Journeying West Before 1840

This is from Women on the American Frontier.  You can find a text copy 

of this book at the project Gutenburg site here.



Among the chapters of accident and casualty which make up the respective

diaries of the families who left their eastern homes after the Revolution

and joined the ranks of the Western immigrants there is none more

interesting than that of Mrs. Jameson. She was the child of wealthy

parents, and had been reared in luxury in the city of New York. Soon after

peace was declared she was married to Edward Jameson, a brave soldier in

the war, who had nothing but his stout arms and intrepid heart to battle

with the difficulties of life. Her father, dying soon after, his estate was

discovered to have been greatly lessened by the depreciation in value which

the war had produced. Gathering together the remains of what was once a

large fortune, the couple purchased the usual outfit of the emigrants of

that period and set out to seek their fortunes in the West.



All went well with them until they reached the Alleghany River, which they

undertook to cross on a raft. It was the month of May; the river had been

swollen by rains, and when they reached the middle of the stream, the part

of the raft on which Mr. Jameson sat became detached, the logs separated,

and he sank to rise no more. The other section of the raft, containing Mrs.

Jameson, her babe of eight months, and a chest of clothing and household

gear, floated down-stream at the mercy of the rapid current.



Bracing herself against the shock, Mrs. Jameson managed to paddle to the

side of the river from which she had just before started. She was landed

nearly a mile below the point where had been left the cattle, and also the

ox-cart in which their journey had been hitherto performed, and which her

husband expected to carry over the river on the raft, returning for them as

soon as his wife and babe had been safely landed on the western bank. The

desolate mother succeeded in mooring the remains of the raft to the shore;

then clasping her babe to her bosom, followed the bank of the river till

she reached the oxen and cart, which she drove down to the place where she

landed, and by great exertions succeeded in hauling the chest upon the

bank. Her strength was now exhausted, and, lying down in the bottom of the

cart, she gave way to grief and despair.



Her situation may be easily imagined: alone in the forest, thirty miles

from the nearest settlement, her husband torn from her in a moment, and her

babe smiling as though he would console his mother for her terrible loss.

In her sad condition self-preservation would have been too feeble a motive

to impel her to make any further effort to save herself; but maternal

love--the strongest instinct in a woman's heart--buoyed her up and

stimulated her to unwonted exertions.



The spot where she found herself was a dense forest, stretching back to a

rocky ledge on the east, and terminated on the north by an alluvial meadow

nearly bare of trees. Along the banks of the river was a thick line of high

bushes and saplings, which served as a screen against the observations of

savages passing up and down the river in their canoes. The woods were just

bursting into leaf; the spring-flowers filled the air with odor, and

chequered the green foliage and grass; the whole scene was full of vernal

freshness, life, and beauty. The track which the Jamesons had followed was

about midway between the northern and southern routes generally pursued by

emigrants, and it was quite unlikely that others would cross the river at

that point. The dense jungle that skirted the river bank was an impediment

in the way of reaching the settlements lower down, and there was danger of

being lost in the woods if the unfortunate woman should start alone.



"On this spot," she said, "I must remain till some one comes to my help."



The first two years of her married life had been spent on a farm in

Westchester County, New York, where she had acquired some knowledge of

farming and woodcraft, by assisting her husband in his labors, or by

accompanying him while hunting and fishing. She was strong and healthy; and

quite, unlike her delicate sisters of modern days, her lithe frame was

hardened by exercise in the open air, and her face was tinged by the kisses

of the sun.



Slowly recovering from the terrible anguish of her loss, she cast about for

shelter and sustenance. The woods were swarming with game, both large and

small, from the deer to the rabbit, and from the wild turkey to the quail.

The brooks were alive with trout. The meadow was well suited for Indian

corn, wheat, rye, or potatoes. The forest was full of trees of every

description. To utilize all these raw materials was her study.



A rude hut, built of boughs interlaced, and covered thickly with leaves and

dry swamp grass, was her first work. This was her kitchen. The cart, which

was covered with canvas, was her sleeping-room. A shotgun, which she had

learned the use of, enabled her to keep herself supplied with game. She

examined her store of provisions, consisting of pork, flour, and Indian

meal, and made an estimate that they would last eight months, with prudent

use. The oxen she tethered at first, but afterwards tied the horns to one

of their fore feet, and let them roam. The two cows having calved soon

after, she kept them near at hand by making a pen for the calves, who by

their bleating called their mothers from the pastures on the banks of the

river. In the meadow she planted half an acre of corn and potatoes, which

soon promised an amazing crop.



Thus two months passed away. In her solitary and sad condition she was

cheered by the daily hope that white settlers would cross her track or see

her as they passed up and down the river. She often thought of trying to

reach a settlement, but dreaded the dangers and difficulties of the way.

