Andrew D. Brosig/Tyler Morning Telegraph

RUSK – About two miles outside Rusk, the last traces of a 1880s era ghost town with a deadly, often complex past are losing the race on time.

The former boomtown of New Birmingham, once heralded as the “Iron Queen of the Southwest” for its prominence in the iron ore industry, is fading into the landscape.

A dense poison ivy-filled forest off U.S. Highway 69 conceals the crumbling remains of the town’s old iron furnaces, which are difficult to locate without a good map, sturdy walking shoes and a strong tolerance for bugs.

In its short heyday, New Birmingham was a romantic, progressive town, filled with upscale conveniences and trendy marvels unrivaled in the East Texas region.

It also had colorful moments with all the drama of a cheap paperback novel: murder, slander, spectacle and scandal.

Some people became rich in New Birmingham, at least for a while, before economic panic wiped away the wealth and most of the town with it.

Until recently, a row of magnificent, century-old Magnolia trees that once swayed in front of the town’s grand Southern Hotel served as a visible, daily reminder of an exciting era in the region’s history.

But now those trees are dead too – fresh casualties of chainsaws and a marketing plan for new development.

It’s long been rumored a curse uttered by an anguished widow could have caused the town’s demise, but plain old greed seems the more likely culprit.

“They called New Birmingham the mushroom city,” said historian Kevin Stingley. “It was literally there one day and gone the next. And every year that goes by, less and less is there. One of these days, there’s not going to be anything there at all.”

MUSHROOM CITY

Stingley, a retired educator, probably knows more about New Birmingham than most of the folks who once called it home.

The historian is the undisputed local authority on the ghost town, which died after only a few years in existence, and its sometimes-messy past.

Stingley’s passion for its story is seemingly without limits. He’s spent hours wandering through the deep woods in search of new artifacts for the Heritage Center of the Cherokee County Museum and paused recently to share his findings.

“I started researching it in 1999 and I’ve been consumed by it for about 17 years,” Stingley said. “There are so many interesting story lines … everybody knows the history of the town, the iron ore, but they don’t know about the people who made it New Birmingham.”

The town started in the late 1880s when Anderson Blevins of Alabama drifted into Cherokee County to sell sewing machines.

Smitten by a landscape rich in iron ore deposits and natural resources, Blevins compelled his wealthy attorney/brother-in-law, General W.H. Hamman, to buy up thousands of acres for future development.

Blevins enticed investors from New York to join in the venture, and together they formed the Cherokee Land and Iron Company, which purchased expansive parcels of land rich in iron, minerals and timber.

The city of New Birmingham was designed to be the center of the new iron industries.

With the thriving iron ore industry as its primary source of support, the fledgling town initially hit on a growth spurt with endless potential.

In its first year of selling lots, New Birmingham easily ballooned to 2,000 residents and dozens of tidy homes.

Those who settled there enjoyed graded streets, a railway, electricity, ice plant, business district, schools and churches.

There were also two iron ore furnaces, the Tassie Belle – named after Blevins’ wife – and Star and Crescent, capable of producing 50 tons of iron daily.

But the town’s real crown jewel was the luxurious $60,000, three-story Southern Hotel.

The sprawling 65-room inn was a sight to behold, with a smoking room, parlors, billiards, electric lights and even hot and cold running water.

The premiere hotel served as the centerpiece for social activity and a popular hub for “who’s who” in new business dealings.

Wealthy financiers who came to investigate New Birmingham laughed and dined and danced into the night, unaware trouble was already brewing in their slice of iron ore paradise.

‘REAL TO ME’

Stingley, the historian, has spent countless hours researching the by-gone era.

He’s conducted genealogy searches of the town’s founders, tracking down their ancestors to collect old family stories and examine original heirlooms.

He’s visited cemeteries and attics and places that require a flashlight to access.

After so much time and energy, he acknowledges a deep, emotional attachment to the long departed.

“They are real people to me,” he said. “They’ve been dead 100 years, but they are real to me.”

His research suggests the old hotel frequent was the stage for dramatic story lines that unfolded among the town’s elite.

It seems everybody who was anybody wanted to be seen there or at least associated with the sprawling structure.

“It was a big, big deal,” Stingley said. “It was a fabulous structure with a fabulous architect. They called it the Queen of the Southwest.”

A massive old hotel registry, rescued from a trash heap, captures the comings and goings of a varied cast of characters from dozens of states, starting in 1889.

A flip of the yellowing pages reveals the dozens of scripted guest signatures, such as Robert A. Van Wych, who later became mayor of New York; Grover Cleveland and Benjamin Harrison, both past presidents of the United States.

“I’ve spent hours looking through these things,” Stingley said. “I always seem to find something new.”

SLANDER, SCANDAL, MURDER

A recurring signature spotted in the hotel register belonged to General Hamman, who fought in the battle of Gettysburg and later helped fund the town.

Listed with the general was his wife, Virginia, who was the sister of Tassie Bell Blevins.

Other significant signatures belonged to Stanley Cooney, who was in the grocery business with Blevins.

The Hammans were familiar faces around the Southern Hotel, a type of epicenter of entertaining.

