\'Three Score Years and Ten\'

C >> Charlotte Ouisconsin Van Cleve >> \'Three Score Years and Ten\'

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During that summer Lieutenant Montgomery was stationed at Newport,
Ky., on the recruiting service, where my husband, my mother and I
occasionally visited them, and we were astonished to notice with what
perfect kindness, even affection, they always spoke of her parents and
friends; but when we found her once reading God's Word and staying
herself on His precious promises, we no longer wondered that there was
in her heart no feeling of bitterness, for she, too, had learned the
lessons He taught, who, "when He was reviled, reviled not again, but
committed himself to Him who judgeth righteously." A very few of her
friends still visited her, but nearly all felt it would not be politic
to be found in sympathy with one on whom the wealthy and influential
Griffin Taylor frowned with displeasure. She always believed her
father would relent, and sometimes, when she saw him approaching her
on the street, her heart would give a great bound with the hope that
now he would surely speak to her; but as soon as the proud man saw
her, he invariably crossed the street to avoid the meeting, and then
she felt sore and wounded, indeed. So the summer passed away, and in
the fall came orders for the Lieutenant to join his regiment, then
engaged in the terrible war with the Seminoles in Florida. All
wondered if Lizzie's love for her husband would stand this severe
test, and many were astonished when they heard it was her intention to
accompany him to the land of the Everglades, where so many had lost
their lives, and where the prevailing fever or the deadly tomahawk
might leave her alone among strangers. A few days before they left we
visited them in the old Newport barracks, and I said to her: "Lizzie;
remember you are a soldier's wife, and must not give way to fear."
Never can I forget the look of tenderness with which her husband
regarded her as he replied for her: "Dear Lizzie has no fear; she is
more of a soldier than I am. Had it not been for her brave bearing and
her sweet words of encouragement, I know not but I might have turned
coward at the thought of exposing the dear girl to the dangers and
privations of such a campaign; but the knowledge that I possess such a
treasure will nerve my arm and give me courage to fight manfully to
preserve her from danger, and to end this dreadful war with the
relentless savages." After repeated but vain efforts to see her
father, she bade farewell to her friends, and those to whom she had
clung during her days of trial and suspense accompanied her to the
steamer which was to carry her from her home. The day was a cheerless
one; the sun veiled his face behind dark, ominous clouds, and the wind
sighed mournfully, as if moaning out a requiem. We felt oppressed with
foreboding; we knew she was going into the midst of real danger; her
father had refused to see her; her mother had parted with her in
anger; nearly all her old friends had frowned upon her, and now nature
seemed to give signs of displeasure, though we who loved her felt that
the heavens were weeping in full sympathy with the dear girl. The
young husband and wife strove to be cheerful, she smiled sweetly
through her tears, as she spoke of returning in the spring, expressing
the hope that by that time her parents would have forgiven them and
would welcome them into the beloved family circle.

We stand on the wharf as the boat pushes off, waving our last
"good-byes" and breathing prayers for their safety and welfare, while
she leans on the arm of him for whom she has forsaken all but God; the
great wheels revolve, the boat moves on her way, and that girlish
form, on whom our eyes are fixed, grows fainter and fainter, till it
fades out of sight. We heard from them immediately on their arrival at
Fort Adams, and the Lieutenant wrote that Lizzie was well and would be
perfectly happy but for the thought of her parents' displeasure. Her
young sister, Carrie, a sweet girl of thirteen, had shed many tears
for her, and had used all her eloquence to bring about a
reconciliation, apparently in vain, but finally she had so far
prevailed with her mother as to extort a promise from her that she
would write to her, which fact she straightway communicated to Lizzie,
who was, at the opening of our story, looking anxiously for this
promised letter, which might contain words of love, perhaps
forgiveness. But she had looked so long and had been so often
disappointed, that suspense, that worst of all trials to a wounded
spirit, had affected her health and made her pale and sad. It was on
this account her husband had prevailed on her to accept an invitation
from an old friend of hers and make a little excursion to Fort Holmes.

