Tales and Trails of Wakarusa.

by Alexander Miller Harvey.

A Forethought and a Dedication

"A Paradoxical philosopher, carrying to the uttermost length that aphorism of Montesquieu's, 'Happy the people whose annals are tiresome,' has said; 'Happy the people whose annals are vacant.' In which saying, mad as it looks, may there not still be found some grain of reason? For truly, as it has been written, 'Silence is divine,' and of Heaven; so in all earthly things, too, there is a silence which is better than any speech. Consider it well, the Event, the thing which can be spoken of and recorded; is it not in all cases some disruption, some solution of continuity? Were it even a glad Event, it involves change, involves loss (of active force); and so far, either in the past or in the present, is an irregularity, a disease. Stillest perseverance were our blessedness--not dislocation and alteration--could they be avoided.

"The oak grows silently in the forest a thousand years; only in the thousandth year, when the woodman arrives with his ax, is there heard an echoing through the solitudes; and the oak announces itself when, with far-sounding crash, it falls. How silent, too, was the planting of the acorn, scattered from the lap of some wandering wind! Nay, when our oak flowered, or put on its leaves (its glad Events), what shout of proclamation could there be? Hardly from the most observant a word of recognition. These things befell not, they were slowly done; not in an hour, but through the flight of days: what was to be said of it? This hour seemed altogether as the last was, as the next would be.

"It is thus everywhere that foolish Rumor babbles not of what was done, but of what was misdone or undone; and foolish History (ever, more or less, the written epitomized synopsis of Rumor) knows so little that were not as well unknown. Attila Invasions, Walter-the-Penniless Crusades, Sicilian Vespers, Thirty-Years' Wars: mere sin and misery; not work, but hindrance of work! For the Earth all this while was yearly green and yellow with her kind harvests; the hand of the craftsman, the mind of the thinker, rested not; and so, after all and in spite of all, we have this so glorious high-domed blossoming World; concerning which poor History may well ask with wonder, Whence it came? She knows so little of it, knows so much of what obstructed it, what would have rendered it impossible. Such, nevertheless, by necessity or foolish choice, is her rule and practice; whereby that paradox, 'Happy the people whose annals are vacant,' is not without its true side."--Carlyle.

This book of tales and trails of people whose annals are vacant, because they were peaceful and happy, is dedicated to the nineteen-year-old soldier boys of 1917 and to their comrades; and especially to that nineteen-year-old soldier, Randal Cone Harvey, whose image and whose service is with us by day and by night. May their service help bring to a war-cursed world such peace that the annals of all men will be stories of love, companionship and a.s.sociation one with another.

A. M. Harvey.

The Trail of the Sac and Fox

It was during the '40's that the Sac and Fox Indians started on their long journey to take up their home in the land provided for them in Kansas, being a portion of the present counties of Lyon, Osage, and Franklin. In the year 1846 a large number of them had camped in the Kansas River Valley near the present site of Topeka, and because of their friendship with the Shawnees they were permitted to remain there for some time before moving on. Many of them formed attachments and friendships among the Shawnees and Pottawatomies, and remained with them. After the main body of the Sac and Fox moved on to their own lands, their a.s.sociations with the Shawnees and other friendly Indians were such that there was much travel back and forth.

The trails leading south from the Kansas River Valley all fell into the "Oregon" or "California" road, and along that the Indians traveled to the trading village of Carthage, a few miles northeast of the present village of Berryton. From there, several trails set off toward the Sac and Fox lands. One of the princ.i.p.al trails wound over the hills and down through a long ravine to the Wakarusa Valley, and across that river at the ford where the great stone bridge now stands, due south of Berryton; and from there it wound around the hill through the woods and again over the plains. Afterwards a public road was laid out upon this trail, called, in the Shawnee County records, the "Sac and Fox Road," but usually spoken of as the "Ottawa State Road."

Just south of the Wakarusa crossing and a few hundred yards around the brow of the hill, there lies a parcel of level ground, which was an ideal place for camping. It is now occupied by the public road, and church and school-house grounds. This was a famous camping place for the Sac and Fox and all other Indians who used the trail. If you step up to the stone fence just east of the schoolhouse, looking over you will notice a deep ditch washed out down the creek bank, on the side of which a large oak tree stands, with many of its roots exposed. This ditch marks the path first used by the Indians as they went back and forth from the camping ground to the spring of sweet, beautiful water that flows from out the rocks at the foot of the hill.

