After a Lapse of Fifty Years
by Mary Elizabeth Story Howard
Sunny Hill Farm, Millburn, Illinois
As appeared in Grizzly Bear magazine
October 10, 1912
My parents, William A. Story and Isabella
Stafford, were born in England, the former December 15, 1815, the
latter March 2, 1822; both came with their parents to America the
same year, 1831, I think. They were married in Ogdensburg, New
York, on the 24th of February, 1837, lived in Montreal, across the
river, two years, and came back to Wayne County, New York, where
I was born at the town of Rose, April 3, 1839. I must have been
rather a poor specimen, for I weighed less than three pounds
after being dressed, but with hair so long that my grandmother
braided and tied it with pink ribbons, and being the first baby,
I seem to have been considered worth raising. About this time my
father lay the greater part of a year sick with inflammatory
rheumatism; we had no home of our own, but when he was able to
work he helped farmers and always had plenty to do. Wages were
very low, and money scarce; I have heard him say he seldom
received cash, but took his pay in anything offered, that his
family could use to live on. In December, 1840, my brother,
Jerome, was born, and the next spring my parents decided to move
farther West.
Here is where my first recollection begins.
I was placed in the middle of a bed, in a room having a large
fireplace and cautioned to sit still. I seem to have been
wrapped up ready for a start somewhere. My little brother was
placed beside me, and my father proceeded to break up an old
green cradle to lengthen out the fire; this was a great grief to
me, and no doubt is the reason I remember it at all. We took a
boat at Oswego, bound for Wisconsin, with the intention of
landing at Milwaukee, but through some change in the management,
we were landed at South Port, now Kenosha. Here again I remember
my mother and us little ones being left, with all our goods piled
up on the sands,--and a small pile it seems to have been-waiting
while my father went in search of a conveyance to help us farther
on.
We went, I think, to Benham's Corners, soon
moving to a very small house on the west bank of what has since
been called Marshall's Lake, south from Treavor, in Kenosha
County. Only a few rods south of this little house my father's
stepfather had built, or bought, a house where he, his wife (my
grandmother) and youngest daughter were living. It was a wild
place, Indians often making us a call; they seemed to be just
hunters; I think there was no settlement of them near; they would
sometimes kill deer; skin them, take only the hind quarters, and
leave the rest for us; they never made trouble for anyone,
nevertheless we were very much afraid of them. Grandfather was
very fond of hunting and fishing, so we fared very well for
meats. One night we heard what we thought was a human cry, as if
for help, and after listening awhile, we went down to the other
house, where we were told it was an animal. A fire was built and
soon we heard it jump from tree to tree until about over the
house, where we were in great fear and kept very still.
Grandfather soon shot the animal and when it came tumbling down
he called it a panther. We used to see wolves often, and they
were bold. I well remember once seeing a number of deer going
north at a rapid rate, with horns thrown back.
My second brother was born on November 23,
1842. The next year my father seems to have prospered, had good
crops, and after stacking the grain, mother being sick with
typhoid fever, he built a shed for the stove in order to keep the
little house as cool as possible. Some evil spirit tempted me to
play with the fire, and in a few minutes, the grass being dry,
these grain stacks were on fire. They carried my poor sick
mother, bed and all, to a safe place, and by hard work saved the
house, but everything else was gone. What a terrible loss that
was, and just through mischief. As I remember it, this year we
had new neighbors both north and south of us. Mr. Drum, with a
large family, I know was a great comfort to my mother; she did so
enjoy company and had seen very few people since moving West.
These were very kind-hearted friends, and I never hear the name
without a feeling of mingled sadness and gladness for that old
time; there are now living of that family of ten, just two, I
believe.
The spring of 1844, father bought one
hundred and twenty acres east of Antioch, now owned by Hunter and
Brogan as two separate farms. Here was built a small home,
perhaps ten by fourteen feet, with one window, one door, and a
hole perhaps five feet square under it for a cellar; the floor
was of oak, and not fastened down, as the boards had a way of
warping and must be turned occasionally; being no ceiling above,
one could see up into the peak, and just one thickness of board
kept out the cold. Though so small and poor, it was a happy home
for the little family, to which was added one more little brother
on the 4th of July, 1844. After the crops, which were not at all
extensive, were in, my father worked for whoever would hire him,
never receiving more than fifty cents a day, and sometimes taking
that in meat, flour, or other necessity. He had one cow, two
oxen, and a two-wheeled cart, considered fine. It was as good as
the neighbors had, or cared to have, and when mother wanted to
see her friends, she would yoke up the oxen, place something in
the cart for seats, take the four babies, and usually spend the
day with the neighbors we had left over at the lake.