The real object of the trip was the bearing of important messages to
Fort Holmes, and a full escort had been detailed as a matter of
prudence, although the Indians had been very quiet for some time and
no danger was apprehended. Lieutenant Sherwood, as commander of the
expedition, deemed it an honor to take especial charge of the young
wife, who by her gentle loveliness had endeared herself to all. But
after they were out of sight Montgomery became very restless, and,
remaining only a short time on the sofa where we left him, when we
commenced this long digression, he arose and paced the floor in deep
and anxious thought, and at length, as if to throw off the terrible
weight that oppressed him, went to the door where he had parted from
his darling, and oh! horror! there stands her horse, panting and
riderless, quivering in every limb with fright. Without an instant's
delay he sprang on to the animal and rode, he scarcely knew where, not
knowing nor daring to surmise what terrible thing had befallen his
precious wife. What words can depict the scene that broke upon his
bewildered gaze when the horse instinctively stopped about three miles
from the fort? There on the ground lay several soldiers, murdered,
scalped and stripped of their clothing. A little farther on lay poor
Sherwood, butchered by the brutal savages, and near him the lifeless
body of her whom he had died to protect. Close by her side lay a
soldier mortally wounded, who had just strength enough left to say: "I
fought--for her--till the last,--Lieutenant,--and have saved her--from
the horrid scalping-knife." Poor, distracted Montgomery threw himself
on the ground beside her, calling despairingly upon her, imploring her
to speak one more word to him, but all in vain; and when the troops
from the fort, who had taken the alarm, arrived at the dreadful spot,
he lay like one dead, with his arm around the lifeless form of his
precious Lizzie. And thus they carried them home in the conveyance
sent for the purpose--the poor husband to awake to a bitter sense of
his terrible bereavement, and she who had so lately been a lovely
bride, to be dressed for her burial. Imagine, if you can, the feelings
of her parents when the heartrending news reached them. Her father's
pride was crushed, her mother's heart was broken, and those who knew
her well say, although she lived many years, that she never smiled
again. Her father wrote immediately to Lieutenant Montgomery,
imploring him to come to him and be to him as an own son, feeling this
to be the only reparation he could make to him and his poor, murdered
child. This offer was, of course, rejected, for how could the
heartbroken husband consent to live in the home from which his dear
wife had been turned in anger away.

Her parents felt that they deserved this, but wrote again begging the
body of their daughter, that it might repose among her own kindred and
not among a savage people. To this he consented, although he could not
be prevailed on to come himself to Cincinnati, and accordingly, early
in the spring, the remains of the once lovely and idolized Lizzie
Taylor were brought to her father's house.

Her false-hearted summer friends could now weep for her as the
daughter of the rich Griffin Taylor, while they would scarcely have
regretted her as simply the wife of a poor soldier. Alas! for the
hollow friendship of the world! Had one-half the sympathy been
bestowed upon the poor child when she was turned from her father's
door, an outcast, as was lavished on her poor, unconscious body when
lying in that father's house a corpse, how much she would have been
cheered and comforted under her sore trial. Everything possible was
done to make it a splendid funeral--a rosewood coffin and velvet pall,
crape streamers and funereal plumes, an elegant hearse, and an almost
unending line of carriages--pitiable, senseless pride, that would cast
away as worthless the priceless jewel, and bestow tender care and
pompous honor on the perishable casket that once held it!

Nearly fifty years have passed into history since that mild spring
day, when the long procession passed through the streets of
Cincinnati, telling in its mournful march of wounded pride, blighted
hopes, broken hearts, and agony unspeakable. And yet so indelibly is
it fixed in my memory that it seems but yesterday, and I find it hard
to realize that the young, gallant officer for whom our hearts were
sore that day, is now an old man, with white hair, still in the
service of the country he has faithfully served through all these
years, holding high rank, and honored, respected and beloved by all
who know him. The father, mother, sister, and very many of the nearest
relatives and friends of the dear girl have passed away. Soon all who
personally knew of this story will be gone. A simple but appropriate
monument to the memory of the gallant Sherwood and the brave, true
soldier, who gave up his life to protect the precious body from
mutilation, was erected where they fell, and may still be standing
there, but that is all that remains to tell of this heartrending
incident of the bloody war with the Seminoles in the Everglades of
Florida.