Modern history of this portion of the valley begins with this camping place. It was not only a resting place, but a place where consultations and conferences were held, and where the eloquent ones told of the glory of Black Hawk, the wisdom of Keokuk, and the splendid history of their tribe. It was said that the older men were despondent, but that the younger men thought that there was a possibility of rebuilding their tribal fortunes in the new country, and that some day they would be as powerful and as prosperous as they had hoped to be in Iowa and upon other lands belonging to them.

But the Sac and Fox are gone; the trail knows them no more; the sweet waters still flow from the beautiful spring, and a white man who never knew them has built a house near by on the bluff by the side of the road.

The Stone Bridge

The Indian trail had given away and had gradually become merged into a public road, here and there forced back to section lines, but in the main sustaining its diagonal course across the country and being known as the Topeka and Ottawa State Road.

Jacob Welchans was not only an extraordinarily fine surveyor, whose corner-stones and monuments are now and always will be recognized in Shawnee County as the best evidence of the location of land boundaries, but he also engaged in country school-teaching, and a number of times taught in the little school-house established near the Wakarusa River and by the old Sac and Fox spring. The ford across the Wakarusa at this point was not an extra good one. The bottom was rock, but there was a steep hill on one side and a low, springy place on the other; and, excepting times when the stream was very low, the water was of considerable depth over the fording place, and it was not an uncommon sight to see a farmer's boy on an old gray mare fording children across in the morning and in the afternoon, so that they could go to and from school.

This was long before city men commenced buying up farm land, and therefore the Wakarusa Valley was quite well populated, and the little school boasted an attendance of from fifty to sixty children during the entire school year. Jacob Welchans became ambitious that there should be a bridge across the Wakarusa at that point, not only for the benefit of the school children and the neighborhood generally, but because that was the fording place for the travel that fell into the Topeka and Ottawa State Road. He called attention of the county officers to the importance of the road to the city of Topeka and to the county of Shawnee, and by sheer force of character he impressed upon them the conviction that a bridge should be erected at the place indicated, and that it should be a stone bridge builded from bed rock, and to stay.

The usual formalities were indulged in, and the contract was let to George Evans, who commenced the work in the summer of 1878, and when the school commenced in October the bridge was in course of construction. It was a great time for the neighborhood and for the school children, who spent much of their intermission periods around the work and the workmen. Some of the workmen were negroes who talked French, and they were a lot of fun. They camped at different places around near the spring, boiled their coffee in old tomato cans, slept on the ground, hunted squirrels and rabbits between working hours, and in many other ways exhibited interesting activities, to the delight of the youngsters. After one arch of the bridge was up and the false work had been taken out, it commenced to crack and fold and double, and then fell. The school children had just arrived on the scene after being dismissed at recess, and it seemed for all the world as though the arch had fallen down to give them the benefit of the crash and the excitement. No one was hurt, and the wreck was soon cleared away, so that the work could go on. The bridge was finished in due time, and for nearly forty years it has justified the faith of those who planned and constructed it. Once, after an extraordinary flood that filled the waterways almost to the top, Jim Baker said: "She is a mighty good makeshift in time of high water; no tin bridge for me." It not only served the purpose of travel, but it has become a landmark in southern Shawnee County, and it always will be a monument to the old trail and to the wisdom and foresight of Jacob Welchans and the other county officers who were responsible for its being constructed.

The Newcomers

One November day in 1877 the Newcomers unloaded from a Santa Fe train just then arrived in the city of Topeka, the exact time being about four o'clock in the afternoon. There was Mother Newcomer and five boys, the oldest being less than five years older than the youngest.

On the platform they met Father Newcomer, who, together with a country lad, was awaiting the arrival. They gathered their baggage together, and the country boy led the way across the street to where his team, hitched to a farm wagon, was tied. Each of the horses was fastened with a heavy rope about the neck, which was looped over his nose and tied fast to a post, and each of them jumped and snorted and pulled at every movement or noise made by the train, which was still upon the track.

The train pulled out, the Newcomers loaded up, the boy managed to quiet down the horses, and untied one after the other, holding the lines in his hand all the time; and after he had tied up the last rope, he jumped into the front of the wagon bed, holding fast to the lines or reins, and up the street they went. After a brief stop at Cole's grocery, and again at Manspeaker's, they started out over the diagonal road leading to the southeast from the city. At the top of the Highland Park hill they looked back and saw Topeka in the valley, and it looked like a cl.u.s.ter of brick houses, with scarcely a tree in sight; and yet it was beautiful in the glancing rays of the setting sun, and all of them felt that it was to be the center of that country which was their new home and the place of their future activity.