California Beckons.
In those days there grew a great many wild
things which we could use as vegetables and fruit to help out in
living; in the spring there were wild onions and several kinds of
greens; then later in the season there were strawberries of good
size; in the fall came wild blackberries, plums and crabapples
from the woods. After a few years, we had all kinds of small
fruit, for my parents were anxious to make the home good. If at
this time one had wheat, it was spread out on level ground, the
oxen tied to a post in the center, and made to travel around, to
tramp out the grain; then came the cleaning with the fanning
mill, in which the children were expected to help, so my brothers
who were old enough, with myself, were sure to have to turn the
handle of the old mill. As I remember, there was no gearing to
make it easier, and that mill, the grindstone, and the churn
seemed as instruments to torture children. I never see the
remains of an old one without disagreeable thoughts of tired
arms. Later on my father bought a span of horses, for the
nearest market was Chicago, and as soon as the wheat crop became
larger it was important to have some quicker way to market than
with our slow going oxen. There were few wild men to fear, but
the wild-fires had to be watched for and fought. I remember it
seemed almost impossible to save buildings and stacks, or fields
of grain. As soon as we were warned of danger, all old enough to
fight made ready by taking pails of water where they were needed,
and anything was used to beat out the fire; women would take a
piece of quilt, their skirt, or a mop, and work until they were
tired out completely and as black as real darkies, but always
thankful if they had won the battle. They should have been, and
no doubt were, thankful that water was always in plenty by
digging but a short distance, often springs being uncovered just
at the surface; we had a spring some little distance from the
house, so father dug a twelve foot well, stoned it up, laid a
board over it, and drew water with a hook on a pole. It has ever
been a wonder to me that the little ones were not drowned, for it
was not forty feet from the door; now, I would have little peace
did I know such a thing existed in the neighborhood.
The nearest land office was in Chicago, and
father had to make payments there, when due, and twice walked,
starting in the morning, and getting back the next morning about
the same time, without rest or sleep. Yet with all this hard work
and privations, he was not able to keep out of debt. I think his
neighbors were not much better off. He and Mr. Jewett bought a
threshing machine together, and both worked very hard, but I am
sure were not successful, for a mortgage, then placed on the
home, was never paid. In the meantime two more little ones had
come to help with their little wants and seem to have been very
welcome; there was real sorrow when the dear little girl was
taken and a little grave made where we could see it at all times;
there were no burying grounds then. There had been a school
started about 1847, in an old log-house directly west of us. T.
B. Howard, who lived south of us, was the teacher; he having a
large family, thought they should be in school, and from that
time until the spring of 1852, we had school some part of the
year, usually not more than a three-months' term. I was always
glad to be in school, and learned easily. This school-house also
served as a church, there being no other place; Methodist revival
meetings were held here, and well attended. I sometimes wonder
that the roof lasted so well, for the singing was loud and
earnest, if not so very musical. There is nothing to take the
place of those self-same songs, for they are today the favorite
hymns, the same old words; nothing tells the story so well. And
the event of interest and later of ridicule, was our spelling
school; it is my sincere belief that those spelling schools made
better spellers than any of the newer methods of teaching.
By the spring of 1852 my parents had become
discouraged by debts and poor crops, and having heard for a few
years glowing accounts of California, they made ready to
undertake the long journey. Having no experience in traveling,
but well used to hard fare, they faced the undertaking with
plenty of courage, which was sorely tried many times. My
mother's mother came on a visit from New York state, and she and
others tried to persuade my parents it would be best to leave
all, or part of the children, as others were doing, but they
would not hear of it. So on the 29th of March we were ready to
start. It was rather a warm day, had been thawing a number of
days, the roads were very heavy, and snow banks were still
plentiful to keep them in bad condition. We had breakfast in
what had been our home, had our dinner at Mr. Drum's and went as
far as Mrs. Brown's now Treavor, and there spent the night. We
had two yoke of good oxen, one wagon whose painted canvas cover
was to shelter the family of seven and all our belongings,
provisions included, and carried a small tent to protect a small
sheet-iron stove. We traveled on to a small collection of houses
east of Rockford, where a big snowstorm caught us near night;
permission was given to stay in an old log house, the family
having moved into a new one, and plenty of wood, an old-fashioned
fireplace, and straw for the oxen, made us very comfortable. The
snow came down until it was almost impossible to travel, and we
stayed there several days, one being April 3rd, my thirteenth
birthday. Naturally, the children would have liked better to
have stayed in that old house until warmer weather, but we had
only commenced a long journey and must be moving.
