miracle—and only in ancient history do miracles spring fullblown from
questionable beginnings. A condition soon developed among the Colonists
on section twenty-five where it was “every fellow for himself and may
the devil take the hindmost.” True, there was a lot of poor management
and some shady, if not to say crooked, transactions. And it appears one
man did rather “Lord” it over the others—took the lion’s share of
everything.
George Cox, a carpenter—they were practically all tradesmen was sent
over to superintend fencing the Colony lands. And, very much to the
merriment of the natives, he did that fencing in the dead of winter,
when the ground was frozen. The postholes he and his countrymen dug that
winter cost the Company one dollar, each. Such frozen assets were, of
course, conducive to the downfall of the Company.
But George Cox was not the fool that his ice-bound fence would indicate.
The real fault was on the other side of the big pond. The Company sent
Cox over here in midwinter to build a fence. He was without funds. The
larder at Llewellyn Castle was low—distressingly low. And his brother
Englishmen needed immediate succor. There was money for George Cox only
when he worked. And he couldn’t afford to put in all his time that
blizzardy, snowbound winter hanging onto the coat-tail of one of his
brother countrymen while the bunch of them played ring-round-the-stove
in that old Colony house to keep from freezing, as he once told me he
was compelled to do. So, then, what was really wrong with George’s
congealed fence idea?
Like other Englishmen, after coming here, George Cox had a lot to learn,
of course. He was the complainant in a lawsuit involving the ownership
of a cow. John J. Ingalls was attorney for Theodore Wolfley, the
defendant. The illustrious John J. queried, “What color was your cow,
Mr. Cox?”
“Bay,” said George. The court laughed, and told Cox to try again.
“Well,” said George, “I ‘ave a bay ‘orse, and my cow’s the same color as
my bay ‘orse.”
Then, from over the seas, came the jovial Mr. Murray, clothed in
authority and a superabundance of ego—English to the core. He had been
sent over here to make an audit of the Company’s estate. Murray
stopped first at Wetmore and partook freely of Johnny Clifton’s
“alf-and-alf.” He was a free spender and made friends here readily.
In pursuance of his duties, Mr. Murray said to those Colony delinquents,
“Wots the jolly old idea of all this reticence? Hits most happallin! I
want to see the books, by-jove.” One of those derelicts exclaimed with a
little more mirth than was becoming, “I-si, just listen to ‘im, fellow!
Wants to see the books, ‘e does! That’s rich! Si, mister we don’t keep
henny books!”
Then in unison they shot words at Mr. Murray which were the same as
“You get the hell out of here.” Murray demurred, and not having read the
storm signals quite right, he bellowed, “Ave a care! Want that I should
report you for this hincolence? Hits very hunwise for you to hact this
wy!”
But when the old shotgun was brought out from its hiding place an awful
doubt of his own wisdom assailed the jovial Mr. Murray. Those true sons
of Briton actually chased the auditor away with a shotgun.
In employing the hit-and-miss English words here I am relaying them to
you as best I can from memory as I caught them from one, maybe two, of
the original six, many, many years ago. The quoted words are not my own.
If you could have known the men and could apply either the Stowell or
Radford pronunciation and accent you would improve it a lot. And don’t
forget to speed up a little.
There are now few of the old-time typical English with us. And the
language of those who came over a long time ago has become Americanized
to such extent that the younger generation here have no conception of
just how delightfully funny was the talk of a fresh Englishman. However,
some of those who came over as children and Even some of the American
born who had good tutors retain a percentage Of the pronunciation, but
the inflection and speed which characterized their ancestors have been
lost.
After the collapse of the Colony enterprise the unallotted part of
section twenty-five fell into the hands of Captain Wilson, of London.
He was an officer in the Company. Later, Captain Wilson’s interest was
acquired by William Fish, also of London, and a member of the Company.
In England William Fish was superintendent of the Great Northern
railroad. He came over here in 1881. He was a pensioner, and did not
renounce his allegiance to the Crown.
Captain Wilson thought a lot of the Colony scheme. He was to have given
his fortune at death to the first male child born on the Colony section.
That honor fell to Alfred Wilson Mollineaux, first son of John
Mollineaux, born 1874. While conversing with Alfred Mollineaux a few
days ago, he said to me, “But since I didn’t get me ‘eritage I’ve
dropped the Wilson part of it. Wot would be the good to bother
with it now?”
