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History Haven
We bring the past to your present. Powerful, emotional, unforgettable.

30/11/2025

Baby monkey 23days old so cute

30/11/2025

Little monkey drinking milk and wants to sleep near his mother

30/11/2025

Baby Lori Need Someone Padding and Massaging For Her

30/11/2025

New baby It very dangerous on newborn, Look very pity

28/11/2025

Pitiful newborn baby monkey no milk many days

28/11/2025

Poor baby monkey living without a mother

24/11/2025

Jane died from inflammation of the bowels and pneumonia, alone but still in the land she had made her own. It was the summer of 1903, and she had returned to the Black Hills that spring, slipping back into the rhythms of Belle Fourche, where Madame Dora DuFran still ran her brothel. For months, Jane kept busy cooking and doing laundry for Dora’s girls, a quiet workaday existence that belied the wildness of her past. By late July, however, she was traveling again, this time by ore train to Terry, a small mining village near Deadwood. She reportedly drank heavily on the journey, fell ill, and was carried off the train by Conductor S. G. Tillett. A bartender found her a room at the Calloway Hotel and summoned a physician, but nothing could halt the inevitable.

Among Jane’s sparse belongings was a bundle of unsent letters to her daughter, delicate traces of a private life hidden beneath the legend of Calamity Jane. Decades later, composer Libby Larsen would set some of these letters to music in her art song cycle *Songs from Letters* (1989). The letters were made public by Jean McCormick, who claimed to be Jane’s daughter by Wild Bill Hickok, though many questioned their authenticity—there is evidence that Jane was likely functionally illiterate. These letters, real or imagined, capture the haunting intimacy of a life spent on the edge, a life that was as enigmatic in death as it had been in life.

Jane was laid to rest at Mount Moriah Cemetery, South Dakota, beside Wild Bill Hickok. The choice of her gravesite carried irony and sentiment in equal measure. Some of the men who planned her funeral later admitted that Hickok had “absolutely no use” for Jane in life, so they orchestrated a posthumous jest by burying her beside him. Others insist the burial honored Jane’s dying wishes, carried out by the Society of Black Hills Pioneers. On August 4, 1903, the First Methodist Church overflowed with mourners—old friends, the morbidly curious, and many who had ignored her in life—all following her hearse up the steep, winding road to Deadwood’s Boot Hill, where her final rest joined legend, memory, and the rugged landscape she had never truly left.

24/11/2025

He was just eighteen when he first put on the uniform—barely grown, yet already called a soldier. Private Thomas “Tommy” Walker had come from the quiet hills of Kentucky, where life meant farm chores, warm suppers, and the gentle chorus of wind in the trees. But in the summer of 1917, the world reached for him. The draft notice shattered that simple life, pulling him from familiar fields into a distant land of mud, trenches, and fear. When he promised his younger sister Sarah he’d come home, he knew it was a promise made on hope alone.

France taught him the truth of war faster than any officer could. Nights without sleep, the endless thud of artillery, and the graves of men he had marched beside forced him to grow harder, colder, and quicker than he ever believed possible. In the summer of 1918, when his company charged a fortified German position on the edge of a ruined village, the world around him erupted. Machine guns sliced the air, men fell before they could scream, and Tommy found himself crawling through mud and smoke just to stay alive. When he finally threw himself into the enemy trench and fought through the chaos with trembling hands, he survived—but the boy from Kentucky did not. In his place stood someone quieter, older, and haunted.

When the guns finally fell silent in November 1918, the world celebrated, but Tommy carried his war home with him. Kentucky was still there—the hills, the barn, the family home—but nothing felt the same. Sarah was gone, the laughter of his childhood had faded, and the future he had once imagined seemed lost somewhere overseas. Yet as he stepped back into the fields he once knew by heart, he realized survival itself was a kind of beginning. He didn’t return a hero. He returned a man learning how to live again. And in time—slowly, quietly—he did. Tommy Walker’s story lived on not as a tale of glory, but as a reminder that some victories are measured not in medals, but in the courage to start over.

24/11/2025

They beat him, shot him three times, and left his notorious body cooling on the floor, the shadows of the abandoned Brooklyn storefront swallowing what remained of William J. “Wild Bill” Lovett. The docks he had ruled, the alleys he had haunted, even the saloons where his name had once struck fear—all fell silent that morning, holding their breath as the city learned that the man who had survived bullets, gang wars, and the chaos of war itself was gone. To some, it was the inevitable end of a life lived on the edge; to others, it was a puzzle, a question of who among the Irish gangs had finally dared to finish what bullets and brawls had only postponed.

Lovett had always been a storm in human form, a decorated soldier who returned from the Western Front only to carve his name across Brooklyn’s waterfront with a mixture of cunning, brute force, and ferocious loyalty to those he trusted. He survived ambushes, gunmen, and the rage of rival mobs, each narrow escape adding to the legend that whispered through the streets. Friends, foes, and casual onlookers all knew him as a man who loved fiercely, drank recklessly, and punished without hesitation—but he had also tried to leave it all behind. Marriage, promises to quit drinking, a new house across the river—these were his attempt at calm, a fleeting pause in a life that had never known it.

