USA > Iowa > Clayton County > History of Clayton County, Iowa : from the earliest historical times down to the present : including a genealogical and biographical record of many representative families, prepared from data obtained from original sources of information, Volume I > Part 51
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anything from grain to hazelbrush. A man rode on the machine with his back to the team and raked the grain off and where the grain stood up he could deliver it in good shape for the binder. It took eight binders to bind grain and two men to shock, and ten to twelve acres was a good day's work. Other reapers soon came into use, we had an Esterly, on the back end of the platform a man stood with a fork to deliver the grain. A self-raker was tried by Joseph Stiner, and while it would cut and rake very well, the mechanical construc- tion was at fault and kept breaking down. Then came the John P. Manny and the John H. Manny, one used a rake and the other a fork to deliver the grain. Then came the McCormick self-rake, with five bars on the reel, one of which scraped the grain from the platform into bundles. Another machine with self-rake was the Walter A. Wood, a very good machine, as was the Kirby, a self-rake. Then came the binder, the Buckeye and the Excelsior, and these kind of reapers were the favorite until the Marsh harvester, the wire binder and then the twine binder of the present day.
In Ohio, we threshed grain with the flail and by tramping the sheaves with horses, on the barn floor, or by threshing with a single twenty-four-inch cylinder run by tread power, and cleaning the grain by the old windmill,, but out in Iowa, Peter Walter had a genuine threshing machine with the old tub power run by eight horses with tumbling rod attached to a jack wheel and from that to the machine by a belt. The horse power was staked to the ground and when moved had to be loaded upon a wagon ; the machine had no straw stacker or feeder attached and the grain was caught in the half bushel under the machine. In Wagner township, buggies were practically unknown. When we went to church, father and mother occupied split bottom chairs at the front end of the wagon box and we kids piled in behind on soft hay or straw.
The spring of 1857 was very late and no seeding was done until after the first of May and even then great snow banks could be found in many places. At that time a seeder or grain drill was unknown, all grain was sown by hand, scattering the grain from a sack strapped over the shoulder and it was my business to carry the grain from sacks distributed over the field to father, who did the sowing. The grain was then dragged in with a common harrow, or if sown in cornstalks, plowed in with a corn plow and a single shovel. I never saw a corn planter or a seeder until about ten years after this date and about that time the walking corn cultivator came into use, but all these early implements were very crude, heavy and cumbersome. Joseph Stiner purchased the first check row corn planter. The check rower was made of rope with knots to do the checking, but that year Uncle Stiner only cultivated his corn one way. A splendid crop of wheat and oats was produced that year, but the great panic of 1857 was on in all its force and the wheat we raised only sold for 35 to 40 cents per bushel.
Our money was almost worthless and much of it was entirely so, and a man could not carry it around without great danger. When he came to use it, he often found that the wild-cat banks which issued it were broke. While some bills were worth nearly par, others were at
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a discount, running down, on a very active sliding scale, to nothing. A banker living in Michigan, Wisconsin, or any state could legally start a bank, issue bil's and then send them as far away as possible into other states for circulation. The first money I ever earned, about $4, for pitching bundles to a threshing machine, at 50 cents a day, was paid me for my own and as soon as possible I went to town to pur- chase various articles which I thought I needed, but after purchase I presented the merchant my Wisconsin bank bills and found the bank had failed and I was penniless, but I had lots of com- pany. The only real money we had was gold and silver and bills of the State Bank of Iowa and, of course, this money was very scarce and utterly inadequate to transact our business. We had been using this wildcat money, accepting it at its face value, but we had some captains of industry and finance even at that day who knew how to skin the people ; and the financiers and speculators just took our money at any discount they demanded, or not at all, and it was not until the National bank act, during the war, took effect that the country was relieved of this highway robbery.
