Читать книгу Recollections of a Pioneer (Autobiography) - J. W. Gibson - Страница 4

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I was born in Bartow County, Georgia, on the 22nd day of January, 1829. Sometime during my infancy, and at a period too early to be remembered, my father and his family moved to East Tennessee, where we lived until I was ten years old. About this time reports concerning the Platte Purchase and its splendid farming land began to reach us. I do not now recall the exact channel through which these reports came, but I think some of our relatives had gone there and had written back urging us to come. My father finally yielded and in the spring of 1839 sold his Tennessee farm and prepared for the long journey overland. I was old enough at the time to take some note of what passed, and I remember that my father received four thousand dollars for his land in Indiana "shin plasters." I recall also the preparations that were made for the journey—the outfitting of the wagons, gathering the stock together, and most important of all, the part assigned to me. I was provided with a pony, saddle and bridle and given charge of a herd of loose cattle and horses. We had a rude camp outfit and carried along with us all the household plunder with which we expected to start life in the new country. As may be well imagined, there was not a great deal of it, although the family was large. In those days the people had to be satisfied with the barest necessities. Some idea of the extent of this part of my father's worldly property may be given by saying that the entire outfit, including camp equipment, was loaded into two wagons.

I shall never forget the morning we started. Everything had been loaded the day before, except the articles necessary to the sojourn over night. We were up bright and early, had breakfast in little better than camp style, and were off before sun up. My father, mother, and the younger children took the first wagon, and one of my brothers and my sisters the second. I was upon my pony and in my glory. The wagons moved forward and I rounded up the cattle and horses and forced them along after the wagons. I was too young to feel any tender sentiment toward the old home or to appreciate the fact that I was leaving it forever, but I remember that my father and mother often looked back, and as we passed over the hill out of sight, I saw them turn and wave a long farewell. Many times since I have thought of that scene and have learned to know full well its meaning to my father and mother.

I cannot recall all the particulars of this toilsome journey, and if I could, they would hardly interest the reader. I remember that I soon lost the enthusiasm of that early morning on which we started and grew very tired and longed for the end of our journey. For a great many days it seemed to me we traveled through a rugged mountain country. The hills were long and toilsome, the streams had no bridges and had to be forded, and I frequently had great difficulty in getting my cattle and horses to follow the wagons. On such occasions, the caravan would stop and the whole family would come to my aid. Of course, there were no fences along the sides of the road and my stock becoming wearied or tempted by the green herbage alongside would wander out into the woods and brush and give me much trouble. When I think of these difficulties, I do not wonder that I became wearied, but as my life was afterwards ordered, this boyish experience taught me a lesson which many times proved useful.

I remember when we crossed what they said was the line into Kentucky. I could see no difference in the mountains, valleys or the rivers, but somehow I felt that there ought to be a difference and that Kentucky could not be like Tennessee, and yet it was. Here I learned, thus early in life, what so many people find it hard even in later years to appreciate, that names and distances do not make differences and that all places upon the face of the earth, no matter how they vary in physical appearance, are after all very much alike. I believe it is the realization of this fact that makes the difference between the man who knows the world and the one who does not. After a long time, as it seemed to me, we passed out of the mountains and into a beautiful rolling country improved even in that early day with many turnpikes and exhibiting every indication of prosperity. There were negroes everywhere—many more than we had in Tennessee, and I remember hearing them singing as they worked in the fields. I now know that this country was what has since been known as the "Blue Grass Region" of Kentucky, though at the time, I thought the mountains of my old home a much better place to live.

For a long time, even before the journey began, I had heard a great deal about the Ohio River and knew that we must cross it, and when the people along the road began to tell us that we were nearing that stream, I became filled with curiosity to see it and to know what it would be like and to see and experience the sensation of crossing it on a ferry-boat. Finally we came to the top of a long hill and away off to the north we saw the river winding through a deep valley, and some one, my father, I think, pointed out a mere speck on the surface of the water and told us it was a ferry-boat. When we reached the bank of the river we found the boat tied alongside, and to my surprise, horses, wagons and cattle were all driven upon it. I had no idea that a ferry-boat was such a huge affair. It was run by horse-power, and it took us only a few minutes to reach the farther shore, and I was disappointed that my trip was not a longer one. The landing and unloading took but a few minutes. My father paid the man and we started immediately to climb the hill on the other side. I must not neglect to mention that somewhere on the road in the northern part of Kentucky or immediately after we crossed the river, my father exchanged the "shin plasters" for which he had sold his farm for silver, that currency being at par in that locality. He received four thousand silver dollars. I saw them with my own eyes. He put them in a strong box and loaded them into one of the wagons along with the other luggage.

