pushed the Confederates back from the hill and captured the main roads.[23]

Detail Showing the 34th Regiment Indiana Volunteers: “Champion Hill, May 16, 1863,” American Battlefield Trust, accessed https://www.battlefields.org/learn/maps/champion-hill-may-16-1863.

In a furious counterattack, the Confederates pushed Union forces back and nearly retook control of Champion Hill, but were outnumbered. Pemberton’s troops were forced to retreat towards Vicksburg. After a 47-day siege, Union troops would also take Vicksburg, turning the tide of the war in their favor.[24]

“The Battle of Champion Hill,” [illustration], Harper’s Weekly, June 30, 1863, 393, Internet Archive.
At some point during the Battle of Champion Hill, likely during the fierce Confederate counter attack, Lt. Col. William Swaim was severely wounded while leading his men. The Daily Evansville Journal reported:

Lieut. Col. Swain [sic], 34th Indiana, was severely wounded whilst cherring his men and encouraging them in the performance of their duty.[25]

As the rest of the 34th marched on to Vicksburg, Swaim was moved to a nearby hospital, accompanied by his son Jim who helped care for him. While many newspapers reported that Swaim had died on the battlefield, he actually seemed to improve for several weeks. Jim wrote to Hannah:

I received a letter from you today when on the 31 of May you said that you had seen in the papers that pop had been killed at Champion Hills[.] It is all a mistake[.] [26]

Jim reported that while William was severely wounded, he had left the morning of June 12 with a doctor first to Memphis to secure a medical leave of absence and then move to Ossian. Jim concluded, “I expect that he will get home before this letter does.”[27]

But Swaim never made it home. On June 16 or 17, 1863, on his long journey home, Lt. Col. William Swaim died from the wound he sustained at Champion Hill.[28] It is hard to fathom what it must have been like for Hannah having to lose him twice—first, in the conflicting newspaper reports, and then, the tragic arrival of the fallen citizen soldier. But she would have to be strong for her other children. Jim survived the war, continuing on with the 34th Indiana Regiment, which fought in the very last conflict of the Civil War at the Battle of Palmito Ranch, Texas.[29]

Photo from brochure created by the Heckber family commemorating the restoration of the Ossian Cemetery in February 2022, accessed Old Ossian Cemetery Restoration Project Facebook.

Swaim was buried in the Ossian Cemetery (and later moved to nearby Oak Lawn cemetery). The 34th Regiment wrote to Hannah in July signing a unanimous resolution stating:

That in his death the regiment has siffered [sic] the irreparable loss of a brave, efficient, and faithful officer; the country a high minded unwavering patriot [to] the cause of liberty – a mighty, uncompromising champion, and to society – a jewel of sterling worth whose unswerving integrity – and dauntless courage stood out boldly as an example of imutation [sic].”[30]

Lt. Col. William Swaim was willing to risk his life for his country, for the honor of his family and his hometown, and for the preservation of the Union. But those who claim that Indiana soldiers did not understand and/or care about the underlying cause of the war—ending slavery—do a disservice to the sacrifices of men like Swaim. In his own words to his beloved wife, he expressed his dedication to abolishing “that monster Slavery” and was prepared to die for that cause. In the end, Swaim did just that. He gave his life in “the most Righteous war” to make the United States a more perfect union, one without the abomination of slavery.

Acknowledgement 

Thank you to Larry Heckber for introducing me to Swaim’s story through his ongoing commitment to the history of Wells County and the preservation of the Ossian Cemetery. And thank you to UIndy student and IHB intern Sam Elder for his help in researching this project.

Notes:

[1] James McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988); Thomas E. Rodgers, “Hoosier Soldiers in the Civil War,” Civil War 150th, Indiana Historical Bureau, accessed in.gov/history.

[2] William Swaim and Hannah Taeg (Toy), Mariage Record, December 28, 1844, Burlington New Jersey, accessed AncestryLibrary.com; 1850 U.S. Federal Census, Troy, Miami County, Ohio, accessed AncestryLibrary.com; 1860 U.S. Federal Census, Jefferson Township, Wells County, Indiana, accessed AncestryLibrary.com; Tyndall and Lesh, Standard History of Adams and Wells Counties Indiana, vol. 1 (Lewis Pub Co., 1918): 366-67, accessed Archive.org.

[3] Oliver P. Morton to Abraham Lincoln, August 9, 1861, Oliver Morton Papers, Indiana Historical Society; Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Indiana, vol. 2 (Indianapolis: W. R. Holloway, State Printers, 1865), p. 333-343, accessed Internet Archive.

[4] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, September 15, 1861 in The Civil War Letters of Lieutenant Colonel William Swaim, transcribed by Kent D. Koons (March 1993), Indiana Collections, Indiana State Library; Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Indiana, vol. 2, p. 333-343.

[5] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, October 16, 1861.

[6] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, October 22, 1861.

[7] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, November 4, 1861; “The Hoosier Thirty-Fourth,” Indiana Herald (Huntington), November 27, 1861, 1, accessed Newspapers.com.

