USA > Iowa > Polk County > Pioneers of Polk County, Iowa, and reminiscences of early days, Vol. I > Part 32
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The pioneers of Iowa and Polk County parted company with the railroad at Chicago, and slowly plodded their way in "prairie schooners," or floated on some river boat to Keokuk, and thence, by wagon, to "Raccoon Forks." The tide of immigration increased so rapidly that in 1849, Fink & Walker established a line of stages from Keokuk to the "Forks." Three trips a week were to be made, with elegant coaches, but long before, the heavy wagons of team- sters had cut deep ruts in the soft prairie soil, sloughs and creeks were not bridged, so that, in the wet season, passengers were con- tent with riding in a "jerkey," walking half the distance, and car- rying a rail to pry the vehicle out of the mud, and getting through in four days. Skunk River bottoms was a holy terror to drivers and passengers as well.
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"How far to Fort Des Moines ?" asked a passenger of the driver one day at "Uncle Tommy" Mitchell's tavern, in 1854.
"Sixteen miles."
"How long will it take to get there ?"
"We can make it in six hours, I reckon, if the horses hold out, and the bottom don't fall out."
The regular fare was ten dollars for each person, and five dol- lars for each trunk.
In 1855, the Western Stage Company purchased the Fink & Walker line, and July First, the first coach of the company arrived in Des Moines, the Colonel coming with it as General Manager of all its lines west of the Mississippi. The only available residence for him was a small frame near the corner of Walnut on Third Street, and there was his office. Subsequently, he built a fine brick residence on Locust Street, on the block now occupied by the Savery House. The headquarters of the company was at the Everett House, on the east side of the street, where the temporary Court House now is, and next to the Colonel's office. The rear part of the hotel was one of the soldiers' log barrack buildings, to which William F. Marvin and Benjamin Luse built an addition, named it the Marvin House, sold it, in 1853, to J. C. Savery, who re-named it. It was a lively place, always crowded, two in a bed, the overflow taking chairs. The town was small, the entire population of it could have been seated on the lot where The Register and Leader office is. The coming of the stages was a portentious and notable event in the embryo metropolis of the state. On arrival, the small boys, and some larger ones, turned out to greet them, the horses covered with mud in Spring time, foam and lather in Summer, and frost in Winter. I think Simon Casady, the Sherman boys, By. Keffer, and Harry West have not forgotten those days.
The company was a wealthy one, and at once plans were made for the business of the Division Headquarters. A large farm was purchased to provide hay and grain and grazing for the horses, an immense barn and shops were built on Eighth Street, below Vine. There were five departments: Wood Work on Coaches; Iron Work; Painting and Trimming; Horseshoeing; Harness Making. Each department was controlled by an expert superin- tendent. Routes were at once opened in various directions, one
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from Davenport to Council Bluffs ; Lyons to Cedar Rapids, Iowa City, Davenport, and Dubuque; Keokuk to Kcosauqua; Oskaloosa to Council Bluffs via Indianola, Winterset, and Lewis ; Des Moines to Fort Dodge via Boonesboro. Starting out with weekly trips, they were increased to semi-weekly, tri-weekly, and daily, as the country settled up and the demand increased. Its business was immense. During one year, its receipts between Des Moines and Boonesboro were one hundred thousand dollars.
Thousands of men and horses were required, and a system of management devised demanding the highest degree of executive capacity, but the Colonel proved equal to the necessity.
The location of the Division Terminal at Des Moines, with its business, its traffic, and acquisition of employés and their families, gave the town a new life and impetus, for from every direction of its routes, the potential influence was towards its headquarters.
During the War period, the stages were of great benefit in the transportation of troops. The Thirty-third and Thirty-ninth Iowa regiments were taken to Davenport, with all their equipments, in two days each. Parts of the Second, Sixth, Tenth, and Fifteenth were also taken to their place of rendezvous. On all such occasions, the Colonel directed the movements in person.
Gradually, its routes were made over Kansas, Nebraska, Mis- souri, and west to Denver.
In 1868-9, the iron horse had again overtaken the Colonel, and in 1870, the company sold out to the Ben. Halliday Overland Stage Company. Its vast property was disposed of, and July First, 1874, the last coach was shipped to Omaha, A. T. Johnson, who had been the local agent from 1858, riding on the box from the barn to the depot.