Like the doe which hides her fawn in the secret covert, this young mother

deemed herself and her babe safer in this solitude than in trying unknown

perils, even with the chance of falling in with friends. She therefore

contented herself with her lot, and when the toils of the day were over,

she would sit on the bank and watch for voyagers on the river. Once she

heard voices in the night on the river, and going to the bank she strained

her eyes to gaze through the darkness and catch sight of the voyagers; she

dared not hail them for fear they might be Indians, and soon the voices

grew fainter in the distance, and she heard them no more. Again, while

sitting in a clump of bushes on the bank one day, she saw with horror six

canoes with Indians, apparently directing their course to the spot where

she sat. They were hideously streaked with war-paint, and came so near that

she could see the scalping knives in their girdles. Turning their course as

they approached the eastern shore they silently paddled down stream,

scanning the hanks sharply as they floated past. Fortunately they saw

nothing to attract their attention; the cart and hut being concealed by the

dense bushes, and there being no fire burning.



Fearing molestation from the Indians, she now moved her camp a hundred rods

back, near a rocky ledge, from the base of which flowed a spring of pure

water. Here, by rolling stones in a circle, she made an enclosure for her

cattle at night, and within in it built a log cabin of rather frail

construction; another two weeks was consumed in these labors, and it was

now the middle of August.



At night she was at first much alarmed by the howling of wolves, who came

sniffing round the cart where she slept. Once a large grey wolf put its

paws upon the cart and poked its nose under the canvas covering, but a

smart blow on the snout drove it yelping away. None of the cattle were

attacked, owing to the bold front showed to these midnight intruders. The

wolf is one of the most cowardly of wild beasts, and will rarely attack a

human being, or even an ox, unless pressed by hunger, and in the winter.

Often she caught glimpses of huge black bears in the swamps, while she was

in pursuit of wild turkeys or other game; but these creatures never

attacked her, and she gave them a wide berth.



One hot day in August she was gathering berries on the rocky ledge beside

which her house was situated, when seeing a clump of bushes heavily loaded

with the finest blackberries, she laid her babe upon the ground, and

climbing up, soon filled her basket with the luscious fruit. As she

descended she saw her babe sitting upright and gazing with fixed eyeballs

at some object near by; though what it was she could not clearly make out,

on account of an intervening shrub. Hastening down, a sight met her eyes

that froze her blood. An enormous rattlesnake was coiled within three feet

of her child, and with its head erect and its forked tongue vibrating, its

burning eyes were fixed upon those of the child, which sat motionless as a

statue, apparently fascinated by the deadly gaze of the serpent.



Seizing a stick of dry wood she dealt the reptile a blow, but the stick

being decayed and brittle, inflicted little injury on the serpent, and only

caused it to turn itself towards Mrs. Jameson, and fix its keen and

beautiful, but malignant eyes, steadily upon her. The witchery of the

serpent's eyes so irresistibly rooted her to the ground, that for a moment

she did not wish to remove from her formidable opponent.



The huge reptile gradually and slowly uncoiled its body; all the while

steadily keeping its eye fixed on its intended victim. Mrs. Jameson could

only cry, being unable to move, "Oh God! preserve me! save me, heavenly

Father!" The child, after the snake's charm was broken, crept to her mother

and buried its little head in her lap.



We continue the story in Mrs. Jameson's own words:--



"The snake now began to writhe its body down a fissure in the rock, keeping

its head elevated more than a foot from the ground. Its rattle made very

little noise. It every moment darted out its forked tongue, its eyes became

reddish and inflamed, and it moved rather quicker than at first. It was now

within two yards of me. By some means I had dissipated the charm, and,

roused by a sense of my awful danger, determined to stand on the defensive.

To run away from it, I knew would be impracticable, as the snake would

instantly dart its whole body after me. I therefore resolutely stood up,

and put a strong glove on my right hand, which I happened to have with me.

I stretched out my arm; the snake approached slowly and cautiously towards

me, darting out its tongue still more frequently. I could now only

recommend myself fervently to the protection of Heaven. The snake, when

about a yard distant, made a violent spring. I quickly caught it in my

right hand, directly under its head; it lashed its body on the ground, at

the same time rattling loudly. I watched an opportunity, and suddenly

holding the animal's head, while for a moment it drew in its forked tongue,

with my left hand I, by a violent contraction of all the muscles in my

hand, contrived to close up effectually its jaws!



"Much was now done, but much more was to be done. I had avoided much

danger, but I was still in very perilous circumstances. If I moved my right

hand from its neck for a moment, the snake, by avoiding suffocation, could

easily muster sufficient power to force its head out of my hand; and if I

withdrew my hand from its jaws, I should be fatally in the power of its

most dreaded fangs. I retained, therefore, my hold with both my hands; I

drew its body between my feet, in order to aid the compression and hasten

suffocation. Suddenly, the snake, which had remained quiescent for a few

moments, brought up its tail, hit me violently on the head, and then darted

its body several times very tightly around my waist. Now was the very acme

of my danger. Thinking, therefore, that I had sufficient power over its

body, I removed my right hand from its neck, and in an instant drew my

hunting-knife. The snake, writhing furiously again, darted at me; but,

striking its body with the edge of the knife, I made a deep cut, and before

it could recover its coil, I caught it again by the neck; bending its head

on my knee, and again recommending myself fervently to Heaven, I cut its

head from its body, throwing the head to a great distance. The blood

spouted violently in my face; the snake compressed its body still tighter,

and I thought I should be suffocated on the spot, and laid myself down. The

snake again rattled its tail and lashed my feet with it. Gradually,

however, the creature relaxed its hold, its coils fell slack around me, and

untwisting it and throwing it from me as far as I was able, I sank down and

swooned upon the bank.



