Fraternal Herald/Volume 31/Number 3/The Story of Jos. Francl

THE STORY OF JOS. FRANCL.

Translated by Fred Francl.
Edited by Rose Rosicky.

FOREWORD.—As far as is known, the first Bohemian to enter Nebraska was Joseph Francl. In 1854 he travelled through what was then the territory of Nebraska, on his way to California, to the gold mines. In that year (1854) Nebraska Territory was organized, but it embraced a much larger area than does the state of Nebraska now, for it included what now are the states of North and South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and Idaho. In March and April of that year the Otoe, Missouri and Omaha Indians by treaties ceded their lands along the Missouri River to our government. In that year too the city of Omaha was founded.

Joseph Francl was born in 1824 in Svojšice, County Čáslav, Bohemia. His father owned a brewery and glass works. He studied music in the Prague Conservatory and later, as a member of the firm Marschner & Franzl, directors of an orchestra, made many trips to cities in Bohemia, Austria and Germany, for the purpose of giving concerts. About 1851 he came to the United States and about 1852 he married Miss Antonia Procháska, who had emigrated to Wisconsin with her parents. Mrs. Francl was born in Kutná Hora, Bohemia, February 17, 1834 and died in Crete, Nebraska, November 21, 1911.

Francl kept a diary while on his journey west, part of which has been lost. His oldest son Fred has loaned what there is to the publishers of the Hospodář and the following is a transcription of same, for the original is written in German script and is very faded, so that deciphering it was quite arduous. However, the matter is not only interesting but historically valuable and was well worth the effort. Francl was living near Watertown, Wisconsin, at the time he set out, and had a young wife and small son Fred, for whom he hoped to find a fortune in California. Some of the rivers he mentions are not found on the maps today, probably the early names having been changed since that time.R. R.

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THE STORY OF JOSEPH FRANCL.

“God be with you, hope for a happy reunion, although I do not know how long my absence from you may last,” were the last words I said to my dear wife. With my gun and knapsack over my shoulders, my mind filled with depressing thoughts, I departed and walked slowly toward Watertown. Upon reaching the place of meeting agreed upon, I found my partners assembled and all the supplies in readiness. We overhauled everything once more, in order that nothing be forgotten for our long journey. The remainder of the time we spent with friends in drinking beer and other liquors. On the 18th of April, 1854, at one o’clock after midnight, we yoked up our oxen, loaded everything on the wagon, spread the cover over it and started away from Watertown. My brother Anton and Mr. Ráček accompanied us seven miles of the way, as a farewell parting.

The first day we made only fourteen miles and stopped with a farmer acquaintance. Praise be given to his wife, she wrung the necks of several roosters and ducks and brought all five of us around to a more sober condition, The day before, while celebrating the many farewells and good wishes for our health and success, we had imbibed more than was becoming. We spent our first night in a large stack of hay and all felt happy.
JOSEPH FRANCL. We agreed that if the whole journey was to be like this, we would have a splendid time of it. But alas! The next day was very different and did not suit us as well. Toward evening a terrific rain, wind and thunder storm surprised us and we were compelled to stand in the rain all night. At no time during the storm were we able to set up our tent and fasten it. We could not build a fire, the wind howled and the rain came down in torrents. We did not want to sit in the wagon, for fear the lightning would strike a nearby tree and ignite the powder (which we had well covered) blow it up and take us with it. We did not sleep all night. In the morning the storm abated, but my partners were anxious to return home,—this kind of weather did not agree with them. But the sun came up bright and warm, we dried our clothes and set out, in better spirits, toward the city of Madison, the capitol of Wisconsin.

As cashier of this partnership I demanded of each member that he pay his share now due into the treasury. This gave rise to a noisy argument. No one wanted to part with his coin, but there was nothing to do except for me to insist and I collected all, including my share, the total being eighty-four dollars. With that amount five men are to make a journey to California, 2700 miles distant, and pay all the expenses. I pondered over this feature and came to the conclusion that the amount was entirely too small. We made another great mistake in taking alongja blind passenger, who is mowing down our hams and other provisions with startling rapidity.

To make you acquainted with my fellow-travellers, I will say a few words about them. We have not been together very long and I shall not try to describe their individualities and characters, this is not the time for that. My object is to write about my adventures as well as my ability will permit, my travel book or journal I have lost sight of long ago. It is difficult for me now to remember dates and small incidents, although I believe I can bring together enough to make a plain story for you. I am not making an extensive description of places, towns, cities, rivers, hills, inhabitants and states,—only of incidents that happened to me in these places or near them.

