Do you remember "way back when" a colorful character saved Fort Morgan from ruin? At least, he is usually credited with that recognition.

I came into the kitchen one Saturday morning to find my mother making Haas Davis baloney and Sunbeam bread sandwiches. As she wrapped them in wax paper, she told me we were off for an adventure of a lifetime that day. We were going to meet the man who had become famous for his quirky ways to save Fort Morgan. She called him a "character you will never forget."

His name was Hatchett Chandler and had as many fan club members as he had critics. In the South, we often use the nomer "character" to designate people who are sometimes eccentric and may perform in out of the ordinary ways. Hatchett's reputation garnered his inclusion in the list of Characters in Alabama.

It seemed like we drove forever down the Fort Morgan peninsula where the ruins of the old fort were. We were met by Mr. Chandler who was delighted to have us come visit. He took us all around the crumbling fort and told stories about the first white man to set foot on the North American continent, Prince Madoc of Wales. He showed us the historic marker that was erected by the Daughters of the Revolutionary War. He led us up a staircase stained with blood and told us there was a lost cemetery within the grounds and told us about the citadel that once stood in the center. He explained about the Spanish American War additions and scared us with the ghost tales. I believed every word that came out of his mouth.

I recently found out that our very own Donnie Barrett is Hatchett's cousin. He relishes his visits with the old reprobate as much as I do. Donnie is proud that his middle name is Hatchett and remembers going with him to plant oleander bushes all along the highway, hoping to have it renamed the Fort Morgan Highway.

Hatchett was living in one of the dilapidated Spanish American War officers' buildings and was not known as a fastidious housekeeper. He wore the same clothes all the time, which most likely never saw soap and water.
William Temple Hatchett Chandler was born in Montgomery in 1881, the stomping grounds of Donnie's father's people. He was well-educated even though his writings may not reflect that. He lived in Texas for a while before working at Brookley Field in Mobile and then living on the canal in Gulf Shores.

When Fort Morgan was abandoned after World War II, he was hired as custodian of the fort. This is where his reputation as a local colorful character takes hold. His attachment to the fort became passionate — he even listed it as his next of kin on a legal document. With antics compared to P.T. Barnum, he began a campaign to create public and legislative awareness of the historical significance of the site.

To say, however, that he ruffled some feathers among government entities puts it mildly. He attacked officials who opposed his self-appointed preservation efforts by calling them "holy apes." He called the Parks Division the "Peanut, Popcorn, Soda Water, Fish Bait Department." (Some of the letters he penned are in the archives of the University of Alabama Library Special Collections.)

A sad part of growing up is realizing that maybe everything you once believed may not be exactly accurate. This is certainly true of the stories that Hatchett told me on that day long ago. Hatchett took quite a few liberties with historical facts. His "Little Gems from Fort Morgan" is controversial, and his claims of historical facts grew in imaginative ways with each telling. But they sure were interesting.

During his 27 or so years at Fort Morgan, he was visited by hoards of people. Former military personnel, children who lived and went to school at the fort and local youth such as Mike Micelli. Mike says he and his friends often pestered Hatchett, who entertained them the same way he had me.

Our Saturday visit was coming to a close after we shared our lunch with Hatchett. He then told us that he had been successful in having the fort declared a historic site and the legislature had established a commission to oversee the money allotted. "However," he said, "they are just a bunch of cur dogs growling over a bone. Actually, they have officially fired me, but I am not going anywhere. I am selling these cannonballs to a few special people, and if you want one you can have it for $10. A man has to eat, doesn't he?" Of course, my dad bought one.

Even his death and burial in 1967 are shrouded in controversy. He had obtained permission to be buried in the Lost Cemetery, 1,500 feet from the fort, but his friends wanted him buried nearer to the fort. The funeral procession from Foley was met at the gravesite by officials who prohibited it, so his body was returned to the mortuary. For two days, the public outcry was loud and clear. The state granted permission for the burial at the monument honoring those who gave their lives at the fort. How fitting is that? Next time you visit the fort, go by his grave and pay your respects to an Alabama "Character."

By the way, one of my dad's dying requests was to return that cannonball to the fort, where it remains to this day.