Fraternal Herald/Volume 31/Number 4/The Story of Jos. Francl

THE STORY OF JOS. FRANCL.

Translated by Fred Francl.
II.

The grass is sprouting out of the ground and the prairies are covered with a mantle of green. We have stopped buying and hauling feed for our animals, thereby saving considerable expense. We halted near the small town of Marengo, on the banks of the Iowa river, fourteen miles from Iowa City, spending the night there. On the morning of June 3rd we started out and travelled the «whole day, made camp for the night and travelled the next day. We realized that we were wandering. The road we are on looks dim, no one has been over it for a year. There are no human tracks, but there are signs that wolves and larger animals have passed here. An overpowering stillness oppresses us. Occasionally we hear the drumming of pheasants and wild turkeys, the frightful rattling of a woodpecker pecking into a dry and hollow tree. It is lightning in the west and drops of water rare falling from the heavens. We cannot find a spot of dry ground, dry enough to sleep on. I do not know where we are, or what to do, we are lost. For two days we have not had sight of a house or human being, for we were in a thick forest. We agreed that on the third day we would proceed on our way and hoped to meet or find someone. Surely this road will lead us to something. About four o’clock of the third day, in the afternoon, we saw a house on a small knoll and on the south of it a beautiful marsh or lowland and some felled trees. The farm belonged to a newly-arrived immigrant, a Pomeranian from Prussia, judging by his language. He said he bought the land before seeing it, on promises and words. In order to keep others from getting it, he paid some money down to bind the bargain and was to pay, the balance from the income from the farm. He began to tell of his life from the beginning to the time of his buying the farm and concluded by saying: “I know very well that here in America foreigners have to take good care of themselves. I am well satisfied so far except that I forgot to inform myself how many miles my farm is located from Marengo. On the county map it appears to be exceedingly close. My countryman told me I could not place confidence in anything regarding my purchase. I guess it to be fifty miles from here to Marengo. The road over which you came leads only to my farm and that of my neighbor. He lives seven miles to the north of me. How far is it to Skunk River? I do not know for certain, but from what I have heard, it is 88 miles. I do not know the way there, only the road from Marengo. I will tell you what to do. One of you go to my neighbor. He has lived here two years and is more likely to know the road you are looking for.”

What else could we do but that Henry and I, early the next morning, went to see the neighbor. When we came there, he began to inform us and described how we might find the road to the small town of Newton near the Lion river. We returned and at one o’clock in the afternoon were back at the first farm. The good farmer cooked a supper for us and permitted us to sleep on the floor on straw. On the 10th and 11th he accompanied us a long way on the road and told us to bear in mind carefully the marks made by axes on the trees, or we might be lost. These marked trees were made by those who had blazed the way. What a road! It wormed round here and there. Only once since the creation of the world had a wagon passed over it and we have the honor to ride over it a second time. For ninety miles we kept careful watch of every tree, so we would not lose sight of the marks. We overturned ten times, always without damage. Many times we could not turn out of the way on account of fallen trees, we went over them and everything else in the way. On the fifth day in the afternoon we came to the small town of Newton and had five miles more to go before we reached the banks of the Long river, where we rested for two days and made up for all the trials we had undergone on that wretched road.

Everything is verdant, grass a-plenty, wild fowl as turkey, quail, ducks, geese and snipes are everywhere around us. On the following day early in the morning we took a notion to try to run down a wild turkey. I stayed in camp and went fishing with fish-hooks. In half an hour I caught 60 pounds of pike, the largest weighed ten pounds. At about nine o’clock in the morning Mr. Merrman brought a large wild turkey, much larger than a domestic turkey. Wild turkeys are of a dark rusty color, all those that I saw, and they can run fast, a good, fast Indian horse has all he can do to outrun them. Their legs are longer than those of domestic turkeys, otherwise they look the same. We are going to stay here on the Leon River some times. (Note of transcriber: Francl’s original notes are rather hard to decipher at times; it will be noted that Lion, Leon and Long rivers are probably meant for the one and same river, the name of which has probably been changed.) I thought it would be a good time to prepare a list of provisions and necessities and how much of each we ought to have to last us to California, thus: 250 pounds dried biscuits (hardtack), 150 pounds smoked ham, 50 pounds butter, 50 pounds sugar, 30 pounds coffee, 20 pounds beans, 10 pounds peas, different kinds of spices, 5 gallons vinegar, an axe, chain, rope, auger, 26 pounds powder, a sack of shot, 40 pounds lead. That is all and in truth a very small quantity indeed.