"When consciousness returned, the scene appeared like a terrible dream,

till I saw the dead body of my reptile foe and my babe crying violently and

nestling in my bosom. The ledge near which my cabin was built was infested

with rattlesnakes, and the one I had slain seemed to be the patriarch of a

numerous family. From that day I vowed vengeance against the whole tribe of

reptiles. These creatures were in the habit of coming down to the spring to

drink, and I sometimes killed four or five in a day. Before the summer was

over I made an end of the whole family."



In September, two households of emigrants floating down the river on a

flatboat, caught sight of Mrs. Jameson as she made a signal to them from

the bank, and coming to land were pleased with the country, and were

persuaded to settle there. The little community was now swelled to fifteen,

including four women and six children. The colony throve, received

accessions from the East, and, surviving all casualties, grew at last into

a populous town. Mrs. Jameson was married again to a stalwart backwoodsman

and became the mother of a large family. She was always known as the

"Mother of the Alleghany Settlement."

Mary DeWees moved from the east to Kentucky in 1787. She and her family went by wagon to McKees' Ferry, and from there they went by flatboat to Kentucky. Her diary of the event is on the web at at least two places. This is a useful document, because it's still early in the migration, just as America is becoming a nation in its own right. One thing besides the fact that the road is wide enough to travel along is that they go from inn to inn (or at least house to house) with little sleeping in the wilds. Contrast that with the piece I posted yesterday and you will find a real difference between the romanticized and the real. If you would like to read the entire diary, you can read it here.

Here is an excerpt of the land trip from October 1 to October 14:

October 1st:
Crost the Conostogo, a good deal uneasie for fear my sickness should return, the Conostogo is a beautifull creek with fine prospects arround it, after refreshing ourselves we took a walk up the Creek and I think I never saw a more beautifull prospect, you cant imagine how I long'd for you my friends to Join our little Party and to be partakers of the Beauties of nature that now surround us, we are seated beneath the shade of intermingling trees, that grow recling oer the creek and entirely shades us from the noon day sun, Several since I sat here has crossed some on horse back others in boats, whilest a fall of water at a little distance adds dignity to the scene and renders it quite romantic - As the sun was setting we rode through Lancaster a Beautifull inland town, with some Elegant Houses in it. I was quite delighted with the view we have from the Corner of the street where the prison Stands of the upper part of the town which at Once presents to your sight a sudden rise with houses, trees, and gardens, on either side that has a very pleasing effect.

2d:
'Tho but a few days since my friends Concluded I Could not reach Kentucky, will you believe me when I tell you I am setting on the Bank of the Susquehanah, and can take my bit of ham and Biscuit with any of themReturning health has made the face of nature gay, Given beauty to the sun and pleasure to the day. Just cressd the river in company with Mrs. Parr and her daughter, not the least sick, what gratitude is owing from me to the great author of nature who in so short a time has restored me from a state of Languishment and Misery to the most enviable health

3d
Past through York Town, a pretty little town, and lodged about a Mile from that place.

4th:
This day we rode through abbottstown a trifling place, find the roads much better from Lancaster upwards than from Philade. to Lancaster, reached Hunters Town 113 miles expect tomorrow to Cross the south Mountain weather exceedingly pleasant.

Oct 5:
Left Hunters Town and proceeded to the Mountain, which we began to climb about 10 O'Clock sometimes riding some times walking; find the roads much better in places than we expected, 'tho in others excessive stony the length which is ten miles renders it very tedious, Oblidgenly favoured with good weather we have halted on the top of the Mountain to refresh ourselves and horses this afternoon decended the west side find it much worse than the east side the road in places for a mile in length so very stony that you can scarce see the earth between. 'tho at other places beautifully watered by fine springs, took up our lodging at the foot of the Mountain, the people very civil the house right Kentucky.

6
Left the foot of the Mountain, crost the falling spring and proceeded to Chambersburgh a handsome little Town with some pretty stone and brick Buildings in it. after passing the Town we crost the falling Spring again, one of the finest springs in this part of the world by which several Mills in this neighberhood are turned Obliged to stop sooner than usial one of our horses being Lame, find the people a good deal shy, at first, but after a little while very sociable and Obliging, treated with some very fine apples which begin to grow very scarce with us, I am much afraid we shall be like the Children of Israel long for the garlick and Onions that your city abounds with.