A Good Dog, and a Bad Cow
We found terrible roads all through
Illinois, and crossed the Mississippi River at a small place
called, I think, New Albany. I believe Iowa is called a very
desirable place to live in, but my recollection of it is
anything but pleasant. With roads all but impassable, almost no
bridges-none at all worth the name-and so many rapid, narrow
streams where, if impossible to ford, there were the rudest kind
of ferries, crossing either way was bad enough and was a new and
terrorizing experience for the children. In Iowa, we fell in
with some people by the name of Hennesy, from Brighton,
Wisconsin, near home; they, too, were traveling with oxen, and we
saw them often until we crossed the river at Omaha, or, in fact,
a few miles below, as we had been told we better do. There were
so many fitting out at Omaha, living in tents, that some of them,
with no thought of being careful, had contracted measles and
smallpox. We found a crowd at the lower crossing and plenty of
sick, and with only one boat to take the many across, there was
no little trouble. With whiskey to keep up the spirits of the
crowd, there were quarelling and fighting day and night. That
being the last place that anything could be bought, we hastened
to collect what we most needed for the rest of the long journey.
With no prospect of soon crossing and men impatient to get their
families out of the crowd, the Hennesy brothers, my father and, I
think, someone else, made a raft just wide enough for one wagon
and long enough for two, held together with wooden pins at either
side. On the morning of May 24th at 4 o'clock, our wagon was run
down a steep bank, across the mud and onto the raft. Three
little sleeping brothers were put into it. The tongue, of
necessity, hung full half its length in the water, for the wheels
were tight against the log holding the raft together. Mother and
I stood one on each side the tongue and between the wheels, to
protect the little ones, the older brother being left to care for
the teams. How this craft was guided, or managed to make a
landing, I have no more knowledge than someone far distant, and I
think it must have seemed such a frightful undertaking to the
poor little girl that it blotted out all else. We landed two
miles down stream, there being no nearer landing, for it was such
an angry stream that the high bluffs on the west bank made it
impossible to cross it direct. So our poor makeshift was in luck
to make the other shore, even in two miles. It was mud where we
landed, and required hard work to get the wagons onto anything
like firm ground. I have no idea of the manner of getting that
raft back to the starting place for use by others, but the
brother and oxen came over on it, and the father went back and
forth several times, helping others. Mrs. Hennesy crossed with
us in one of their wagons; they had no children with them, having
left four in Brighton.
When this river was crossed, we were in a
big no-man's land, with no sign of habitation; sometimes we saw
Indians, as we were then passing through the Pawnee Nation. They
were friendly, and made no trouble that I remember. I do recall,
however, that where father purchased supplies east of the river,
he bought a black cow, thinking there would be feed for it, and
the milk would be so good for the children. But I believe that
cow the greatest disappointment of the whole trip. When they
tried to milk her, they found they had a hard job, for she would
kick and throw her head around, and they had to tie her hind feet
to the hind wheels and her forefeet to the fore wheels, while
father held her up and mother milked her the best she could. You
may be sure, she caused many angry words, and for all the milk we
got we paid dear; each one of us learned to hate that old black
cow; I know I have never gotten over it. Of the desert, and the
many weary days until we reached Fort Laramie, I remember little,
except that the poor oxen got footsore traveling through hot sand
filled with long beards of the dry cactus. The green cacti are
bad, but the old dry ones, mixed in the sand, are like so many
needles, and even worked through the oxen's improvised shoes.
Pieces of the hide of some dead beast (of which there were many),
of circular shape, with strings from the same source, were tied
on to keep their poor feet from the sand and give them a chance
to heal if they would, and make it extra hard for them to travel
this way; little wonder they soon gave out.
I have not mentioned our dog, as yet. We
brought him from our home, and his name was Tiger. He, too, had
to have his poor feet tied up this way, and seemed to take it as
a matter of course, never resisting. He knew when Indians were
near, and if they came close, we children, in fear, got near
together, and Tiger would be in front of us, showing his teeth as
though he realized the responsibility of his position. He lived
to be fourteen years old, but was very lame and helpless, having
walked the entire distance. We were all near heart-broken at his
death in Sutter Creek, California, in 1856. We were always
expecting to meet Indians, some of whom were friendly and would
take salt in exchange for fish, having no use for money, of
course; others were very surly and independent, and no doubt
would have made trouble for us had there been fewer in our party.
The emigrants, as a usual thing, formed companies, and traveled
that way for protection. Although we never joined one of these
companies, we were never alone, as the emigration became very
heavy, after we had traveled but a short distance on the trail.
Celebrate Independence Day Snowballing.
So much sickness, mostly cholera, made our
way seem lined on both sides with graves of the unfortunate.
