CHAPTER XII.

ACCIDENTS, BIRTHS, WEDDINGS, DEATHS.

A strange fatality seemed to pursue our young neighbor Phil Jenkins. His presence invariably precipitated an episode either of an amusing or serious nature. The two years of his life with us was a continuous round of incidents and accidents. If an adventure were related, this was the first question: "Was Phil there?"

The young man was courageous and venturesome to foolhardiness; but he was the life of a crowd and his splendid spirit of helpfulness made his presence welcome and desirable, although a company breathed easier as evening drew near if nothing of unusual import had happened to Phil.

The young man was present at one of the early loggingbees, and the oxen were a bit perverse in their usual work of even-pulling. Phil, in the attempt to quiet and guide them sprang upon the back of one of the animals. The beast was unaccustomed to a mount and was "skeered," which was an occasion for unusual operations.

The oxen were off, in a flash, for a wild run through the thicket. Fearing the youth might be dashed against a tree and killed the other workers followed the fleeing cattle. Over the ridge, down the hillside, across the clearing below the mill site plunged the critters. The pursuers noted that Phil was retaining his place on the back of the beast, but the Iowa Tam-O-Shanter's senses whirled as he realized they were nearing the river which was swollen by the autumn rains. He feared to let go; so, he frantically hung on. A moment of darkness. The oxen made a flying leap into the water and, for a moment, were entirely submerged. Phil loosened his hold, rose to the surface and swam to the bank where he soon was located by his fellow-workers.

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The frightened ox, when the cause of the excitement was removed, became as tractable as ever and with his yokefellow began browsing on the opposite side of the stream. The wet and shivering young man, undaunted by his experience, swam across the river and headed the animals toward home but he did not attempt to ride. He was badly bunged-up but not seriously injured.

The winter following this episode Phil was engaged in snaking home a supply of wood from the logging-camp. On a downward slide the chain slipped and in rearranging the snub the slack in the log chain looped itself about his foot. Before the oxen could be stopped the victim had been dragged some distance.

Phil's cries of distress soon brought assistance and he at once was taken home. It was found, when the cowhide boot was cut away, that the bones of the foot were crushed badly, the flesh mangled and the member bleeding profusely.

A consultation was held. His parents decided that it would be necessary to sacrifice the front part of the foot. A strong band was tied in front of the heel and across the instep marking the line for amputation, and a stick was twisted and knotted in the band to arrest the flow of blood.

Surgical Operation.

A wood-chopper was chosen for the work who was known to be so accurate with an ax that a clean stroke at exactly the line indicated would result. My brother, Jack Brewer, was chosen for the work. It was a terrible ordeal for both surgeon and patient. It was, however, the best means at hand, and a real pioneer never was known to shirk a responsibility.

The stump of the foot immediately was thrust into a puffball-a fungus growth which was said to possess properties for coagulating and reducing the flow of blood. Granny Peabody acted as nurse for several days. The foot

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healed nicely and no complications resulted from this first surgical operation in our community.

The foregoing are but two of the many mishaps that befell Phil Jenkins.

His fatal encounter with the community boar was sorely regretted but it was thought to be the inevitable outcome which might have been postponed but could not have been escaped.

Boar Fight.

In the fall of 1852 a number of boys and girls had planned an afternoon nutting expedition. We, accordingly, repaired to the hickory grove south of town on what now is Edgewood Farm. The boys climbed the trees and clubbed off the nuts. They then decided to skirmish through the adjoining thickets for game. The girls were to collect and hull the nuts during their absence. Phil Jenkins, whose crippled foot prevented his joining the chase, remained with us.

We were busily engaged in the work when the noisy approach of an animal through the bushes attracted our attention. . Phil seized his rifle, anticipating the pleasure of bringing down a deer without pursuing him; but instead of a deer Slab-Sides the boar, having been disturbed by the hunters plunged through the bushes into the nut-grove clearing. The young man threw down his gun when the hog appeared and we girls shouted with laughter at his discomfiture.

He, however, must have understood porcine propensities better than did we, for, as the hog halted a moment at the clearing's edge Phil hurriedly said to us: "You girls take to the timber!" He snatched up his firearm, but with a rush, a snort, and a cracking of his tusks the boar was close upon him before he could prime and fire,

Phil sprang behind a tree, drew his bowie-knife and gave battle. It was dodge and thrust with a vengeance, and soon the blood was flowing freely from the hog's many

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wounds. The tree furnished the man shelter from the murderous charges of the boar, and to the terrified onlookers it seemed the circling combatants must fall with fatigue.

