THE EXODUS TO KANSAS IN 1855 Excerpted from "Collections of the Kansas State Historical Society, 1911-1912", Edited by Geo. W. Martin, Secretary. Vol XII., State Printing Office, Topeka, Kansas 1912, pages 388-391. submitted by Teresa Lindquist (merope@radix.net); (copyright) 2001 by Teresa Lindquist ----------------------------------------------------------------------- KSGENWEB INTERNET GENEALOGICAL SOCIETY COPYRIGHT NOTICE: In keeping with the KSGenWeb policy of providing free information on the Internet, this data may be used by non-commercial entities, as long as this message remains on all copied material. These electronic pages cannot be reproduced in any format for profit or other gain. Copying of the files within by non-commercial individuals and libraries is encouraged. Any other use, including publication, storage in a retrieval system, or transmission by electronic, mechanical, or other means requires the written approval of the file's author. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE EXODUS TO KANSAS IN 1855. Written for the Kansas State Historical Society by CAPT. DEWITT C. GOODRICH,(1) commissary of subsistence. National Military Home. Leavenworth. I THINK it might be said that the movement from the Eastern and Middle Western states to the territory of Kansas fairly set in in the year 1855. At that time my home was in Miami county, Indiana, on the banks of the widely known Wabash river, where nearly everybody was initiated into the disagreeable and discouraging intricacies of fever and ague, commonly known the country over as "Wabash shakes." Few escaped this miasmatic scourge. My father concluded to get away from it before his estate became an utterly insolvent one in favor of the doctor and the druggist. No doubt, the stories of fair and sunny Kansas put the bee of emigration in his bonnet; at any rate he acted. With him came a number of other families from the same county. All but two, however, after reaching Missouri, switched off into Iowa, leaving my father and a Mr. Appleton to continue into Kansas. The start was made, I think, early in April. We came all the way by wagon, camping out at night, as most emigrants of the early day did. Our wagon was arranged so we could sleep across the bed and over our effects below, and, as the weather was mild, we enjoyed the trip very much. Everything, with the exception of what was actually necessary for use on the trip, was shipped by rail and water to Westport Landing, Mo. I was quite young, not yet eleven years of age, but many incidents at that time and after are very vivid in my memory. Of the trip itself, there were no events of particular moment or worthy of narrating here. Passing through Missouri, I had my first insight into the then existing system of human slavery. I remember one evening when we were in camp, a young girl, perhaps fifteen years of age, passed us on a horse at a rapid gait, followed by a colored boy about ten years old carrying the young lady's bonnet. He was making desperate efforts to keep up, but was gradually falling behind. I wondered why the girl did not stop and take the bonnet, and so expressed myself, when I was informed that this was a common occurrence. One day we stopped at a wayside spring to water the horses. While doing this, a man rode up and dismounted from his horse. He said to father: "When you are through watering I'd like to borrow your bucket and get this boy to water my horse." When he got the bucket I was in the act of taking it from his hand to water his horse, when he said, "My son, I did not mean you; I meant this boy," pointing to an old darkey, perhaps seventy or eighty years old. I could not understand why an old man should be called a "boy." My father, who was born and reared in Virginia, told me that all slave men were called "boys," no matter how old they might be. Arriving at Westport, we went into camp and remained some days, while my father purchased several head of cows, work oxen and an additional horse, which, with the saddle horse brought along, gave him two teams. Mr. Appleton did not bring his family with him, wanting to see the country first, but brought along a man by the name of Jake Sherlock, and his wife. Jake was the most prodigious story-teller I ever knew personally. Like nearly all "tall-yarners," he expected every one to accept in toto and without mental reservation everything he related, no matter how improbable or impossible it might appear. His stories of his personal encounters and prowess would have done credit to a knight errant. His boasted valor was soon to be put to the test. Let me say here that Jake possessed the only available firearm in the party. This was an old-fashioned Allen "pepperbox" revolver. Not far into Kansas, in what is now Osage county I think, we came to a Sac and Fox Indian village. The chief demanded toll for passing through his territory. Father and Appleton disputed his right to exact this and refused to pay. The chief dispatched his young bucks to the village, which lay on a hill to the left, and they soon returned armed with bows and arrows. When father attempted to drive past the Indians he was driven back with sticks and clubs. Poor Jake's bravery deserted him in a jiffy and he crawled into the wagon, hiding himself completely. The Indians noticed this and called him a "squaw man." We paid the tribute and drove on, Jake refusing to show himself until we were well away from the village with not an Indian in sight. Our destination proved to be a point on the Neosho river directly opposite the town of Neosho Falls, as now shown on the map of Kansas. Father purchased a claim of a man named De Frees, who had erected the walls of a hewed log cabin in order to hold his claim. A clapboard roof soon covered the cabin, and a clapboard door was made and hung, closing the doorway. Mother earth was the floor until a puncheon floor was put in. This was pioneering, and presented a sharp contrast to the very comfortable house we left back in Indiana, but it was a novelty and we really enjoyed it. I will here relate an incident in our frontier life, which, while it may not be particularly interesting in this narrative, was a very serious one to us. After we were settled in our new home father hitched up his team of two yoke of work oxen and started for Westport to get our household goods. He expected to return within two weeks. While at Westport he was taken sick and lay for over three weeks at Milt McGee's house. This house was still in existence a few years since. We heard nothing from him during this time, for he was unable to write or even dictate a letter to us. No one who has never undergone the same experience can imagine what our anxiety and suspense was during this interval. To attempt to picture our imaginings of what had become of him, or what we should do if we never saw him again, would he beyond the power of my pen. We children, five of us, would sit on the north side of the cabin by the hour, day in and day out, straining our eyes to the north, hoping against hope for his home-coming, until