The Colonel then went to California, and became manager of the California-Oregon Stage Company, or the Shasta Line, as it was called, from Sacramento to San Francisco and Portland, which position he held five years, when, the iron horse having reached the Pacific Shore, and could push him no farther, he quit, and was soon after appointed General Agent of the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railroad at San Francisco, where he remained about four years, when he was appointed General Live Stock Agent of
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the road, and stationed for a time at Salt Lake City, then eastward at other points, until he reached Omaha, and for thirty-one years he was on the payroll of the Rock Island, his services ending with his decease. He was known by every live-stock man from Omaha to San Francisco.
In business affairs, he was exact, methodical, the soul of honor, expected of employés faithful service, yet to them he was exceed- ingly kind. If sick or in trouble, he was their helper and best friend. They knew it, and so it was they served him until the last wheel was turned, or they rested in death. He never expected them to do what he would not do himself, if occasion required, and there were times in the experience of drivers which tested pluck and fortitude. I could name scores of drivers who were loaded with incidents interesting and often thrilling.
As an instance of his readiness to do things, "Pap" Clark, who began driving for him in Ohio, and came with him to Des Moines, and died a few years ago on South Sixth Street, a very old man, once related an incident in 1850, ten miles east of Massillon. Two coaches had stopped for supper and to change horses. There was a terrific storm of rain, thunder and lightning raging. It was dark as pitch. The corduroy road was in horrible condition, broken and full of deep, dangerous holes. The coaches were to go east. Old "Pap" was to take the first coach out. The driver marked up for the second refused to go. "Pap" urged him hard, but he refused to budge. The Colonel, who happened to be present, as he usually was at such times, overheard the refusal, and said to "Pap":
"Have the team brought up. I will drive it. I used to drive team once, and I think I can do it again. If I can't manage it with the reins, I will use the jerk line." The old teamsters used to train their teams of four and six horses to be guided by the "near" leader, to which was attached a long single rein, and to which it had been trained to respond by "jerks.".
The team was brought out, and, after requesting "Pap," who knew every foot of the road, to shout to him the dangerous places as they approached them, for they could scarcely see the horses, and chaining the coach body to the axles to prevent being thrown over, the Colonel mounted the box and the run was made safely.
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"To make such a trip," said "Pap," "over such a road, with a strange team, required lots of pluck."
It was the custom of the Colonel to ride over the various lines on the box with the driver, and watch the horses. If he found one that did not match its mate in work or gait, he would simply say, as he left the box, "I will send you a good mate horse for that 'off leader,' " or as the case might be, on such a day; when the day came, the horse was there. That pleased the drivers, for they detested a "shirk."
The first question the Colonel put when application was made for a job was, "Is he honest ; is he capable ?" Not often, but some- times, his confidence was misplaced. One day, at a station out in the mountains, while he was strolling about, he overheard a driver saying to another, as the coins clinked, "There's one dollar for the company ; there's one dollar for me." He counted an equal division of six dollars, and one over, which was "for me." He concluded to find what was turned in as fares. It was three dollars. He thought the company was entitled to a little more than half the receipts, and the driver lost his job.
The most famous of the Colonel's drivers was "Hank" Monk, immortalized by Mark Twain. He was the most expert, fearless driver that ever drew a rein in the Overland Service. In that mountainous country, mules-the Mexican variety-with most vicious heels, were used. A man had to stand at the head of each and hold him fast, while the driver gloved and got ready. When he grasped the reins and gave the word, the six men suddenly sprang aside, the coach quickly shot out of sight, and the pace was kept up for the ten-mile run.
Stories galore were told of "Hank," one of which was that when Horace Greeley was lecturing through that country, he was billed for Placerville on a certain evening. Arriving at Carson City, he was behind time. When he boarded the coach, he said to "Hank," who was on the box, that he had an engagement at Placerville and wanted to get there quick. "Hank" gave his whip a crack and started at a terrific pace. The coach bounded in every direction, pitching Greeley all over it, until he began to get sore, when he asked "Hank" if he could not go a little easier. "You keep your
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seat, Horace, and I'll get you there by seven o'clock," said "Hank," and he did, pounded almost to jelly. The incident prompted the gift to "Hank," by friends, of a fine gold watch, suitably inscribed, and chain. The watch and identical coach were exhibited at the Saint Louis World's Fair.