Several of the girls ran into the wood screaming to attract the attention of the hunters. The others procured clubs and waited for whatever emergency might arise.

Phil stumbled and went to his knees but quickly recovered his equilibrium. At his misstep Liza Perkins and I ran forward thinking we might help to beat off the brute, but our protector's "Get out 0' here!" was so authoritative we immediately retired.

The young man would have tired out the assailant had it not been for his crippled foot. He had succeeded in dodging the onslaughts and had inflicted wounds with his Knife which reduced the strength of the maddened boar.

A signal shot from the woods indicated that the hunting party had heard the cries of the girls, but with the assurance that relief was near, disaster approached.

Phil made another misstep and was knocked to the ground. The beast's tusks tore through the flesh a dozen times before we could reach his side; but with a supreme effort Phil thrust his bowie-knife into the belly of the boar -ripped him open-and with an expiring breath the brute's entrails gushed over the prostrate form of our protector.

Phil's jugular vein had been pierced by the boar's tusks and he lived but a few moments. His life was nearly spent when the returning hunters arrived. His last words were: "Well, girls, I've had my last mix-up, but I wish it had been a wild animal instead of a common hog."

The body was carried to our home on a litter which the boys improvised by pinning their coats together with thorns and fastening them to hand-poles. The interment was made on the hill south of town.

Crushed by a Log; Near Drowning.

Luther Schultz was killed in the late fall work of log-rolling in 1850;

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An immense walnut cut was being raised to the top of the pile. The handspike which the young man was manipulating slipped and the force of his body against the pole threw him forward. The log, loosened at his end, escaped the pinch of the other workmen. It crashed downward, caught the youth between the timbers and crushed his skull. He was buried across the river northeast of the Chase mill site.

Luther Schultz had, during the summer season, saved his twelve year old sister Dorcas from death by drowning.

The Schultz family--six boys and five girls--were veritable human ducks. They had lived on the bank of the Wabash river in Indiana and from infancy waded, paddled and splashed daily. All the stunts of the swimmer were to them familiar. They seemed quite as much at home in high water as in low and preferred breasting a strong current instead of indolently stroking their way on a placid surface.

The young children of a family often accompanied the men-folk to their work in wood or field. A tree had been cut upon the river's bank. In order to save trimming and clearing it had been felled into the stream. The children raced to the spot. Such an opportunity was meant to be improved. They shinned forward upon the tree-trunk and sought convenient limbs for teetering above the water.

Dorcas, more venturesome than the others, doffed her outer garment and made her way out upon a slender branch to the last fork capable of bearing her weight. She stood erect, a foot on either bough, and to her father on shore shouted: "Look, Pap, watch me dive!"

The workers turned to see the daring miss put in motion the limb on which she stood. At the proper rebound her supple form shot through the air and plunged downward into the river.

The child, however, either had miscalculated the depth of water or the height of her springing start. Her head struck the bottom of the river and the impact partly stunned

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her. She rose to the surface but could not call for help, and feebly motioned to the men on the bank.

Luther, fully dressed, plunged into the stream and headed for his drifting sister. She sank the second time when almost within the brother's grasp. Instantly he dove and swept his arms about the drowning girl. He swam to shallow water and carried her to safety.

She was brought to our house. The scalp-wound was stitched and bandaged by my mother, and within a few days Miss Dorcas was fully recovered. The nearly fatal experience did not lessen her love for the water. Before she was steady on her feet after the accident she was back in her aquatic element regardless of the admonitions of her more timid playmates.

River Work.

It is somewhat remarkable that no casualty befell our men-folk in their work on the river and in the seemingly bottomless sloughs which abounded in every direction. Our boys were not expert swimmers, but when immigration began in earnest two or more of them were continually busy in the work of water transportation, and during the spring freshets the work was extremely dangerous. Almost any time of day a loud "Ho-o-o-oh" might be heard, which was the signal for the ferryman. .

The vehicle of transportation-a log canoe or raft, sometimes two canoes hitched together-was towed or poled up stream to a bend on the opposite side of the river from the waiting pilgrims. The current of the water was deflected by the jutting curve of the cape to a general crosswise direction toward the hoped-for landing place.