_CHAPTER XVI._

From our pleasant home and work in Cincinnati we were called away by
the illness and death of Lieutenant C. C. Daveiss, a brother-in-law
and army associate of my husband, to whom he left the care of his
family and the settlement of his business. He had resigned his
commission in the army a few years before, and had settled on a large
plantation which he owned near La Grange, Missouri, and Daveiss
Prairie, as it was called, was our home for two years, during which
time we had some new experiences, and a fine opportunity to study a
class of people entirely different from any former associations. They
were mostly from what might be called the backwoods of Kentucky; were
ignorant, and had some very crude notions of the world at large.
Nearly all of them owned a few slaves, raised a great many hogs,
cultivated large fields of corn, and were content with a diet of corn
bread and bacon, varied, during their long summers, with vegetables,
melons and honey, all of which were very abundant. They had some cows
and sheep, and some fine horses, which enjoyed unlimited pasturage on
the succulent grasses of the prairies. They made their own clothing
from the wool, spun and woven at home, and were in a measure
independent of the world. They were religiously inclined, and had
preaching every Sabbath, at some accessible point, the Baptist,
Methodist, Presbyterian, and Campbellite preachers alternating, the
first named denomination being the most numerous. Among them was a
stalwart, _powerful_ preacher, who was also the owner of a fine farm
and a pretty strong force of negroes. He was held in high esteem for
his great natural gifts, and we can never forget the meed of praise
accorded him by his gentle, adoring wife, when, in speaking of this
mighty man, she said, with exultation: "Mr. L. is so gifted that he
never has to study his sermons. They come naturally to him. He hardly
ever looks at a book from Sunday till Saturday, not even the Bible!"
and we believed her.

The houses were built mostly of logs, and the architecture was of the
most primitive style. The living room was furnished with one or more
beds, a table, and strong home-made hickory chairs with painfully
straight backs; and it was customary in occupying one of them to lean
it back against the wall or bed, at a convenient angle, putting the
feet on the rounds; and this fashion made it the proper thing to
salute a visitor thus: "How-d'y? Walk right in; take a cheer, and lean
back." One of our neighbors, in giving her ideas of a newcomer, said:
"She's smart enough 's fur as I know, but I don't reckon she knows
much about manners, for when I _sot_ down on a cheer she never asked
me to lean back."

Soon after we were settled at Daveiss Prairie, a neighbor, hearing we
had taught school elsewhere, called to see me, and opened up the
subject of education with, "I'd kind o' like to have our Reu_ben_ larn
figgers; he takes to larnin the prettiest you ever see. But, law
sakes, he ain't nothin to our Pop. Why, Pop can read ritin"! I learned
subsequently that "our Pop", a pretty girl of eighteen or twenty, was
the wonder of the country on account of this rare accomplishment, and
seeing her frequently on horseback, with her "_ridin-skeert_" tucked
about her, as if for a journey, I inquired one day if she had any
special calling, and learned that she rode from farm to farm, as her
services were needed, to read the letters received by the different
families; "and", my informant added, "she makes a heap of money, too;
I tell you Pop's smart."

Another ambitious mother called to learn if I would teach her "Sam
_the tables_, so'st he can measure up potatoes and garden truck
handy," adding, "it ain't no use for girls to bother much with
figgers, but I see Miss Daveiss draw in a piece" (into the loom)
"without countin' every thread, so you may just let Kitty larn enough
to do that-a way." Spending an afternoon with this mother, a good,
sensible woman and very kind neighbor, I found her preparing the
wedding trousseau of one of her girls, who was to be married the next
week. She was a good girl, a general favorite, and all were much
interested in the coming event. In the course of my visit one of the
daughters called out, "Lucy, where's the fine needle? you had it
last;" and the reply came, promptly, "I reckon it's in that crack over
yon, whar I stuck it when I done clar'd off the bed last night;" and
there it was, sure enough, and by the aid of that little solitary
implement some delicate ruffling was hemmed, and the bride looked very
pretty and bright a few days later, when she stood beside her chosen
husband in her humble home and promised to be to him a good, true
wife; and when, after a bountiful wedding feast, the happy pair
mounted their horses, and, amidst the good wishes and congratulations
of friends, rode away to the new log house in the wilderness, where
they were to make a home. I could not but admire these simple souls,
who knew nothing of the strife and turmoil and excitement of the outer
world, and required so little to make them happy.