“She (Mrs. Hamman) wanted to be the leader of society life in New Birmingham, and she was – until Stanley Cooney and his wife moved to town and she started flirting with everybody,” Stingley said.

Attention paid to Mrs. Cooney apparently irritated Mrs. Hamman.

The general apparently decided to put an end to his wife’s jealousy and unhappiness by painting the younger woman in a negative light, alleging she was a flirt and could not be trusted.

Such remarks today are considered bad taste, but in those days the words were considered criminal, and the general was soon brought up on charges.

“The grand jury indicted General Hamman for saying nasty things about that pretty young girl,” Stingley said. “He was indicted on three counts of slander of a female.”

The drama escalated into a sort of family versus family drama, featuring New Birmingham’s movers and shakers.

Hamman, who was also a powerful politician, was put on trial.

“It (trial) drags on and on and on,” Stingley said, citing a parade of witnesses with plenty to say.

Things apparently got so nasty, Blevins sent his wife – Mrs. Hamman’s sister – back to Alabama to spare her from the stress.

At one point, Hamman was granted a continuance and left town for a time, inflaming Cooney, who decided to take matters into his own hands.

He got a gun and waited for the general’s return.

On July 14, 1890, Cooney got his chance to carry out street justice.

He spotted the general strolling through downtown and picked his shot.

“Stanley walked out of the general store,” Stingley said. “He gets him (Hamman) with both barrels before he hit the ground.”

Cooney was tried and found guilty of manslaughter for killing the 60-year-old Hamman.

He received a two-year sentence in the Rusk Penitentiary but was later pardoned by the governor before serving out his full term.

In the minds of some, Cooney’s early release wasn’t of particular surprise, considering his wife’s uncle, Thomas Benton Wheeler, was serving at the time as lieutenant governor.

Local lore suggests Mrs. Hamman took to the streets, crying out to the heavens to destroy the city and return it to the earth.

Stingley doubts the woman’s anguish is somehow linked to the town’s downfall.

“The widow’s curse is not true, but it’s a good story,” he said. “I talked to the great grandson of the Hammans and he said nobody in the family had ever heard that story … Mrs. Hamman left the night of the murder with the body and never return to Rusk/New Birmingham.”

Folklore or not, within years of Hamman’s high profile killing, the town also died.

A WIDOW’S CURSE?

History shows the town of New Birmingham began to stumble after Gov. James Hogg discouraged foreign investment, due to the “Alien Land Law” that prohibited outside interests from owning land in Texas. 

Hogg was invited to the Southern Hotel for a fine meal and a chance to explain his position to English investors and wealthy dignitaries.

“He was wined and dined,” said Terry Guinn, 76, a lifelong resident of Rusk who served years on the historical commission. “He still would not allow it.”

It’s unclear whether Hogg’s embarrassing defiance was actually the shoe that smashed the mushroom city, but it seemed to factor into the downfall.

Soon, the price of iron began to fall and the flow of money into New Birmingham slowed.

The panic of 1893 set off a ripple of loan defaults in the weakened town, prompting a shutdown of the plants and spiking unemployment.

Along the way, the Tassie Bell furnace was badly damaged in an explosion, putting scores of people out of work, and a fire damaged the power plant.

Eventually, people just threw up their hands, packed up and moved away.

By July 1893, area newspapers were reporting New Birmingham – the Iron Queen of the Southwest – was dead.

The post office remained open for a while and by 1910, the town was completely abandoned, according to the Texas State Historical Association.

The grand old Southern Hotel stood her ground another couple of decades until it burned in March 1926. Other remaining buildings were razed over the years to make way for new development.

GONE, NOT FORGOTTEN

History enthusiast Margaret Perkins of Tyler spent years leading walking tours in Rusk for two area chambers of commerce.

She owns a piece of fine, gold-lined china from the Southern Hotel, a gift from the late celebrated educator Willie Lee Glass, whose great-grandfather worked there.

“It’s magnificent,” she said. “It was so remarkable, just to see it. New Birmingham is easily one of the most colorful, vibrant stories about the early days of East Texas. It had such prominence, such support … it’s legendary.”

Stingley’s research suggests little about the town that was ordinary, including the final chapters of some of its high profile residents.

Mrs. Cooney eventually left her battered reputation behind in the dying town and went on to become a world-renowned artist before her death. Her husband joined her on the show circuit upon his release from prison. He died in 1915 and is buried outside Austin.

Blevins tried unsuccessfully to revive the town he founded, but was unable to gain any traction on the efforts. He later moved to Jefferson, then to Shreveport where he died in 1915. He’s buried in an unmarked grave in Louisiana.

A family squabble over money apparently prompted Mrs. Blevins’ niece, Melanie Blevins Baker, widow of New Birmingham’s former mayor, to commit suicide about 15 years after the town folded. She’s buried in an unmarked grave in Rusk.  

Mrs. Hamman, the general’s widow who reportedly cursed the town, died in Houston in 1926, and her ancestors went on to build careers in politics, oil and gas.

Guinn, the history buff, said the remains of New Birmingham may be disappearing from view, but the legend of the town and the widow’s curse will live on.

“The story about the curse was passed down for years, so I guess people believe it,” he said. “Historically, I regret the town went away. It was in competition with Rusk, but they were both doing well.”

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