[8] “The Hoosier Thirty-Fourth,” Indiana Herald (Huntington), November 27, 1861, 1; “The Morton Rifles Rallying Song,” Indiana Herald, January 28, 1863, 4; “John Thompson Letter,” Steuben Republican, April 11, 1863, 2; “The Morton Rifles,” New-Orleans Times, June 5, 1864, 4; Document 148: Memorial of the Thirty-Fourth Indiana Volunteers – “Morton Rifles,” in William H. H. Terrell, Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Indiana, vol. 1 (Indianapolis: W. R. Holloway, State Printer, 1869), p. 354-355; Swaim to Toy Swaim, February 6, 1863.

[9] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, January 9-12, 1862.

[10] Ibid.

[11] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, January 19, 1862; William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, January 27, 1862.

[12] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, passim.

[13] William A. Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, March 8, 1862.

[14] Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Indiana, vol. 2, p. 333-343; Lieutenant Commander J. J. Murawski, “Checkmate at New Madrid Bend,” Naval History, April 2018, accessed U.S. Naval Institute.

[15] William Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, August 7, 1862 and August 13, 1862.

[16] William Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, August 13, 1862.

[17] William Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, September 14, 1862.

[18] William Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, January 11, 1863.

[19] William Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, February 6, 1863.

[20] William Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, April 15, 1863.

[21] Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Indiana, vol. 2, p. 342-343.

[22] “Vicksburg,” American Battlefield Trust, accessed  https://www.battlefields.org/learn/civil-war/battles/vicksburg.

[23] Ibid.

[24] Ibid.

[25] Evansville Daily Journal, June 18, 1863, 4, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles.

[26] James “Jim” Swaim to Hannah Toy Swaim, June 12, 1863 in The Civil War Letters of Private James Swaim, transcribed by Kent D. Koons (March 1993), Indiana Collection, Indiana State Library.

[27] Ibid.

[28] Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Indiana,  vol. 2, p. 333. Sources conflict on the exact date of Swaim’s death. Military records claim June 17 while his headstone reads June 16.

[29] Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Indiana, vol. 2, p. 342-343.

[30] Resolution of the 34th Regiment Indiana, June 30, 1863 enclosed in Col. R. A. Cameron to Hannah Toy Swaim, July 2, 1863.

Burger Chef: Hoosier Fast-Food Pioneer

Summer is upon us, and one of the staples of American summers is fast food. It’s always a blast to roll down the windows, crank up the tunes, and head on over to your favorite drive-thru. Now, we all know about the classics: McDonald’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, KFC. But there’s one fast-food giant, wildly popular from 1950s through the 70s, which almost beat them all. That was Indianapolis-based Burger Chef.

Learn more Indiana History from the Indiana Historical Bureau: http://www.in.gov/history/

Search historic newspaper pages at Hoosier State Chronicles: www.hoosierstatechronicles.org

Visit our Blog: https://blog.newspapers.library.in.gov/

Visit Chronicling America to read more first drafts of history: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/

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Credits:

Written and produced by Justin Clark. 

Music: “Letting Go” by Nicolai Heidlas and “Get Back,” “Gotta Find Out,” and “Walking the Dog” by Silent Partner

Continue reading “Burger Chef: Hoosier Fast-Food Pioneer”

The “Buzz Wagon”: Studebaker’s Electric Cars

San Francisco Call and Post, October 29, 1910. Newspapers.com.

On a “fair, warmer” fall day in Philadelphia, a friendly competition on the city streets occurred. The test would determine whether a “40 horse power gasoline” car or a “runabout” electric car would perform better in the congested thoroughfares of the City of Brotherly Love. Behind the wheel of the gas-powered car sat “Tod” Middleton, described by newspapers as an “expert” driver, “thoroughly familiar with Philadelphia streets.” The electric vehicle’s driver was an “enthusiastic” booster of electric cars, who wanted to prove that they could take on tasks typically associated with gas-powered automobiles.

The rules of the competition were simple: each driver had to make twenty-five trips within Philadelphia’s shopping district, parking and shutting off their car each time they reached a destination. They would then restart their vehicle and travel to the next place on their itinerary. Some of the stops included “department stores, theaters, railroad stations” as well as “hair-dressers, and candy stores.” Whoever completed all their trips the fastest was the winner.

Philadelphia Inquirer, October 25, 1908. Newspapers.com.

Both drivers started on North Broad Street, making all of the necessary stops within the city’s shopping district, and ending right back where they started. In a shocking twist, the electric car finished first, beating the gas car by ten whole minutes, providing what the Philadelphia Inquirer called “conclusive evidence of the adaptability of this kind of car over the speed cars in the work required in shopping.”