And yet, no matter how far he ran from his past, the past ran faster. The men who found him that night knew him too well: his habits, his weaknesses, the old haunts where he sought solace. They brought the storm he had once commanded upon him, and in the quiet aftermath, only questions remained. Who had struck first, and why? The police whispered Irish grudges, rival ambitions, the vengeance of men who spoke the same language and walked the same streets. As Wild Bill was buried with full military honors, the docks remained empty, the alleys quieter, and the legend of Lovett burned brighter—a man who had lived by instinct and violence, and had finally met his fate in the shadow of the city he had ruled.

24/11/2025

Daniel Newnan McIntosh was born into a world of leadership and legacy on September 20, 1822, in Indian Springs, Georgia, the son of William McIntosh, the mixed-blood chief of the Lower Creeks. From an early age, Daniel was steeped in the responsibilities and complexities of Creek politics and culture, learning the delicate balance of power, loyalty, and survival. In 1830, his family relocated to Indian Territory, where he later established a farm near Fame, in what is now McIntosh County, Oklahoma—a place that would serve as both home and the launching point for his remarkable life in leadership and war.

As the Civil War erupted, McIntosh rose as a determined and strategic leader, pledging allegiance to the Southern cause alongside his half-brother, Chilly McIntosh, through the Muscogee treaty of alliance with the Confederacy. He organized and took command of the First Regiment of Creek Mounted Volunteers, leading not only men from his tribe but eight members of his own family into battles that would test courage, loyalty, and endurance. From Round Mountain to Pea Ridge, Fort Wayne to Honey Springs, McIntosh’s command proved decisive, his actions under Brigadier General Stand Watie’s First Indian Cavalry Brigade marking him as a warrior whose skill and resolve would echo long after the smoke of battle cleared.

After the war, McIntosh transitioned from battlefield to diplomacy, representing the Southern Creek faction in peace negotiations at Fort Smith, Arkansas, and in Washington, D.C. Yet even in politics and tribal affairs, he carried the same unwavering commitment that had guided him in combat. Until his death on April 10, 1896, McIntosh remained a pillar of the Muscogee Nation, a man whose life intertwined leadership, family, and the enduring struggles of his people. He was laid to rest in Fame Cemetery, close to the farm that had anchored his remarkable journey—a testament to a life defined by courage, service, and an unyielding sense of duty

24/11/2025

A bullet tore through his back and lung, leaving him bleeding and stranded, the guerrillas disappearing with their prize and leaving death’s shadow looming over the wounded men. Lt. Henry May Bond, already grievously wounded in the face with his jaw broken from the Battle of the Wilderness, lay helpless as the Stafford County countryside seemed to close in around him. The morning sun rose over a world that had become unrecognizable, a place where survival hung by a thread and courage meant little against sheer misfortune.

By the following day, passing soldiers found Bond and hurried him onward to Washington, where his father had arrived from Boston, desperate to see his son alive. Every mile of the journey was a race against time, the wounded lieutenant clinging to life while his body bore the unforgiving scars of war. Each breath was a struggle, each pulse a fragile victory over the wound that threatened to claim him.

Despite the efforts of physicians and the care of his father, Bond succumbed on May 14, 1864, his life cut short by the random cruelty of battle. He was laid to rest in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a quiet monument to bravery and the grim reality of a war that spared few, leaving behind stories of sacrifice that echoed long after the cannons fell silent.

24/11/2025

Archie “Little Arch” Clement met his end on a cold December morning in 1866, but the road to that moment had been paved long before. A former Confederate guerrilla with a reputation as fierce as any man who rode with Quantrill, Clement refused to let the war end when the shooting stopped. He led his gang through bank robberies and intimidation campaigns, most recently using Election Day in Lexington as his personal battlefield. His defiance finally pushed Missouri’s governor to order Major Bacon Montgomery to bring him down. Yet Clement, bold as ever, had already taken the astonishing step of enrolling his own men into the state militia, walking a tightrope between outlaw and soldier as though daring the world to challenge him.

That challenge came the moment he returned to the City Hotel saloon for a drink. Montgomery’s detail pushed through the door with a warrant in hand, but they might as well have carried a spark into a powder keg. Clement didn’t hesitate—he spun, drew his pistols, and filled the room with gunfire. Chairs splintered, lamps crashed, and the smell of smoke thickened as he fought his way out, bullets hitting him even as he surged toward the street. Somehow he mounted his horse with a chest wound that would have felled most men, pounding down the road toward freedom. But a militia detachment waited by the courthouse, and their volley finally tore him from the saddle, sending him sprawling into the dust.

Even then, Little Arch refused to die quietly. When Montgomery’s men approached, expecting surrender, they found him on the ground—bleeding, broken, yet still trying to c**k the last of his twelve pistols with his teeth. He had fired eleven already. One soldier told him he was dying, but Clement only stared back, defiant to the end. “I’ve done what I always said I would do… die before I’d surrender.” And with that, the last breath left a man who had lived by violence, thunder, and the promise that no one would ever take him alive.