“I Will Not Fight Against the United States”

            

 I’ve read and reread the records that remain. I’ve walked the land where he lived and died. And what I see is him in his rocker, checking his watch, doing what he’s always done. Not because he’s unaware, but because he’s certain. He believes in what he’s doing. He’s set in his ways, and the others—Rebecca included—are wrong to speak of danger. He dismisses it. And maybe I understand that more than I should. Maybe it’s because I carry a fraction of him in me

By the fall of 1871, the roles he carried—county judge, postmaster, superintendent of schools—and the enemies they drew were beginning to close in. John Krimminger was wearing too many hats—and making too many enemies. In New Troy, he served as county judge, postmaster, and superintendent of schools, each title a badge of Reconstruction authority.

In my research into Lafayette County’s days of Reconstruction, I found a sketch that still echoes from those uncertain years.

  “In early 1871, tensions escalated under the Enforcement Act. Federal officers faced resistance while trying to arrest men accused of voter intimidation. Three local election officials were indicted but never tried. John Newton Krimminger, known as the Republican “boss” of the county, was also indicted for interfering with election officials, though the jury declined to prosecute. One of his defense witnesses, John Ponchier, would murder him six months later. Despite federal troops arriving to maintain order, violence persisted.”

Some men hesitate. John didn’t. He moved with conviction, not calculation. And I keep hearing that certainty—echoing through the records, through the land, through me. Maybe I understand it more than I should. 

But authority wasn’t always welcome. Many in Lafayette County still nursed the wounds of war and bitterly opposed the Republican-led reforms sweeping through the South. To them, John Krimminger wasn’t a community leader—he was a symbol of Union rule. Especially in the eyes of longtime Democrat John C. Ponchier, and the Ku Klux Klan.    

Tension simmered. Anonymous threats circulated. Still, he remained at his post, a firm believer in the work of rebuilding, even as that work made him a marked man.

So, who was the man I call my great-great-grandfather, Dr. John Newton Krimminger? I’m still not sure I know—perhaps not even he fully knew.

And maybe that’s the most honest realization in telling these kinds of stories: that when it comes to complicated ancestors, truth is rarely complete. It bends with time. It frays at the edges and survives in fragments.

What I know is this: I’ve tried to understand him. I’ve walked through his fields, followed his footsteps into war, traced the path of his downfall, and sat beside him on the porch that last morning, thanks to Rebecca. And I thank God that he and Rebecca gave us his daughter, Caroline Catherine Krimminger Severance—my great-grandmother.

One final Thought

That, sadly, is the end of John Krimminger’s story. But it’s not the end of the story for Lafayette County—or for Rebecca Krimminger and their children. What came next belongs to them. And without them, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be writing this story.

How Do I Fit In?

 For those who don’t know how I’m connected to John and Rebecca Krimminger, the line runs through my mother. Their daughter, Caroline Krimminger, married Samuel Severance in Lafayette County, Florida. Caroline and Samuel had a son, William Severance, who married Ethel Jones. Both William and Ethel died young—when their youngest daughter, my mother, Leola Severance, was just six years old. Leola later married James Chancey, my father. And to them, I was born.

That’s how I fit in to this wonderful Southern family. That’s why I’m thankful to be here writing their stories. 

John is no longer with us and hopefully he is resting in peace. As for Rebecca, his spouse, life must go on. As with most females of her time, there are not many facts to disclose. To start with, what I do know takes us back four years and a month before John’s assassination.

 John and Rebecca on September 7, 1867, applied for a land Patient for 80.75 acres of land in section five of Township six south, Range 13 east at a cost of $5.00.

They applied staking their future in New Troy— five miles west of Troy Springs. Under the Homestead Act, five years of residence were required before the land could be theirs. In addition to building a dwelling, they had to cultivate crops, clear trees, and dig wells, build fences and confirm that these improvements had been made before the Patent could be issued  But in 1871, John was murdered. The application was canceled.

Still, Rebecca stayed. She and the girls remained in the home they’d built, tending the land, meeting the law’s quiet demands. No headlines. No drama. Just persistence. And persistence has a way of finding its moment. 

