already had a boy fifteen years of age, and was rich in all the wealth
which Connecticut then possessed. The French war broke out--the war
which decided the question whether the French or the English race should
possess North America. His reputation was such that the legislature of
Connecticut appointed him at once a captain, and he had no difficulty in
enlisting a company of the young men of his county, young farmers or the
sons of farmers. He gained great note as a scouter and ranger, rendering
such important service in this way to the army that the legislature made
him a special grant of "fifty Spanish milled dollars" as an honorable
gift. He was famous also for Yankee ingenuity. A colonial newspaper
relates an anecdote illustrative of this. The British general was sorely
perplexed by the presence of a French man-of-war commanding a piece of
water which it was necessary for him to cross.
"General," said Putnam, "that ship must be taken."
"Aye," replied the general, "I would give the world if she was taken."
"I will take her," said Putnam.
"How?" asked the general.
"Give me some wedges, a beetle, and a few men of my own choice."
When night came, Putnam rowed under the vessel's stern, and drove the
wedges between the rudder and the ship. In the morning she was seen with
her sails flapping helplessly in the middle of the lake, and she was
soon after blown ashore and captured.
Among other adventures, Putnam was taken prisoner by the Indians, and
carried to his grave great scars of the wounds inflicted by the savages.
He served to the very end of the war, pursuing the enemy even into the
tropics, and assisting at the capture of Havana. He returned home, after
nine years of almost continuous service, with the rank of colonel, and
such a reputation as made him the hero of Connecticut, as Washington was
the hero of Virginia at the close of the same war. At any time of public
danger requiring a resort to arms, he would be naturally looked to by
the people of Connecticut to take the command.
Eleven peaceful years he now spent at home. His wife died, leaving an
infant a year old. He joined the church; he married again; he cultivated
his farm; he told his war stories. The Stamp Act excitement occurred in
1765, when Putnam joined the Sons of Liberty, and called upon the
governor of the colony as a deputy from them.
"What shall I do," asked the governor, "if the stamped paper should be
sent to me by the king's authority?"
"Lock it up," said Putnam, "until we visit you again."
"And what will you do with it?"
"We shall expect you to give us the key of the room where it is
deposited; and if you think fit, in order to screen yourself from
blame, you may forewarn us upon our peril not to enter the room."
"And what will you do afterwards?"
"Send it safely back again."
"But if I should refuse you admission?"
"Your house will be level with the dust in five minutes."
Fortunately, the stamped paper never reached Connecticut, and the act
was repealed soon after.
The eventful year, 1774, arrived. Putnam was fifty-six years of age, a
somewhat portly personage, weighing two hundred pounds, with a round,
full countenance, adorned by curly locks, now turning gray--the very
picture of a hale, hearty, good-humored, upright and downright country
gentleman. News came that the port of Boston was closed, its business
suspended, its people likely to be in want of food. The farmers of the
neighborhood contributed a hundred and twenty-five sheep, which Putnam
himself drove to Boston, sixty miles off, where he had a cordial
reception by the people, and was visited by great numbers of them at the
house of Dr. Warren, where he lived. The polite people of Boston were
delighted with the scarred old hero, and were pleased to tell anecdotes
of his homely ways and fervent, honest zeal. He mingled freely, too,
with the British officers, who _chaffed_ him, as the modern saying is,
about his coming down to Boston to fight. They told him that twenty
great ships and twenty regiments would come unless the people
submitted.
"If they come," said Putnam, "I am ready to treat them as enemies."
One day in the following spring, April twentieth, while he was ploughing
in one of his fields with a yoke of oxen driven by his son, Daniel, a
boy of fifteen, an express reached him giving him the news of the battle
of Lexington, which had occurred the day before. Daniel Putnam has left
a record of what his father did on this occasion.
"He loitered not," wrote Daniel, "but left me, the driver of his team,
to unyoke it in the furrow, and not many days after to follow him to
camp."