Curiously, this race didn’t happen last week or even last year, and the electric car wasn’t a Tesla or Rivian. It was a Studebaker, the South Bend-based company, and the year was 1908. And the driver of the electric car? Her name was Laure Duval, and she worked as a salesperson at the Studebaker Brothers Company of New York. She wanted to prove the durability, reliability, and efficiency of Studebaker’s electric vehicles. (Efficiency was especially important; since the gasoline car needed to be hand-cranked every time it was started, and the electric car didn’t, this key design component proved instrumental in the 10-minute lead the electric car achieved.) Her race with Tod Middleton received coverage by newspapers all over the country, from Kansas City to San Francisco.

Philadelphia Inquirer, September 27, 1908. Newspapers.com.

Studebaker’s electric cars became a mainstay of the company during the early years of the 20th century, providing vehicles for personal use as well as transport. They were also marketed in a unique way. Studebaker focused on city businessmen, and especially society women, as the premier customers for electric cars, hence the 1908 Philadelphia car competition. While gas-powered cars became the company’s focus by 1912, Studebaker’s innovative designs and skillful presentation nevertheless made their electric cars more than a mere fad. They showed the country that electric cars could be made cost-effectively and provide customers with a reliable, affordable means of personal transportation.

*

By the time of Studebaker’s foray into electric cars, the company had already been a longstanding success. Founded as a blacksmith shop in the early 1850s by Henry and Clem Studebaker, the company originally specialized in the manufacture of horse-driven vehicles, both for personal transportation and for agriculture. Its fulfillment of military vehicle orders for the Union during the Civil War cemented its reputation, and in 1868, the Studebaker Brothers Manufacturing Company was founded. The firm built a massive manufacturing plant in South Bend and employed well over a thousand people by the 1890s.

South Bend Tribune, February 6, 1905. Newspapers.com.

By 1897, Studebaker was “building and experimenting with a ‘horseless vehicle’,” according to company minutes. The Centralia Enterprise and Tribune published an article in their July 10, 1897 issue on a meeting of “forty-five Studebaker service men of the New York Metropolitan area . . . for a clinical demonstration and discussion on modern techniques in automobile repairs.” Studebaker employees, from district managers to branch service representatives, actively discussed how the company would build a car for commercial sale.

South Bend Tribune, February 17, 1952. Newspapers.com.

The company got closer to their vision by 1901, with help from two of America’s most visionary inventors. The South Bend Tribune reported that none other than Thomas A. Edison, the man behind the lightbulb and the motion picture camera, designed the battery for one of Studebaker’s two prototype automobile designs. “Mr. Edison has promised the Studebakers that they will have one of the first batteries for vehicle purposes,” the Tribune elaborated. The other vehicle prototype was developed with the assistance of Hiram P. Maxim of Westinghouse, Edison’s bitter corporate rival (and Nikola Tesla’s financial backer) in the legendary “electric current wars” of the 1890s. In the end, Westinghouse came out the victor in the “mini” electric current war, producing a battery that would “run the [electric] wagon fifty miles with a fifteen hundred pound load and two men without charging,” according to the Fort Wayne Journal-Gazette in the fall of 1901.

Fort Wayne Journal-Gazette, November 18, 1901. Newspapers.com.

On November 16, 1901, Studebaker successfully tested its first electric automobile. The Marshall County Independent provided more detail on its specifications: “The vehicle carries under the middle of the bed an electric storage battery sufficient for a 50 mile run on good roads, and is geared for an average speed of 11 miles an hour.” The article also noted that Studebaker intended to test their electric car in the streets of Chicago, seven years before Laure Duval’s legendary test in Philadelphia.

Marshall County Independent, November 22, 1901. Hoosier State Chronicles.

Studebaker’s electric cars and trucks were quickly put into production and the company sold twenty by 1902. Studebaker executive Albert Russell Erskine, in his company history, wrote that “the first electric runabout was sold [on] February 12, 1902, to F. W. Blees of Macon, [Missouri].” Now part of this is true. F. W. Blees did, in fact, purchase a Studebaker electric runabout, but the date for his purchase is likely closer to October of 1902, according to a newspaper account in the Macon Times-Democrat. Colonel Blees, a onetime prospective candidate for Georgia Governor, ran a successful carriage business. He purchased the electric runabout while attending the Texas State Fair in Dallas, and according to the Houston Post, the state fair ran from September 27 to October 12, 1902. Blee’s purchase had to occur in this window of time and not in February, as Erskine recounted. Colonel Blees likely used his Studebaker electric car for at least ten years, driving it to “Studebaker Day” at the Georgia State Fair in 1912, as noted by the San Francisco Examiner.

Macon Times-Democrat, October 23, 1902. Newspapers.com.

With a Westinghouse motor, an Exide battery, and a body built by Studebaker, described by one advertisement as a “combination that speaks for itself,” the company’s electric runabouts sold for $975 in 1903 ($34,604.97 in 2024 dollars). While the price tag limited the car’s marketability to mostly middle- and upper-class Americans, Studebaker managed to sell them effectively. The company showed off its electric vehicle as a part of its 3,000 square foot exhibit at the 1904 St. Louis Fair, which the South Bend Tribune described as “one of the finest to be seen at the exposition. It is simple in construction, safe, easy to operate, and free from vibration and noise.” This exhibit proved successful, since the Washington Post reported in 1905 that, “the well-known Studebaker electric. . . is meeting with a steady sale, and there will be considerable number of them in evidence on the streets in Washington this season.”