The Long Claim

            In 1883, she filed again and confirmed with paperwork that these improvements had been made. And this time, the patent was granted.

Some claims aren’t won in court. But the story didn’t end with the Patent.

The House Became More Than a Home

 By 1885, the house in New Troy had changed. The Florida State Census recorded it as a boarding house—no longer just a family dwelling, but a place that held others, too.

 Rebecca was still there. So was Sam Severance, her future son-in-law, listed as a farmer, living either in the house or just next door.

The land patent had been granted two years earlier. But the work didn’t end with paperwork. It lived on in the rooms, the fields, the quiet persistence of those who stayed

In the sweltering heat of July 1871, the Joint Select Committee on the Condition of Affairs in the Late Insurrectionary States convened in Jacksonville, Florida. Formed by Congress to investigate violence, intimidation, and civil rights violations in the postwar South, the committee included members from both the Senate and the House. Their mission: to gather testimony from citizens—Black and white, Unionist and Confederate—about the realities of Reconstruction in their communities. Witnesses were summoned from across the state. Among them was Rebecca Krimminger, widow of Judge John Newton Krimminger, whose murder had become a symbol of political retaliation and unrest. She arrived with quiet resolve, prepared to speak not only of her husband’s death but of the broader tensions that had gripped Lafayette County.

Rebecca didn’t speak for politics. She spoke for survival. Her voice—steady, detailed, unflinching—became part of a record that still trembles with truth. And I believe she knew exactly what it cost. 

Rebecca’s 138 Answer’s on John’s Assassination in a Nutshell

On the morning of October 5, 1871, John Krimminger sat on his front piazza, toying with his watch chain. A rifle shot rang out from an upstairs courthouse window, just forty yards away. The bullet shattered his hand and pierced his chest. From the kitchen, Rebecca and her daughter—possibly my great-grandmother Caroline—heard the shot and his cry. By the time Rebecca reached him, he had risen, staggered, and collapsed. She turned him over. He nodded in silent recognition when she whispered, “Poncher shot you.” He struggled to breathe for nearly an hour but never regained his voice.

Rebecca described Poncher as a man of poor character—secretive, brooding, a drinker, though rarely visibly drunk. He had reportedly expressed vague threats toward Republican officials before the shooting and had been recently removed from his post as clerk—replaced by Rebecca’s son-in-law. That loss of income and influence may have lit the fuse.

On the morning of the murder, Poncher fired from a partially opened courthouse window. Witnesses claimed he had just acquired a new weapon: an over-under rifle-shotgun. After firing, he fled on foot through the flooded streets, glancing back three times before boarding a small boat and vanishing across the Suwannee.

    

The Question-and-Answer Format

**Q: Was your husband threatened before he was killed? 

**A: Yes, sir. They said they would kill him, and they did. 

**Q: Do you know who shot him? 

**A: I do not. I was in the house. I heard the shot and ran to the door. 

**Q: Can you describe the circumstances of your husband’s murder? 

**A: He was sitting on the piazza of our house. I was inside. I heard the shot and ran to the door. He was lying there.

Her testimony joined hundreds of others, forming a record of Reconstruction’s peril. I firmly believe she wasn’t speaking as a politician’s widow—she spoke as a woman who had seen the cost of conviction.

Truth is, I’ve walked where they walked. Dug through papers, listened to old stories, and tried to make sense of it all. What’s left isn’t just history—it’s hard choices, stubborn hearts, and the quiet kind of strength that doesn’t make headlines. Rebecca stayed. The house stood. And I reckon I’m here because they didn’t quit. I’m not here to judge—just trying to understand. That’s the job. That’s the gift. 

Rebecca’s testimony was one of the most detailed accounts from Lafayette County, and the sheer number of questions reflects both the gravity of her experience and the committee’s effort to document Reconstruction violence in Florida. The inquiry ranged from personal background to the circumstances of John’s murder, threats from the Ku Klux Klan, and the broader climate of intimidation in the county.