The boatman took his position at the rude steering apparatus which poorly served to guide the craft and avoid being swung into the swift main channel of the river. If the operator miscalculated the distance, swiftness of current or possible undertow he missed his harbor and landed in a swamp or bayou perhaps a mile or more down stream,

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in which case the craft was towed back to the starting place and relaunched.

When the goods or passengers were aboard, a similar method of manipulation brought them across-providing they were fortunate enough to escape being dumped into the river. The simpleton who rocks the boat is a development of our later days. A measure of skill was required to keep a canoe right side up, and not a false or foolish motion was permitted. Warning to that effect was given when anyone embarked and full confidence was accorded the ferryman.

A present-day transportation company would require for station or harbor purposes two or three miles of the water-front if relatively as much land were used for loading and unloading goods as was utilized by the pioneers in river work.

Drowning.

Other families were less fortunate than ours on the waterways. I believe the earliest drowning was that of Fred Maine. He had cut a hole in the ice for the purpose of spearing fish for Christmas dinner, 1851. Leaving home in the forenoon he expected to return soon although the delay did not cause anxiety for several hours. Search was made and the spearing-hole located at about the Zublin ice-field north of town. The ice-pick and spear were lying beside the hole and the ax on the river's bottom. No trace of Fred could be found and his body was never recovered.

Another early drowning was that of John Garmoe. The unfortunate young man was a brother of Isaac Garmoe who later located in the western part of the county. All streams at that early time were normally bank full; but the casualty did not occur at flood-water season, and, therefore, seemed particularly deplorable. The young man had helped to tow and canoe the family belongings across Skunk creek when, without noticeable warning, on his return swimming trip he sank out of sight and did not rise to the surf ace.

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Lost.

The summer after our arrival my mother sent me alone to Uncle Billy Stanley's, about three-quarters of a mile distant, to procure roasting ears for dinner. I was to cross the river, keep to the right a short distance, turn half again to the left guided by trees and stumps to my destination.

I proceeded to the river's bank where two logs had been felled-one on either side-the tops interlacing in midstream. The branches partly had been trimmed to permit easy passage over the foot-logs.

I crossed the river and observed the various directions of the trails of hunters and wood-choppers and the paths that led to the cabins of our neighbors. My mother, evidently having in mind but one path, had told me to turn to the right and after reaching a big stump to turn half way in another direction and follow the path past an immense maple tree.

I fared forth on a trail that led through a forest of sumac-bushes. I wish I could describe the luxuriant growth of these "shumakes." The stunted, dusty, bare-limbed specimens of today give no hint of their magnificence. The body-stalks were clean and bright and the eye could not penetrate the dense and perfect canopy of leaves. I emerged from this beautiful surrounding into a maze of many paths. The hazel-bushes had been trampled to make travel possible and literally, a bird could not fly through the underbrush and briar-thickets.

I trudged along some distance but did not locate the big stump marker. I removed my sunbonnet that I might better survey the surroundings. Was I lost? No, but Uncle Billy's cabin surely was.

I retraced my steps to the foot-logs. I carefully viewed the various paths and chose another which gave promise of being the right one.

I pursued the lonely way for a long time with no better results and once more I returned to the river's edge and made a fresh start. This time I struck the wood-choppers'

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trail and there were many stumps and many maples and I knew that I had again gone wrong.

I slowly returned riverward; and the tales of lost hunters were revolved in my mind. I was not frightened, however, and had no intention of abandoning the trip, for I knew that a day long enough and leg-muscles strong enough finally would bring me to my destination. When I reached the river's brink for the third start, I faced about, chose another path, and this time having guessed right I reached Uncle Billy's in safety.

The midday menu was minus the roasting-ears but they were relished quite as well for supper. I do not recall that I was questioned about the delay, or that anxiety was expressed at my unusually long absence. I had accomplished the mission. To be able to "make a shift" for any contingency was expected of both young and old.

The Way to Homer.

Soon after we permanently were located at Newcastle, Roll was instructed to go to the supply-station at Homer to procure coffee and ammunition. He was familiar only with the point of timber at the Johnny Frank place near home.

He was told to travel westward to a raise of land, south to a point of timber, west through a big slough, south and west and south again until the youth was excusable if he lost his bearings. He, however, afoot and alone, obediently started through the tall timber with the spirit of the adventurer to try anything once.

