If you're looking for a nice place to spend the winter, don't pick Danville, Iowa. I admit that I am not a person who likes winter anywhere, but I've lived most of my life in central Pennsylvania, so I've experienced my share of unpleasant times. In retrospect, none had seemed as bad as that first one in Iowa. it just seemed colder, damper, icier, windier, longer, and just generally drearier than any other.
I suspect part of it was that the "gold fever" was still running strong through most male veins, and winter was keeping us all from racing off to the West. Whatever, I don't think you could have found a more bad-tempered group of men than waited impatiently for Spring to come to eastern Iowa.
For myself, I was ready for adventure, but I honestly wasn't extra-fired-up by the prospect of gold. With just time and Winter to wrestle with, I kept relatively sane, while all about me were hopeless. This proved to have monetary benefit for me. Wives, who found that their sons and husbands couldn't seem to concentrate on the simplest chores, hired me to chop and carry firewood, and to fix minor repair problems around the homestead. One woman (with her husband's blessing) let me sleep in one of their out-buildings, allowed me to eat with the family, and provided me with a few coins (whenever she had them), just for being around to handle whatever needed to be handled. With room and board taken care of, whatever amount she or other wives could pay me could all be saved for the trip West.
My lodging was not of the highest quality. The flimsy walls barely slowed the wind and snow, and sometimes it seemed there was as much ice accumulation inside as there was outside. Still, if I slept in my clothes, and piled on top of me as many layers of bedding and burlap sacking as I could find, I didn't succumb to pneumonia or frostbite.
Every week or so, I checked in with my partner, Nicholaus Johansen, and we would go over our preparations for the trip. We were pretty sure we were in good shape, but neither of us had ever been on a six-month trip into the wilderness, where there would be no replenishing of supplies after the first couple of weeks, and no help from anyone but other members of our party. We wanted to make sure we were as independent as possible, and prepared for any circumstances.
Nick had two yoke of oxen, and a fairly sturdy farm wagon. Three yoke would have been better, but our load was fairly light, so we expected to do all right. We strengthened the wagon, had a canvas top made for it, and we suddenly had our own "prairie schooner," the nickname for the overland covered wagon that would soon be recognized throughout the country. The "schooner" looked like a smaller version of the Conestoga wagon that had been used for hauling freight in the Atlantic states for years. The Conestoga would have been too heavy for pulling across the plains. The prairie schooner turned out to be just right.
One thing I've always wondered about, and never got a good answer to, is where all those prairie schooners came from. I mean, every farmer had a farm wagon that could be converted. That's what Nick and I did - pretty much by ourselves, with just a little help from various "experts" who could do certain tasks better than we could. But from 1849 through the 1860s, the Gold Rush and then the overland immigration to Oregon and California required a thousand of them - maybe, thousands! Somewhere, there must have been blacksmiths, wheelwrights, carpenters, canvas stitchers, and wire benders working around the clock to turn out all those specialized wagons. Yet, I never saw that kind of industry actually occurring, anywhere I went, but I can picture those workers, making more money than most of the gold-seekers, while living comfortably at home with their wives and families.
(There is another alternative, one we wouldn't have dreamed of in 1849. I've known, as long as I can remember anything, that Saint Nicholas, when he wasn't actually out delivering presents, lived somewhere "up north" where there was snow and reindeers. However, it wasn't until the last couple of years - and that's thanks to the cartoon drawer, Nast - they we've learned that Santa Claus lives at the North Pole, and apparently has a large factory up there, run by elves who make all the toys that Santa brings south at Christmas time. Doesn't it seem logical - since we can't find anybody down here in "the States" making all these covered wagons - that Santa responded to the emergency, and set his crew of elves to work on prairie schooners? Well, it's just a thought.)
***
Because we had to take everything with us that we would need, our wagon load was interesting. There were extra wagon wheels, extra axles, extra harness for the oxen, and all the tools we thought we might need for repairs along the way, or for mining in California. Six months' worth of food was required, most of it non-perishable like flour and coffee. (We hoped we could kill game along the way, but with a wagon train that might eventually become one string of "schooners" stretching from St. Joe to somewhere in the West, all the animals might have retreated back into the hills not long after the lead wagons passed by.)