South Bend Tribune, July 23, 1904. Newspapers.com.

Studebaker’s marketing went beyond public exhibits; it also developed flashy newspaper advertisements to attract customers from two urban demographics: city businessmen and society women. As a 1908 ad in the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle attested, “For the woman shopping, or for the business man [sic] to make hurried trips about town, it is the ideal and only vehicle.” As one prime example, John Mohler Studebaker, one of the original Studebaker brothers, can be seen in photographs driving the electric car. The Los Angeles Herald even printed a story about him escorting Wu Ting Fang, a government minister from China, in a Studebaker electric during the foreign leader’s trip to the United States. “Although the trip was a dizzy one,” the Herald wrote, “President Studebaker’s perfect control of the car seemed to inspire Minister Wu with confidence and enjoyed the very unusual trip.”

Fort Worth Star-Telegram, June 28, 1908. Newspapers.com.

Urban professionals especially took to the Studebaker electric, enticed by ads displaying the ‘gentleman about town’ completing his social calls and articles attesting to its popularity with such men, as Chicago’s Inter Ocean reported. Dr. Jacob Frank, a physician who lived at 49 Pine Grove Avenue, “purchased a new Studebaker electric Victoria last week and uses it daily in calling on his patients,” the Inter Ocean wrote in 1908. Dr. Frank also provided a testimonial to the paper, saying, “I drove a gasoline car for the last two years . . . but for men of my profession it does not compare with the electric for city work. My new Victoria is no trouble whatever and I would not exchange it under any conditions for a gasoline car for around town work.” As a physician who made house calls, the easier starting process for the electric likely shortened time to get to patients and made trips from house to house a smoother experience, as it did for Laure Duval in her legendary race on the streets of Philadelphia.

Alameda Evening Times-Star and Daily Argus, September 28, 1910. Newspapers.com.

By 1907, the marketing to women, especially society women, become supercharged. The company ran ads proclaiming that “the woman whose social duties require the constant use of a carriage will appreciate that advantage of a Studebaker Electric.” That same year, a photograph in the San Francisco Chronicle showcased a Studebaker electric with none other than actress Trixie Friganza in the driver’s seat. A mainstay of stage and screen for decades, Friganza was also a suffragist and attended rallies in support of women’s rights. That Friganza was willing to be photographed driving a Studebaker electric car spoke to its popularity among successful women, something the company continually leaned into.

San Francisco Chronicle, December 18, 1907. Newspapers.com.

According to the city’s Press newspaper in 1910, “a notable number of ladies of Pittsburg’s elite have visited this [Studebaker] exhibition and their expressions of approval and delight are particularly gratifying to the company’s executives.” The Press elaborated on this theme with a society woman’s remarks. “There is an elegance of appearance in the Studebaker electric that easily distinguishes it from all other electric pleasure cars,” she said. Idahoan society women agreed. As the Boise-based Statesman noted, “Mrs. Scott Anderson set the pace with her new Studebaker electric and Mrs. O. P. Johnson has ordered a fine Studebaker electric coupe costing $2500. Mrs. Hall followed suit by ordering a Studebaker electric phaeton.” Additionally, owners could charge their cars at home and travel distances well over fifty miles away. All across the country, from Studebaker’s homebase in Indiana to the sunny coasts of California, the Studebaker electric’s brand became synonymous with simplicity, elegance, and cleanliness.

Chicago Inter Ocean, May 20, 1908. Newspapers.com.

The brand cultivated a reputation for reliability and performance. Numerous newspaper articles documented many interesting experiments with Studebaker electric vehicles. For instance, traveling on rural routes was a concern with potential customers, as Studebaker often marketed its electric vehicles as city transportation. David Clem, a mail carrier in South Bend, tested a Studebaker electric on his rural mail route, with it performing quite well. As the South Bend Tribune reported on July 20, 1907, “the time generally consumed in making the round by Mr. Clem is eight hours, but the auto left the local office at seven in the morning and after completing the trip and delivering the mail, reached the office again at 10 o’clock, consuming only three hours.” Cutting five hours off a rural mail route was pretty impressive, which Mr. Clem likely appreciated. A series of tests in 1908 displayed a Model 22 Studebaker electric runabout expertly traveling from Kansas City, Missouri to Ottawa, Kansas, “in spite of the fact that the roads were very rough in places and a number of steep hills proved to be a severe test for some of the contestants,” the Philadelphia Inquirer wrote. Drivers also received a helping hand from local farmers, “who turned out in force with scrapers and spades and did their best to get the roads in good condition for the tests.”

South Bend Tribune, April 02, 1910. Newspapers.com.

