THE ADVANCING WAVE OF CIVILIZATION
Have you ever carefully watched the movements or caught the earnest
spirit of the immigrant who, after traveling many hundreds of miles
along the difficult roads through an unbroken country to a strange land,
there seeks a spot where he may build a home for his family? Many of the
young men in our party were on such a mission. That we may better
understand the motives which inspired them and the movement of which
they became a part, a retrospective glance seems almost necessary.
Having late in the thirties become the first scion of the pioneers in
the country where I was born, I ought to be qualified to throw some
light upon the experiences of the frontiersman, because primeval
Wisconsin, as it lay untouched by civilization, and the inflow of its
population as I saw it, left upon my mind vivid impressions. There was a
blending of pathos and humor in the arduous lives of these builders of
the nation.
Without then comprehending its significance, I had observed from time to
time the arrival of sturdy and intelligent home-seekers from New England
and New York, transporting their household effects in country wagons
along the old, but almost impassable territorial road. I was once led
to accompany two other children, who, with their parents, were on such a
pilgrimage. In their two-horse wagon were tightly packed a little
furniture and a few boxes. The wagon cover had been turned that the view
might be unobstructed. At one time the immigrants paused as they forded
a running brook; they looked up and down the green valley; then they
drove out from the road to the summit of a nearby knoll, where their
horses were again rested. Here the father rose to his feet; he turned
his eyes earnestly and intently now in one direction and now in another
across the inviting stretches of unoccupied territory. An entrancing
panorama of small valleys and vistas of groves, all clothed in soft
verdure of June, was spread out before him; not a thing of man's
construction, nor even a domestic animal, was visible on the landscape,
except their faithful dog, which was scurrying among the hazel bushes.
To me there seemed a long delay. The father finally lifted his little,
young wife so that she stood upon the wagon seat, supporting her with an
encircling arm, his two boys standing before him. The children looked
with wondering eyes, as he pointed to a far-away green meadow traversed
by a brook, from near which rose a wooded slope. He asked if that would
be a good place for a home. A simple but expressive nod, a tear in her
eye, and a kiss on her husband's cheek, were the only signs of approval
that the sick and weary wife was able to give. In later years, when I
had learned their history, I knew better the meaning of the mother's
emotion. The father drove down the bushy slope to the meadow, then
taking his axe he crossed to the woodland, and there he blazed a tree as
an evidence of his claim. Returning to the shelter of another settler's
home, he was welcomed, as were all comers, by the pioneers, and one
little room was for many days the home of the two families once
accustomed to eastern comforts. There they remained until the father
could drive fifty miles to the Government land office, there perfect his
title, and return to "roll up" his log cabin.
Such was the beginning of that colonization. I watched the first wagon
train that later heralded the coming tide of thrifty Norwegians, and
many of their trains that followed. I had never before seen a foreigner.
They all followed round the Great Lakes in sailing vessels to Milwaukee.
There they piled high their great wooden chests upon farmers' wagons by
the side of which in strange, short-waisted, long-skirted woolen coats
and blue caps, and with their women and children at their side, they
plodded along on foot, first through the forests, then over the openings
along the same territorial road. Both men and women often slept at night
under the loaded wagons. I have observed them at their meals by the
wayside where nothing was eaten but dry sheets of rye bread little
thicker than blotting paper, and much like it in appearance. A few
villages had then sprung up. From these the Norwegians scattered,
chiefly among the hills, and there built little homes and left their
impress upon the country.
But westward, and farther westward, the tide continued to flow. As some
of the young men in our train were emigrating to the West to establish a
home in the new country which they had never seen, I now found myself to
be a part of this wonderful westward movement and was again to share in
its peculiar vicissitudes and experiences; however, as a participant,
favored with special opportunities, observing others also borne forward
in the flux of nations.
As our train was traversing the first five-hundred-mile lap to the
Missouri River, we discovered that the homes beyond a certain point in
Central Iowa seemed suddenly as it were to be few and far apart, leaving
increasing stretches of unoccupied land between them. The population
rapidly thinned out, until its last ripples were reached in the western
part of the state, where the serenity of nature was hardly disturbed by
the approaching flood of immigration.
There was already a line of small towns along the west bank of the
Missouri, which were the starting points for transcontinental traffic,
where freight was transferred from river steamers to wagons. Beyond the
Missouri and a narrow strip of arable land along its western shore, lay
the vast territory believed to be fit only for savages, wild beasts, and
fur traders, a wide, inhospitable waste, which men were compelled to
cross who would reach the Eldorado on the Pacific, or the mines in the
mountains.