Besides this class of people of whom I have been telling, there were
several families in our neighborhood who were well educated and
refined, and we formed lasting friendships among them. It may be that,
if Missouri had been a free State, we might have made our home there,
but slavery, even as exhibited here in its mildest form, was an
insuperable objection, and when my husband, having faithfully
discharged his trust, felt that his sister's affairs were in such a
state that she no longer required his aid, we bade farewell to our
beloved relatives, to our dear friend Richard Garnett and others, and
returned to Michigan, which had been our first home after leaving the
army. Here we remained for many years, much of the time in Ann Arbor,
where we were engaged in teaching, and where we formed many warm
friendships, and became much attached to the beautiful city, which has
taken so high a rank as an educational center. Our school was large,
and comprised a male and female department, in the former of which a
number of young men were prepared for the university. Among them was
James Watson, who became so famous as an astronomer, and who from the
first astonished all by his wonderful facility in all branches of
mathematics. We meet now and then some of our old pupils, middle-aged
men and women, and are proud to see them filling their places in the
world as good wives and mothers or useful, earnest men. We watched the
growth of the University of Michigan from its infancy, and rejoiced
when Chancellor Tappan took it in hand and gave it an impetus which
changed its status from an academy to a vigorous go-ahead college,
with wonderful possibilities. He was a grand man. It was a pleasure
and an honor to know him, and Michigan owes much to his wise and
skillful management, which brought her university up to the high
position it occupies to-day.

We loved Michigan, and would fain have lived there always, but several
of our family became much enfeebled by the malarial influences so
prevalent at that time in the beautiful peninsula, and we felt that a
complete change of climate was imperatively necessary. So, bidding a
reluctant good-bye to home and friends, we turned our faces towards
Minnesota, in the hope that that far-famed atmosphere would drive away
all tendency to intermittent fevers and invigorate our shattered
constitutions.

[Illustration]

_CHAPTER XVII._

In the autumn of 1856 our family removed to Long Prairie, Todd county,
Minnesota, as the nucleus of a colony which was to settle and develop
a large tract of land, purchased from government by a company, some
members of which were our friends and relatives.

The weather was very pleasant when we left our Michigan home, but at
the Mississippi river the _squaw winter_, immediately preceding
_Indian summer_, came upon us with unusual sharpness, and lasted
through the remainder of our journey. We were to cross the river at a
little hamlet called "Swan River," and our plan was to hire
conveyances there which should take us the remaining distance. But on
arriving at this point we found a young friend who had come West for
his health, and was acting as agent for my brother, one of the owners
of the purchase. He was on a business errand and not well prepared to
take us back with him, but as we learned that it would be impossible
to procure transportation for two or three days, and were extremely
anxious to reach the end of our journey, he decided to make the
attempt. We made the transit in small skiffs amidst huge cakes of
floating ice, which threatened to swamp us before we reached the
western shore, and our fears well nigh got the better of some of us,
but taking a lesson from the implicit confidence our dear children
reposed in us, we rested in our Heavenly Father's love and care, and
so passed safely and trustingly over. At 4 P. M., we struck out into
the wilderness, but, the roads being rough and our load heavy, we made
very slow progress. By 9 o'clock we had not reached the half-way mark,
but by way of encouragement to the horses, and in consideration of the
tired, hungry children, we came to a halt and improvised a nocturnal
picnic. It was cold, very cold, there was no shelter, no light but the
camp-fire, and yet there was an attempt at cheerfulness, and the
entertainment passed off with some degree of merriment.

After an hour's rest we resumed our journey, and, although our
conveyance was an open wagon, so crowded as to be very uncomfortable,
especially for the children, yet we did the best we could, and the
little emigrants bore the journey bravely for some hours longer. But
when within six miles of our destination, just beside a deserted
Indian encampment, our horses fairly gave out and would not pull
another inch. So a large camp-fire was made; a sort of shelter
constructed of branches of trees; a Buffalo robe laid on the ground,
and the weary travelers found a temporary resting place, while our
young friend, above alluded to, started with the used-up team to bring
us help, if he could reach the prairie. I had chosen to pass the hours
of waiting in the wagon, feeling that I could better protect my dear
little baby in this way. So when all the tired ones were still, and
the silence only broken by the crackling of the burning fagots, the
occasional falling of a dry twig or branch from the bare, ghostly
looking trees about us, the hooting of an owl, the dismal howlings of
the wolves in the forest, I sat there looking at the weary forms so
illy protected from the cold, thinking of the little white beds in
which my dear ones were wont to slumber peacefully and comfortably,
the friends whom we had left, who might even now be dreaming of us, of
some of the farewell tea drinkings by cheerful firesides in dear old
Ann Arbor, where tender words had been spoken, and our prospects in a
far western home been discussed over delicate, tempting viands,
prepared by loving hands; and these thoughts kept my _heart_ warmed
and comforted, albeit I shivered with external cold; but hugging my
baby closer, and committing all to the care of Him who never slumbers
nor sleeps, I was just sinking into unconsciousness when a voice, not
heard for a year and a half, broke the deep stillness with: "How!
Nitchie!" and there by the flickering light of the fire, I saw our
eldest son, who had left us, for a trip with his uncle to the Rocky
Mountains a mere boy, and now stood before us in size a man. As his
father rose to his feet, he exclaimed in an agony of joy: "Oh! father,
is it you?" and he fell upon his father's neck and wept, and his
father wept upon his neck. Then, as in a dream, I heard, "Where's
mother?" in an instant he stood beside me, and I was sobbing in the
arms of my first-born, my well-beloved son.