In addition to our own food, we had to carry grain to feed our livestock. Once we got on the trail, it might be at least a month before the grasses would be growing enough to provide reliable natural forage. Add to all this were our clothes (not many), our bed rolls, and any personal incidentals we thought important enough to bring along. On top of all that (and it was literally on top of everything!), we had to leave enough room in the wagon for us to sleep and escape the elements, when the weather demanded it. It was a big, crazy load.
Nick needed a partner for the trip. He didn't really need my money. His parents had both recently died, and most of their possessions had been left to him. Included were the family home and small farm, with all the supplies and equipment needed to maintain them. He had one married sister, who received a small legacy, but was otherwise well taken care of with her husband and family. Nick had no other family nearby, and no one special to encourage him to stay in the area. When the "gold fever" began to strike, he set aside the oxen, wagon, and other things he thought he might need, and sold everything else - lock, stock and barrel.
Because Nick was one of the first to sell, he received a good price for his property. Later, as everyone was panic-selling to get funds for the Westward trip, it became a definite "buyer's market," and some ridiculously low prices were accepted.
An unexpected bonus for Nick was that the new owner didn't plan to move in until spring, so he paid Nick a small salary to caretake the place. That gave Nick good accommodations through the winter. I could have stayed with him, rather than in my porous shack, but we would be seeing plenty of each other later, and I kind of enjoyed my freedom to work around the neighborhood.
Because I was contributing so little to our trip financially, I told Nick that, if we "struck it rich," I would claim only my original investment, plus enough to pay my way home to Pennsylvania. He could have all the rest. Of course, it was very likely I would be offering him the lion's share of nothing! He just smiled, and didn't reply.
***
In late March 1849, the wagons began to start on their way West. It was still too early - the roads would be terrible, there would be no feed for the stock, and the Missouri River might not be crossable - but those with serious "gold fever" had suffered as long as they could stand it, and refused to wait any longer. It didn't really matter who went first or last. We all were headed for St. Joseph, Missouri, where we would officially establish our "company," and elect a leader, before beginning the actual westward move. As it turned out, Nick and I were among the last to leave. There were still a few days left in March when we got on our way.
In those last days, I think I was feeling some kind of guilt that I had taken onto myself from all the men in Danville who had abandoned their families to an uncertain future. To my shame, I had given little thought to my own family for two years, but before that I had been part of a strong unit that watched out for one another, cared for one another, and prevented any problems it was within our abilities to prevent. Now, I ached for these local women and children, left behind - some almost penniless - with no idea when - or if! - they'd ever see their men-folks, again. I know women are brave, smart, and resourceful, but "society" has made them dependent on, and subservient to, their husbands, and I feared many had the reins turned over to them too abruptly and finally.
I wanted to do something for them. I knew anything I did was for the moment, and essentially meaningless for their future. I couldn't do anything to address their fears, sorrows, worries, questions, or resentments. Still, I felt I wanted to do something.
I asked Nick if we could delay our departure for two days. He had no problem with that. With this time at my disposal, I wandered about the community, stopping with each family to offer my services for whatever they might need I made it clear that I wasn't looking for pay. Anything I did for them was meant as a small "thank you" for how kindly everybody had treated me, a stranger, over the past six months.
Two women were openly hostile to me - apparently too upset to take help from anyone. Several certainly thought I was addlepated, but harmless, so they played along with my delusion. In general, my offers to chop some wood, fix a screen door, muck out a stable, or whatever, were received with gratitude. When Nick and I finally left town, I couldn't kid myself that I had changed anything, but I felt better with myself for making the effort.
***
Once on our way, it took us almost two weeks to reach St. Joe. Our route was straight west along the lower edge of Iowa, then diagonally southwest through Missouri to St. Joe. This wasn't "wilderness," in any sense of the word. We passed through little towns every ten or twenty mile, some consisting of just a house or two, and a few very pretty, prosperous places, like Danville. I think Bloomfield was one I thought especially attractive. Most of them didn't seem to have any particular reason for being where they were. I suspect most were just the result of people picking up and moving a little farther west, when the last place they'd been at began to get "too crowded."
Most days, we only traveled ten or fifteen miles. The roads were terrible - partly just because they would have been terrible any time of the year, but were even worse at that time because of the spring thaw, and resultant mud. There were also five or six ferries to cross the larger streams, which of course slowed our progress, as well. One day, it was so snowy that we finally took shelter in an abandoned barn, and spent the night there. It was cold, but at least we were dry and out of the wind.