Before it was fully dark the farm wagon had covered the distance of some fourteen miles from the city, traveling nearly all the way in a diagonal, southeasterly direction, and had wound up at the home of William Matney, on Lynn Creek, a mile below Tevis. The ride was a wonderful experience for the little Newcomers. They soon learned that one of the horses was named Greeley and the other Banks; but it was some years before they understood that these names indicated that the owner was a Democrat who knew the names of the candidates upon his ticket some five years before, when the horses were colts. The autumn sky was beautiful, and the light frosts had given a brown tinge to the prairie, and it seemed to them that every breath of air was a draught of the elixir of life.

That evening dozens of persons from ten miles around called at the Matney home to welcome and visit with the Newcomers. They were nearly all old-timers, and they represented former inhabitants of at least seven of the States of the United States and three foreign countries.

There was a Yankee from Maine, a Digger from the hills of North Carolina, a Mudsucker from Illinois, and all kinds of Corncrackers from Kentucky, besides a fine old Englishman and a st.u.r.dy German; and they told the Newcomer boys that the school-teacher was a Scotchman who talked through his nose and said lots of funny things, and that further up the creek lived a Manxman by the name of Quayle. It seems that Kansas had gathered these people from many corners of the earth, to the end that they might be blended into a new people with a new spirit that should mark the character of a new State.

The Newcomers did not know that they were newcomers for some days, nor until they heard people calling them by that name. One day one of the boys rode with John Oliver to Carbondale; and as Oliver pulled up to the sidewalk in front of a store, someone called out, "John, where did you get that kid?" And John answered, "He belongs to a newcomer just moved on the crick. He's got a whole pa.s.sel of 'em. I seed this 'un in the road and fetched him along." John Oliver was from Tennessee, and he had his own peculiar way of expressing himself. He was a lot of fun for the Yankee neighbor.

The Newcomers were soon settled in a house of their own near the present site of the stone bridge, and every day of that glorious fall and winter was a day of enjoyment to them; and over and over, as they gathered around the big fireplace of an evening, they rejoiced together because of the glorious welcome that Kansas had given them, and of the more glorious welcome, if possible, that had been given to them by the people of Kansas--old and newcomers--from so many different lands, with so many different ideas and so many different ways and habits, yet all filled with that exaltation which came to them like a breath of freedom from the prairie, and has made them and others like them into a new race, filled with a new spirit, which we call Kansas.

An Old Timer

During the midsummer of 1854, James Lynn and William Lynn started across the prairies from Westport, Missouri, to find homes in Kansas.

With a stalwart pair of oxen yoked to a heavy wagon they proceeded slowly but surely westward, and finally, following up the Wakarusa Valley and out along one of its tributaries, they camped one night after a blistering hot August day near a spring that flowed from among a pile of stones and boulders that had been deposited at that point in great abundance by some glacier that must have covered this part of Kansas centuries ago. The flowing spring reminded them of Kentucky, and they concluded that then and there one of them had found a home. James Lynn drove his stake into the ground and said that it was his. Afterwards they traveled further up the little stream and located another claim, and William Lynn marked it and claimed it for his own. The location of these two settlements caused the little stream to be named Lynn Creek, and so it is known from the hills among which it rises on through Berryton, Tevis, and into Wakarusa near Richland.

The hardships of pioneer life were too much for James Lynn, and he died within a few years after their settlement; but William Lynn weathered the storm and lived upon the land thus picked out by him on that August day until his death, which occurred in February, 1908. At the time of his death he had lived in Kansas nearly fifty-four years, and he was then one hundred and two years old. When it was found that he was dead, one of his sons called one of the Newcomer boys, who then lived in Topeka, over the phone and said: "Pap is dead. You know he never was much as to churches, and we just thought that we would ask you to come out and say something at his funeral."

And, of course, the Newcomer boy said that he would; and on the day appointed he drove out to the old Lynn home, and among the neighbors and friends gathered around he stood by the coffin of this old-timer and looked down upon his face, which resembled a hickory nut worn and preserved with age, and in part he said:

"One October day in about the year 1837, in Madison County, Kentucky, a small boy, the oldest son of a widowed mother, had set himself to work trying to split clapboards to make a shelter for some stock that belonged to his mother. He was working hard and making slow progress, when a stalwart young man came along on his way to his own duties of the day. The young man stopped, spoke kindly to him, and commenced helping with the work. What had promised to be a day of toil became a day of pleasure, and when the sun sank low in the west on that day, the boards had been made and the shelter erected, and the boy and man were happy--the one scarcely more happy than the other. That boy was my father; and that young man, who was his friend from the beginning, was none other than the grand old man whose lifeless body lies before us today.