I do not remember at what point we crossed the Ohio River. I did not, of course, know at the time, and if my father or any member of the family ever told me the place afterwards I have forgotten it; but the event is as vivid in my mind as if it had occurred yesterday.

There was little in our journey across Indiana and Illinois to impress that portion of the road upon my memory. All I recall is in a general way that I could see no familiar mountains, and over parts of the journey I remember that the country appeared to me to be monotonously level. I cannot give the length of time that was required in making this journey, but I do remember when we reached the Mississippi River. We crossed at Alton, if I am not mistaken, and in place of a horse ferry we had a steam ferry, which was to me a much more wonderful contrivance than the horse ferry on the Ohio. Then the river was so much wider. I remember wondering where all that vast body of water could come from. They told us, when we landed on the opposite shore, that we were in Missouri, and I thought my journey must be nearly ended, but I was never more mistaken. Day after day our wagons trundled along, night after night we went into camp, worn out with the day's journey, only to get up again early in the morning and repeat the same experience.

We reached Tremont Township, Buchanan County, on the 29th day of May, 1839, and straightway settled upon a tract of land about a mile and a quarter southeast of what is now Garrettsburg. A house of some character was the first thing to which my father turned his attention, and it was not long before a rude log cabin was under construction. I was too small to take much part in this work, but I remember that such neighbors as we had were good to us and came and helped. The logs were cut in the woods and dragged to the site of the house and the neighbors and friends came and helped us at the "raising." The house consisted of a single room with a wide fireplace built of rough stone extending nearly across one entire end of the room. The roof was of long split boards laid upon poles or beams in such a way as to shed the water and weighted down by other beams laid on top of them. I do not think a single nail or other piece of iron entered into the construction of the building, but we thought it a great improvement upon the tent life we had experienced on our journey, and my father was quite proud of his new home. I will not attempt to describe that country as it appeared to me in that early day. In fact the changes have been so gradual that it seems to me to be still very much the same country it was when I first saw it, though when I stop to reflect, I know that this is not so. Most of it was heavy timber. A glade or skirt of prairie passed in now and then from the almost continuous prairie of what is now Clinton County. And I remember distinctly that a stretch of prairie extended from Platte River directly across from where Agency is now located in an east and south easterly direction toward Gower, and thence around to the left where it joined the main body of prairie land. There were no fences to speak of, and deer were as plentiful as in any country I have ever seen. There were few roads and no great need for them and no bridges. The county seat of the county was at old Sparta, and Robidoux's Landing was the most talked of place in the county.

In 1846, my father built a brick house, the first, I think, that was ever erected in the county. It stood about a quarter of a mile south of the present residence of Thomas Barton, a respected citizen of Tremont Township. The brick were made upon the ground and I was old enough at that time to have quite an important part in the work, and it was hard work, too. I helped cut and haul wood with which the brick were burned, and I "off bore" the brick as they were moulded. I carried the brick and mortar as the house was being erected and assisted in putting on the roof, laying floors and finishing the house. It was quite a commodious structure when completed and was considered by all our neighbors and friends who still lived in their log houses as quite a mansion.

Our farming operations were not very extensive. The land all had to be cleared of heavy timber, and I have seen thousands of feet of the finest white oak, walnut and hickory burned up in log heaps, but there was nothing else to be done with it. We had to have the land and there was no use to which we could put such a quantity of timber. The few rails that were needed to fence the field after it was cleared, required only a small portion of the timber that was cut away, and as all the land except the fields was allowed to remain unfenced, there could be no profit in expending time and labor in making rails to be piled up and allowed to decay.

Most of our work was done on the farm with ox teams. Our plows were rude, home-made implements, and the hoe, axe and sickle, or reaping hook, all home-made, were about the only other tools we had. With these and with our slow plodding oxen, we thought we did very well to produce from our stumpy ground enough for the family to subsist on. Even the accomplishment of this small result required the efforts of almost every member of the family. My mother and sisters frequently worked in the fields, and I often saw, in those days, a woman plowing in the field, driving a single cow, using a rude harness without a collar. We cut our wheat with a sickle and our hemp with a hook. We hackled the flax by hand and spun and wove it into linen. My mother and sisters sheared the sheep, washed and picked the wool, carded, spun and wove it into blankets and clothing for the whole family. They took the raw material, green flax and wool on the sheep's back, and made it into clothing for a family of ten. They milked the cows and washed the clothing besides, and then found time to help in the fields. It must not be thought that the men were idle while this was going on. They worked just as hard, but their tools were so poor and the difficulties so great, and they could accomplish so little that even with all their efforts they sometimes fell behind the women in their tasks.