The line of demarcation between the fertile and the arid country was
supposed to be well defined. On one side Nature responded to the spring
and summer showers with luxuriant verdure; on the western side the
sterile soil lay dormant under rainless skies. It was believed that
immigration would certainly be checked at this line as the ocean tide
faints upon a sandy shore; but it had now begun to flow along a narrow
trail across the desert to a more generous land beyond. To this trail
our course was now directed.
It would be an exceedingly dull company of emigrants and ox drivers
which while traveling together even through a somewhat settled country,
and sharing with each other the free life of the camp, would not have
among its members a few whose thoughts and activities would at times
break out from the narrow grooves of prescribed duties. Our life of
migration through the inhabited country was intensely interesting,
furnishing many peculiar experiences, all flavored to some extent by the
character and temper of the persons concerned. As the eagerness of the
men to emancipate themselves from the restraints of civilization
increased, they began soon to adopt the manners of frontiersmen, and to
resort to every possible device within the range of their inventive
powers for diversion.
Young Moore, who hoped to reach Oregon, was an exuberant fellow
preferring any unconstrained activities to regular duties. In former
days he had distinguished himself in "speaking pieces" in the district
school. This training led him often to quote poetry very freely and
dramatically. It was Moore who sighted the first game worthy of mention,
when he observed two beautiful animals at the moment that they glided
into a copse of bushes nearly half a mile from the train. Transferring
the care of his team to another, he hastened for his gun and started
upon the first interesting hunt of the trip. This being really his
maiden experience in the fascinating sport, he was desirous of winning
for himself the first laurels of victory in the chase. Not knowing the
nature of the animals to be encountered, he approached as closely as
possible to the coveted game, penetrating the thicket where the animals
were concealed. The first discharge of his gun probably wounded one of
the animals which, by the way, had a means of defense that baffles the
attacks of the most powerful foe. The more experienced drivers soon knew
that he had encountered the malodorous _Mephites Americana_, commonly
known as skunk. Both of the animals and possibly some unseen
confederates of the same family, must have invoked their combined
resources in the conflict with Moore, for the all-pervasive pungent odor
loaded the air and was wafted toward us, seemingly dense enough to be
felt. Moore retreated into the open and ran toward the train for
assistance, but he was no longer a desirable companion. While it might
be truly said that he was a sight, it might better be said that he was a
smell.
The train moved on in search of pure air, and Moore followed, bearing
with him the reminder of his unfortunate experience. Wheresoever he went
he left behind him an invisible trail of odor which had the suggestion
of contagion, and from which his fellows fled in dismay or disgust.
In the calm stillness of the next evening, when voices were easily heard
at a distance, and when through the soft air of spring, perfumes were
transmitted in their greatest perfection, Moore stood alone, far away
from the camp, and delivered an eloquent but pathetic monologue,
concluding with the servant's words to Pistol, "I would give all my fame
for a pot of ale and safety." Then across the intervening space he
calmly discussed with his friends the advisability of burying his
clothes for a week to deodorize them, a custom said to be common among
farmers who have suffered a like experience. It was finally conceded
that he should hold himself in quarantine for the night, and not less
than a mile from the train, and that during the ensuing days his
garments might be hung in the open air on the rear of the hind wagon.
The sequel to this hunt was approximately forty miles long, for the
train covered more than that distance before it ceased to leave in its
trail the fragrant reminder of Moore's first essay in hunting.
On a Saturday the long train rolled through the comparatively old town
of Milton, a little village settled in the forties by a colony of
Seventh Day Baptists. As is well known, these people honor the seventh
day, or Saturday, as their Sabbath, or day of rest. We filed through
the quiet, sleepy town while the worshippers were going to their church.
It seemed as if we had either lost our reckoning of time, or were
flagrantly dishonoring the Lord's Day.
After we had passed through to the open country beyond, some of the boys
who had been riding together in the rear and had been discussing the
Sunday question brought to mind by this trifling occurrence, decided to
interview our highest authority upon the subject, and accordingly rode
alongside of Captain Whitmore, who had been riding in advance.
"Captain," said one of the party, in a dignified and serious manner, "we
know that your recent life has been spent very much in the mountains and
that you have not been a regular attendant at church, although we
believe your wife to be a good Methodist. What has been your practice in
this kind of travel with reference to Sabbath observance?"
"Well, now, my boy," replied the Captain, "I have never cared very much
for Sunday or for churches, but you must know that when we get out on
the plains we can't afford to stop all our stock to starve on a desert
where there is no feed or water just because it is Sunday. Sometimes
there may be grass enough on a little bottom for a night, but it will be
cropped close before the stock lies down. To remain another night would
mean starvation to the stock, which would be roaming in every direction.