Colonel Putnam mounted a horse, and set off instantly to alarm the
officers of militia in the neighboring towns. Returning home a few hours
after, he found hundreds of minute-men assembled, armed and equipped,
who had chosen him for their commander. He accepted the command, and,
giving them orders to follow, he pushed on without dismounting, rode the
same horse all night, and reached Cambridge next morning at sunrise,
still wearing the checked shirt which he had had on when ploughing in
his field. As Mr. Bancroft remarks, he brought to his country's service
an undaunted courage and a devoted heart. His services during the
Revolution are known to almost every reader. Every one seems to have
liked him, for he had a very happy turn for humor, sang a good song, and
was a very cheerful old gentleman.
In 1789, after four years of vigorous and useful service, too arduous
for his age, he suffered a paralytic stroke, which obliged him to leave
the army. He lived, however, to see his country free and prosperous,
surviving to the year 1790, when he died, aged seventy-three. I saw his
commission as major-general hanging in the house of one of his
grandsons, Colonel A. P. Putnam, at Nashville, some years ago. He has
descendants in every State.
GEORGE FLOWER.
PIONEER.
Travelers from old Europe are surprised to find in Chicago such an
institution as an Historical Society. What can a city of yesterday, they
ask, find to place in its archives, beyond the names of the first
settlers, and the erection of the first elevator? They forget that the
newest settlement of civilized men inherits and possesses the whole past
of our race, and that no community has so much need to be instructed by
History as one which has little of its own. Nor is it amiss for a new
commonwealth to record its history as it makes it, and store away the
records of its vigorous infancy for the entertainment of its mature age.
The first volume issued by the Chicago Historical Society contains an
account of what is still called the "English Settlement," in Edwards
County, Illinois, founded in 1817 by two wealthy English farmers, Morris
Birkbeck and George Flower. These gentlemen sold out all their
possessions in England, and set out in search of the prairies of the
Great West, of which they had heard in the old country. They were not
quite sure there were any prairies, for all the settled parts of the
United States, they knew, had been covered with the dense primeval
forest. The existence of the prairies rested upon the tales of
travelers. So George Flower, in the spring of 1816, set out in advance
to verify the story, bearing valuable letters of introduction, one from
General La Fayette to ex-President Jefferson.
With plenty of money in his pocket and enjoying every other advantage,
he was nearly two years in merely _finding_ the prairies. First, he was
fifty days in crossing the ocean, and he spent six weeks in
Philadelphia, enjoying the hospitality of friends. The fourth month of
his journey had nearly elapsed before he had fairly mounted his horse
and started on his westward way.
It is a pity there is not another new continent to be explored and
settled, because the experience gained in America would so much
facilitate the work. Upon looking over such records as that of George
Flower's History we frequently meet with devices and expedients of great
value in their time and place, but which are destined soon to be
numbered among the Lost Arts. For example, take the mode of saddling and
loading a horse for a ride of fifteen hundred miles, say, from the
Atlantic to the Far West, or back again. It was a matter of infinite
importance to the rider, for every part of the load was subjected to
desperate pulls and wrenches, and the breaking of a strap, at a
critical moment in crossing a river or climbing a steep, might
precipitate both horse and rider to destruction.
On the back of the horse was laid, first of all, a soft and thin
blanket, which protected the animal in some degree against the venomous
insects that abounded on the prairies, the attacks of which could
sometimes madden the gentlest horse. Upon this was placed the saddle,
which was large, and provided in front with a high pommel, and behind
with a pad to receive part of the lading. The saddle was a matter of
great importance, as well as its girths and crupper strap, all of which
an experienced traveler subjected to most careful examination. Every
stitch was looked at, and the strength of all the parts repeatedly
tested.
Over the saddle--folded twice, if not three times--was a large, thick,
and fine blanket, as good a one as the rider could afford, which was
kept in its place by a broad surcingle. On the pad behind the saddle
were securely fastened a cloak and umbrella, rolled together as tight as
possible and bound with two straps. Next we have to consider the saddle
bags, stuffed as full as they could hold, each bag being exactly of the
same weight and size as the other. As the horseman put into them the few
articles of necessity which they would hold he would balance them
frequently, to see that one did not outweigh the other even by half a
pound. If this were neglected, the bags would slip from one side to the
other, graze the horse's leg, and start him off in a "furious kicking
gallop." The saddle-bags were slung across the saddle under the blanket,
and kept in their place by two loops through which the stirrup leathers
passed.