“Boys, what shall be have for dinner, fish or turkey?”—“All of it shall be baked and boiled,” they all exclaimed with one voice. “Very well,” I answered. “But how are we going to roast the turkey, we have no iron pan large enough for it?’ We chopped it in two pieces with and axe and I proposed that I would make a good stuffing for it. Merrman and Gustav took Tiero, my fairly good setter, and went to look for ducks and quail eggs. In a little while they brought a half hatful of prairie chicken eggs, about three dozen. Now I went to work quickly and made the stuffing and set the turkey to roasting. “Frieda, see if the turkey is roasting. Take a fork and try if the stuffing is baked throug} Frieda obeyed. Suddenly he began to shout with all his strength: “Francl, Francl, hurry, come here. The turkey has bursted.” He stuck the fork into the turkey’s crop (which I had stuffed), and the stuffing being very thin, ran out with the butter over the pan and into the fire. The whole thing was ablaze and no wonder Frieda did not know what to do with it.

“Dinner is ready!” We all fell to and the turkey was good except the stuffing (or dressing), which we could not eat at all. Once more this same day we caught fish, by the firelight, in the rapids. That is, they caught themselves. We made a trap of willow twigs and fastened it in the rapids. These narrowed down to small runs and shallow water below and ended in a willow trap where the fish were held fast. Early the next morning we looked to see if any fish were caught. Behold, many hundreds pounds! We picked out the best ones, such as pike, catfish, perch, sugar fish and other kinds. Some we salted down and smoked the rest. We did not want to delay ourselves too long so we smoked them hurriedly, they were not thoroughly dry and hard, so they spoiled and we had to throw them away, all except the salted ones.

Do not doubt the truth of our catching so many fish. I saw with my own eyes, in Rock river, twelve miles below Watertown, Wisconsin, at a sawmill, so many fish of different kinds that one lay next to the other so close, that they were crowded together. And that not in a small space either, but so far as you could walk in half an hour. The early inhabitants there said that eight or ten years previous, when any one drove rapidly across the river, the fish would fall away from the wagon wheels like chips. I willingly believe this.

The country begins to be sparsely settled now. We have been on a public road all day. It is evening now, we have not seen a house yet. We are nearing the town of Fort Des Moines (Des Moines). On account of a fierce storm, we had to stop about five miles from Des Moines and protect ourselves against the rain and wind. It is beginning to rain, the wind is breaking the limbs and blowing down trees. The tent has pulled out the stakes and blown down. Five knights of the road will have to set out in the rain as on a previous occasion. Fortunately two hundred steps away is a small, new and well-constructed bridge across a small stream. We stood under it for a number of hours, wrapped in-our blankets, leaning against the piles. It might have been about eleven o’clock at night when we were able to put up our tent and build a fire. In the morning we were getting ready to leave and Frieda came with the startling news that he could not find the oxen. What else could we do but all go out and hunt for them? Each took a different direction and all agreed that whoever finds the animals must fire his gun three times. It was noon when Gustav came with the oxen, which had wandered eight miles down the road.

We arrived at Fort Des Moines and the river of the same name. We went to a tavern there and revived our spirits and bodies. In about eight days we will be at the Missouri river, fin Council Bluffs. The country between Des Moines and Council Bluffs is cut up and rough. The farms are twenty and thirty miles apart. There are no directions to serve as guides, seldom a small sign and inquiries cannot be made. On June 23rd we had a hungry day. We are lost on the high prairies and started to make fifty miles to the next station, but got twenty miles off the road. We wanted to make it in two days and travelled all night. We could not make a fire, for there was no wood and last year’s grass was burned off. The days were hot and dry. Black clouds were seen in the east, a sure sign that it would rain. Fifteen miles to the southeast we see praries on fire. I have not the power to describe the effect a prairie fire has on the beholder when he first sees it on a dark or cloudy night. I have not the strength to express my feelings, no words are adequate to describe this picture. An endless line of fire, the huge mass of smoke, the dreadfull reflection of the flames, the deathlike stillness around one, for it seems the overwhelmed spectators have lost power of speech, or are struck dumb by fear. It produces an uncommon sensation in a human being. These fires cover many hundreds miles over pasture lands.