The Colonel was proud of his drivers, and they were loyal to him, for he took great interest in their welfare. A passenger once stopped for dinner at Wood River Station, in Colorado. The eat- ing-house was kept by "Aunt Lamb." He heard the driver ask her: "Where is the Colonel ? He has not been along here for three months." "I would be more glad to see Ben. Halliday, for what the Colonel owes me, I know I will get," was the reply.
Nearly all of the old drivers have gone to their rest. I recall a few yet living : John Whissen, William E. Ray, the veterinary sur- geon, John R. Burgess, of Des Moines; J. M. Diefenbecker, of Ames ; "Billy" Warren, of Stuart; Fred. Willard and Bent Mor- row, of Atlantic, and Charley Coon, of Newton, and White Kimes, of Lynnville.
Coon began driving in 1853, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and for eleven years drew the reins all over California, Colorado, and Nevada. He drove into Placerville when "Hank" Monk drove in there, but on another line. I met him one day last week, and he related some of his experiences. "I remember one night in 1854, when going over the mountain, I was suddenly called to halt, kick out the mail sack, and throw up my hands," said he, "but I gave the team a word they understood, and they went off like a shot, and I got away. That was the only time I was held up.
"Over the ranges, the roads were fearful, steep, with short, reverse curves like the letter S, with the reverse so sharp the leaders could see the coach. We had to chain the coach down to the for- ward axle to keep it from going over. I had to strap myself down to the seat.
"In 1861, I came East and began driving for Colonel Hooker. My first run was from the end of the railroad, four miles east of Brooklyn, to Newton, with the fast mail. The travel was immense, sometimes five and six coaches were necessary to take all the pas- sengers. It was very nice in Summer, but in Spring and Winter there was trouble-lots of it.
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"One Winter night, I left Grinnell at eight o'clock. The snow had been falling all day, and was over a foot deep. I had gone but a few miles when I lost the trail. I drove around for several hours, then took my own tracks and followed them back until I got on some high ground where I could see some distance, and, selecting a certain star which I knew was in the direction of Newton, I fol- lowed it until I got to Rock Creek; then I knew where I was. I got into Newton at nine o'clock the next morning, the team was fagged, and the passengers clamoring for breakfast.
"After a time, my run was changed to go west from Newton, and one Spring, Skunk River got on a rampage, as usual, and flooded the whole bottoms. The driver who had preceded me had attempted to go through, but got into deep water, lost the mails, and nearly drowned the passengers, but he finally got out, and left the coach and horses on the other side. I was sent after them. I went a long distance to the south around the flood, got the horses, and swam them back through the flood.
"One Winter night, with the mercury at the bottom of the ther- mometer, and the wind cutting like a knife-I had put on double extra thick clothing-on reaching a tavern four miles west of New- ton, I was nearly frozen. I pulled up and told the passengers that I would turn out there unless I got something to keep the wind out. "Billy" Quick, who was inside, threw out a big robe, and I went on. Arriving at Kendall Station, we met the coaches going east, and drivers being short, after thawing out for thirty minutes, I had to drive back to Grinnell.
"One great source of danger we had was cattle lying in the road in the Summer, frightening the horses and endangering the pas- sengers. One driver declared he would run over them if they got in his way. Soon after, at Rising Sun, one night, a cow was lying in the middle of the road. He told the horses to go; they spread out, went around the cow on both sides, and when the forward axle reached her, she humped herself and tipped over the coach."
Referring to the Colonel, he said: "The Colonel was a father to all the drivers. If we got into trouble with the Road Agent, as we sometimes did, he being our boss, all we had to do was to go to Colonel Hooker, and it was quickly settled. When he left, and the
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company sold out to Halliday, "Billy" Quick took several of us old drivers, to serve the United States Express Company as messengers and agents."
Coon drove seventeen years without an accident or injury to a passenger. He is now seventy-nine years old.