So much for the horse. The next thing was for the rider to put on his
leggings, which were pieces of cloth about a yard square, folded round
the leg from the knee to the ankle, and fastened with pins and bands of
tape. These leggings received the mud and water splashed up by the
horse, and kept the trousers dry. Thus prepared, the rider proceeded to
mount, which was by no means an easy matter, considering what was
already upon the horse's back. The horse was placed as near as possible
to a stump, from which, with a "pretty wide stride and fling of the
leg," the rider would spring into his seat. It was so difficult to mount
and dismount, that experienced travelers would seldom get off until the
party halted for noon, and not again until it was time to camp.
Women often made the journey on horseback, and bore the fatigue of it
about as well as men. Instead of a riding-habit, they wore over their
ordinary dress a long skirt of dark-colored material, and tied their
bonnets on with a large handkerchief over the top, which served to
protect the face and ears from the weather.
The packing of the saddle made the seat more comfortable, and even
safer, for both men and women. The rider, in fact, was seldom thrown
unless the whole load came off at once. Thus mounted, a party of
experienced horsemen and horsewomen would average their thirty miles a
day for a month at a time, providing no accident befel them. They were,
nevertheless, liable to many accidents and vexatious delays. A horse
falling lame would delay the party. Occasionally there would be a
stampede of all the horses, and days lost in finding them.
The greatest difficulty of all was the overflowing waters. No reader can
have forgotten the floods in the western country in the spring of 1884,
when every brook was a torrent and every river a deluge. Imagine a party
of travelers making their westward way on horseback at such a time,
before there was even a raft ferry on any river west of the Alleghanies,
and when all the valleys would be covered with water. It was by no means
unusual for a party to be detained a month waiting for the waters of a
large river to subside, and it was a thing at some seasons of daily
occurrence for all of them to be soused up to their necks in water.
Many of the important fords, too, could only be crossed by people who
knew their secret. I received once myself directions for crossing a ford
in South Carolina something like this: I was told to go straight in four
lengths of the horse; then "turn square to the right" and go two
lengths; and finally "strike for the shore, slanting a little down the
stream." Luckily, I had some one with me more expert in fords than I
was, and through his friendly guidance managed to flounder through.
Between New York and Baltimore, in 1775, there were more than twenty
streams to be forded, and six wide rivers or inlets to be ferried over.
We little think, as we glide over these streams now, that the smallest
of them, in some seasons, presented difficulties to our grandfathers
going southward on horseback.
The art of camping out was wonderfully well understood by the early
pioneers. Women were a great help in making the camp comfortable. As the
Pilgrim Fathers may be said to have discovered the true method of
settling the sea-shore, so the Western pioneer found the best way of
traversing and subduing the interior wilderness. The secret in both
cases was to get _the aid of women and children_! They supplied men with
motive, did a full half of the labor, and made it next to impossible to
turn back. Mr. Flower makes a remark in connection with this subject,
the truth of which will be attested by many.
"It is astonishing," he says, "how soon we are restored from fatigue
caused by exercise in the open air. Debility is of much longer duration
from labor in factories, stores, and in rooms warmed by stoves. Hail,
snow, thunder storms, and drenching rains are all _restoratives_ to
health and spirits."
Often, when the company would be all but tired out by a long day's ride
in hot weather, and the line stretched out three or four miles, a good
soaking rain would restore their spirits at once. Nor did a plunge into
the stream, which would wet every fibre of their clothing, do them any
harm. They would ride on in the sun, and let their clothes dry in the
natural way.
It must be owned, however, that some of the winter experiences of
travelers in the prairie country were most severe. In the forest a fire
can be made and some shelter can be found. But imagine a party on the
prairie in the midst of a driving snowstorm, overtaken by night, the
temperature at zero. Even in these circumstances knowledge was safety.
Each man would place his saddle on the ground and sit upon it, covering
his shoulders and head with his blanket, and holding his horse by the
bridle. In this way the human travelers usually derived warmth and
shelter enough from the horses to keep them from freezing to death.