Studebaker also manufactured electric trucks and delivery wagons, with prominent companies such as American Express and Gimbel Brothers using them consistently. The U.S. Census Bureau also purchased “a 1,500-pound Studebaker electric. . . for hauling mail, supplies, and publications,” according to a 1912 issue of San Francisco Examiner. The paper noted that “the machine has been in service practically a year and has given perfect satisfaction.” Likely the most newsworthy cargo a Studebaker electric truck ever carried was Tillie, an injured elephant from the Robinson Brothers’ circus, who was transported to a veterinarian in South Bend (the circus’s latest stop) by a truck converted into an ambulance. The Oshkosh, Wisconsin-based Northwestern published a striking photograph of Tillie, with a bandaged left front leg, standing aloft an electric truck with “Studebaker Bros. Mfg. Co.” on the side. From transporting letters and telegraphs to industrial machinery and even elephants, Studebaker electric trucks and wagons played a vital role in those early years of the twentieth century.

Oshkosh Northwestern, June 4, 1910. Newspapers.com.

All of this leads us to a pivotal question: why did Studebaker stop manufacturing electric vehicles? The sources tell us a conflicting tale. As late as 1910, newspapers documented “heavy demand [for electrics] . . . at Studebaker’s branches in New York, Chicago, Boston, Kansas City, Pittsburg, Cleveland, Indianapolis, Minneapolis, Denver,” and the company made plans to expand its factories to accommodate the demand. However, sometime between 1911-1912, Studebaker halted production of electric vehicles. One possible explanation might have been the merger of Studebaker with the Everett-Metzger-Flanders (E-M-F) automobile company in Detroit, subsequently creating the Studebaker Corporation. Since E-M-F produced gasoline-powered automobiles, Studebaker may have seen it as more efficient to double down on existing automobile plants for its corporate expansion. As Stephen Longstreet wrote in his history of Studebaker, “there was no real future in such a slow car depending on batteries. Gasoline-powered cars were the talk in smart engineering circles.” Albert R. Erskine recorded that Studebaker discontinued production of electric vehicles in 1912, after selling 1,841 in ten years.

Minneapolis Journal, May 1, 1910. Newspapers.com.

Furthermore, the history of automobiles indicated a significant shift towards gasoline-powered vehicles and “electric vehicles were pretty much irrelevant by the mid-1930s and would remain so for decades,” according to automotive historian Kevin A. Wilson. Significant technical challenges stalled the wider adoption of electrics, as many early vehicles were slower overall than gasoline-powered cars. “The relatively poor energy density of affordable batteries, however, kept electrics in the shade,” Wilson noted, and “advances in electric propulsion came slowly while limitations of speed and range came to look even greater in the world as it was remade by the gasoline automobile and consumers grew accustomed to long-distance highway travel at increasing velocities.”

Today, this has all changed. With the success of companies like Tesla, Rivian, and BYD, electric vehicles genuinely compete for both customers and road space, since they are just as fast, reliable, and elegant as any gas-powered vehicle. In a sense, the pioneering spirit of Studebaker and many other companies lives on in these new manifestations of electric cars.

Washington Times Herald, May 24, 1908. Newspapers.com.

For roughly a decade, Studebaker stood at the forefront of an electric vehicle revolution that provided affordable, durable, and reliable cars to the public. The company constantly sought to improve its vehicles through rigorous testing and innovative technological advancements, such as home charging and extended trip times. Studebaker also marketed their cars to a wide swath of consumers, from the city businessman to the society woman. And behind it all was a company based in South Bend, Indiana, that would go on to make gasoline-powered cars for decades until its dissolution in 1966.

One senses that John Mohler Studebaker, one of the original brothers who built the company from the ground up, would be pleased to see electric cars having a dramatic resurgence. Who knows? Maybe he would’ve been photographed driving a Cybertruck if he was around today. Now that would’ve been something for the newspapers.

Chicago Inter Ocean, May 17, 1908. Newspapers.com.

The Superman: Dr. Edward A. Rumely and American Identity

At the height of World War I, American culture, particularly the press, exhibited an anti-German animus. Propaganda routinely emerged that referred to Germans as “Huns” and displayed German soldiers as “brutes.” In Indiana, this resulted in the widespread closure of German newspapers like the Täglicher Telegraph und Tribüne, the renaming of the Indianapolis-mainstay Das Deutsche Haus into the Athenaeum, and banning the teaching of German in public schools. This hostility eventually targeted one particular Hoosier of German-American ancestry: the LaPorte-native Edward A. Rumely. His own connections to Germany and its culture ignited a profound controversy that stayed with him for the rest of his life.

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Credits:

Written and produced by Justin Clark. 