We didn't see, or pass, any of the Danville group before we reached St. Joe, and assumed that everyone was making about the same amount of progress three or four days ahead of us. That proved to be the case, as we met some of our group camped at Savanna, just a short distance north of St. Joe. Some had been waiting as long as two weeks, partly waiting their turn on the ferry across the Missouri River, but also knowing there would be enough grass growth in Kansas and Nebraska to support their livestock.
We learned that Sam Ikenberry - who we would eventually elect as our leader - had crossed the river some time ago, and planned to meet everyone about a day's trip into Kansas, where we would officially organize our "company."
One event that I took as very good news was that one of the Danville men - one whose family I knew well - had decided to return home. He was already missing his wife and their old way of life, and I think I detected in his words a fair amount of remorse, or guilt. He described it as the "fever" having "broken," and I think the fixation on California gold really was a fever - an illness - that kept men from thinking rationally. I was glad it had "broken," in at least one case.
The man had brought two sons with him, one fifteen and one seventeen. The younger was unhappily convinced to return to Danville with him, when the father explained that he would need a helper with the wagon and oxen on the way home. The older boy wanted to go on. He was "old enough," so the father arranged for him to join another group, and outfitted him with a grubstake from their supplies. He saved enough provisions to get him and his son back to Danville, then sold everything else, including one yoke of oxen. He got a good price, so at least would not be returning home empty-handed!
Nick and I camped just outside of St. Joe, and waited for our turn on the ferry. Our time didn't come for almost a week, so we relaxed, reorganized our load, and wandered around the town. It was hard to imagine how the town must have looked before the arrival of us "Forty-niners." Two years earlier, St. Joe had a meat packing plant, and regular visits by steamboats coming upriver from the Mississippi, but the total population was less than 1,000 people. Now, there were people, wagons, and oxen everywhere, this being the last place where one could top off their supplies, or find a blacksmith or livestock supplies before heading into the wilderness for the next five or six months. One newspaper account I saw while in California claimed that, in the spring of 1850, there had been 40,000 or 50,000 people in St. Joe at the same time - stocking up, waiting for the ferry, and letting the grass grow ahead of them. Those numbers were probably somewhat of an exaggeration, but even at our early date the previous year, I suspect we had added several thousand travelers - and there were a lot more to come!
***
Our turn on the ferry eventually arrived. Nowadays, crossing a big river on a ferry takes some time, but it was a real adventure at the Missouri in the spring of 1849. Before our wagon could be loaded onto the ferry, the wheels had to be taken off, and the bed carried aboard. The oxen had to swim beside the craft, which entailed tying ropes around their horns and dragging them along. Heavy ropes secured the raft to both sides of the river, and we were bodily pulled across, while all the men rowed to keep the craft moving more or less straight ahead. Nevertheless, the river current was so strong that the ferry usually ended up traveling quite a distance downstream, and had to be strong-armed back up to the landing. Once across, the wagon had to be carried off, the wheels replaced, and the oxen gathered up and re-yoked. With twenty-two wagons in our company, you can see why it took a couple of weeks to get everybody across the river, and to our assembly point.
Once across the river, Nick and I found about half of our party waiting for us, and for two other wagons that somehow had managed to get behind us. We camped that night, the last two wagons showed up next morning, and we started north into Kansas. We traveled through some nice woods for a few miles, but then broke out into a barren, sandy country. The road had started out fairly good, but soon deteriorated. There was no grass for our stock. About sunset, we reached a place called Wolf Creek, and there found the rest of our party camped. We had some about twenty-five miles from St. Joe.
Next morning, we all assembled, and officially became a "company." We elected Sam Ikenberry as our captain, because he seemed to be a good, steady fellow, and because he was one of the few of us who had ever been to the West. (He had gone to Oregon in 1845 or 1846, I think.) I suppose we gave ourselves a name - every outfit did - but, for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. Whenever I heard anybody talk about us, it was "the Ikenberry party," or sometimes "the London boys." We got the latter name because about half of our party had come from New London, Iowa, a town a few miles northwest of Danville. Whatever you called us, we consisted of twenty-two wagons, all pulled by oxen, and about 60 men. We had a few changes before we got all the way to California, but not many. We arrived pretty much the way we started.
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