The Mollineaux heirs are the only descendents of the originals holding
an interest in section twenty-five in recent years. Alfred now owns the
south 80 of the northwest quarter. Harry sold the north 80 two years ago
to Otto Krack. Otto paid $6,000 for it, including the growing crop. The
old house on the place, built more than a half century ago, is the
original John Mollineaux home. The other lands in the section have long
since passed to new owners.
There are now only two of the old Colonists living. William Wessel,
familiarly called “Teddy,” came over in 1873. He is 89, and lives with
his daughter, Mrs. John Chase, in Goff. William Conover lives with his
son Edward, on a farm adjacent to the old Colony section. He is 89.
I took a drive about the old Colony section a few days ago seeking to
refresh my memory and gather additional data for this article. At Goff I
found Teddy Wessel in the Sourk drug store. Still living over the broken
dreams of the past, Teddy exploded, first-off, “They were a bunch of
damned rascals.”
In course of the interview I asked Teddy if he knew anything about a
racy romance at Llewellyn Castle many years ago. “I should say I do,” he
said. He had a momentary flash of it. That was all. Then his mind began
to fag. Laboriously, tantalizingly, the tired feelers of his mind went
fumbling into the dark pool of the past, trying desperately to capture
the lost details, but the whole works went under—ebbed away like a
fadeout in a movie.
George Sourk, who was sitting by and coaching the old fellow a bit,
said, “You’ll have to give daddy a little time, John. He’ll remember it
all right.”
Daddy swam up out of it all right and sure enough recollections were
upon him with a bang. But the main topic was still submerged and in its
place was an ugly memory that should have been dead long ago. “They were
damned rascals,” is all he said.
It is assumed that my very fine old friend’s poisoned arrow was aimed
only at the shades of the original six, or, at most, only those who had
the actual management of the Colony affairs.
Teddy Wessel’s run of hard luck started before he left London. It seems
he bought something—or thought he paid for something—he didn’t get. But
Teddy can thank his stars that there was at least one crooked countryman
in his close circle. Teddy trusted a friend to purchase first-class
passage for himself and family. The friend bought cheaper tickets on a
slower ship, and pocketed the difference. The fast ship passed the
slower one in midocean and was lost, together with all on board, when
one day out from New York.
A happy—and I believe equitable—solution of the matter would allow
the reader who had a friend or relative among them the privilege of
exempting such one, and thus still leave Teddy some targets for his
arrows. For my own part, I think I should like to exempt that little
nineteen-year-old boy, John Stowell. In later years, after he had come
to Wetmore and engaged in business, I worked for John Stowell in his
lumber yard, and in his brick manufacturing plant, and finally, as
type-setter on his newspaper. He was not a crook.
I grew up along with those bally English and I think I knew them pretty
well. They were not all rascals. The Colony section was only five miles
away from Wetmore as the crow flies. And as the crow flew then so did
I gallop my mustang along the prairie grass lane while carrying mail
between Wetmore and Seneca, passing Llewellyn Castle on the way.
There were few fences in the way then. Just prairie grass and wild roses
and more prairie grass. And lots of prairie chickens. I have seen
acres of them at one time on the hillsides in the vicinity of Llewellyn
Castle.
There was no blue-grass then. And no timber along the route anywhere
until the Nemaha was reached just this side of Seneca, at the old
Hazzard place.
And later, in 1887, when I was a compositor on T. J. Wolfley’s Seneca
Tribune, and made drives home with Sandy Sterling’s livery team,
practically all of the twenty-six miles of road was still only a winding
trail.
Willis J. Coburn, the contractor for that Star mail route, went with
me on the first trip. He took me to the home of his old friend,
John Radford, who had then left the Colony and was living on the old
Scrafford place adjoining Seneca on the south. I put up with “Old
Radidad”—as we afterwards called him when he came to live in Wetmore—for
about a month, and while they treated me kindly, I didn’t like their
English ways.
And when I announced my intentions of throwing up my job Willis Coburn
said I should then put up at the old Fairchild Hotel, which was on a
side street north from the upper end of the main street. It was a stone
building. Besides being immaculately clean, the Fairchilds were related
to the Jay Powers family in Wetmore and that made a bond between us that
held for the duration of my mail carrying activities. There were two
stops on the way—one in the Abbey neighborhood, and one at old Lincoln.