There might have been some consolation for those left to travel
on, if they could have felt sure their loved ones were
undisturbed in the shallow places they were forced to leave them
in. But evidence, in plenty, that such could not be; for no
matter how hard they tried to cover the dead with stones, where
they could be gotten, or peices of wagon wheels and boxes, they
were brought to the surface in large or small sections by
coyotes. These sneaking beasts, as soon as darkness came, would
set up their dismal, nerve-destroying howl. Some times we came
to the little prairie-dog villages, and although they are very
spry animals we managed to lengthen out many a meal at their
expense. We had no gun, but there were plenty of firearms in the
train, so that some of the younger men, when in sight of a herd
of buffalo, would follow on. Sometimes luck befell them, and
they brought meat back; sometimes it was a deer, or bear, and I
recall they are all good meat when one is hungry. We always had
a share, for people under those circumstances are willing to
divide the work and the meat. I well remember one day, in the
Black Hills, brother Jerome and I, being a little in advance of
our wagon, found a bear's head just as it had been cut from the
body, with the hide still on. Perhaps that would not have seemed
so desirable under other conditions, but it looked good to us, so
we made sure of it and it made the family a good meal. At that
time we were able to get wood enough to cook with, for the hills
were covered with a shrub cedar that looked a dusty black, but
burned fine. As a usual thing we had to depend on buffalo chips,
and sometimes they were so scarce we had to begin gathering them
long before we came to a camping place.
Where we bought our provisions as we
crossed the river, we were able to get guide-books that were very
reliable, telling of the best camping places. Sometimes it was
best to stop long before we would have liked to, and at other
times we had to travel on long after dark before getting to
water. One night I can never forget, we had traveled long after
dark, everyone was very thirsty, and the little ones had cried
themselves to sleep. My poor mother and I, being ahead, came to
a low spot and were surprised to see the stars reflected in water
at our feet. It did not take us long to get a drink. There was
not enough to dip up a cup full, but one could lie down and get a
drink. When daylight came we found we had been drinking from out
the holes made by some poor, thirsty beast's feet, when in search
of water, which gave us the drink they were so much in need of.
Some had refused to leave a place where, their instinct told
them, there should be drink, and died for want of it. What we
were able to get kept us from perishing, and in that way we
followed from day to day, and week to week, not really with
courage, but because there was no other alternative. And to
think of that mother, with her five children to feel so
responsible for! I know she only asked that they be spared to
her while so many were leaving their loved ones as food for wild
animals. She had had some good advice from her doctor (Dr. Gage
of Antioch) and supplied herself with all absolute necessities to
keep us in the best possible condition. On the watch constantly,
she was at the time we left home just a few days past her
thirtieth birthday. She was the leading spirit, of cheerful
temperament, and willing to try every resource to the limit,
willing to think that,
On the under side of every cloud there's silver shining,
So always turned her clouds about,
Sometimes wore them inside out,
To show the silver lining.
We passed through a valley where there were
said to be a thousand springs. These were hot and cold, not six
feet apart, and most of them tinctured with soda, alumn, sulphur
and borax. At one time on our journey we traveled through a
canyon where we crossed a river thirteen times in going two
miles; we were in the river nearly all the time, going from one
side to the other for better footing. I would like to be able to
tell where that was. It was very narrow, with a high wall on
each side. On the Fourth of July we were at the summit of the
Rocky Mountains, at the point called South Pass in our guide
books. It was snowing hard and great banks of old snow were
piled on every side. Those not too tired, were patriotic enough
to celebrate the day by playing snow ball. We passed Great Salt
Lake, leaving it nine miles to the south of us, where was a
settlement of Mormons. At the time, they seemed about as
dangerous as the Indians, and were said to be in league with
them. The rest of the journey, we could make but little headway.
Arrive in Amador County.
At the sink of the Humboldt, we had but one
poor ox left, had shortened the wagon up to a cart, thrown away
everything that could possibly be spared, and started across the
forty miles of desert in the afternoon, as it was impossible to
cross when the sun shone. In the forenoon of the next day we
came to a collection of tents called Rag Town, where they were
prepared to help the most needy. There having been so much
suffering in previous years, California had sent out teams and
provisions to save those who could get that far, and some
enterprising individuals, of whom there are sure to be plenty,
had opened up eating and drinking places, and had even dug a
shallow well, from which they were selling water for a dollar a
gallon, to those who could buy, and gave it away to those who
could not. My father had just one dollar and fifty cents. There
being potatoes for sale, and the first we had seen in nearly six
months, he bought his hat-minus the rim-full for one dollar; this
left him fifty cents, and we ate those potatoes raw in less time
than it takes to tell of it. Here we were furnished with the
bare necessaries, and allowed to ride in the wagons sent for that
purpose, or we could have gone no farther. We were assigned to a
man by the name of Hinkston, who directed the driver to take us
to his own home in Dry Town, where he had left his two boys in
care of an old black man who had come with them from Kentucky.