Music: “Ambient, Adventure, Score Song” by Patrik Almkvisth, “The Descent ” by Kevin MacLeod, “Lurking” by Silent Partner, “Mean Streetz” by MK2, “Voyeur” by Jingle Punks, and “Far The Days Come” by Letter Box

Continue reading “The Superman: Dr. Edward A. Rumely and American Identity”

Cultural Emissaries: Chinese Immigration to Indianapolis

Crowd gathered outside of Dong Gong Tshun’s laundry, “Chinese Murder Mystery,” Indianapolis News, May 6, 1902, accessed via Newspapers.com.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism reported that anti-Asian hate crimes increased by approximately 339 percent in 2022. Indiana was no exception. In 2023, the Bloomington community was shocked when a white woman named Billie Davis stabbed an IU student, who has chosen to remain anonymous, on a public bus because she “looked” Chinese. Events like this stunned the nation and forced Americans to reconsider their historical treatment of Chinese immigrants and, more importantly, where they fit into American society today.

This renewed “Chinese question” has warranted a scholarly reexamination of Chinese immigration history. Recent works have examined everything from the lived experiences of the Chinese immigrants who built the Transcontinental Railroad to the vigilante violence white workers in Tacoma, Washington perpetrated against Chinese workers, whom they viewed as economic competition. While great strides have been made in diversifying Chinese immigrant scholarship, historians have left out one small but critical piece of the narrative–Chinese people who lived in the Midwest. In doing so, scholars inadvertently erased the experiences of midwestern Chinese immigrants, ignoring the deep roots they established in the region. Considering renewed interest in both midwestern history and Chinese immigration as a whole, this piece seeks to illuminate the experiences of Chinese immigrants in midwestern communities like Indianapolis.

Chinese Immigration in Indianapolis

The U.S. Census did not record Chinese residents in Indianapolis until 1880, nearly three decades after Chinese immigrants began settling in the U.S. during the California Gold Rush. The Chinese population in Indiana remained small during the late 19th and early 20th centuries with eighty-nine residents in 1890, 273 in 1910, and 279 in 1930. Most Chinese immigrants in Indiana settled in Indianapolis, but others migrated to Ft. Wayne and Richmond. The 1880 Census recorded approximately ten Chinese residents in Indianapolis, all single men.[1] Despite these small numbers, the Chinese community in Indianapolis received outsized newspaper coverage and attention from the mainstream Hoosier community, with many residents regarding their new neighbors with curiosity. An 1880 edition of the Indianapolis News covered the presence of new Chinese laundries in the city, stating that the presence of Chinese laundryman “has created a decided sensation . . . At any hour of the day crowds are seen gathered in front of laundries watching the Chinese work.”[2] This interest in the nascent Chinese community continued throughout the years and, later, entrepreneurial types, such as restaurant owner Moy Kee, would learn how to leverage the community’s fascination with Chinese culture to their economic benefit.

R.L. Polk & Co.’s Indianapolis Directory for 1879 (Indianapolis: R. L. Polk & Co., 1879), p. 540, accessed via Internet Archive.

Historian Keith Schoppa noted that for most Chinese immigrants, Indianapolis was a “secondary” settlement, where Chinese people moved after they initially lived in the more populous Chinatowns on the East and West Coasts.[3] It appears many were motivated to move to Indianapolis for economic reasons, with several Chinese residents starting businesses, namely laundries. In 1875, the Indianapolis City Directory recorded two laundries, Sang Lee & Co. on 41 Virginia Avenue and Wah Lee & Co. on Illinois Street.[4] The number of Chinese laundries increased quickly and by 1879, the city directory noted the presence of eight laundries in the city. Notably, the directory also began designating these laundries as “Chinese,” similar to how directories would note if a business was “Black,” and, in doing so, differentiate them from white businesses. The laundries were spread out around the city, along Illinois Street, Washington Street, Mass Avenue, and Kentucky Avenue, indicating the more dispersed nature of the Indianapolis Chinese population.[5]

One point to note is the business acumen of the Chinese residents. They advertised their services in mainstream newspapers to attract new patronage, often capitalizing on existing curiosity about Chinese immigrants to build interest in their businesses.[6] Newspapers show that laundrymen across Indiana maintained connections with one another, often working in tandem to ensure their safety and security.[7] Inter-state networks between Chinese businessmen was critical to the welfare of dispersed Chinese immigrant communities like Indianapolis, where residents were bereft of the typical community and connections present in traditional Chinatowns. Businessmen also were cognizant of supply and demand, as demonstrated in the Indianapolis News, which reported that, “The Chinese considering the laundry business overdone in this city [Indianapolis], are talking of sending a colony to Fort Wayne.”[8] This demonstrates that the Chinese business community in Indianapolis not only paid attention to economic conditions in the city, but also actively collaborated with one another to avoid unnecessary competition. These strategies proved effective and many residents, such as Moy Kee, E Lung, and Sam Sing, died with sizeable fortunes and extremely successful businesses.

Lithograph of W. Washington Street. The rightmost building advertises “Gun Wa’s Chinese Herb and Vegetable Remedies.” Image circa 1890, Hannah House Collection, accessed Indiana Album.