On the 3rd day of June we arrived three miles this side of Council Bluffs and cooked our dinner there. We camped on a small hill in a grove. After dinner the brothers began to quarrel, Frieda and Gustav had it bad. Frieda was impelled to such a violent anger that he snatched a gun and pulled the trigger. Fortunately the gun was not loaded and he did no harm. We had a hard time getting them into a reasonable frame of mind. I prayed to God that He would send us a buyer, so we could sell out and thus be delivered from this kind of companionship.

As we were coming down the hill near town, Gustav’s gun fell off the wagon. Frieda was such a lazy and spiteful fellow that he left it lie there and no one went back for it. Praise God that He has brought us seven hundred miles to this place in safety.

“How the water sparkles in the large river! . . .”

Now we find ourselves on the Missouri river, seven miles below Council Bluffs. This place is called St. Mary. Iowa state is over six hundred miles wide from Dubuque to Council Bluffs, 50,000 square miles in extent or area and inhabited by 50,000 people. I forgot to mention that we found, on the way between Newton and the Missouri river, many pairs of very large elk horns lying beside the road. Some measured 7 feet in length, the horns were 20 inches in circumference at the base, on each were seven prongs three feet apart. We thought they might weigh 30 pounds. I do not remember the day when we saw, early in the morning, a herd of elk about two miles away to one side of the road, we counted 173. An elk is as large as a milch cow, has long, slender body and keeps to the high prairies. We did not lack for anything to eat, we were always able to shoot all the small game we needed close to the road. There was a kind of snipe, in large numbers, as large as a medium-sized chicken of spotted quail color, with a beak four inches long and croocked. It is easily killed and sell for $3.00 apiece in New York. We fried several, but after a while we grew tired of them.

This is a large, deep valley. How the water sparkles in the large river! What a strange, crooked course the river makes for itself! In what beautiful verdure this level, rich valley is clothed! What fine soil is here waiting for the hand of the farmer to cultivate it! A number of immigrants are getting ready for their journey to California. They are resting, taking a breathing-spell after the arduous trip they have already made. We have raised our tent, turned our oxen out and given them liberty to graze where they wish. We shall stay here eight or ten days and try to sell our property. It is about thirty steps from the shore to where we are resting. My nearest scene for observation is the river. It is a great stream of a yellowish color. Its water, if left to settle in a glass, is one-half sediment. However, it is healthful for drinking and cool and refreshing in the hottest season. I do not know how wide the river is at this point (Maryville) but judge it to be about one mile in width. Whole trees are drifting and rolling over in the stream. They dive away out of sight and then shoot up into the air, throwing out their arms like strange monsters. Many of the trees are caught along the shores and some sink to the bottom of the river. Steamboats are often snagged by them and cut in two or otherwise wrecked.

About five hundred paces from the shore some hunters or trappers are waiting for the steamboat. These hunters have come down the river in boats about as large but deeper than those used on the river Vltava (in Bohemia) for carrying wood and eathenware and other cargo. These hunters bring boats full of buffalo and elk hides. They are usually hired by rich merchants (fur traders) for a term of two years or more, depending upon the length of the trip. Steamboats tow them up against the current as far as they can, after that the hunters pull their boats up on the shore and secure them well, then take small boats and go to their chosen places, to hunt, trap and trade with Indians. They take along with them various merchandise, such as beads, colored calico, groceries as sugar, tea, etc., and trade for hides. There are three boat-loads of hides, some tanned but the larger portion untanned, waiting for the steamboat to arrive. The hunters are anxious to unload and get started up the river on their return for more.