7th:
Set off for the north mountain which we find so bad we are Obliged to foot it up, and could compair ourselves to nothing but a parcel of goats climbing up some of the Welch Mountains that I have read of. Sally very desirous to Know whether this Mountain is not the one thats in Mr. Adgates song - find this the most fatiguing days Journey we have had, the roads so very bad and so very steep that the horses seem ready to fall backwards In many places, you would be surprized to see the Children, Jumping and Skipping. some times quite out of sight some times on horse back some times in the waggon, so you see we have variety, 'tho sometimes would very willingly dispence with some of it - Believe me my dear friends the sight of a log house on these Mountains after a fatiguing days Journey affords more real pleasure that all the magnificent buildings your city contains. took up our lodging at the foot of the Mountain and met with very good entertainment

Oct 8th:
Left the foot of the mountain and crosd scrub hill which is very bad indeed I had like to forgot to tell you, I have lost my Children, dont be concerned for the loss for they are still in the family, the Inhabitants of this Country are so cruel as to deprive me of them, but they were Kind enough to give them to Sister Rees, and I am a Miss from Philada. you may rest assured I dont take the trouble to undecive them, unless Sally (as She often does) Crys out where's my Mar, the Children are very hearty and bear fatigue much better than we do, 'tho I think we all do wonderfull, you would be astonished to see the roads we have come some of which seems impassible, Rachael Mostly passes half the day in Spelling and Sally in Singing every house we stop at she enquires if it is not a Kent.y. house and seldom leaves it 'till she informs them she is a Kenty. Lady

9th:
Crost sidling hill and were the greates[t] part of the day in proforming the Journey the roads being so excessive Steep, sidling and Stony that it seemed impossible to get along. we were obligid to walk the greatest part of the way up 'tho not without company there was five waggons with us all the morning to different parts, this night our difficulties began we were Obliged to put up at a Cabin at the foot of the hill perhaps a dozen logs upon one another, with a few slabs fer a roof and the earth for a floor. & a wooden Chimney Constituted this extrodnary, ordinary the people very Kind but amazing dirty, there was between twenty & thirty of us, all lay on the floor, Except Mrs. Rees the Children and your Maria, who by our dress or adress or perhaps boath were favoured with a bed and I assure you we that thought ourselves to escape being fleaed alive

10th:
after Breakfasting at this clean house, set off for Bedford in our way crosed Juneata, past through Bedford a small county town, some parts of the road very bad and some of it very pleasent, for a considerable distance, we travelled along the Juneata which I thought very pretty, we put up at a house where we were not made very welcome but like travellers we learn'd to put up a few sour looks unoticed

11th
Set off for the allagany Mountain which we began to assend in the afternoon, found it as good as any part of our Jouney we assened in the waggon not with out fear and Trembling, I assure you, we got about Six miles and fell in with a french gentleman and his family going to Pittsburgh we all put up at a little hut on the mountain which was so small that we preffered lodging in our waggon to be crouded with french men & Negroes on an erthen floor -

12th:
and pretty comfartebly arrived the at the top of the Cloud capt allogany It was really awfully pleasing to behold the clouds arising between the mountains at a distance, the day being drisly & the air very heavy rendered the clouds so low that we could scarce se fifty yards before us, this Evening got of the Mountain, It being twenty miles across we passd through Burlain a small town, as the Election was held at this place we could not be accomadated proceeded to a dutch house in the glades where we were Kindly entertain[d]

Oct 13th:
Proceeded to Larel Creek and ascended the hill, I think this and many more of the the scenes we have passd through, we have seen nature display'd in her greatest undress, at other times we have seen her dress'd Beautifull beyond expression, The road excessive bad, some of the Land fine, The Timber Excellent and grow to an amazing heighth the Generality of it from 50 to 60 foot hegh. the day by reason of the Badness of the roads could not reach a stage the hill being 20 miles across and our horses a good deal tired, we, in Company with a nother waggon were obliged to Encamp in the woods, after a Suitable place at a Convenient distance from a run of water was found and a level piece of ground was pitched upon for our encampment, our men went to give refreshment to the Horses we Females having had a good fire made up set about preparing Supper which consisted of an Excellent dish of Coffee having milk with us, those who chose had a dish of cold ham and pickled beats with the addition of Bread, Butter Biscuit, & Cheese made up our repast after supper, sister, the Children, and myself took up our lodging in the waggon the men with their Blankets laid down at the fire side, the wind being high with some rain, disturbed our repose untill near day light, when we could have enjoyed a comfartable nap had we not been obliged to rise and prepare breakfast which we did on the

14th:
Set out for Chestnut ridge, horrid roads and the Stony's land in the world I believe, every few hundred yards, rocks big enough to build a small house upon. we arrived at Chenys Mill towards the middle of the day and parted with our Company. Chenys Mill is a beatifull situation or else the scarcity of such places makes us think it more so than it really is. we were overtaken by a family who was going our way, which renders it more agreeable travelling than by ourselves I think by this time we may call ourselves Mountain proof. at the close of the day we arrived at a house and thought it prudent to put up for the night, the people are scotch Irish, exceedingly Kind but Surprizingly dirty, we concluded (as the Company that was with us made up 18 besides the family) to lodge in our waggon which we did It rained very hard in the night but we laid pretty Comfortably.