Of course I don't know the ranges as well as the buffaloes do, but there
are a few places, and I know pretty near where to find them, where in
most seasons stock can feed a second day, unless others have too
recently pastured it. When I find such a place I lie over for a day and
don't care if it is Saturday, Sunday or Monday. But," he added, with
earnestness, "I want to tell you one thing. I have crossed the plains
to the coast many times, and I can take a train of oxen or mules and
turn them out one whole day every sixth or seventh day, free to range
for twenty-four hours, and I can make this trip in less time and bring
my stock through to the Pacific in better condition than any fool can
who drives them even a little every day."
"Now, Cap," said one, "you are getting right down to the philosophy of
Sabbath observance. Why can you drive farther by resting full days
rather than to rest your stock a little more each day?"
"Well, I don't know, except that I have tried both ways. Animals and men
seem to be built that way. Now, here's these Seventh Day Baptists whose
Sunday comes on Saturday. They're all right, but they would be just as
correct if they would regularly use any other day as the Sabbath, and I
believe the Lord knew what we ought to have when he got out the fourth
commandment. I know 'em all as well as you do. I think Mrs. Whitmore is
right in going to church on Sunday, and in making me put on a clean
shirt when at home, even though I do not go with her. It would be better
for me if I would go with her, but I have roughed it so much that I have
got out of the way of it."
Thus was announced the Captain's policy for our _quasi_ weekly days of
rest, and the affair was conducted accordingly.
As our train crawled across Rock River, whose banks were once the
favorite hunting grounds of the Winnebagoes and Pottawattamies, I
recalled a final gathering of the remnant of the latter tribe, which I
witnessed, when, for the last time, they turned from their beautiful
home and started in single file on their long, sad trail toward the
setting sun, to the reservation set apart for them forever. We shall
note more of this type of historical incident as we pass beyond the
Missouri, for the white man was pushing the Indian year by year farther
back into the wild and arid lands then supposed to be of no use for
cultivation.
The overshadowing events of more recent years cause us almost to forget
that Zachary Taylor, Winfield Scott, Jefferson Davis, Abraham Lincoln,
Robert Anderson of Fort Sumter fame, and other men who became
distinguished in American affairs, were once engaged in pursuing the
Sacs and Foxes up these streams which we crossed while on our journey to
the land of the yet unsubdued Sioux and Cheyennes.
Passing beyond the Mississippi, and to the western limit of railroad
transportation, I was joined at Monticello by my old friends, Ben Frees
and Fred Day.
Walking back six miles from the frontier station we struck the camp in
time for a late supper. The dark evening hours were brightened by a
rousing bonfire that the boys had built. The shadows of night had long
since settled down upon the camp, and, there being no apparent occasion
for us to retire immediately, Ben, Fred and I wandered together out into
the gloom far away from the now flickering camp fire, which like some
fevered lives, was soon to leave nothing but gray ashes or blackened,
dying embers. We had just come together after our separation, and we
conversed long concerning the unknown future that lay before us, for no
definite plans for our trip, nor even the route that we were to take,
had been perfected, and this was the second of May.
Our footsteps led us toward a rural cemetery, some miles east of the
town of Monticello, in which we had already observed a few white grave
stones, indicating that the grim reaper had found an early harvest in
this new settlement. Our attention was soon attracted to a dim light
slowly floating around the ground in a remote ravine within the
enclosure. A lonely graveyard at night had never appealed to me as a
place of especial interest, yet I had heard of one unfortunate, who in
his natural life had done a great wrong; when consigned to the tomb, his
spirit, unable to rise, was held to earth, and yearly on certain nights
it hovered over the grave where his own body had gone to dust.
"Boys," said Fred, "that light is certainly mysterious; it is not the
light of a candle." A slight chill ran up my spinal column, concerning
which I made no comment. It was at once suggested that there was nothing
we were able to do about it; moreover our diffidence and modesty
naturally inclined us to avoid mixing up in the private, sub-mundane
affairs of the departed, especially those with whom we had had no
acquaintance, or whose character was uncertain. If, instead of this
strange light, the appearance had been something of flesh and blood, we,
being as we believed, quite courageous, would have proceeded at once to
investigate its nature. Curiosity, however, led us to advance cautiously
forward. Ben, being a trifle shorter than I, was permitted to move in
advance, as I did not wish to obstruct his view. The phosphorescence, or
whatever it was, soon ceased to move, and rested near a little
gravestone, the form of which we could faintly discern in outline.
Quietly drawing nearer, we caught the subdued sound of something like a
human voice coming, as we believed (and as was truly the fact), from the
earth; the words, as nearly as we could understand, were, "help me out."