He proceeded to the third lap of the pedestrian performance when, during his progress through the big slough he became hopelessly confused in direction. He thought of all the things he had heard for marking the directions of the compass and for locating one's self when lost; for instance, the field flowers turning their faces toward the sun, the rosin-weed leaves pointing their edges north and south and the parallel seams in boulders lining in the same

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direction. He found upon examination that the nodding, golden heads of the field-daisies were turned in various directions; the nigger-heads - few in number - were seamed in opposite directions; the compass-plant also failed him; and the axils of artichoke-stalks opened possibilities for still greater confusion. He, therefore, made his way through the slough to the nearest fringe of timber and climbed the tallest tree to take observation.

He scanned the horizon from his leafy perch until he located in the distance the familiar wood near his home. This definite knowledge relieved his agitation. He remained in the observatory for some time studying the topography of the outlying districts.

He finally shinned down the tree-trunk and made a beeline for home instead of Homer. Having spent so much time in locating landmarks he decided to make a fresh start with the morrow's sunrise. This he did with no additional instruction and the trip was made without delay or incident.

Roll's diligent study and observation along these lines made him proficient in directing prospectors; and through his many years of experience on the trackless prairies while hunting, trapping and traveling, he never again was confused in direction or location.

Another account of a brother losing his way is recorded elsewhere.

An Unusual Ceremony.

It was over a year after the arrival of the Schultz family that an unusual wedding, minus the guests and entertainment, occurred.

The consent of Mam and Pap Schultz had been gained by Moses Billings before they left Indiana, that when their daughter Matilda was eighteen years of age she should be permitted to marry him. The parents thought delay and distance might change the plans of the young couple but they were mistaken.

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The season of 1851 was a repetition of rains--or downpours--each one seemingly more copious than the one before it. On the little patch of planet represented by our settlement the expanse of water seemed greatly to exceed the extent of land and the mud was increased proportionately in depth.

The inhospitable attitude of nature did not deter nor defer the journey of Moses to the land of promise. The young man covered every rod of the way from Iowa City on foot--if swimming the streams may be called traveling on foot. In a bedraggled condition but with a hopeful heart Billings arrived at the Schultz cabin and asked the parents of "Tilly" to redeem their promise.

They were as good as their word and signified their willingness for the wedding to take place; but how was the ceremony to be performed? An ocean of water rolled between the couple and Elder Woods. Marital happiness was almost within their grasp but it was dangerously risky to undertake crossing the river in a dugout.

Young Billings, from the bank opposite the mill site, shouted to the boatman on our side of the river. He explained the situation and requested that the young minister be brought across to officiate at the wedding. The situation was explained to the preacher.

Elder Woods was a good man. His life had been blameless and he was not afraid to die but he flatly refused to tempt fate or to fly in the face of providence by making the precarious trip in a canoe. He, however, accompanied father to the bank opposite the impatient young man and stated his objections.

Moses sat down among the willows to think over his defeat. Silence reigned and the heavens wept profusely. Father and Woods were preparing to return home when a joyous shout arrested their attention. The resourceful Billings, who had covered the hundreds of miles of distance to gain the right to call a young girl his wife, was not to be turned from his purpose. He proposed that he bring his intended to the vantage ground then occupied by

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him and requested that Elder Woods ask the essential questions from the opposite bank.

The arrangement was approved by the minister. The young lady was led to the water's edge and the numerous members of her family arranged themselves beside and behind the contracting couple. The questions and responses were shouted across the watery expanse and Matilda Schultz was declared to be the wife of Moses Billings.

When the rains had ceased and the waters receded the young pair began the return trip to Indiana.

Recalling this romantic incident I must also state that I do not know what documents were necessary for the satisfaction of legal demands, or whether any papers were essential under the circumstances. The unusual occurrence and the apparently happy termination of the episode crowded out any questioning or remembrance of the whys and wherefores from my mind.

Other early weddings included the names of Stanley-Drought, already recorded; Lyon-Holmes; Prime-Stanley; Haviland-Kent; Wheeler-Snyder, and Frakes-Brewer.

Sill-Brassfield Wedding Trip.

The marriage of Martha Sill and George Brassfield does not hold first place in pioneer records, but the prenuptial trip was a long and perilous one. The couple eloped soon after the removal of Major Brassfield's family to Liberty, Wright county.