Oct 15th:
After Breakfast we sat off for Miller Town, you would be surpized to see the number of pack horses which trave[l] these roads ten or twelve in a drove, in going up the north mountain Betsy took it in her head to ride a horse back, and Daddy, undertook to escort her on thier in a narrow path at the edge of a very steep place they meet with a company of these packers, when her horse took it in his noodle not to sti[r] one foot, but stood and received a thump behind from every pack that pass'd and whilst Betsy was in a state of the greatest tripedation expecting every Moment to be thrown from her horse, her Gallant insteed of flying to her assistance, stood laughing ready to Kill himself at the fun, but the poor girl really looked pitiable - We put up at a poor little Cabbin the people very Kind which Compensates for every Inconvenency.

A few were so fortunately situated on the banks of rivers that they could float down with the current in flat-boats, while their cattle were being driven along the shore; or, if it was necessary to ascend toward the head-waters of a river, they could work their way up-stream with setting-poles. But most of the emigrants traveled with teams. Some of those who went part of the way in boats had to begin or end their journey in wagons. The vehicles which they provided on such occasions for land carriage were curiosities of wheel-craft—I speak of the Jersey wagons.

The old-fashioned Jersey wagon has, years ago, given place to more showy and flexible vehicles; but long before such were invented the Jersey wagon was an established institution, and was handed down, with the family name, from father to son. It was the great original of the modern emigrant wagon of the West; but as I have elsewhere pictured its appearance upon the arrival of a band of pioneers at their final destination, it is unnecessary to enter here upon any further description.

The spring of the year was the season usually selected for moving, and during many weeks previous to the appointed time, the emigrants had been actively providing against the accidents and discomforts of the road. When all was ready, the wagon was loaded, the oxen yoked and hooked to the neap; the women and children took their places on the summit of the huge load, the baby in its mother's lap, the youngest boy at his grandmother's feet, and off they started. The largest boy walked beside and drove the team, the other boys drove the cows, the men trudged behind or ahead, and the whole cavalcade passed out of the great gate, the grandmother peering through her spectacles, and the mother smiling through her tears and looking back more than once at the home which she had made but was now to leave for ever.

In this manner the earlier emigrants went forward, driving their heavily laden wagon by day and sleeping at night by the camp. After they had passed the region of roads and bridges they had to literally hew their way; cutting down bushes, prying their wagon out of bog-holes, building bridges or poling themselves across streams on rafts. But, in defiance of every obstacle, they pressed forward.

Neither rivers nor mountains stayed the course of the emigrant. Guiding his course by the sun, and ever facing the West, he went slowly on. When that luminary set, his parting rays lit the faces of the pioneer family, and when it rose it threw their long shadows before them on the soft, spongy turf of the forest glades. Sweating through the undergrowth; climbing over fallen trees; sinking knee-deep in marshes; at noon they halted to take a rest in the shade of the primeval forest, beside a brook, and there eat their mid-day meal of fried pork and corn cakes, which the women prepared; then on again, till the shadows stretched far back toward their old homes.

Sometimes a storm burst upon them, and the women and children huddled beneath the cart as the thunderbolts fell, shivering the huge trunks of the forest monarchs; and the lightning crimsoned the faces of the forlorn party with its glare. Then the heavens cleared; the sun came out; and the ox-cart went rumbling and creaking onward. No doubt the first days of that weary tramp had in them something of pleasurable excitement; the breezes of spring fanned the brows of the wayfarers, and told of the health and freedom of woodland life; the magnificence of the forest, the summits of the mountains, tinged with blue, the sparkling waters of lake and stream, must have given joy to even the most stolid of those households. But emotions of this description soon became strangers to their souls.

But the emigrants ere long found that the wilderness had lost the charms of novelty. Sights and sounds that were at first pleasing, and had lessened the sense of discomfort, soon ceased to attract attention. Their minds, solely occupied with obstacles, inconveniences, and obstructions, at every step of the way, became sullen, or, at least, indifferent.

To the toils and discomforts incident to their journey were often added casualties and great personal risks. An unlucky step might wrench an ankle; the axe might glance from a twig and split a foot open; and a broken leg, or a severed artery, is a frightful thing where no surgeon can be had. Exposure to all the changes of the weather—sleeping upon the damp ground, frequently brought on fevers; and sickness, at all times a great calamity, was infinitely more so to the pioneer. It must have been appalling in the woods. Many a mother has carried her wailing, languishing child in her arms, to lessen the jolting of the wagon, without being able to render it the necessary assistance. Many a family has paused on the way to gather a leafy couch for a dying brother or sister. Many a parent has laid in the grave, in the lonely wilderness, the child they should meet no more till the morning of the resurrection. Many a heart at the West has yearned at the thought of the treasured one resting beneath the spreading tree. After-comers have stopped over the little mound, and pondered upon the rude memorial carved in the bark above it; and those who had sustained a similar loss have wrung their hands and wept over it, for their own wounds were opened afresh.

William W. Fowler, Women on the American Frontier, 1879

When General St. Clair came to Marietta, in 1788, as governor of the North-west Territory, he left his family at home in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania. Louisa, a daughter of eighteen years, educated at Philadelphia, and his son Arthur, came out soon after on a visit, and in 1790 the family moved out, except Mrs. St. Clair, who remained at home some time longer.