As compensation for my services as mail-carrier, I was paid fifty cents
each way, up one day and back the next—twice a week. And I was glad
to get that. Our mail-carriers here in Wetmore, covering about equal
distance, with only two hours on the road, draw about seven dollars a
day.
When Willis Coburn offered me the job I was short of the required age,
sixteen, and I was wondering how I would get by without swearing to a
lie, when our good old postmaster, Alvin McCreery, solved the problem
for me. When he swore me in, he said, “Now, don’t tell me your age.” He
shook his head, negatively, and repeated, “Don’t tell me your age.”
At the Radford home in Seneca, I learned enough about the old Colony
to make a book, but much of it is now shrouded in a fog of haze. On the
occasion of our first trip, Mr. Radford and Mr. Coburn discussed Colony
matters freely in my presence. It was July, and it was out on the border
of the big orchard which came right up to the back door, under the shade
of an early harvest apple tree, where they sat and talked.
I have to admit that at the time I was more interested in the golden
fruit hanging on the apple tree than I was in the conversation, but I
got enough of it to know that there would be a good story in it, if I
could but remember more clearly. Mr. Radford’s agile mind ground out
astonishing facts as steadily as a grist mill that afternoon. Whatever
else may be said of John Radford, he was an educated man. And he had a
wonderful sense of humor.
As I remember it, or partly remember it, the high light of the
afternoon’s conversation—the thing that tickled the men most—was a racy
romance that had budded, bloomed, and died at Llewellyn Castle. The male
participants were of course Wetmore men—one artisan, one professional.
But somewhere along the time-worn trail between that old apple tree and
my present quarters, separated by three and fifty years, the details of
that affair are lost. And like the characters who made it, that romance
has crumbled into dust—is now a part of the past.
But the phantom of the bally old thing, elusive though as a half-formed
thought awakened by a stray wisp of forgotten fragrance, still hovers
over section twenty-five. And if memory were but a trifle more elastic
I could entertain you with something more than the tattered shreds of
Llewellyn Castle’s most charming romance—a jolly old love-spree staged
and destroyed by the heartless hand of Fate.
MORE ABOUT THE COLONY FOLK Not Hitherto Published—1947.
By John T. Bristow
The Colony folk, men and women, came to Wetmore to do their trading—and
to sip ‘alf-an-’alf, beer and whisky. At that time there was quite a lot
of immigration from England, and Britons were scattered about over the
prairies in all directions—and in general they were all regarded as
Colonists.
William Cawood, with his two sons, Walter and Prince, came direct to
Wetmore from Scarborough, England, in the spring of 1870. Other members
of the family—George, Charley, Emma, Kate, and their mother—followed in
the fall.
William Cawood was a large man—a man of means, a man of dignity, ideas,
and mutton-chops. In England he was a contractor and builder—and a
good one, too, it was said. Here, he built his meat-market, and his
residence, his horse stable, his cow barn, and his pig sty, all under
one roof. The structure, founded upon pine studding set in the ground,
was on the alley end of four lots north of Third Street and west of
Kansas Avenue. The boys at school across the street to the east thought
a new telegraph line was coming to town. In later years, wondering if
my memory had served me well, I asked Prince Cawood if it were true that
those studding were set in the ground? He said, “Every one of them.”
Walter Cawood was a large man like his father. He played an important
part in the making of this story—or rather this incident. An outstanding
episode of the early days was a free-for-all fight on the main street in
Wetmore, with Colonists predominating. It was the year 1870—maybe 1871.
Can’t be sure about the exact time. That brawl is recorded in local
history as “English Boxing Day”—though in England, the day after
Christmas is known as Boxing Day, This one occurred on a muggy summer
day.
At this time Wetmore’s main street was flanked with three buildings on
the south side, and four on the north side, in blocks one and four—all
well toward the west end. Lush prairie grass still grew on the east
half of those two blocks. A long hitchrack was in the center of the
ungraded street.
I do not recall what it was that started the fight. Perhaps it was the
old Colony hatred, refreshed by drink. Those Colonists were continually
fussing among themselves. A little fellow with a piping voice—I think
it might have been Bilby—led off by striking a brother Englishman on the
mug. He yelled, “Tike that, you bloody blighter!” They were on the south
side of the street in front of John Clifton’s saloon. The little fellow
started to run away. He dodged under the hitchrack and stumbled in the
street almost in front of my father’s shoeshop on the north side. The
big man who had taken the rap on the face was soon upon the little runt.