The earlier settlers always had a good market for their supplies at home among the immigrants coming in and many of them took their wheat to the Elkader mill and had it ground into flour and with ox teams transported the flour north into Minnesota, where they found ready sale and good prices. About this time the railroad was built to Prairie du Chien, but this new market gave us no relief and during this panic money was almost unknown and it was a difficult matter to get real money enough to pay our taxes and it took gold money to pay the government price of $1.25 per acre for land. But there was no suffering for food and clothing. We had plenty of everything that could be produced on the farm to eat, and our mothers were skillful with the spinning wheel, the loom, and with their knitting needles to produce warm and comfortable clothing. The clothing was not very fashionable, neither were the boys and girls of that period. We just worked and grew strong, enjoyed life, every day of it, went to our schools and spelling schools, churches and dances. The Hunt school house on the north, the Wagner school house on the center and the Patterson school house in the south part of our township were our social centers. The crops during the latter years of the 50's were usually good, but there was no money to purchase the surplus and after hauling produce to McGregor, some hauling for more than 100 miles, the usual price was $2.00 per hundred for dressed hogs and around 50 cents per bushel for wheat. We used to mow the hay with a scythe and gather it with a fork from the swath into cots, or pitch it on the wagon and then by hand pitch the hay into a stack or hay-mow.
In April, 1861, after the fall of Fort Sumter and Lincoln's proclamation calling out 75,000 men, the country went wild with the patriotic sentiment of defending their country, the quota was filled in a few days, and the young men appeared to be alarmed for fear the fighting would be over before they could get to the front. About the middle of April, 1861, there was a genuine law trial in my father's court, at which Tom Updegraff, of McGregor, and R. E. Price, of
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Elkader, were the attorneys and these attorneys brought us the news of the bombardment and fall of Fort Sumter and that war had com- menced. Quite a number of the citizens of Wagner were present but this news did not create much excitement. Of course the news had been pointing toward war, but the people generally were loath to believe that there would be real war, but soon was issued Lincoln's proclamation for 75,000 men. Then the people unanimously talked and rallied to the support of the nation, but when the repeated call for men of 300,000, 500,000 and as the war dragged along, calling for men, then did the slimy head of the copperhead begin to show, but here only to the extent of discouraging enlistment. This however, is not the time and place to talk about the disgraceful and treasonable part taken in our Civil War by the Copperheads and Knights of the Golden Circle.
The first enlistments, as I recall them, were Joe Eno and Lester Squires, Third Infantry, killed at Blue Mills, Missouri, in September, 1861; John Christ, Company K, First Iowa Cavalry; Jacob Christ, Twelfth Infantry; John Monlux, Sixteenth U. S. These boys enlisted in 1861 from Wagner township, but in 1862, when the Iowa regiments were organized the boys came out by the hundreds from loyal Clayton county. According to the Iowa roster, Clayton county furnished about 350 men for the Twenty-first Iowa, and Company D, Capt. Elisha Boardman's company of Elkader, was made up entirely of recruits from Elkader and vicinity. About 275 Clayton county boys enlisted in the Twenty-seventh Infantry. Lieutenant Tipton and Avalo J. Price, major, recruited 33 men, all from the immediate vicinity of Elkader for Company I, Eighth Iowa Cavalry. This body of men was known in the regiment as the Elkader squad. In the enlistments in 1862, very many of the soldiers were married and left their families behind, and I have heard many of the soldiers say, "The hardest battle I ever fought was when I marched away and left my wife and children." When the call was made for 300,000 more men the farmers met and made arrangements to enlist as soon as their crops were harvested, and the result was as soon as they could get matters arranged they enlisted in a body, making almost an entire company, and nearly all married men. I was elected captain and for three years commanded this company.