He told us to stay there until we were rested. That dear old
darkie was so good to us-did everything to make us feel welcome,
and even tried to teach father to wash for gold, loaning him a
wooden bowl, then being used for that purpose. I think this old
man had been told to take good care of whoever was sent to him.
He was free, but loved his one-time master and two sons better
than freedom without them; he took the best of care of those two
motherless boys, while the father was away for months at a time,
being cook, washerwoman and general comforter.
Father soon tired of gold seeking and, I
think, never tried it again, but found he could cut timbers for
the mines, used as supports underground. So in a few days we
went to Amador, about four miles away, where there were three
quartz mills and mines. From that time, we had enough to eat,
which was very nice for us children, who, in the latter stages of
the long journey, had often gone to the camp-grounds of the more
fortunate ones after they had moved on, to see if we could find
scraps of meat, as where the travelers came into the main trail
from the southwestern states they were very sure to be well
supplied with dry cured meats. To the last days out, we were
able to tell which section of the country they were from, from
the greasy condition of their wagons. At Amador was a butcher
called "Colonel" (one name was considered sufficient there), who
told us we could have all the heads of the animals, so we fared
very well for meat. My brothers would go to the corral, skin the
heads, take the brains and tongues and cut off the cheeks, and we
had all the meat we could use.
The first winter in California we lived in
a long cotton building that had been used as a shelter for the
mill horses and hay. Before spring a few boards were gotten and
a space perhaps eight by eight feet was partitioned off, and
bunks built one above the other with poles, that did for us to
sleep in, with an extra pole on the outside filled with hay and
canvas tacked over to keep the hay in. These were not altogether
bad sleeping quarters; for some it might have lacked the finer
points, but we saw nothing in the world to complain of, for we
had a place where we could all be together and out of reach of
the hogs kept by the mill to eat up the waste, yet so starved
that everything we kept must be out of their reach, for they
could come in anywhere and did, if they scented anything to
eat.
Some time in the beginning of the winter of
1852 or '53 there was a big fire in Sacramento, which destroyed
great quantities of flour and breadstuff, and before spring flour
sold up in the mines, where we were, for a dollar a pound. What
the fire left, the water damaged, as it was in the wet season.
Thousands of sacks of flour were piled up, and when the rains
were over and the flour had dried as hard as bricks, it was
ground up again and sold for a good price. Some of it soon got
able to crawl, so had to be sifted. There were no gardens then
to help out, for we had no seeds to sow.
Men Perform Womanly Duties.
The mill nearest us was owned by four
ministers-Mr. Glover, who, I think, was the oldest, was a
Methodist; a Mr. Davidson was also a Methodist; Mr. Dickinson was
a Presbyterian, and the other, a Mr. Cool, a young man, had just
been ordained a Baptist minister before leaving his home in New
York state. We were the only children who had as yet been in the
camp and I suppose we suggested business for those four good men,
for they soon started a Sunday school. There were also plenty of
young men who had been accustomed to attend at home and were only
too glad to be counted in, but there was no good meeting place.
Mr. Glover was cook for the mill hands and miners, and had two
rooms-kitchen and another room, about twelve feet wide and
perhaps twenty-four feet long, with three tiers of single bunks
on each side. A narrow table of rough boards, its legs of posts
driven into the ground, ran through the center; canvas was tacked
on for a tablecloth, and benches were placed on each side for men
at meal time, all enclosed with canvas, but no floor. This
furnished the setting for my first California Sunday school, it
was interesting for us children, and seemed equally so for the
older ones. The four ministers taking turns in speaking and
management, there seemed no trouble on account of different
creeds, and all appeared to be harmonious, as is the case, I
think, when people find themselves so far from home.
