Notorious Notable, Nefarious No-Good of the Ozarks

By Velda Brotherton

     Peter Mankins was born September 19, 1770, near Annapolis, Maryland. He died December 30, 1881, Middle Fork Valley, Washington County, Arkansas. We begin our tale when Peter was just a boy.
     There’s excitement all over town. General George Washington and his army are on their way to meet Cornwallis at Yorktown, and they will march right through Alexandria.
     Distracted by that bit of news, Peter lifted steaming loaves of bread from the blistering heat of the ovens. They smelled so good he ached to break off a chunk to eat, but dared not. Old George would flail him for that, for sure.
     Why Poppa thought to apprentice him to a baker, he couldn’t figure. But here he was, only a kid learning to make bread. Old George called him scrawny, and that bothered him some, but he’d grow. Somehow, he had to get Old George to let him go out on the street and watch Washington’s army..
     You never could tell what Old George was thinking, but he barked a lot even as he kneaded dough to make the best bread in the whole town. Peter didn’t want to be a baker, he wanted to be an adventurer and see the world. But Poppa said he needed a trade, and so, here he was slaving and not learning much except how to cut wood to keep the fires going. One good thing, the bread sure smelled good baking.

     He stood beside the wooden table where Old George kneaded dough into loaves. "I want to go," he told the old man, twisting his floury hands

behind him and trying to appear calm when he could hardly stand still.

     Old George, whose grizzled features were so hairy Peter could scarcely make out his squinty eyes and tight lips, tilted his head downward so Peter knew he was looking right at him. "Why ever for, boy? You’ve got bread to tend to and wood to cut. No time for such nonsense. Git out to that woodpile and go to work."
     In the distance, he heard drums beating, trumpets blaring, the sounds of hundreds of feet thumping on the cobblestones. His eleven-year-old heart thudded. Old George turned back to his bread-making, loading loaves onto huge wooden paddles to slide into the ovens.
     With the man’s back turned, Peter grabbed his chance and ran, shoving his way through shouting crowds gathered along the street. Though he was small, he finally pushed into the front row, just in time to spot the band, all dressed in red, and behind them, mounted on his prancing white horse, General George Washington, followed by his troops. What a great life that would be. Riding into battle, rifle primed and ready. Peter remained entranced until the very last soldier marched out of sight, then he turned and headed back toward the bakery, skipping along, kicking at rocks and pretending he was going off to war.
     At the front of the store, he stopped to watch a group of ducks waddling across the road. He lunged forward, grabbed one by both legs. It let out a terrific squawk. As he swung it around to launch it into the air to see if it could fly, Old George stepped out the front door onto the walk.

     "Peter. Peter Mankin, you little devil. Git yourself over here this minute."

      Gulping, Peter abandoned his experiment and obeyed the old man. Poppa would have him do no less. Old George grabbed his bony arm and squeezed so hard Peter yelped. He continued to yelp all the way through the bakery. The old man dragged him out the back door and tossed him onto a pile of fire wood. Before Peter could scramble to his feet, Old George laid into him with a length of rope. Over and over he swung the thick weapon, cutting into Peter’s back, buttocks and legs. And him clawing and kicking but unable to escape the fiery lashes for the scattering chunks of wood.
     Finally the old man stopped, his breathing harsh. "Now, maybe that’ll teach you to mind me when I tell you something. Get yourself on your feet and take up that axe. I want to see this woodpile grow."
     Sobbing, Peter waited until the old man went back inside. Oh, he’d take up the axe all right, but not to cut wood. He was supposed to be learning to become a baker not a woodsman. And he sure never wished to be whipped. He’d show Old George; he’d show Poppa and Momma, he’d show everyone.
     Dragging the axe along behind him, back and legs stinging and throbbing from the beating, Peter limped out of the yard, down the street and away from town, off into the unknown where he remained until 1803. He never told where he’d been or what he’d done in those intervening years, but when he strolled back into recorded history at the age of 33, he continued to do the exciting and unexpected right up until his death.
     More on Peter next time and a peek at the Ozarks outlaw, Jack Reed.