The proposed Indian treaty at Duncan's falls, in 1788, being postponed and adjourned to Fort Harmar, the Indians prepared for peace or war, and were hostile to holding a convention to adjust peace measures under the guns of Harmar, and Campus Martius.

Brandt, son of the Six Nation's chief of that name. came down the Tuscarawas and Muskingum trail, with two hundred warriors, camped at Duncan's falls, nine miles below Zanesville, and informed Governor St. Clair, by runner, that they desired the treaty preliminaries to be fixed there.

The governor suspected a plot to get him to the falls, and abduct him, yet nothing had transpired of that import. He sent Brandt's runner back with word that he would soon answer by a ranger. Hamilton Kerr was dispatched to Duncan's falls to reconnoiter, and deliver St. Clair's letter.

A short distance above Waterford, Kerr saw tracks, and keeping the river in sight, crept on a bluff, and raised to his feet, when hearing the laugh of a woman, he came down to the trail, and saw Louisa St. Clair on a pony, dressed Indian style, with a short rifle slung to her body. Stupefied with amazement, the ranger lost his speech, well knowing Louisa, who was the bravest and boldest girl of all at the fort. She had left without knowledge of any one, and calling "Ham"--as he was known by that name--to his senses, told him she was going to Duncan's falls to see Brandt. Expostulation on his part only made her laugh louder, and she twitted him on his comical dress, head turbaned with red handkerchief, hunting shirt, but no trowsers, the beech-clout taking their place. Taking her pony by the head, he led it up the trail, and at night they suppered on dried deer meat from Ham's pouch; the pony was tied, and Louisa sat against a tree and slept, rifle in hand, while Ham watched her. Next morning they pursued their way, and finally came in sight of the Indian camp. She then took her father's letter from the ranger, and telling him to hide and await her return, dashed off on her pony, and was soon a prisoner. She asked for Brandt, who appeared in war panoply, but was abashed at her gaze. She handed him the letter, remarking that they had met before, he as a student on a visit from college, to Philadelphia, and she as the daughter of General St. Clair, at school. He bowed; being educated, read the letter and became excited. Louisa perceiving this, said she had risked her life to see him, and asked for a guard back to Marietta. Brandt told her he guarded the brave, and would accompany her home. In the evening of the third day they arrived with Ham Kerr at the fort, where she introduced Brandt to her father, relating the incidents. After some hours, he was escorted out of the lines, returned to the falls, and went up the valley with his warriors without a treaty, but crazed in love with Louisa St. Clair.

In January, 1789, he returned, took no part in the Fort Harmar treaty, was at the feast, and asked St. Clair in vain for his daughter's hand.

In the fall of 1791, Brandt led the Chippewas for a time during the battle at St. Clair's defeat, and told his warriors to shoot the general's horse, but not him. St. Clair had four horses shot under him, and as many bullet-holes in his clothes, but escaped unhurt. Louisa's beauty saved her father's life, but sacrificed his fame; and after his downfall she left Marietta with him and the family, loaded down with sorrow for life.

Source:
Historic Events in the Tuscarawas and Muskingum Valleys, and in other portions of The State of Ohio edited by Charles Howell Mitchener, 1876

Go here for a webpage with other tidbits about Louisa

Washington, KY was the gateway for so many of those who were coming in by flatboat.

She never knew how hard it was going to be to pick and choose.

Judith Robinson walked through the front room of her house, her dark eyes taking in everything. It was a bright, neat room, with light colored walls and plenty of sun coming through real glass windows decorated with simple curtains. As she slowly circled the room, she noted each object: the shelf with their precious books, the spinning wheel, the hearth rug, the table with its white cloth, the settee, the chairs - looking around at what she and her husband had managed to accumulate in twenty years of marriage.

“It’s not like we’re a rich family,” she thought, “but in twenty years, you just manage to get a bit together.”

Every bit of everything they owned weighed and took up space. What did they truly need? What could they leave behind?

Decisions, decisions. She wiped a speck of dust off the cherry wood writing table with the edge of her apron, a wedding gift from her uncle that she suspected would get left behind. Sold, most likely. Maybe it was just that the reality of it was just starting to sink in.

Her husband Samuel had been talking about moving west ever since the end of the war. He had served some time in the western areas where the British had been stirring up the Indians and came back with tales about how lovely the land was. And, truth be known, the times since the war was over had not been particularly good here for him in Pennsylvania. The same was true with so many that she knew. Some had lost their lands, others slipped off in the night, headed south to the Carolinas. Her brother Andrew had been the first of her kin to bolt, and used his bounty land allotment to move to Kentucky. After that, she suspected that it was only a matter of time before it was their turn. And then Andrew showed up, talkin’ about his home and the land, and the opportunity and she knew it was a done deal.

A man walked into the doorway of the room, watching her. He was tall as she was slight, around six foot to her five, and filled the door opening with the width of his shoulders. His red hair now touched with gray was worn a bit long like he still wanted to pull it back. He wore his slops and a smock, and hay was caught on one shoe.