This spring, about the first of June, or as
soon as it was thought possible to cross the mountains, father
and a young man named Dexter Bartlette crossed over to Carson
Valley to pick up any of the cattle or horses that might have
lived through the winter, as any one who had the courage to get
them had the right. I think their ownership was never
questioned. At least, he brought back, in September, enough to
pay him very well for his time, and they were in very good
condition. But soon after he left us in the spring, mother was
taken sick with typhoid fever. There was no woman except her
nearer than Dry Town, and there just one, a widow. The doctor
from that place brought her over on horseback, and she stayed one
day and night. Sometimes the doctor would stay nearly all night,
and as much of the time as he could during the day. The rest of
the time we took care of her. We had no bed fit for a sick
person to lie on, all being in the same eight-by-eight room, and
no pillow for her poor, aching head. There were of good, true
men a plenty, or we had suffered. All depended on her work, as
support, and when she was taken sick we were near destitute. A
store was started then by two brothers named Bowman, who were
able to supply the camp with necessaries, and I think we were
never hungry. I am afraid we were not much troubled as to who
paid the bills, as none of us were old enough to consider that
part. Mother was for weeks very sick, not even knowing us poor
children. A John Elliott, from the South, who had a single
feather bed and pillow, came to offer them and to help us any way
he could; his advice was worth more than gold, for he realized I
was a child. Able to see where we lacked, and able to find a
remedy, he talked to me like a good woman, helping me over a
great many perplexing places. There were others just as willing,
who furnished what was needed. The two older brothers and I
would talk over the troubles like older people, and were very
much in fear we would lose our mother. I do not remember how
long she was sick, but when father came back with the stock he
had gathered, she had recovered enough to be able to do some
work, with the help of the children. We were taught early in
life to with anything being done, and I believe were unusually
trusty, but no matter what had happened there was no way to let
the father know he was needed after he had once left us.
The next winter mother cooked for the
"Keystone Mill Co." The pay was eighty dollars a month in money,
and the family board. There were fifty-two men, always four
meals in twenty-four hours, one being at midnight for men just
out the mine. We had to wash towels, but nothing else, for when
the tablecloth needed changing, we took off the strip of
unbleached muslin and tacked on a clean one. We had all the
waste food to feed several hogs, and the old table covers were
ours, to use for clothing I believe we were there four months.
The work was very hard for mother, so soon after her sickness.
Father all this time was cutting timbers for the mines. In the
spring of 1854 we moved to Sutter Creek, two miles away, where we
had a new house with a floor, board sides and canvas roof. Here
mother did some washing, but an old Spaniard who did washing for
his countrymen brought those to us that had to be starched and
ironed and when my limbs, never very strong, were to lame to
walk. I could stand and iron. The boys cut the wood, kept the
fires outdoors, carried irons for mother and I, and did all the
cooking. Brother Jerome made me a rest for the worst foot, so I
could kneel on it and helped a great deal. We all worked very
hard, but seems now we were very happy until July 1st. when the
second brother was taken sick with typhoid fever and died the
25th. He was buried on a hill in sight of, and not far from, our
home, and , I think, the first grave made there. It was a
beautiful spot for the purpose, and has always been used for a
cemetery since.
An Early-Day Hanging.
Early the next year, 1855, father bought a
house and built a shop on Main street, where he had a large trade
in meats, buying sheep and cattle from men on ranches in the
valleys. They were really wild cattle, for when brought up they
had to be rushed through the town on the run to the corral and
slaughter-house, every soul was out of sight, and woe be unto
anyone who dared to show a head. As early as the spring of 1857
brother Monroe, who was under fourteen years of age, usually did
the buying of cattle, carrying large amounts of money for the
purpose in a belt around his waist. He would go perhaps forty or
fifty miles into the valleys, to the rodeos or round-ups, and
with the help of men there always ready to see that he got fair
play, would select a herd and get some one to help drive them up,
which was no small undertaking for grown men. Brother Jerome was
some larger and came in for the heavier work. Sometimes these
two boys would go to the corral and do the butchering alone.
They had to lasso the cattle from a little platform above the
door. One would drop the rope down, to be caught by the other
boy by opening the door just enough to grasp it, pass it through
a ring in the floor, and fasten it to a windlass. In this way
they would draw the creature in and to the ring in the floor, and
just at the right time open the door to let him through and not
attract the attention of the others. Sometimes this failed, and
then the boys would each look out for himself. They had some
narrow escapes, of which they could tell best themselves. When
they succeeded in drawing the head to the floor, and the door was
closed, the creature was shot, as the safest way. Father owned
and ran another shop at Amador, and a part of the meat was sent
there. He had a gray horse that had as much judgment as some
people; I think he was wonderful They could take him up to the
corral, hitched to a cart, and when the meat was ready, load it
on and tell him to go; he would come down to the shop in Sutter,
perhaps three-quarters of a mile, back in between two posts and
if he did not at first make it would look back, take a step
forward and try again. When those in the shop had taken what was
needed, they, too, would tell him to go, and he would proceed to
Amador, where Martin Howard, later my husband, had charge of the
shop. That horse would there back in, as at the other shop, and
when relieved of the load, would go on to the stable, where I
hope he had good care. He did this for more than two years, when
something happened and he could never be trusted alone again.