Surely this was a spirit struggling to escape, and our approach was
recognized. At that moment we were startled to discover an arm reaching
upward from the earth. Another dark form, emerging from the shadow of a
nearby copse of bushes, in the dim light could be seen approaching
toward the extended hand, which it appeared to grasp, and a body was
lifted to the surface, from which came the words of kind assurance,
"It's all right, Mike." "Sure," said Ben, "that is an Irishman, and I
think Irishmen are generally good fellows, but I believe they are
robbing a grave."
Drawing still nearer we discovered that the light which we had observed
was an old-fashioned tin lantern, suspended from a small tree, and its
feeble rays now brought to our view a plain, wooden coffin resting upon
the ground. Inspired by a better knowledge of the situation, we quickly
came to the front, and, as if vested with some authority for inquiring
concerning this desecration, we demanded an explanation, for it was now
past midnight.
"And wad ye have all the facts?" asked the Irishman, as we looked into
the open grave. We firmly urged that we must understand the whole
situation. The two men glanced at each other. "Well," said one, "this
man in this coffin ferninst ye, died last night of smallpox, and we were
hired to bury him before morning, because ye wouldn't have a smallpox
stiff around in the day time, wad ye?" The path out of the graveyard was
tortuous and dark; in fact, we found no path through the dense
underbrush, but we reached the road in safety. Unseen and immaterial
things are usually more feared than are visible and tangible objects.
The combination of smallpox and spirits departed verges visibly on the
uncanny.
On a tributary of the Des Moines River we found the first Indians thus
far seen, possibly two score of miserable, degraded beings who were
camping there. They had little of the free, dignified bearing of
representatives of the tribes with which I had once been familiar. A
little contact with civilization and a little support from the
Government had made them the idle, aimless wanderers that nearly all
savages become when under such influence. Keokuk, the successor of Black
Hawk, and Wapello, became chiefs of the united tribes of the Sacs and
Foxes, and along with Appanoose, a Fox chief, received reservations
along these streams. Wapello was buried at Indian Agency near Ottutumwa,
beside the body of his friend and protector, General Street.
Our men had not yet reached a state of savagery in which there was not
occasional longing for the good things commonly enjoyed by civilized
beings. Among these was milk. On the day that we met the Indians, and at
some distance from the camp, a solitary cow was seen feeding on the
prairie. Several days had passed since our men had been permitted to
enjoy the luxury of milk for coffee. It occurred to Brant that a golden
opportunity was presented, which if seized upon would place the camp
under lasting obligations to him. He struck across the country and
gradually approaching the animal succeeded so thoroughly in securing her
confidence that he soon returned with a pail of the precious liquid. The
question arose as to whether or not Brant could set up a valid defense
against a charge of larceny in case the owner of the cow, having proof
that he had extracted the milk, should prefer charges against him. The
case was argued at the evening session, and I preserved a record of the
proceedings. Evidence was adduced to show that at the time the milk was
taken, the cow was feeding upon the public domain, or what is known as
Government land; that the grass and water which were taken for its
support and nourishment were obtained by the said cow from public lands
without payment therefor; that a portion of said grass taken by said cow
and not required for nourishment did, through the processes of nature,
become milk; that the said milk at the time of its extraction had not
become either constructively or prospectively an essential part of said
cow, nor could any title thereto become exclusively vested in the owner
of said cow, except such milk as said cow should have within her when
she should enter upon the premises of her owner. It was admitted that
the milk was obtained from said cow under false pretences, by virtue of
the fact that Brant's manner in approaching her was such as was
calculated to cause any cow of ordinary intelligence to believe that he
was duly authorized to take said milk. It was assumed, however, that
under the statutes of Iowa there was no law by which said cow could
become a plaintiff in a case, even through the intervention of a nearest
friend.
As the milk was to be served freely to all the boys for breakfast, and
as we were desirous that all questions of justice and equity should be
fairly settled before any property should be appropriated to our use
which might have been unlawfully acquired, the jury, after prayerful
consideration decided that as the food taken by said cow to produce said
milk was public property, the milk also was the property of the public.
We, therefore, used the milk in our coffee for breakfast. It was also
the last obtained by the men for many months.
At this juncture I was to be sent upon a mission. There had been
transported in the Captain's wagon a little more than $8,000.00 in
currency to be used in the purchase of supplies. Whitmore was anxious
that this currency, which was quite a large sum for that day, should be
deposited in some bank in Nebraska City. Improvising a belt in which
the money was placed, I started out alone for that town, and soon
encountered heavy storms, which delayed progress. On one day in which I
made a continuous ride of seventy-eight miles, one stretch of
twenty-four miles was passed along which no house was visible. This
indicated the tapering out of civilization and the proximity of the
western limit of population in that territory.
On the 22d of May I crossed the Missouri River by a ferry, after fording
a long stretch of flooded bottom lands to the landing, five days after
leaving our train, and reached Nebraska City, then an outfitting point
for transcontinental travel.