The first three of my fellow-travellers were brothers, their names being: Gustavus, Adolphus and Friederickus von Stande Roseng. They were born and raised on the island of Rugen, Germany. All three were of varying dispositions. Gustav was the best educated, he had studied and learned something. He was progressive and left the Prussian army with honors, coming then to America. Frederick we had taken along free, he was to yoke up and drive’ the oxen for his part of the expense. But it turned out almost opposite to what we had intended. He was a large man, with a reddish, freckled face and stuttered badly. Adolph, the oldest had, according to what he told us, been an overseer or manager of a Rugen estate. He was a small, stocky, fat man, hard of hearing. From sunrise to Sunset these brothers were constantly quarrelling together. When they awakened in the night, they resumed their dispute, it was a constant giye-and-take. They did not spare others from their secrets and called each other names. Henry Merrman, the fourth of my companions, was a good, well-educated person, according to American standards. He was a large man, six feet in height and had emigrated to America with his parents when a boy. He had one fault,—that of always boasting that the Germans were the greatest people and could whip any nation on earth, that they knew more and could do more. It seemed he was ambitious to become a general in the army.

We arrived in Madison during a storm of rain and hail and stayed there some time, refreshing ourselves with both food and liquor. On that same day we drove only a few miles. Madison lies on the east side of a small hill, partly along the shores of some beautiful lakes. There are seven of them, about seven miles in length. Between Milwaukee and Mineral Point, Wisconsin, a town beyond Madison, this very hilly western stretch of land is entirely covered by an unbroken virgin forest, as much as a hundred and forty miles in area, that is in width. How far it reached from north to south I cannot say but have heard it said that for many hundreds of miles.

While on the road from Madison to Mineral Point I had proof that loaded guns cannot be handled too carefully. We had an accident, the consequences of which might have been the death of one of us, or at least a great bodily injury. We saw a large flock of prairie chickens on the left side of the road. Gustav ran for his gun and while he was hastily pulling it out of the wagon, it accidently discharged and the load entered the goods in the vehicle. The bullet went through my blanket (the one you kindly presented me with, the brewer’s green shawl, it has done me good service ever since and I have it yet, I could write a history about it); and made three large holes in the middle. It then sped on through my shirts and trousers into a keg of meat and lodged in a ham. Three of us were walking behind the wagon and we did not notice that a cotton blanket had caught fire, until it was ablaze. Fire! Fire! We will have to get the keg of powder, or this will be the end of our journey. I jumped into the wagon and quickly threw out all the burning clothes, the other boys put the fire out and the powder was saved. We agreed among ourselves that henceforth no one be allowed to place a loaded gun in the wagon but each must carry his weapon on his shoulders.

Mineral Point has 8,000 inhabitants. It is a large, noisy place. Within a circumference of many miles are rich lead mines, a ton of lead (2,000 pounds) is worth, that is the lead ore, from 25 to 35 dollars, depending on the richness of the mineral.

On April 25th, we beheld for the first time the broadest river in eastern America, the Mississippi. A steamboat ferried us across to the other side, into the city of Dubuque, state of Iowa. The Mississippi river is about half an hour’s walking wide. (Note of transcriber: In Francl’s native land the distance between towns and villages is smaller than in the United States, for the country is much more thickly populated. Before the days of railroads, people there customarily walked and some do yet. Thus they measure the distance not by miles but by the time it takes to go from one place to another. This mode, however, is passing in these more modern times.) The water is clear and of a grass color. The large steamboats on the river make a beautiful picture for stranger’s eyes. At this place the river flows between high banks and hills and there is no bottom-land or valley. The houses are scattered over the hills down to the river banks. Dubuque has a population of 16,000 people. I am of the opinion that it is a lively place for business and a good location for a merchant.

We stayed in Dubuque two days and began to suspect our landlord of using double chalk when marking down our accounts. The first day after supper we asked Mr. Benedict (that was his name) how much we owed him. He brought half a sheet of long paper on which he had written items for things we had never seen. His bill amounted to $25.00 while we had figured it at about $6.00. We began to argue with him in a more unceremonious way. Then he left us and went away, returning later with a different bill for $4.78 and said, in English: “I made a mistake in figuring it out. I figured 200 gallons of beer instead of 2 gallons. Just as I was writing down the 2, the ink dropped from my pen and blotted. I was in a hurry, my mind was preoccupied with other work, so I must have rubbed my sleeve over the blot and unluckily added two ciphers to the 2.” “Look here, Mr. Benedict, how about that turkey and the oysters, how did these get into the bill?” “That’s so, that’s so” (and he emitted an oath), “I must have been properly drunk when I entered those charges on my book.” We saw that he was greatly disturbed because we were leaving with a poor opinion of him. He brought 2 bottles of wine, which we drank with much relish. On the following day he was very polite and respectful to us, apologized profusely and begged that we forgive him. We made no mention of this to anyone and pledged each other not to do so and try to forget it. In parting he gave us a number of treats in the way of oyster suppers.