Our sister, Belle, was born here at this
home in July, 1856; she was loved by all of us, but lived a short
life, and on November 23, 1858, was laid on that hill beside the
brother. In the spring of the next year, 1859, our dear brother
Frank was buried there also. Somewhere, some years later, in
that same cemetery, two of my husband's brothers were buried-
Lyman and Jeremiah Howard. The latter was killed in December,
1875, at the Lower Eureka mill, while oiling a cam shaft. Some
time about 1856, at a place called Rancharie, which all old
Californians well remember, there was a terrible massacre. There
was great excitement, and many a poor innocent Spaniard and
Mexican lost their lives. I remember sitting on the veranda of
the American Exchange hotel, when a Mexican was being tried for
his life, just below in the street. I don't think he was proven
guilty, but nothing would pacify the crowd but a hanging. So in
the morning he was taken to a tree just north of town and hanged.
He had a poor sister there, who wanted to have his body taken
down, but the crowd threatened to shoot anyone who dared touch
the body. Little Jerry Howard, who was always ready to dare most
anything, told the sister he would help her, but that lawless
crowd threatened him. He stood back, opened his coat, and told
them to shoot. He cut the body down, and after waiting awhile,
went with the woman down to Barnard's store, in Spanish Town,
where they got some one to fix a box. The two of them took it up
to the tree and, I think, without help, put the man into it.
There were plenty of reasonable people who would have helped, had
they dared, and did not approve of all that was done, but as is
always the case, it is the rougher and more lawless who rule in
lynchings. I often wonder if there is anyone in Sutter Creek who
remembers this incident. Some of these happenings, printed and
reprinted in the Grizzly bear Magazine, with other experiences on
the plains and in California then and now, are of great interest
to me.
Return to East by Steamer
Brother Frank died very soon after
arrangements had been made to leave for Illinois, our parents
having sold both shops and home. It was very hard to leave our
little graves on the hill, but farm life had always appealed to
all and no good title could then be gotten to land in California.
It had been held in large grants by the Mexicans and Spaniards
and never released, so those buying ran the risk of having to pay
over again. It was very uncertain, although people could, and
did, build anywhere they could find unoccupied space, and their
right might never be disputed. So father at this time bought of
a Mr. Tibbits a whole section of land, now the townsite of the
town called Crete, Will County, Illinois, paying only four
hundred dollars for it. He sold it four years later for twelve
hundred, and no doubt it is worth a great deal more now.
We started from Sutter Creek the morning of
July 3, 1859, expecting at San Francisco a steamer would be in
waiting for passengers. It was not, and we spent the Fourth
there and wonderfully enjoyed it, for we had never seen much of
soldiers or army maneuvers. All the principal countries were
represented by men in uniform, and with many fine horses. We saw
it all from the balcony of the Tremont hotel. The next day, no
boat having arrived, those who did not care to wait longer looked
among the tramp steamers and all sorts of unseaworthy old tubs,
for a chance to get away. Six hundred and forty of us went
aboard one, and soon found we had made a mistake, but there
seemed no other way, as the main-line boats were very irregular.
Our boat lacked everything a boat should be supplied with; for
one thing, they had not taken on enough water, and what there was
appeared to have been in filthy old tanks until it was thick and
smelled too loud to drink. One day there came a shower, and all
were on deck to catch the rain, some with towels or handkerchiefs
to drink the water wrung from them. So many complaints were made
to the captain, that he concluded he would stop at Accapulco,
which bettered conditions, as he was able to get very good water
by waiting for the natives to bring it from back in the hills in
kegs on donkeys. It was slow work, and he could not get a
sufficient supply, there being so many of us we never had enough,
but did not suffer. At this port we were very cautious until
invited to land, as there was always some kind of war going
on.
So the captain had a gun fired, and did not
dare drop anchor, but kept steaming around the little harbor
until, in answer, a gun fired from the fort almost over us. Then
we cast anchor, and officers came on board to see what we wanted.
We were given permission to go ashore, as some did. The natives
brought to us boatloads of oranges, limes, bananas and other
fruits. Here, the harbor cannot be seen from the ocean, there
being just a narrow passage wide enough to let a boat go slowly
through between walls fifty and a hundred feet high. For fear of
striking the rock, it seemed we sometimes stood still. It was a
very small harbor, with a fort high up in front, where the
cannons could blow a steamer to atoms, or sink it, at one shot.