After I had looked these hunters and trappers over, they seemed to me to be a wild, Godless people. Their clothing speaks for them. They could not walk through the streets of any European city, nor would they be permitted to do so, without bringing a crowd around them, the members of which would ask each other what sort of comedians are these? It is difficult to judge what their clothes consist of, wool, cotton or linen, from what is left of them. Wherever your eyes rest, in front, behind or on the sides, all you can see is the owner’s natural weather-worn brown skin. The rest of his body is covered with wild-animal skins. His face has evidently not felt the touch of water for many hundreds miles. It looks to me as if its owner never tried the quality of good, fresh water on it. Probably he thought the water too muddy and would make his face dirty. The hunter’s hat is usually made in his own factory and consists of raw buffalo hide, adorned with a fox or wolf tail like a plume. Some have added small antelope or deer horns to the plumes, to make the effect more weird. When one of these people wears out his pants, it does not worry him where to get another suit. He skins a small buffalo calf, cuts the hide through, the mouth, dries it by the smoke of the fire, pulls it on and his pants are made. The hangings serve him as suspenders or straps. He is very fastidious about his shoes, cost what they may, the best are none too good for him. He must have them in the best style, at any price. With these he makes up in some measure for the neglect of the rest of his clothing. They are embroidered in designs and figures with small colored beads and really do look rich. They are fringed with very narrow lacings, which makes the shoe appear like a comet that leaves a streak behind it. They are comfortable to walk in. These Indian shoes or moccasins are made of tanned buffalo and elk skins and many an Indian woman works many a day to make them and embellish them with rich embroidery. From the ankles hang more lacings about a foot long and drag behind on the ground like a broom. To write a history of such a trapper from the day he was born would be too much of an undertaking for me. I will say only that they are the most ignorant and Godforsaken low specimens of men I have seen in America. They usualy come from North America, that is, French Canadians follow this kind: of business. They could save a good deal of money, for wild fur-bearing animals like beaver, elk, antelope, buffalo and bear are very plentiful, but they do not. When a trapper like these comes into company, he gambles away everything, even the last piece of decent clothing he has. Then he goes away again to gather more pelts, but it all comes to the same end again.

A few steps from our tent is the renowned place of St. Mary, consisting of five buildings: one store, post-office, saloon, laundry and two farm houses. The proprietor of the saloon is a German, withal an honest soul. He is a believer (credulous) and has great faith in his wife, who deep in her heart, as we could see, secretly loves another, a young, curly-headed bewhiskered sweatheart. Very respectfully and lovingly the saloonkeeper asks his wife: “Where have you been, my dear wife?” “Oh, you sheepshead, don’t you know I have to go to the store to get some spices?” Yes, she called him sheepshead. This is the true name his beloved called him. He is a big bag of simplicity and goodness and faith. That name is quite fitting, so we have christened the saloon “The Sheepshead” and it would be appropriate to call its landlord The Great Sheepshead.

“Boys, we are going to have more company. A large number of wagons, their tops covered with white cloth tents, are nearing us. Look! A rider on a horse is approaching rapidly. Aha, he is called the camp master. He rides ahead to find a good place to camp and is always a few miles ahead of the wagon train. Surely he wants to ask us something.” And truly he trotted up to us and wanted to know if there was plenty of grass for his cattle. He rode away and in about an hour we had the society of about thirty-six people, 160 oxen and 30 horses. It was a lively and noisy crowd that gathered around the fire on that pleasant evening. We looked with wonder at the strange mob that cut up antics and amused itself joyfully and happily. After supper, as they were laying aside their knives and forks, some prepared to dance. Adolphus is in the tent, fixing up his dry, cracked flute. He is trying to see if he has not forgotten what he never knew and for lack of sense wants to show off. Haloo, somebody is plying a flute in the other tent! In a moment we had the crowd besieging our tent and demanding that Adolphus, the flute player, come out and play. They would not be driven away. We were all mixed up in the mad whirl and could not help ourselves. “Adolphus, you have to play whatever you can.” After a while they pulled Adolphus out of the tent. “We must have a dance tonight. Everybody get ready! Adolphus, play a quadrille (something like a worn-out American polka).” Adolphus played and we all danced hilariously until nine o’clock that night. After that we all walked down to the Sheepshead saloon and everybody was jolly. The hunters were there and very liberal, making up for their hardships by getting drunk. Filthy stories were passed around by one and another, from their experiences. I will not repeat them here, they were too highly colored.(To be conctinued.)