Then multitudinous inebriated Englishmen, and at least one German—Bill
Liebig—fell in without waiting for an invitation.
It was a battle royal—everybody hitting somebody, anybody. Blood and
blasphemous epithets, in awkward delivery, flowed freely. When the
battle had run its course a dozen men, maybe more, were prone upon the
ground. A stocky little woman came out of the saloon and met the bruised
and bleeding aggressor. “Hi ‘opes,” she said, “you’re now sart-isfied—my
cocky little man. Been spoilin’ for a fight this long time.”
Walter Cawood appeared to be the big shot of that melee. He was young,
powerful, and extremely handy with his fists. Those tipsy brawlers went
down before his punches as if they were babies. Walter was the big shot
in one more unsavory mixup—it really stunk—before going back to his
dear old England to stay. Single handed, he captured a whole family
of half-grown skunks. He brought them home for pets, with the view of
taking them back to England with him. - Walter said, “Aw, blemmy—the
bloody little ones, they -ad been eatin’ on summick quite putrid.”
The next best skunk collector of that time also was a Britisher. Teddy
Masters, a diminutive Englishman who was farming the Jim Noyes place
over on the county line, with a man named Briggs, chanced to be helping
with the threshing on the John Thornburrow farm, when it rained and
stopped the work. Three of the threshing crew—Irve Hudson, Ice Gentry,
and “Zip” Bean—with Teddy, came to town in a spring wagon. On the way in
they saw a skunk by the roadside. One of the men told Teddy to jump out
and catch it—that skunks made fine pets. He carried the skunk to town in
his hat. Someone told Masters that Dr. John W. Graham would pay well for
that skunk. “Er, rippin’,” said the diminutive Englishman. “A chawnset
to grab a little lunch, rine or shine, eh? Could do myself well wiv a
bob now.”
Dr. J. W. Graham owned a drugstore on the south side of the street. He
also owned a fine bird-dog named York. They were nearly always together.
With the skunk still in his hat, Teddy found Graham’s door locked.
Someone across the street told him to throw the skunk in at an open
window. He did so. A little later, on entering the store, Dr. John W.
sat himself down to work out some materia medica puzzles, sniffing a
little on the side, while York was nosing about a bit. When the dog
found the object of his search, a rising young physician literally
exploded.
Teddy did not wait to collect his bob.
Though John Stowell, the boy member of the original influx of Colonists,
did command me—I was in his employ at the time—to go out on a chicken
foraging expedition one bright moonlight night, neither he nor I was
troubled with conscientious scruples. We were both quite sure that we
would never have to answer to God or man for our actions — I hasten to
say, in this particular instance.
Also, if Will Gill and Augustus Anderson were here they would tell you
that they not only saw me enter a closed but unlocked chicken house
and come out with six chickens, two at a time, and that they themselves
helped me carry those chickens to the rendezvous where they were to be
roasted — innards, feathers and all.
In explanation, John Stowell “burned” the brick for his two-story
building across the street from the Worthy lumber office—the present
location of the Catholic recreation hall. The brickyard was on Stowell’s
land south of the creek just west of the town bridge. Old Hagen, an
experienced brick-maker, was brought here to burn brick for the John
Spencer building—with Masonic hall above—on the alley south of second
street, facing on Kansas Avenue; and the Ed Vilott building on the alley
south of the present McDaniel picture show location, also facing on
Kansas Avenue. For these two buildings, Hagen burned two kilns of brick
on the north side of the creek, west from the mineral spring, on the
present Don Cole land.
My brother Sam and I worked on the Hagen brickyard — and learned a few
tricks. John Stowell said he believed we could do the brick-making
as well as Hagen, and if we were willing to tackle the job he would
“chawnsit.” Sam did the moulding, and I did the off-bearing, carried the
green brick to the drying yard—the same positions we held on the
Hagen yard. Together we set the brick in the kiln for burning. And we
plastered the kiln, top and sides, with mud before starting the fires.