The Colonel was a man of the people, and for the people. He was not versed in book lore, but he possessed an extensive knowl- edge of men and things, of which books are made, and he was one of those who are the builders of civic communities. He was loyal to Des Moines, the home of his adoption, and helped to build it.
Socially, he was frank, companionable, and universally popular. His business life brought him in contact with all classes of people, and whether at some notable social function in Washington, or seated beside a driver on the box of a coach, he was equally cordial and courteous. In that respect, he was thoroughly cosmopolitan. He had a keen sense of humor, and thoroughly enjoyed the ludi- crous. He was kind, liberal in the bestowment of favors to the needy and worthy. It was his frankness, high sense of humor, unaffectedness, sincerity, and cheerfulness that won the friendship of all who knew him. Buoyant and light-hearted, he was always young, never grew old, never would give his age. To ask it, dis- pleased him.
His home was an ideal one, always open to friends, who were scattered from ocean to ocean. He was a royal entertainer, and his dinners and receptions were notable functions. He enjoyed, heart- ily, the society of young people and little ones, of whom he had an attractive brood of his own. For woman, he had the most profound respect and regard. Motherhood, to him, was her crowning glory. In business relations, he was ever watchful for her care and com- fort. He was a member of high degree in the Masonic fraternity.
Religiously, he was bound by no denominational creed, though he regularly attended the Episcopal service. He believed that per- sonal character should be measured by action instead of profession. His high sense of morality made him an exemplary citizen.
Politically, he was like most of the pioneers, a Democrat, but when the Civil War came, he affiliated with the Republican party, but took no part in politics. Very few knew his political faith.
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He died in 1896, aged eighty-three. His funeral was attended by a large concourse, among whom were many notable persons from abroad. The cortége to the cemetery was headed with one of his old coaches, bearing the pall-bearers, with two old drivers, John R. Burgess and Fred. Kromer, on the box.
December Thirty-first, 1905.
CYRUS A. MOSIER
CYRUS MOSIER
A CONSPICUOUS person among the early settlers was Cyrus A. Mosier, or Cy., as he was better known among them. He came here when eleven years old, with his father, early in 1848, who, in November of that year, entered several tracts of Government land in the northwestern part of the present city. One tract was on the north side of what is now University Avenue, between Thirtieth and Thirty-fifth streets, on which he built a log cabin, about ten rods north of the avenue and west of Thirty-first street. There he planted the first apple and peach orchard in Polk County, and in 1856 and 1857, raised an immense crop of peaches, "the most luscious and beautiful I ever saw," said an old-timer to me a few days ago. The Winter of 1857 killed all the peach trees, since when peach growing has been abandoned in Polk County.
Cyrus was a farm boy, with all that the term signifies, but he very early manifested a desire to get an education. Schools were scarce. There was a log schoolhouse more than a mile north of his home, through the timber and brush, at what was known as "Hick- man's Corner," and there he received his first lessons respecting the three "R's" seated on the soft side of slab benches. He soon graduated therefrom, and attended a private school taught by Elder Nash for a short time, in 1853, and a select school in 1855, for a short time taught by John H. Gray, who was, in 1858, elected Judge of the District Court.
His school opportunities were of short duration, for he had not the means to defray the expenses. When not in school, his leisure hours were given to study and fitting himself for teaching-then his highest ambition.
He did not like farming. It was too isolated. He was not built that way, and he would break away. Sometimes he would go hunt- ing and trapping up the river, or driving logs down the river to the
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mill. He once told me he had walked on logs from the dam to Thompson's Bend. He was of extremely nervous, sanguine tem- perament, and always busy. Father Bird, the first preacher here, had purchased the land from Locust Street north to Center Street, between Third and Fourth streets, and wanted to cultivate it. Cyrus drove an ox team to break it. Corn, potatoes, and hay were grown on it as late as 1864.
While he was preparing himself for teaching, he took up a sys- tem of stenography, or shorthand writing, then but very little known in the West. Without instruction, by perseverance and toil, many nights in the light of a "tallow dip," he mastered the sym- bolical pot-hooks, angles and curves, and so perfected his skill that he was able to do reporting. It was the custom in those days, there being no railroads, for the lawyers here to hire some person to take them around the circuit to the different places where court was to be held-the district covered nearly all the northwestern part of the state-and they frequently hired Cyrus to go with them and report the proceedings in their cases, for which he was paid five and ten dollars per day. It was a purely private clerical arrangement. He was thus employed at intervals for several years, and he became so proficient and reliable that, in 1862, he was appointed by Judge Gray as official reporter for his court. It was the first of the kind in the state, and he held the office for more than a score of years. I have no doubt he was the first resident of Iowa to practice report- ing by stenography.