Another method was to tie their horses, spread a blanket on the ground,
and sit upon it as close together as they could.
Sometimes, indeed, a whole party would freeze together in a mass; but
commonly all escaped without serious injury, and in some instances
invalids were restored to health by exposure which we should imagine
would kill a healthy man.
When George Flower rode westward in 1816, Lancaster, Pa., was the
largest inland town of the United States, and Dr. Priestley's beautiful
abode at Sunbury on the Susquehanna was still on the outside of the "Far
West." He had more trouble in getting to Pittsburg than he would now
have in going round the world. In the Alleghany Mountains he lost his
way, and was rescued by the chance of finding a stray horse which he
caught and mounted, and was carried by it to the only cabin in the
region. The owner of this cabin was "a poor Irishman with a coat so
darned, patched, and tattered as to be quite a curiosity."
"How I cherished him!" says the traveler. "No angel's visit could have
pleased me so well. He pointed out to me the course and showed me into a
path."
Pittsburg was already a smoky town. Leaving it soon, he rode on westward
to Cincinnati, then a place of five or six thousand inhabitants, but
growing rapidly. Even so far west as Cincinnati he could still learn
nothing of the prairies.
"Not a person that I saw," he declares, "knew anything about them. I
shrank from the idea of settling in the midst of a wood of heavy timber,
to hack and to hew my way to a little farm, ever bounded by a wall of
gloomy forest."
Then he rode across Kentucky, where he was struck, as every one was and
is, by the luxuriant beauty of the blue-grass farms. He dwells upon the
difficulty and horror of fording the rivers at that season of the year.
Some of his narrow escapes made such a deep impression upon his mind
that he used to dream of them fifty years after. He paid a visit to old
Governor Shelby of warlike renown, one of the heroes of the frontier,
and there at last he got some news of the prairies! He says:
"It was at Governor Shelby's house (in Lincoln County, Ky.) that I met
the first person who confirmed me in the existence of the prairies."
This informant was the Governor's brother, who had just come from the
Mississippi River across the glorious prairies of Illinois to the Ohio.
The information was a great relief. He was sure now that he had left his
native land on no fool's errand, the victim of a traveler's lying tale.
Being thus satisfied that there _were_ prairies which could be found
whenever they were wanted, he suspended the pursuit.
He had been then seven months from home, and November being at hand, too
late to explore an unknown country, he changed his course, and went off
to visit Mr. Jefferson at his estate of Poplar Forest in Virginia, upon
which the Natural Bridge is situated. Passing through Nashville on his
way, he saw General Andrew Jackson at a horse race. He describes the
hero of New Orleans as an elderly man, "lean and lank, bronzed in
complexion, deep marked countenance, grisly-gray hair, and a restless,
fiery eye." He adds:--
"Jackson had a horse on the course which was beaten that day. The
recklessness of his bets, his violent gesticulations and imprecations,
outdid all competition. If I had been told that he was to be a future
President of the United States, I should have thought it a very strange
thing."
There are still a few old men, I believe, at Nashville who remember
General Jackson's demeanor on the race ground, and they confirm the
record of Mr. Flower. After a ride of a thousand miles or so, he
presented his letter of introduction to Mr. Jefferson at Poplar Forest,
and had a cordial reception. The traveler describes the house as
resembling a French château, with octagon rooms, doors of polished oak,
lofty ceilings, and large mirrors. The ex-President's form, he says, was
of somewhat majestic proportions, more than six feet in height; his
manners simple, kind, and polite; his dress a dark pepper-and-salt coat,
cut in the old Quaker fashion, with one row of large metal buttons,
knee-breeches, gray worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by large metal
buckles, all quite in the old style. His two grand-daughters, Misses
Randolph, were living with him then. Mr. Jefferson soon after returned
to his usual abode, Monticello, and there Mr. Flower spent the greater
part of the winter, enjoying most keenly the evening conversations of
the ex-President, who delighted to talk of the historic scenes in which
he was for fifty years a conspicuous actor.