She turned, saw him and smiled ruefully.

“You look like a woman who’s saying goodbye to your best friend, Judith Robinson.”

“Ah, away with you, Samuel. I am thinkin’ about what we can squeeze into our wagon.”

He walked into the room, wrapped one strong arm around her and held her close.

“We will bring what we need. What we can’t make easily, or what would cost more than we want to spend to buy again. What we can’t stand to part with. But remember, we only have one wagon, and it’s going to be hard getting it over the mountains.”

“ I know.”

They stood there in silence. So many memories had happened here, in this room, in this house. All of them, good and bad, seemed to be pressing down on her right this moment. And yet, there was the solidness of Samuel, the feel of his linen smock pressing against her cheek, the smells of barn and sweat and workshop and love all mingled together. Here was her reality, her real home.

“You told me to go ahead, Love,” he said, looking at her deep in the eyes. “I’d never do this if you didn’t agree to it.”

“I know, Samuel. It’s just now that it’s here, I feel a sorrow I didn’t expect,” she said, breaking his gaze, but resting her head against his chest. “I feel so silly to feel so sad.”

“Tell me love if it’s too hard. I haven’t sold the farm yet, and we don’t have to go.”

She looked up at him. There was that part of her that wanted to scream “I don’t want to go!” but seeing him, and how much his dreams were riding on her choice, she knew she would side with love over want. She reached up on tiptoe, kissed his chin. “We’re going, Sweets. Now you have to help me decide what we want to sell before we leave.”

I noticed this, because the ship's captain has the same name as one of my ancestors, but it gives some idea of the type of contract these early passengers had:

"October 7, 1803. Amsterdam. Nathaniel Ray, Captain Ship Commerce. Agreement. I, Nathaniel Ray, Captain, on the one part, and we the passengers on the other part, accept and obligate ourselves as persons of honor. We passengers are obligated to behave ourselves quietly and as good passengers during the voyage, and be fully satisfied with the food below specified agreed upon between the captain and ourselves. In the second place we agree to pay our passage with the following stipulations: Those who are in position to settle (for the passage money) in Amsterdam to pay for one person, whether man or woman. (Children under four years begin free.)

"Those who pay their passage in America shall be bound to produce it within ten days and shall not be allowed to leave the ship. For those who could not pay the ship became the marketplace. The buyers make their choice among the arrivals and bargain with them for a certain number of years and days. They then take them to the merchant, pay their passage and their other debts, and receive from the government authorities a written document which makes the newcomer their property for a definite period of time, usually seven years, to work off their debt.

"If a passenger dies on the voyage, the family of such a person shall be obligated to settle for his passage, if he dies beyond the middle point of the voyage. If he dies on this side of the middle, the loss shall be to the account of the captain.

"On the other part, I, Captain Nathan Ray, obligate myself to furnish them with the necessary convenience of the ship, and further to provide food herein below specified. For this conveyance the above mentioned passage money must be to me. Distribution shall be made daily among these passengers, to wit, to one full passage (a half passage in proportion, for children nothing). Sunday, a pound of beef with barley. Monday, a pound of flour with a pound of butter good for a whole week. Tuesday, a half pound of bacon with peas. Wednesday, a pound of flour. Friday, one-half pound of rice. Saturday, peas, a pound of cheese and six pounds of bread for the week and half pound of bacon. A quart of beer and a quart of water per day. Vinegar also is to be taken along on the ship, not only to keep the ship clean in order to insure good fresh air, but also for the refreshment of the passengers.

"Since beer sours during the voyage, and is then very harmful to the health of the passengers, only enough beer for a part of the voyage will be taken, and when this is gone a double portion of water will be given, half of the water will be supplied for cooking. Each morning a small glass of Holland gin, and each week, now and then, some vinegar.

"We promise to fulfill all the above mentioned, and to this end bind our persons and property as of right."

Source: Sharing Our Links to the Past

I was looking for a document to clarify some points I was researching on flax production in the 18th century, and I ran across this page:

Jamestown Historical Briefs, put out by the Colonial National Historical Park. Besides some stuff more specific to the historiy of Jamestown and some of its shining lights, there was this section of articles on old production techniques. Useful starting site for getting some info how did they do it with some bibliographical information. And it did answer my question about flax production (which was did they broadcast the seed, or use some sort of seed tool to plant it in rows. They broadcast it.)

Brewing
Drug Production
Glass making
Flax Production
Silk Production
Tanning
Pottery Production
TOBACCO: Colonial Cultivation Methods

One of the main roads west for those in the northern part of the country was across Pennsylvania
to pick up the Ohio at or near Pittsburg, and then to take the river to Kentucky or other parts.