As may well be imagined, there was little time for a boy or a girl under those conditions to go to school, even if the opportunity had presented itself. We had a school in the neighborhood, however, held for a time at the homes of various members of the community, and later we built a school house. The erection of this building was the first public enterprise, so far as I know or have ever heard, that was undertaken by the people of that community. I was old enough to help in it, and I remember very distinctly the meetings the neighbors had to plan the work of building, and afterwards, I recall the meeting of the men with their teams to do the work. Each man furnished two logs which he had previously cut and hewed to the proper dimensions. These he dragged to the site selected for the building which was, by the way, upon the ground now occupied by the Stamper School House. When the logs were all assembled, the men and boys came in bringing baskets of provisions and food for their oxen and all went to work. The house was "raised," as we called it, by laying the logs one upon the other in the form of a pen, the length exceeding the breadth by about ten feet. The logs were carefully notched and fitted down at the corners so as to eliminate space between them and do away with the necessity of "chinking" to as great an extent as possible. The floor was of logs split half in two and laid the flat side up. The door was of hewed timber and must have been fully two inches thick, and was hung upon wooden hinges. At a proper height from the ground, one log was sawed out the full length of the building to afford light. The roof was of clap-boards with logs laid upon them to hold them in place. The benches were puncheon—that is a long round log split half in two and hewed to a smooth surface with legs driven into auger holes beneath. The fireplace extended nearly all the way across one end of the room. It was built of rough stone as high as the mantel, and from there up the chimney was of sticks, plastered inside with clay to keep them from burning. A long puncheon was placed at the proper angle just underneath the opening which served as a window, and this constituted our writing desk. When the writing lesson was called, each pupil took his copy book and went to this rude "desk" where he stood until his lesson was finished.

I cannot at this time recall the names of all the men who participated in the work of building that school-house, but among them were George Reynolds, George Jeffers, Donald McCray, Philip McCray, Henry Guinn, Ambrose McDonald, William Bledsoe, Robert Irvin, James Poteet, James Gilmore, Ransom Ridge, Bird Smith, Isaac Auxier, Tom Auxier, my father, George Gibson, and my uncle, James Gibson. Most of these names are familiar to the citizens of this county, and their descendants are still substantial citizens of that community. I had the inestimable privilege of attending school in this building as much as three terms of three months each, and this constituted my entire educational course so far as schools are concerned. The sons and daughters of the men I have named were my school mates and, at this writing, but few of them survive. The men of that day, of course, have all passed to their reward many years since.

It will be easy for the reader to understand me when I say that in that day money, that is currency or specie, was very hard to procure. Fortunately for us we needed very little of it, because there was nothing to buy with it that we could not procure by a sort of trade or barter. We could raise our horses, hogs and cattle, but there was no market for them. If a neighbor happened not to have what another neighbor had beyond his own necessities, some means was devised by which a trade could be entered into and each secure thereby the things he did not previously own. I think hemp was about the only thing we could sell for money. This we took to Robidoux's landing now and then where we procured cash for it, and we then bought such few necessities as our farms did not afford.

It must not be understood that the men of that day were without enterprise. When I look upon the great undertakings of the present day and then recall a venture which my father and older brothers and myself undertook in 1847, I am compelled to believe that of the two, that early enterprise required the greater business courage. I have related how my father received four thousand dollars for his Tennessee farm and how he converted this into silver on the way to Missouri. He had in addition to this quite a sum of money besides and had accumulated some money during the years of his residence here.

In the spring of 1847 he began to purchase from the neighbors around about and from the men in other communities, their surplus cattle, and in this way collected a herd of five hundred. These cattle were driven overland to Iowa where a few of them were sold, thence on to Illinois and across Illinois and through Indiana and Ohio, peddling them out as we went, and into Pennsylvania, where the last of them were sold. I went along, and we had many hardships, but somehow I did not think so at the time. The trip broke the monotony of my life upon the farm and I was glad to go, even though I often grew very tired and had to endure the exposure to hot sun, wind and rain. We made some money on the cattle—quite a good deal. We got every dollar of it in silver and carried it home on horse back. In 1848, brother Isaac and I took another drove over about the same route for Peter Boyer, who lived near Easton. Our experiences on this trip were very much the same as those of the former trip, and the enterprise netted Boyer a handsome profit.