P. P. OLMSTEAD
On the 13th day of July, 1840, P. P. Olmstead and his brother, David, set out from Prairie du Chien across the Mississippi in search of a home. After one or two days' journey, they concluded to make a claim in what is now Monona township. Returning to Prairie du Chien, they purchased an outfit for keeping house, and then settled on their claim. They were the first white settlers in Monona township. About two miles northwest of their location was an Indian village, with a population of 200 Winnebagoes, whose chief was Whirling Thunder. There was also a farm of about forty-five acres connected with the village and cultivated by the Indians. This farm had been broken and fenced by the United States Government in 1838. They
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found the Indians peaceable, but never regarded them as very agreeable neighbors. Their first experience concerning the character of their neighbors was derived a few days after they had completed their cabin. Some of the Indians called during the absence of Mr. Olmstead and brother, and carried away all their bedclothes and provisions. The next October, Whirling Thunder and his band moved to Fort Atkinson, where the whole Winnebago tribe of Indians, num- bering about 3,400, were being moved, most of them from Wisconsin, for the purpose of compelling them to occupy the neutral grounds. according to stipulation. The Indians often crossed their reservation lines, however, and visited the whites. Speaking of the Indians, Mr. Olmstead says: "We were often visited by the Indians, who were gen- erally friendly and peaceable. On two or three occasions only did they show any disposition to injure us. About the first of August, soon after we had completed our cabin, Brother David went to Grant county, Wisconsin, where he remained about two weeks, leaving me alone to work on our claim, and during his absence eight or ten Indians, of both sexes, came into our cabin and asked for food. I gave them what I had cooked, but did not appear to satisfy them. One of them commenced searching the cabin for more food, which did not surprise me or cause me any alarm until I discovered that he held in his right hand a butcher knife with blade drawn, which he tried to conceal under his blanket, but which I discovered probably in time to save my life, for as soon as I saw it and noticed the manner in which he held the knife, I was satisfied that he intended to take my life, and I immediately stepped to one corner of the room and caught hold of an ax, which was the best weapon within my reach, and told them to go out of the house, which order was obeyed with some apparent hesi- tation.
"About the first of the following November, Brother David and myself being at our cabin together, seven strong-looking Indians came from the west, and upon speaking with them we discovered that they intended mischief. The first words spoken by them were threats to burn our cabin. After hearing their threats we bolted the door. They did not show any weapons, and I think they did not intend to injure us, but as soon as we shut the door against them, they com- menced trying to break it down by throwing their weight against it. About the time they commenced trying to break down the door, Mr. Schnider, then employed as blacksmith at the mission neart Fort Atkinson, came along with his team, and the Indians withdrew from the house. Knowing that Mr. Schnider had been employed by the Government for several years and could converse with the Indians in their own language, we requested him to stay with us that night and try to persuade the Indians to be peaceable and not further molest us. Mr. Schnider very kindly complied with our request, and succeeded in preventing any further attack upon our premises. What the result would have been had not Mr. Schnider come just at that time, I am unable to determine. Had the Indians persisted in their attack upon our cabin we should have defended it to the utmost of our power, but they might have overpowered us and our lives been sacrificed. I shall ever remember with gratitude the timely aid rendered us by Mr.
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Schnider, who afterward settled in and became a respected citizen of Giard township."
REMINISCENCES OF GEORGE OATHOUT
"Situated in the village of Luana, Clayton county, about 18 miles west of McGregor, there still remain two old-time road houses or hotels which were standing on the present location over 50 years ago. The hotel near the center of the village is now conducted by Mrs. Henderson and is fully up to the standard of requirements for a good stopping place for the lonely traveler. This house was formerly known as the 'New England House' and was conducted over 50 years ago by Wm. S. Scott, who together with his family, has gone over the river years ago. Before a railroad through this section was even thought of, the military trail which passes through here and was used by the soldiers passing from Prairie du Chien to Fort Atkinson as well as other forts in Minnesota and later by thousands of immi- grants going through to find home on the frontier which was not very far away at that time, as there was plenty of Government land before reaching Decorah or West Union. Many of these immigrants who had plenty of money would stop for meals or lodging, while others would camp in or under their wagons and cooked their meals on a fire made from any old thing they found by the wayside or brought along for the purpose. The writer has many times seen hundreds of such wag- ons pass in a day. Later, when these people had secured their home, and had something to sell, McGregor was their market for many years and the road would be literally filled with teams going to or coming from market. Then was the time that our hotels flourished. Many times the beds would be full and often most all of the floor space too.