Our messenger had told him that the horses had given out just beside
an Indian encampment, and that, unless all haste was made, the load
might be carried off. So the boy, without a moment's delay, took his
horses and came at full speed to save the goods. Hence his first
salutation, greeting, as he supposed, a party of Chippewas.

The little camp was all alive with surprise and joyful excitement, and
with a hearty appreciation of this very good practical joke, we were
soon in motion again, wending our way, with lightened hearts, to our
journey's end, which we reached without further let or hindrance.
After a brief, but much needed rest, we opened our eyes on a calm fair
Sabbath morning, and our new home, in the soft hazy light of an Indian
summer sunrise was very lovely. It required no very vivid imagination
to fancy ourselves in the happy valley of "Rasselas, Prince of
Abyssinia," and it seemed to me impossible that any one could ever
desire, like that discontented youth, to leave so charming a spot. The
term prairie is a misnomer in this case; instead we found a beautiful
fruitful valley lying between two low ranges of hills, interspersed
with groves of trees and picturesque lakes, and watered by a river
winding gracefully through its whole length. It had been the seat of
the Winnebago Agency, and there were, still standing, in pretty good
order, a large number of houses. These buildings, empty though they
were, gave the idea of a settlement, dispelling every thing like a
feeling of loneliness or isolation. On our way to our new home, we
had purchased, at Dubuque, ample supplies for a year, but, (the
steamboats at that season being much crowded), were obliged to leave
them with our household goods to follow, as we were assured in the
next boat. Resting in this assurance and being supplied for the
present, we had no anxiety for the future; we knew not what was before
us. God tenderly "shaded our eyes," and we were very happy and full of
hope. Prairie hens and pheasants were abundant beyond belief. Our
boys, standing in the kitchen door, could frequently shoot as many as
we needed from the trees in the dooryard, while the numerous lakes in
the vicinity afforded us most excellent fish, such as an epicure might
have envied us. Some of our family, enfeebled by malarial fevers, and
the ills resulting from them, imbibed fresh draughts of health and
life with every breath, the weak lungs and tender irritable throats
healed rapidly in the kindly strengthening atmosphere, and hearts that
had been sore at parting with dear friends and a beloved home, were
filled with gratitude to Him who had led us to so fair and lovely a
resting place, and we mark that time with a white stone in memory of
His loving kindness in thus preparing us for what was to come.

Early in December, winter came upon us in earnest; snow fell to such a
depth that we were fairly shut out from the whole world, and so
suddenly as to find us unprepared. It was difficult and almost
impossible, on account of the deep snow, to procure wood sufficient
to keep up the constant fires necessary on account of the intense
cold. We had no mail, no telegraph, no news from our supplies. Yet we
hoped and made the best of our situation. Our children, who had read
"Robinson Crusoe" and "Swiss Family Robinson," thoroughly enjoyed this
entirely new experience, and, every day explored the various empty
houses, returning from their expeditions with different household
articles left by the former occupants as worthless, but which served
us a purpose in furnishing our table and kitchen. But day by day our
temporary supplies lessened, and with all the faith we could call to
our aid, we could not but feel somewhat anxious. A crop of wheat
raised on the place the preceding summer had been stored, unthreshed,
in some of the empty buildings, and this, at last, came to be our only
dependence. The mill on the property had, of course, been frozen up,
and only after hours of hard work, could my husband and boys so far
clear it of ice, as to succeed in making flour, and such flour! I have
always regretted that we did not preserve a specimen for exhibition
and chemical analysis, for verily the like was never seen before, and
I defy any one of our great Minneapolis mills to produce an imitation
of it. The wheat was very smutty, and having no machinery to remedy
this evil, all efforts to cleanse it proved unsatisfactory, but the
compound prepared from it which we called _bread_, was so rarely
obtainable, as to be looked upon as a luxury. Our daily "staff of
life" was unground wheat.

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