The material used in both yards was common top-soil mixed with
sand—ground in a horse-propelled mill. Sand for the Hagen yard came from
a pit about where Frank White’s barn-lot is, across the street from his
residence. Sand for the Stowell yard came from a pit on the north
side of the quarter section at the northeast corner of town. It was
a treacherous pit. It caved in one time between loads when I was
hauling—and it frightened me so badly that I drove back empty. And never
again did I go into that pit.
Incidentally, I may say that it was claimed later a good brick-clay was
found on the John Thomas farm, a half mile east of town. A promoter made
the discovery. He planned to build a brick manufacturing plant at the
point of discovery, and have a railroad spur run out from town—provided,
however, that the town people foot the bill. Also he wanted to sell his
expert knowledge at a ridiculously high figure. When it was pointed out
to him that a couple of “greenhorn” boys had made fairly good brick from
ordinary dirt, without financial sweetening, he gave up the venture.
At the Stowell yard I had the day shift and Sam headed the night shift
during the burning procedure. For fuel we used old fence rails—mostly.
And it took a lot of them. Rails fed into the five 16-foot fire tunnels
to better advantage than any other wood that could be had. Wherever so
many rails came from I do not recall. Likely from farms whose owners
were making the change over from the old worm-fence to barbed wire,
which came along about that time. Besides the firemen—three to the
12-hour shift — there were always crowds of spectators at the yard, in
the early evenings.
Stowell was feeling pretty good over the splendid progress we were
making, and he said to me one evening, out loud so that all could hear,
“I think we ought to give the boys a chicken roast tonight.” Then, to
the crowd, “Wot you say, fellows? ‘Ere two of you boys go along with
John and bring back a ‘alf dozen chicks—I command John to go.”
Will Gill and Gus Anderson fell in with me. The boys named a place in
the north part of town where they thought we might get the chickens
without incurring too much risk of being caught. We were now passing
John Stowell’s home on the corner where Cleve Battin lives. I said,
“Oh, that’s too far. Why not see what Laura (Stowell’s wife) has in
her chicken house here on the alley?” Will Gill said, “Why, this is
Stowell’s place. We ought not steal his chickens. He might recognize
them—and that would spoil all the fun.”
And, by-golly, those two boys refused to put foot on the Stowell lot—and
I had to do all the dirty work. I couldn’t blame them though, because it
was bright moonlight and the door of the chicken house faced the Stowell
residence only a few rods to the south. But it was, probably, just as
well. They wouldn’t have known where to find the choice chicks, anyway.
And besides, I knew that, let ‘em squawk, Laura and the children were
going to stay put. Back at the yard, the word got around that we had
stolen Stowell’s chickens — and the whole gang broke into a “Chessy-cat”
grin which didn’t come off during the whole evening. Stowell busied
himself with the roasting, without outward signs of recognizing a chick.
John Stowell was very methodical and punctual in the conduct of his
newspaper. He was reasonable in his demands of his help—and mighty fine
fellow to work for. He often paid me extra when particularly pleased
with our accomplishment. He insisted only that the forms be closed by
six o’clock on press days. We usually printed the paper after supper, so
that Stowell might address the papers for mailing—and then, too, in the
winter, we could get a better print while the office was warm.
One time Stowell brought a roving printer upstairs to the composing
room, having promised the fellow $5 to show me how to print in two
colors from a solid cut. I told John that I thought I knew how it
was done. He said, “By-jingo, maybe you can learn something, anyway.”
Turning to the two-color man, he said, “Show ‘im, Mister.” But it was I
who did the showing.
I looked up a cut of our then new frame school house — a carry over from
another ownership—and explained how I had printed the building in
brown, the yard in green, and the sky in blue, with a fleecy white cloud
overhead in the background, all done with three impressions, from the
solid cut. Stowell said, ‘“Ere, Mister, ‘ere’s your five dollars.” The
fellow said, “I think you ought to give this to your printer—he’s gone
me one better in the matter of colors.” Stowell said, “‘Ere John, I’ll
give you $5 too. It’s been worth it to me.” And I said, “I think you
ought to give this one to my brother Sam. He engraved the wood cut,
showed me how to mix colors, and was helpful in figuring out a way to
print it in three colors.” Sam was the artist in our family. Stowell
said, “By-jingo, I’ll give ‘im $5 too. ‘Ow’s our supply of boxwood?” He
had another three-color print in mind.