Overall, it appears that the Chinese community of Indianapolis maintained a nuanced relationship with police and white authority figures. While no mobs or overt hate crimes were committed against the Chinese residents in Indianapolis, they were frequently the target of burglaries at the hands of white assailants. Notably, the victims often reported these incidents to police and worked with authorities to recoup their losses, suggesting a somewhat cooperative relationship between the two groups.[9] However, this cooperative relationship was somewhat tenuous, and white Hoosiers were constantly paranoid about the possibility of Chinese crime or “Tong” activity in Indianapolis. Police frequently placed laundries and restaurants under surveillance due to suspicions of illicit activities. Law enforcement conducted multiple raids on Chinese laundries at night in hopes of finding evidence of gambling and the Chinese betting game Fan-tan.

For example, in January of 1911 approximately twenty Chinese residents appeared in court after being arrested during a police raid while gathering at Quong Lee’s laundry on North Delaware Street. The Indianapolis News covered this event, writing, “Twenty-one unsuspecting Chinese, wearing poker faces, were seated around his [Quong Lee’s] table, yesterday afternoon, when the police appeared … Quong Lee and his ‘guests’ were still deep in their game, among Chinese and American coins and dominoes, when the police suddenly stood among them.” The article noted that the Chinese residents were “respectful” in court and twelve of the men quickly pled guilty and settled their fines with the city.[10] Both the police surveillance and newspaper coverage of possible illicit activity were disproportionate compared to the relative size of the Chinese population. A critical Indianapolis Journal article even categorized the police’s raids a “Chinese Scapegoat,” pointing out that “the police have made no raids recently on the various crap games around the city.”[11]

“The Chinese Scapegoat,” Indianapolis Journal, January 31, 1898, accessed Newspapers.com.

To be sure, Chinese residents likely gambled and played Fan Tan after work. However, little evidence exists to suggest these activities extended beyond local betting or were connected to a vast Chinese criminal network, as some Hoosiers speculated. Unwarranted concern over illicit activity likely was due to the sensationalized news reporting from Chicago, San Francisco, and other states, which often reached Hoosier ears. The white community’s dual fascination with Chinese culture and mistrust of the intentions of their Chinese neighbors created a difficult environment for Chinese businessmen to navigate. Chinese residents capitalized on their heritage to encourage patronage to their shops but struggled to dispel negative stereotypes about Chinese criminal activity or Hoosier concerns about Chinese gambling.

Concerns over criminal activity in the Chinese community peaked in 1902, when a prominent Chinese laundryman, Dong Gon Tshun, colloquially known as Doc Lung, was found murdered at his business on Indiana Avenue. Reporters sensationalized the murder, reporting gory details and speculating on possible criminal activity within the Chinese community. Chin Hee, a Chinese man from Chicago, was quickly arrested for the murder. The murder of Lung pushed Indianapolis into near hysteria, with some residents worrying that the Chinese gang members, often referred to as highbinders, were behind the murder and still active in the city. Doc Lung’s funeral procession was even followed by a curious crowd, which, in other circumstances, could have easily erupted into violence. The murder occurred on Indiana Avenue, where the city’s Black population predominantly lived, and increased tensions between the city’s Chinese community and Black community. Many Chinese residents alleged that a Black assailant, rather than Chin Hee, was responsible for the crime. Chin Hee was ultimately not convicted, and the courts would later convict three Black men for the crime based on dubious evidence.[12]

“Scenes at the Funeral of Doc Lung,” Indianapolis News, May 10, 1902, accessed Newspapers.com.

Ultimately, Doc Lung’s murder case epitomized the tenuous relationship between the Chinese community and white authority figures. Chinese individuals often cooperated with the police and court system, using it to protect their businesses. Police, it appears, were also willing to provide this protection and investigate burglaries or violence against Chinese people in Indianapolis. However, the authorities also regarded the Chinese community with suspicion and paranoia. They speculated that Doc Lung was murdered by highbinders without reasonable evidence and were constantly concerned about Chinese criminal activity permeating into the city. This tension shows that, while Indianapolis residents tolerated Chinese immigrants at a level not seen in coastal states, they never fully accepted them.

Chinese residents also frequently utilized the Marion County court system to settle disputes or advocate for themselves, often successfully. In 1894, a Crawfordsville laundryman named Moy You Bong brought a civil suit against Indianapolis resident Lee Wah over a dispute on the sale of a laundry business in Indianapolis. In response, Lee filed a countersuit denying he defrauded Moy. The court ultimately ruled against Moy, awarding Lee thirty-five dollars.[13] This case of two Chinese residents using the courts to settle a business dispute shows a degree faith in the court system. It also stands in stark contrast to places like California, which actively barred Chinese people from testifying at all.

Conclusion
Launderer and business owner, E. Lung.

Chinese laundrymen, restaurant owners, and store owners of Indianapolis achieved relative economic success. They collaborated with one another to ensure their own safety and, in the early years, began experimenting with tying Chinese culture to their business ventures through advertising Chinese goods. Ultimately, the nascent Chinese community in Indianapolis was small, but closely connected and economically astute. Chinese residents utilized the court system and traditional journalism to advocate for their own needs. However, due to unfounded and sensationalized fears over Chinese criminal activity, many were forced to walk a tight line between embracing their culture for economic gain and distancing themselves from their Chinese identity to remain tolerated members of the Indianapolis community.