"Sometimes a whole beef would disappear in a day at this New England House. Many people who were then or afterwards noted have put up at this hotel. We recall at this time U. S. Grant, while living at Galena, Ill., often stopped here while out on a trip selling leather and buying hides for a tannery in his home town. These old inns along the trail were the gathering places for the people living in this sparsely settled region and, of course, were used for their 'board of trade' where we would gather evenings to swap yarns and take in the news brought by the daily line of stages owned by Frank and Walker, who carried passengers for about 25 cents a mile, also the U. S. Mail, and if we are not mistaken, the express business, then handled by the same pioneer company, who are now in charge of the express business on the Milwaukee railroad system. The other road house was owned and conducted by Geo. Teeter 50 years ago and later by several different landlords. The stages all stopped at this house at that time and would change horses and get dinner. It was quite a sight for the boys to see the four-horse stages coming from McGregor, West Union, Decorah and Elkader about the same time."
REMINISCENCES BY MRS. ANN DICKENS
It is with much satisfaction that I lend my efforts to the work of contributing a chapter to the story of early days in Clayton county.
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I came to this county in 1836. The 15th day of April we landed at the mouth of the Turkey river and wended our way up that river on horseback, which was the mode of travel then, until we reached the little settlement we had in view. This was about 5 miles up the river where resided a few families, constituting the settlement. They were: Robt. Hatfield, James Finley, Henry Redmond, J. W. Jones and Wm. Wayman. A view of the Turkey river and its surrounding bluffs at this time would hardly bring to mind what it was in the days of 1836. When I arrived there the hills were covered with immense timber but no undergrowth, owing to the custom of the Indians of burning the ground every fall to help the growth of feed for deer. The woods were full of panther, bear, wild cats, wolves, foxes, deer and wild turkey : and often. I wondered how those wild turkeys lived and multiplied to such a great extent. Here the woods were full of animals for whom the eggs and the turkey's young would be such a toothsome meal. The log cabin in which the few families lived at that early day had puncheon floors : split timbers, hewed, and loose on their foundation. The Indian's name for the Turkey river was Sesick, Anashungara. At stated times during the year a regular trail was formed by the wild turkeys crossing the river, which from this fact took its name. I have seen a train of them, two to four abreast, extending from the river's bank to the forest a quarter of a mile away. A great many of these turkeys were trapped, the trap, a crude affair, but effective to the extent that one night my husband secured 24 of them. The trap was simply an area of about 10 feet square, enclosed and covered. A trench extended from the outside and gradually descending ran under the wall, opening on the inside. Through this trench the turkeys walked, led on by corn that had been generously sprinkled there.
The land was uncultivated with the exception of some small Indian farms where they raised corn and vegetables. Speaking of the Indians' farming reminds me of the way they used to cure their sweet corn for winter's use. They dug a large pit in the earth in which they burned wood until it was full of live coals. They then scooped out about half of these and filled the place with green corn, half of the husks on. They then covered this corn with the coals removed from the pit and over it all placed a good layer of ashes and left the corn thus to cook.
There were no laws at the time I came to Turkey river, nothing but a squatters' law or custom. Shortly afterward in the winter of '37 or '38, Eliphalet Price was elected justice and Dr. Griffeth, the sheriff. In the spring of 1838 the first court was held in Prairie la Porte, now Guttenberg, when two men lived in that place, Herman Greybill and Christian Wise. Court was held in the cabin of Herman Greybill, and every man in the county attended that court. The judge, Mr. Dunn, from across the river, had ordered that the proceedings and findings be heid secret. Those were days when anything found by the court was a matter of excitement, and I never think of the name of Allen Carpenter, without my mind recalling his going to the door of the shanty immediately after court was adjourned and, not heeding the order of the judge, called out excitedly: "Hoop! we've found a
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bill against old Pigeon." The bill was found for whiskey sold to the Indians, and from the warning thus given him, he escaped.