In September, 1854, he organized the first brass band. The town had become enthused with "Manifest Destiny," visions of the Seat of Government coming this way filled the air. Political enthusiasm also ran high, and a brass band was deemed necessary to give eclat to the times and occasions. It consisted of eleven members. Being in a reminiscent mood one day, he unburdened his memory of the aggregation, and its lost chords, thusly :
"Business had crept from the 'Point' along the cabin rows on First and Second streets, as far as Vine, and the population of the town had risen to the enormous figure of seven hundred, counting men, women, boys, girls, all told, suburban and close-in folks living out at Beaver, our friend Wash. Hickman, on his farm three miles
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out, included. In 1854, remember the date, it was whispered about during the Grimes-Bates campaign for Governor, that we ought to have a brass band at The Forks when we had speeches by the can- didates and others. Furthermore, we had begun to hope for the Capital ; it was in the atmosphere that came across the two hundred miles of unsettled prairie to the northwest, and in the smoke that settled in the valleys in the blue October days. The old frames of wickiups scattered up and down North River and 'Coon, as well as far up the Des Moines, even into Minnesota, seemed to shout : 'The Capital is coming to The Fort,' and settlers were asking as high as five dollars per acre for their farms, whereon stood sod corn, shone the turnip patches, and rattled the buckwheat when the southwest winds of Autumn came sweeping through the tangled straw! Ten acres in corn, worth two-bits a bushel. Yes, we must put on city airs or never amount to anything ; we must fill the skies with better wind, more musical than that which fanned the flames of the prairie grass and yearly devastated the timber lands, licked up the rail fences, as well as some pole cabins, the homes of pio- neers. 'Time we had a band,' shouted the noted lawyers of those days, and the justices said, 'If the court understands herself, and she thinks she do, we will never 'mount to anything till we have a band-that's the p'int!' The wide awake merchants-'Billy' Moore, B. F. Allen, J. M. and H. H. Griffiths, the Campbell broth- ers, and Pete. Myers, Jesse Dix, the stove and tinware man ; 'Hod' Bush, the baker ; all the doctors, especially Doctor Henry C. Grim- mel, father of Doctor George Grimmel, now at Jefferson; the old Doctor Frank Grimmel, with his bulldog pills, and even Doctor J. C. Bennett, who once led the Mormon militia, for he loved fuss and feathers; Alex. Scott, big-hearted, generous to a fault, were in the thickest of the blow. As soon as the ten who were to take the instruments and master them had paid in ten dollars each, the town, as a Committee of the Whole, went to work and raised another fifty dollars, making the magnificent sum total of one hun- dred and fifty dollars. One dollar, in those days, was bigger than one hundred dollars these times. The amount raised was looked upon as a princely sum. The instruments were bought at Daven- port; part were secondhand.
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"When Ed. Clapp drove his express into town, at sunset, one beautiful September day, in 1854, freighted with bacon and United States mail, some three or four weeks old-judging from the skip- pers, the bacon was the oldest-he brought a box of horns, brass horns, mind you, some few copper, not many, else the horns might not all have arrived, though Ed. was always, as to-day 'safe and sound' on the horn question, and strictly reliable. But those old wagons often caused the breakage of cooperage, especially while standing in the tall grass on the eastern side of Skunk, waiting for the water and mud to go down. The news of the arrival of the box soon spread ; the members of the band-to-be quickly gathered and opened the box, and, after some discussion as to the fitness of things, an assignment of the instruments was made, as follows :
"William Boyd, E flat bugle, leading instrument.
"Doctor Henry C. Grimmel, low E flat trumpet, similar to cornet.
"Thomas Boyd, ophecleide, heavy bass instrument.
"L. D. Karns, trombone.
"James Hall, trombone.
"Cyrus A. Mosier, B flat bugle.
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