"With the recollection of the story of this act of simple kindness in my mind, the request was to me a command when the family communicated to me their desire that I should speak at this funeral.

"The span of this life was so great and covered so many years that you and I can hardly realize the length of it. He was old enough to remember the stirring times of the battle of New Orleans. He was a man grown when the Kentucky soldiers came marching home victorious from the war with Mexico, and when the Kentucky dead were brought home from Buena Vista's battlefield and all Kentucky stood in mourning as O'Hara read his immortal poem, commencing:

The m.u.f.fled drum's sad roll has beat the soldier's last tattoo, No more on life's parade shall meet that brave and fallen few; On Fame's eternal camping ground their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round the bivouac of the dead.

"When the civil war came on he was old enough that his sons became soldiers in the army. When I first knew him--more than thirty years ago--he was strong and rugged, but an old man.

"As you and I have now gathered to say the last word and do the last service for this old friend, I feel that we are standing on sacred ground. We realize that we are today confronted by the two great mysteries--one of life and the other of death. Life--that preserved in this man a const.i.tutional strength that kings would give millions to possess, that coursed the red blood through his veins, and that made his right arm strong as an iron shaft for more than three-quarters of a century--is indeed a mystery; but Death--that stopped the flowing blood and rested the tired limbs--is a greater mystery. And, strange to say, at a time like this, when these two mysteries seem closer and more oppressive, we are met with the brightest, best and greatest hope of the human race--the hope of immortality, of life that will endure forever, a hope that belongs to every man, of every religion, of every race, under every sun.

Death waited long and patiently for him. With m.u.f.fled oar he guarded close the nearer sh.o.r.e of the silent river. Many of his friends came down and crossed the river, and finally he came. It is easy for me to believe that on the other sh.o.r.e he saw a familiar face, and that a friendly hand and a strong arm were joined to his to help him up the other bank, as he had helped his friend on this side. And so I say that we stand today on sacred ground as we are brought to a contemplation of the solemn fact that the sun is set and the day is done for one who used to walk upright among us.

"He saw the red man give place to the white man, and he saw the buffalo herds melt away that domestic animals might take their place.

He heard the shriek of the first locomotive that trundled its way over the line of the great railway that traverses this part of the county. And he saw the first break of virgin soil when men commenced to build our splendid Capitol.

"His native State had been called 'the dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground.'

Indian tribes had struggled for the possession of its hunting grounds, and had fought and killed and waged their wars until they said the ground was dark and b.l.o.o.d.y. And, strange to say, these same hunting grounds became scenes of conflict, bloodshed and war long after the white man had taken them. In that State were honest, industrious, hospitable men and women; but human life was cheap, and everywhere men were ready at all times to fight and die for what they thought was right. It was the dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground. It was a strange fate that took this pioneer from Kentucky and gave him a home in Kansas, which was soon to become the battle ground of the first conflict between slavery and freedom, and in truth the dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground of the West.

"He lived to see the end of this quarrel. He had known Kansas when she was bleeding and torn, and then had seen her rise, beautiful, strong, and without a wound. He had experienced the horrors of war and murder, but lived to know that peace possessed the State.

"His education was limited, his life was humble, and he knew not ambition. You and I may learn a lesson from the fact that the great Giver of Life gave to this humble man all of this experience and all of this contact with human affairs, and a full round century of life in this strange old world. It is written that certain things are withheld from the wise and prudent and revealed unto babes, and who can say that this life has not fulfilled a great purpose. Here is a man who lived a long, industrious life and never knew the greed, avarice and crime that comes with the modern struggle for money.

Political strife was to him a closed book. He knew nothing of the great paintings of the great masters in art, but he had seen Nature in her beauty and grandeur, and it was more beautiful than any painting made by man. He had seen the sunrise in a thousand forms, and the Storm King had builded mountains of black and gold for him.

And the great prairies and the stalwart forests had made pictures for him. He knew what beauty was.

"The story told at the beginning of this talk is only ill.u.s.trative of his kindness of heart. No person was too poor or despised to enlist his sympathy and help in time of trouble.