Speaking of Prairie la Porte, or Guttenberg, reminds me that besides the two cabins of Greybill and Wise, there were a number of miners' shanties and one log cabin hotel. In those days lead was mined quite extensively, but the mineral was never found in paying quantities. There was enough of it to induce the miners to work just a little farther, and many fortunes were sunk, by hopes that never materialized. No, there was nobody in Clayton county in 1832, the year of the Black Hawk war. The year following, three or four families arrived and in 1834 my brothers, Martin, Thomas and Moses Van Sickle came among the first. Thomas Van Sickle's child, my nephew, was the first white child born in the county, in the spring of 1834. Eastern Iowa at this time was the frontier, of course, and we lived the life of frontiersmen. We used to take what little wheat we raised to Maquoketa to a corn mill and have it ground. This left it pretty coarse, but it did for most purposes. When we wanted it for finer food we sifted it through mosquito bar. There were very few horses, and oxen were our mainstays. Many a time I have watched my father plow with the very crudest of instruments. Basswood for lines, the basswood strips laying in a trough of water to keep them from becoming too dry and brittle; raw cowhide for tugs; braided corn husks for the collar to the "harness"; crooked sticks for hames, with no iron. A furrow about 7 inches wide was made with our wooden plows, iron tipped. No calves could be raised on the open on account of the thousands of big, gray wolves. When we came we found the Indians "farming," raising corn and beans. Large, heavy, peculiarly shaped hoes were used and corn was not planted in rows but here and there where a soft place could be found. The Indians knew enough to hill their corn, however, before the white man's advent to the county. The Indians here then were the Winnebagoes and they were not troublesome unless the "civilized" white men gave them whiskey.
In the spring of 1838 I was married to my second husband, whom everybody knew as Ned Dickens. In the fall of the same year we moved from "The Settlement," to a little place north of Colesburg. Here that fall I stayed alone, from one Sunday to the next Saturday, 7 miles from the nearest neighbor, while Mr. Dickens was at the Turkey river settlement that we had left that spring, gathering corn. The only human beings I saw during that long week, were the Indians, who would peer in at the window (or holes that served for windows) or walk into the cabin, unannounced, for food and barter. The next Monday, two days after my husband got home, he shot within a half mile of the cabin a panther that measured 9 feet from the tip of the tail to the head. We sold the hide to Judge Price, for $5.00, who had it mounted and from the tallow of the panther I made 11 dozen candles. As a joke upon some neighbors from the East, named Mallory (for whom Mallory township is named) this panther was divided, dried and fed to them for venison, and they did not know the difference for the meat was beautiful. The little incident of how this immense panther was shot in the southern part of Clayton county
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in 1838 may be interesting. Mr. Dickens was following upon the fresh trail of a deer when he found them joined by the tracks of a panther. These he followed for some time until he came to a place where tracks of the panther disappeared. Following the deer trail some ways farther, he found a place where the snow was sprinkled with blood, and a portion of the deer lay covered with snow. A little ways farther on, crouched the panther, resting from his feast and watching the deer's remains. The distance from where the panther's tracks ceased to the fallen deer was 40 feet-the distance of the animal's jump. That year Mr. Dickens shot six panthers and four bears.
In the year 1839 Mr. Wayman had among his cattle an animal of which the Indian boys stood in much fear. Whenever they saw it they would make a dash for the rail fence and from that height would call out, "Waymana, Waymana, wapshada, nipu." Wapshada mean- ing bull, and nipu, dead, which signifies they were afraid the bull would kill them. This cry the white children soon took up. Their crying it one night so frightened a Yankee named McIntire, who thought the Indians were coming to massacre us, that I also became frightened, and my husband being gone, ran into the forest with my children and there hid all night. My brother, Moses Van Sickle, killed seven bears, single handed, in a cave on Cedar creek, just below what is now Garnavillo, in the winter of 1840. He entered the cave, torch and gun in hand and killed the seven, one by one, which the men outside pulled up with a rope. In 1842 we moved to near Farm- ersburg, which is now National, on Sni Magill, five miles from the Mississippi. In the winter of '47 and '48 I myself delivered at one time to McGregor's Landing, 2,000 pounds of venison to be wagoned to Fort Atkinson. In the winter of '56 and '57, the year of the heavy snow crust, my husband and son, Will, killed 41 deer.
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