On the 29th, in the afternoon, we set out and travelled five miles further. On April 30th we worked the whole day repairing our wagon. It was coupled too long, but we made it so short that when we were on our way again, I, being a few steps ahead, heard someone “Ho! Ho! Hola! Hola!” I have already mentioned that Frieda stuttered. Well, what is the matter now? We all stood around the wagon, looking at our day’s labor. We had shortened the wagon so much that when it was necessary to make a short turn, the front and hind wheels met and locked together and could not revolve. We labored another whole day and finally left the wagon with the nearest wheelwright for repairs.

Before arriving in Iowa City, one morning it rained. We did not feel like leaving our camp and getting out on the road, so someone suggested that we employ ourselves with moulding leaden bullets, for we would need a large supply of assorted sizes and it was a good time to make them. We moulded different kinds of bullets and used up fifteen pounds of lead. You may believe we did some experimenting with our guns and in that way wasted a pound. or two of ammunition.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, in the heat of the day, we arrived in Iowa City. Unfortunately some of my companions started out ahead, they wanted to get a view of the city before we arrived. When we caught up with them, they imparted the grand news that there was a German brewery there and in their opinion we could buy lager beer therein. “Frieda, turn the wagon around this house here, tie the oxen to a tree, then follow us. Before you go, feed the oxen with Turkish wheat (corn) and give them water.”

Upon entering the room we beheld an old gentleman sitting down and reading a newspaper. He was of small body, stoop-shouldered, very hard of hearing and had a pair of spectacles on his nose. After a while he became sensible of a noise, looked up and saw us. He removed his spectacles and begged us to excuse him, for his hearing was bad, so he had not heard us come in. He was talking in a loud voice, in English, German and God knows what else, all jumbled together, so none of us understood him. “Here, my gentlemen, you can drink the best and I believe the last beer on your way to California.” “What’s that he says?” asks Adolph. “The last beer we can get in the last town to California? Oh ho, my friends, we will have to drink a little more on this account and take a last farewell, for this will be the last beer we will see.”

I proposed that we should leave and find a place where we could stay over night. It was four o’clock in the afternoon when we left the brewery and started for the river. When we came there, we found another obstacle, a ferry. It would cost us 25 cents per pair of oxen to cross. To save this expense, that we might have money to buy more beer, we plunged into the river and with much trouble got across at about six o’clock in the evening. Farther on we found a good camping place for the night, on a small elevation of ground. After supper, in the twilight; we again set out for the brewery, to visit the old gentleman. His guests were assembled, as was their daily habit, with beer for a stimulant. They indulged in a great deal of talk and argument over European politics. The Russian-Turkish war, at the time raging, gave plenty of subject-matter to talk about for those interested, At one of the tables sat two gentlemen who, according to my observation, were of different nationality than German. I turned to my partner Merrman and said: “What will you bet that those two men are not Germans?” “I will give two gallons of beer that they are Germans,” he answered. I was so disrespectful that I took the liberty to ask one of the two mentioned. He hesitated a moment before he answered, noted my voice, eyed me carefully and then exclaimed in good Bohemian: “Holy Mary and all the saints, how did it happen Joseph Francl that you are here?” I stood astonished and gazed on him. Who can this man be? I asked myself. I could not bring to mind that I had ever met him before. His name is Mudroch, he is from Malín and stayed some time in Kutná Hora with the artist Richter. The other man was a German-Bohemian, Dr. Adolph. “Here is an excellent doctor. He can pull teeth without pain, let him pull one for you,” the brewer told our Frieda, who was suffering with toothache. “It is not necessary to pull it out,” said the doctor after examination. “I have some excellent tooth-drops that drive the pain away immediately. And then, mister, I have a good salve for lips, to protect cracking. You do not know the kind of winds that blow in the west. No traveller can do without these wonderful remedies. I advise you to buy some of this lip salve.” “Ye-ye-ye-yes, mis-mis-mister is right, I have heard what he said,” stuttered Frieda. The result was that the dear doctor sold us $2.00 worth of medicine and we were that much poorer. At about ten o’clock in the evening we parted with the guests in the saloon and, half-naked, waded across the river, thus ending a pleasant day.(To be continued.)