This road was called, among other names, the Forbes Road. On a page called Migration Trails in Early Pennsylvania, we get this description:

FORBES ROAD - Raystown Path and The Old Trading Path

In 1758, General John Forbes convinced the Army to use the Raystown Path (Bedford) as a military road. The road to the east had been cleared by Colonel James Burd. However the road was nearly impassable so Colonel Bouquet worked ahead of the advancing army to make the improvements and widen the old bridle path or cut new paths over the hills. By November 24 the army had reached Fort Duquesne. In 1785 the State of Pennsylvania authorized 'The Pennsylvania Road' from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh following the old Forbes Road. The road was changed in many ways. It now ran through Greensburg rather than Hannastown and took a south branch through Wilkinsburg. The Great Conestoga Road, completed in 1741, and the later Lancaster Pike (opened in 1794) went from Philadelphia to Lancaster. These two roads were linked and this was now the main migration route from the east to the Ohio Valley after the Revolution until the building of the Erie Canal in 1834. This road combined the Raystown Path from near Pittsburgh to Harrisburg and the Allegheny Path to Philadelphia.

This site is worth looking at. It has a nice map of several of the early trails. It's especially interested in the migration from eastern PA to Westmoreland County, but includes routes with a short description for all over the state.

Three families with their wagons had stopped in the small clearing. It was on one of the longer stretches between inns on the road to Pittsburg, a pleasant enough place that had been used a lot, it seemed, by the hard packed earth and the trail down to the creek and the lack of easy at hand firewood.

Judith Robinson watched her husband Samuel, coatless in the afternoon heat, expertly unhitching the oxen from their wagon. Looking at him, nearly forty-five but still moving with the ease and sureness of a younger man, but feeling all her aches and pains, she wondered for the umpteenth time the wisdom of their journey west. Yet once again, she chose to put her best face forward.

"How far you think we gone today, Samuel?" Judith asked, smiling at him, holding their youngest, Donald, asleep in her arms. Her linen cap was sweat-stained where it peeked out beneath her straw hat and her petticoat hem was obviously dusty. It had been a hot day, and a long walk through rough and sometimes steep country.

Samuel turned and looked at his wife, lifted his cocked hat above his graying red hair to scratch his head, and thought a moment. "Oh, I suspect we did a good seven mile, Judith, before Asa’s horse got lame. Not bad for the way the road was."

“I’m glad you decided to bring the oxen, Samuel. I know people wondered about it, and your brother decided to take horses, but they’ve done right well for us so far.”

“Yep, they have their advantages. Easier to feed, too. At least it looks like Asa’s horse only needs some rest. That was a rough bit of country.”

"Well, I think it'll be nice not crammed in an inn tonight," Judith said. "I do not believe I rested hardly at all last night."

"It surely was a hard night, all of us trying to squeeze into that one room last night!" he replied.

She turned to see to the children while he continued to care for the animals.

Eleanor, her oldest girl, nearly fourteen, and tall as she was, was carrying two pails of water.

“Ellie, bring that water over here. Have you seen Sarah?”

“I think she was with Lizzy over by Aunt Jennie’s wagon.” Ellie plopped the buckets down, wiped her hands on a stained apron.

“Well go fetch her for me, will you dear? I want her to watch Donald.”

"Edward, you split some kindling yet?” she asked her oldest boy, who was coming in with an armload of firewood. “Cain't have supper until we get a fire going.”

Jennie, Asa's wife, came up to where Judith was making her kitchen. She was a little thing, about five months pregnant, and had that dazed look that people get when they are a little too tired, or maybe had too much sun. Judith worried about her a lot. Her health was more delicate than she would have liked for someone going west.

"I brung some coffee, Judith. I think a dish of coffee would be mighty good tonight."

"That sounds just about right," Judith replied. "Why don't you get Laz to get you a chair, and you kin help me get the soup cooking. Pocket soup and and hoe cakes sounds good to me. Won’t be much in the soup. I got some onions and a tater or two, but it’ll be hot."

Laz, ten, redheaded like his father, and Sarah, nine, came up. Judith handed the sleeping two year old to her, and sent her son off to fetch a stool out of the wagon. Elie went to get supplies for dinner.

Mrs. Smith, just a young thing newly married, maybe twenty years old and fresh out of Philadelphia, came and joined them. The Smiths were headed to the same area in Kentucky, and all three families had been travelling together since crossing the Susequehana. "It makes me nervous to be sleeping out of doors like this," she said.

Judith glanced at the men and the older boys gathered together. Three men, a 16 year old and a twelve year old, taking care of the horses and oxen.. "Well, as busy as this road is, with all the wagoneers and Kentucky bound on it, I ain't too worried. Not with all the folk we got here."

Edward brought the load of kindling and Jennie's oldest brought in some bigger wood. Judith expertly used her flint and steel to get a fire going. "Soon as the water's hot enough, we'll get the coffee going."

Jennie pulled a stocking she was knitting out of her pocket and started working on it.

"Well, I can tell you one thing, sisters," she said. "It feels mighty good not to be moving!"

"Amen!" they replied, then hurried up with making supper so they might be able to get some rest before facing the next day's travels.

Someone said of America about the year 1800 that it looked like the whole country was on the move.

This is the forum for me to discuss and work on my researches into the westward migration before the Oregon trail, especially in the years between 1780-1820.