George Flower and his party would have settled near Monticello,
perhaps, but for the system of slavery, which perpetuated a wasteful
mode of farming, and disfigured the beautiful land with dilapidation.
He had, meanwhile, sent home word that prairies existed in America, and
in the spring of 1817 his partner in the enterprise, Morris Birkbeck,
and his family of nine, came out from England, and they all started
westward in search of the prairies. They went by stage to Pittsburg,
where they bought horses, mounted them and continued their journey, men,
ladies, and boys, a dozen people in all. The journey was not unpleasant,
most of them being persons of education and refinement, with three
agreeable young ladies among them, two of them being daughters of Mr.
Birkbeck, and Miss Andrews, their friend and companion.
All went well and happily during the journey until Mr. Birkbeck, a
widower of fifty-four with grown daughters, made an offer of marriage to
Miss Andrews, aged twenty-five. It was an embarrassing situation. She
was constrained to decline the offer, and as they were traveling in such
close relations, the freedom and enjoyment of the journey were seriously
impaired. Then Mr. Flower, who was a widower also, but in the prime of
life, proposed to the young lady. She accepted him, and they were soon
after married at Vincennes, the rejected Birkbeck officiating as father
of the bride.
But this was not finding the prairies. At length, toward the close of
the second summer, they began to meet with people who had seen prairies,
and finally their own eyes were greeted with the sight. One day, after a
ride of seven hours in extreme heat, bruised and torn by the brushwood,
exhausted and almost in despair, suddenly a beautiful prairie was
disclosed to their view. It was an immense expanse stretching away in
profound repose beneath the light of an afternoon summer sun, surrounded
by forest and adorned with clumps of mighty oaks, "the whole presenting
a magnificence of park scenery complete from the hand of nature." The
writer adds: "For once, the reality came up to the picture of the
imagination."
If the reader supposes that their task was now substantially
accomplished, he is very much mistaken. After a good deal of laborious
search, they chose a site for their settlement in Edwards County,
Illinois, and bought a considerable tract; after which Mr. Flower went
to England to close up the affairs of the two families, and raise the
money to pay for their land and build their houses. They named their
town Albion. It has enjoyed a safe and steady prosperity ever since, and
has been in some respects a model town to that part of Illinois.
The art of founding a town must of course soon cease to be practiced. It
is curious to note how all the institutions of civilized life were
established in their order. First was built a large log-cabin that would
answer as a tavern and blacksmith's shop, the first requisites being to
get the horses shod, and the riders supplied with whiskey. Then came
other log-cabins, as they were needed, which pioneers would undertake to
build for arriving emigrants for twenty-five dollars apiece. Very soon
one of the people would try, for the first time in his life, to preach a
sermon on Sundays, and as soon as there were children enough in the
neighborhood, one of the settlers, unable to cope with the labors of
agriculture, would undertake to teach them, and a log-cabin would be
built or appropriated for the purpose.
Mr. Flower reports that, as soon as the school was established,
civilization was safe. Some boys and some parents would hold out against
it for a while, but all of them at last either join the movement or
remove further into the wilderness.
"Occasionally," he says, "will be seen a boy, ten or twelve years old,
leaning against a door-post intently gazing in upon the scholars at
their lessons; after a time he slowly and moodily goes away. He feels
his exclusion. He can no longer say: 'I am as good as you.' He must go
to school or dive deeper into the forest."
All this is passing. Already it begins to read like ancient history.
George Flower survived until March, 1862, when he died at a good old
age. Certainly the Historical Society of Chicago has done well to
publish the record he left behind him.
EDWARD COLES,
NOBLEST OF THE PIONEERS, AND HIS GREAT SPEECH.
When James Madison came to the presidency in 1809, he followed the
example of his predecessor, Mr. Jefferson, in the selection of his
private secretary. Mr. Jefferson chose Captain Meriwether Lewis, the son
of one of his Virginia neighbors, whom he had known from his childhood.
Mr. Madison gave the appointment to Edward Coles, the son of a family
friend of Albermarle County, Va., who had recently died, leaving a large
estate in land and slaves to his children.