we would all break down and cry as though we were sure father would never return. What a strain this must have been for our dear mother no one can tell. She was made of strong, enduring stuff. It required a mighty load to break her down. She bore this trial most nobly, as all pioneer women had to learn to bear their anxieties. Few, very few, we saw outside of our own family. We had but two neighbors within ten miles of us, as I remember. The period of waiting and wishing for father's return was finally ended by his coming, and our fears were turned into a very joyful welcome. While at McGee's tavern, and during his convalescence, father witnessed a game of draw poker between McGee and a guest from somewhere south. McGee was losing heavily, and finally offered to put up his "nigger boy" Ephraim against $1000. His luck stuck to him and he lost, and this ended the game. It was late at night and all retired, the guest saying before he went to his room: "McGee, have that boy of mine ready in the morning, for I must get an early start for home." "All right," said McGee; "I 'll have him ready." Next morning when the man was ready to travel he called for his "nigger." When he was produced, lo and behold, he was a broken-down, crippled, eighty-year-old negro! The man declared and swore this was n't his "nigger." McGee said to the old negro, "What's your name?" "Ephraim, sah," was the reply. "Now this is the nigger I put up last night. You own him; he is your property, and I want you to take him off my place. I am tired of feeding a worthless nigger; take him away," said McGee. The guest stormed and swore that he did not want him, but take him away he did. Evidently the cards were shuffled to lose the wornout, unserviceable property. The Indians, Sacs and Foxes, Osages and Kaws, were about us during a larger part of our residence in Kansas. The Sacs and Foxes were the better behaved of these tribes, and were the finer appearing also, some of the men being very fine specimens. The other tribes were much given to picking up anything within reach, including horse stealing. The "irrepressible conflict" was on in Kansas. The border ruffians had begun their forays into the free-soil settlements in the territory. Coldblooded murders and assassinations were becoming frequent. In the fall of 1855 two men from Le Roy, or near there, and my father went into Missouri, bought grain and took it to a mill about ten miles southeast of Fort Scott, to be ground into flour and corn meal. It so happened that the Le Roy men got their grist through the mill first and started at once for home. When they reached Fort Scott their teams, wagons, provisions and all were confiscated, and they were compelled to foot it home, a distance of about seventy miles, with scarcely a house on the whole route. Fortunately, father got word of this while his grain was being ground; so when he started for home he gave Fort Scott a wide berth, striking the westward trail about ten miles west of there. He had been on this trail but a short time when he met two men horseback, both heavily armed. One asked father where he was from. He told him. "Come through Scott?" "No," was father's reply. "It looks d--d suspicious, coming from where you did and not coming through Scott," said the man. Father replied, "And it looks mighty suspicious, too, to see two men drive into Scott with their loads of provisions and have to walk out without them." The men then ordered father to turn and drive back to Fort Scott. Father was not armed; the ruffians were. For a moment he thought he would have to obey the order. To lose his team and provisions looked pretty hard. The situation was desperate, and to ward it off required quick action. Jumping on the tongue of the wagon, thrusting his hand down into the bed and holding it there, he looked the man steadily in the eye and said: "The two men are not born who can take me back to Fort Scott." The ruffians scowled, and one said: "Well, you just as well go back with us, for you will soon meet Captain Barnes and forty men, and he will take you back." "Very well," replied father; "Captain Barnes and forty men can take me back, but two men, never." The bluff worked. There was no gun in the wagon. The two men pursued their way east. When they were out of sight father left the trail to the north and did not meet Captain Barnes and his gang of looters. As the affairs in the territory became more and more unsettled, father sold his claim to a Missourian, I think, and trekked to southwest Missouri, settling at the mining town of Granby, Newton county. In due time the Civil War broke out in earnest. As my father was a very outspoken Union man, he was marked as an "undesirable" citizen. It soon, became apparent that every man known as Union and opposed to secession must get out or suffer the consequences. Those--and they were few--who voted for Lincoln did not tarry long after the firing on Sumter. Those who voted the Union ticket, Bell and Everett, tried to stand their ground, but their efforts were vain. Many enlisted in the Missouri Home Guards, and had to stay there, as a return to their homes singly meant death. Father was driven from home several times and sought shelter with a friend, a farmer living in Barry county. On one of his trips home to see us, which were always made at night and secretly, he was captured by some Confederate soldiers, then on their way toward Springfield. He, together with other Union men, was held prisoner in Price's army, and at the battle of Wilson's Creek, August 10, 1861, fell into the hands of Colonel Sigel's men, and with them went to Springfield. He had no difficulty in identifying himself and his politics, through acquaintances he had there, and was released. Going back by night to Barry county, he came to see us, telling us to prepare as best we could to get away from Granby, Very secretly we made our preparations. Living just outside of the town and over a ridge out of sight, we were enabled to do this without exciting suspicion. We engaged a near-by farmer named Rutherford to take us to Rolla, the nearest railroad point. Leaving the house fully furnished, we pulled out just after dark one Saturday night, and, traveling all night, we reached father in the morning. Resting over Sunday, we started for Rolls, traveling over the unfrequented roads, as we feared we might be picked up by the "Johnnies." Arriving at Rolla, we had our first sight, for months, of "Old Glory." It is needless to say it gladdened our hearts and looked mighty good to us. The town was then occupied by Union troops under the command of General Hunter. From Rolla we went by rail to St. Louis, and thence to our former home, Peru, Ind. Soon after our arrival, in October, 1861, I enlisted for the war and was soon at the front. My service was in the Fourteenth Indiana light battery, and I was honorably discharged therefrom, with what was left of the organization, at Indianapolis, September 1, 1865, having served nearly two years as a veteran. === NOTE 1.-[biography of DEWITT C. GOODRICH]