Historian Anthony J. Miller characterized Chinese immigrants in the Midwest as “pioneers,” who, far removed from Chinatowns, “not only resisted discrimination but were also the first emissaries of their nation to bring cuisine, customs, dress, language, and artwork from their ancestral homeland to states such as Iowa.”[14] While he wrote primarily about Iowan Chinese residents, this characterization too can be applied to Indianapolis’s Chinese population, which displayed resilience and achieved success in the face of discrimination. In doing so, they brought cultural diversity and resources to the Hoosier community. Today, as Americans revisit the “Chinese question,” it is important that scholars expand beyond the coasts and examine a broader spectrum of the Chinese experience. This reveals a narrative not only of exclusion, violence, and discrimination, but also of success, resilience, and community.

Mian Situ, Chinese Family Laundry, 1880, n.d., oil on canvas, accessed MianSitu.net.
For further reading, see:

Joan Hostetler, “Indianapolis Then and Now: Moy Kee Chinese Restaurant, 506 E. Washington Street,” March 21, 2013, accessed Historic Indianapolis.

Kelsey Green, “Moy Kee Part I: The ‘Mayor’ of Indianapolis’s Chinese Community,” Untold Indiana, Indiana Historical Bureau, June 2, 2022, accessed Untold Indiana Blog.

Kelsey Green, “Moy Kee Part II: A Royal Visit,” Untold Indiana, Indiana Historical Bureau, June 27, 2022, accessed Untold Indiana Blog.

Paul Mullins, “The Landscapes of Chinese Immigration in the Circle City,” October 16, 2016, accessed Invisible Indianapolis.

Scott D. Seligman, “The Hoosier of Mandarin,” Traces of Indiana and Midwestern History 23, no. 4 (Fall 2011): 48-55, accessed Digital Images Collection, Indiana Historical Society.

 

 Notes:

[1] Ruth Slevin, “Index to Blacks, Indians, Chinese, Mulattoes in Indiana, 1880 Census,” Genealogy Division, Indiana State Library, Indianapolis.

[2] “Curiosity of Races,” The Indianapolis News, May 21, 1880, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles.

[3] R. Keith Schoppa, “Chinese,” Peopling Indiana: The Ethnic Experience (Indianapolis, Indiana: Indiana Historical Press, 1996), p. 88.

 [4]Swartz & Tewdrowe’s Annual Indianapolis City Directory (Indianapolis: Sentinel Company Printers, 1874), p. 464, accessed Internet Archive.

[5] R.L. Polk & Co.’s Indianapolis Directory for 1879 (Indianapolis: R. L. Polk & Co., 1879), p. 540, accessed via Internet Archive.

[6] “Wash List,” Indianapolis News, November 12, 1881; “Wah Lee: A Good Hand Laundry,” Indianapolis Star, December 31, 1923, accessed Newspapers.com.

[7] “Sam Sing Lee’s Funeral,” Indianapolis News, October 30, 1900, accessed Newspapers.com.

[8] “The Chinese,” Indianapolis News, October 29, 1877, accessed Newspapers.com.

[9] “A Chinaman Robbed,” Indianapolis Journal, June 15, 1885; “The Chinese Laundry,” Indianapolis News, May 10, 1880, accessed Newspapers.com.

[10] “12 Chinese Promptly Settle Fan Tan Fines,” Indianapolis News. January 16, 1911, accessed Newspapers.com.

[11] “The Chinese Scapegoat,” Indianapolis Journal, January 31, 1898, accessed Newspapers.com.

For newspaper coverage of other raids on Chinese businesses see: “Get 22 in Fan-Tan Raid,” Indianapolis Star, January 16, 1911, accessed Newspapers.com; “Inquiry to Follow Arrest of Chinese,” Indianapolis Star, May 23, 1915, accessed Newspapers.com; “Pong Tells of High Stakes in Chinese Gaming House,” Indianapolis News, September 21, 1915, accessed Newspapers.com; “Police Find Lid at Slight Angle,” Indianapolis Star, July 2, 1917, accessed Newspapers.com.

[12] “A Chinaman Murdered,” The Indianapolis Journal, May 6, 1902, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles; “Chinese in Court on Murder Charge,” Indianapolis News, May 21, 1902, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles; “Threats on Moy Kee Cause of Commotion,” Indianapolis News, June 11, 1902, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles; “Prisoners’ Lips Sealed,” Indianapolis Journal, March 21, 1903, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles.

[13] “A Cry of Police Falsely Raised,” Indianapolis News, December 22, 1894, accessed Hoosier State Chronicles.

[14] Anthony J. Miller, “Pioneers, Sunday Schoolers, and Laundrymen: Chinese Immigrants in Iowa in the Chinese Exclusion Era, 1870-190,” The Annals of Iowa 81, no. 2 (Spring 2022): 118.