The water was as calm as though there were no ocean near. The
little natives were as much at home in the water as ducks, and
the passengers would throw dimes (their smallest coins then) into
the water to see them dive-and they would get them, every time,
and come up grinning. All were dressed in the same suit they
came into the world with, and had never worn any other; clothes
there, not being necessary for old or young, were seldom worn.
What made it more necessary to stop here for water, was that when
not more than six days out from San Francisco, at eleven o'clock
at night, there was an alarm of fire. All turned out in short
order, but the crew were quick enough to fasten down the hatches
before many could get on deck. If they had, it might have
capsized the old tub. At two in the morning the worst of the
fire was over, but it afforded exciting time while it lasted. We
knew there were not enough boats to hold one-third of the people,
and perhaps not a boat would have lasted to reach land. One can
see human nature at its worst and best at such a time. There was
a little woman on board by the name of Coffe, almost a girl, who
had left her husband in San Francisco and was going to New York,
her home, with two little children less than three years old.
One would scarce look her way for courage, but she sat in the
saloon, dry eyed and still, both children in her arms and all in
their night-clothes, while others were rushing around like crazy
people. She seemed to find comfort in the thought that her
children would go with her. In the morning, there was a crowd of
tired but happy people. The water in the tanks had been used to
fight fire, thus we must stop, as we did, at Acapulco.
No Complaint of California
Sailing on, when we came in sight of the
city of Panama, with a prospect of soon landing for a few hours,
it seemed to good to be true. There was no harbor there in '59,
so steamers could get no nearer than two miles. So we were met
by what were called lighters, taken inland, and then had to take
small boats to reach shore, or be carried on the backs of the
natives, in a chair. We crossed the Isthmus by rail, forty-eight
miles to Aspinwal, now called Colon, where there was a nice, deep
harbor. All but myself, I think, enjoyed the trip across, but
for me car sickness was as bad as sea sickness, and I was able to
enjoy but little of the scenery. At evening the same day we went
on board the "North Star," of the regular line, a fine boat, with
good officers and good service, a place to enjoy one's self, if
it were only on land; or for some, I suppose, even though it be
on water. We started in a fearful storm that lasted nearly all
night, and as the passengers had been indulging their appetites
the consequences can be imagined by anyone who has ever been
there. Considerable damage was done during the night by the
storm and rough weather. I remember in the dining-saloon the
glasses, in racks above the table, were ruined, and in the first-
cabin saloon a large sofa broke loose and was hurled across the
room, where it came in contact with a full-length, beautiful
mirror, which was soon shattered, being thrown about the room
with the other things also broken loose. In the morning the
storm had cleared away, but the sea was rough, as it usually is
in that part, and so different from the Pacific. We were south
and east of the island of Cuba all one day, but not near enough
to see anything clearly-just a green expanse of shore and
mountain. We saw land several times, but I do not remember the
name of any of the islands. I was seldom able to be on deck to
see anything, or I am sure I would not have been content, even if
I had not found out the names, to have known more about the
journey-home, for I always loved geography.
I do not know how many days it took to
reach New York, but it was a beautiful Sunday morning, the church
bells were sending their delightful chime to us across the water,
and some of the passengers sang "Home again, home again." But it
was not our home. We were in the city several days, sightseeing
and trading, as before we crossed the Isthmus of Panama we threw
overboard one trunkful of clothes we had worn until then to save
the high rate for baggage. We had started as light as possible,
very little baggage being allowed, and now needed something to
wear until we were settled in a home of our own, and could work
at our leisure. We went from New York to Oswego, where my
mother's relatives had lived since they came to America, years
before; here we stayed some time, don't remember how long. From
there Mart Howard, who was returning with us, went to his
father's home at Polaski, where he stayed until November, when he
again joined us at Antioch, Illinois, where my parents had
located on a farm, and here we were married on January 1, 1860.
Here my sister, Brosia B., was born, March 19, 1861; she now lies
buried in the cemetery at Waukegan, Illinois, having died in 1886
at Arlington, South Dakota. My father died in Waukegan in 1884,
my mother in Antioch, 1891, my husband, Mart Howard, in Antioch
in 1898; they all lie in Union cemetery, in the township of
Antioch, near Antioch, Illinois, from which place the long
journey was begun. And were I but a little younger, I would like
to go again to California. I do think that if all had to get
there as my family did, they would have no complaint to make
either of its climate or people.
from the magazine masthead:
The Grizzly Bear
(Official Organ of the Native Sons of the Golden West)
A Monthly Magazine Devoted to All California
Issued the First Day of Each Month by the
Grizzly Bear Publishing Company (Incorporated).
Rooms 246-248 Wilcox Building
Los Angeles, California
Vol. XI. October 1912 No. 6; Whole No. 66,
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