There had been an unusually "wet spell." The river was out of its banks and the day set for the departure promised to be a dismal one. The prospective bride spent the night with the Brassfield girls as she had done many times before. She arose early and, supposedly, departed for her home. The groom-to-be, still earlier, had declared his intention of setting out on a hunting trip.

The young couple repaired to the meeting-place. The vehicle of transportation--a log canoe-was launched in

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the Boone river near Goldfield, and the two passengers made the lonely, hazardous voyage to our town. The start was made before daybreak and the pair disembarked after nightfall at the Brewer creek bluff south of our city. Shelter at the George Cooper cabin was gratefully accepted and the next day the young couple were united in marriage.

The fathers of the eloping couple followed them to Webster City. They found, however, that the journey had been made safely and the matrimonial knot tied; so they returned leisurely to their homes.

A gathering of enthusiastic settlers was called as an appreciation of the skill and endurance of the young man who manipulated a dugout through twenty-five or thirty miles of flood-waters, and as a tribute to the courage of the young woman who trusted her life to the keeping of her lover.

This unusual wedding-trip has been related with much amusement and interest for nearly sixty years.

Early Births.

The birth of Bryant Brewer, in 1848, already has been recorded. On the seventeenth of March, 1848, there was born into the Hook's Point household of Major Brassfield, a daughter. After our arrival, the little girl was named for father. She was called Sevilla Wilson Brassfield. Emma, daughter of Sevilla, and my daughter Harriet have been life-long, intimate friends. The June season of roses marked the arrival of Bobbie, Jr., at the home of Robert Palmer, at Bone's mill site; and in the early autumn, a son was born to Nathan Stanley and wife--the couple who were newly married before our departure from the East.

The first child born in this section of the Boone valley was Leander Brewer, a brother. He arrived soon after our permanent location at Newcastle, early in 1850. He survived only a few months. Twin sons were born at the home of Jim Jenkins in the fall of 1850. They were christened Nathan and Newman. Franklin Palmer and Billie Brewer

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came to Mrs. Bob Palmer and Mrs. Bill Brewer early in 1851. Somewhat later a daughter was born to John and Lucy Drought, the couple whose marriage has been mentioned in foregoing pages.

February, 1853, our own family was increased by the arrival of a male infant, William Granville Brewer, named for W. G. Berkley, a lawyer who had located in Homer. Just before the departure of Major Brassfield's family for Wright county, a son, Perry, was added to their numbers.

It would not have been necessary for pioneers to solicit settlers from other states except for the fact that twenty-one years are required to develop a citizen. The business of family-increase was given strict attention in our community, and quite as portly records were being made in adjacent settlements. I need only mention the names of Jack Mericle, George Goodrich, Lou Wolsey and Evelyn McKowan. Lou and George were born at Homer in 1853 and 1854. Evelyn was born at Lakin's Grove where the family sojourned temporarily awaiting her arrival. She grew to womanhood and was married to W. G. Brewer. A son of this couple, Edwin Brewer, resides south of our city. Walter Wilson Brewer, a brother, was born at the time of the first trip of the Wilson brothers to our city. He was made the namesake of Walt Wilson.

Early Deaths.

A brother, Leander Brewer, died in the month of August, 1850, and was buried on the south Superior street hill where father and other relatives later were laid to rest.

A few weeks after this death in our family the year old son of Nathan Stanley died from the effect of a snakebite. The child, who had been playing in the yard, crept into the cabin crying but could not explain his trouble. The mother soothed him to sleep but his arm soon began to swell and change color. The parents then realized what had happened but too late to counteract the poison. The child died before nightfall.

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Uncle Billy Stanley passed away in the fall of 185l. His grave was made near the site of his homestead where we first located at Hope Hollow, or near Bone's mill site.

Fever and ague claimed its first victim in 1852. Maria Wheeler, daughter of Joe Wheeler, was a good chum of mine and her death was a personal loss to me.

The first wife of Henry Lott died before our arrival. Dates do not agree in different accounts. According to the chapter on "The Lott Tragedy," the time of her passing was the late winter of 1847 or the early part of 1848. The same chapter records the demise of the second wife of Henry Lott in 1853.

The death of Tom Mills and son in a prairie fire, the freezing of Bob Downing and Jim Jenkins, the accidental death of Luther Schultz and the account of Phil Jenkins' fatal encounter with a boar already have been written.

The death of my father was not an early one in the history of the town but a review of the circumstances which resulted in his death may be found in the chapter, "Biographical."

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Chapter 13