On the wall of my grandfather’s parlor on the banks of the Mohawk, way back in old York State, more than a half century ago, hung a small steel engraving which had a most peculiar fascination for me as a boy. The view was that of a wide spreading prairie. In the foreground an emigrant with his covered wagon in which was assembled his family and all his earthly possessions, with the ever present dog and a cow or two following on behind. The fleeing emigrant was gazing in terror behind him and following in his wake was a great mountain of flame and smoke reaching to the very heavens which threatened soon to overwhelm him in its onward march. I never entered that parlor without gazing with breathless interest on that picture and wondering what the outcome would be between the helpless traveler and the fire fiend which was sweeping toward him like a besom of destruction. How little did I then think that in a brief period I would be called upon to look at an almost identical picture—only that the picture I should behold would be a reality. I well remember the night, back in the fall of ’58 or ’59, after we had moved west and were living in Black Hawk County. We saw and remarked about the fire as the shades of evening fell, but as the blaze was fully ten miles away we felt no apprehension, for there was never a night at that time of the year but that the heavens would brilliantly reflect back the work of the fiery monster somewhere within the range of one’s vision. By midnight it was upon us. Starting from some point seemingly south of Pilot’s Grove, it swept over the intervening country, then a trackless wilderness, across Elk’s Run, licking up in its remorseless path everything combustible, and when near my father’s residence the few settlers then living out that way assembled to make such a stand as was possible and attempt to curb the onward march of the monster.
When morning broke what a scene of blackness and desolation was all about us. Thousands upon thousands of acres had been burned over; where now are comfortable farm houses, generous barns, groves of timber, and other improvements, there was one black waste. Hundreds of stacks of grain and hay and many small and unprotected sheds and barns went up in smoke that night, but so far as I remember only one house fell prey to the flames. This was a log structure, standing about a mile south of us on what was called the Independence Road, which a short time before had been abandoned as a residence and was filled with hay.
How well I remember the year 1858. Rain, rain, rain! Would it never stop raining? The wheat crop was an absolute failure. Not as much grain was harvested from an acre of land as had been put in at seed time. And that gathered would not be considered decent screenings now. I remember my father taking a couple of sacks of this grain to Frenchtown (now Gilbertville), as we could not get it ground in Waterloo on account of the high stage of the water, and the flour we received was so poor that bread could not be made from it—the loaves after baking being about as palatable as cannon balls, and nearly as hard. The country that year was one vast succession of lakes and ponds and ducks and geese never left this region during the whole summer.
It was during this year that I got my first schooling in Iowa. We lived some three miles east of Waterloo and I walked in to attend the sessions, going to a small stone or concrete building not far from the present east side high school. The teacher, if I remember rightly, was Mrs. McStay. One afternoon in particular is indelibly impressed upon my memory. It had rained nearly all day and on my returning home after securing the loan of an overcoat from a family by the name of Fiske, with whom we were well acquainted, on reaching the "big slough" a half mile from home, I found confronting me a veritable river, several hundred feet across. As I felt certain there were no sink holes about I boldly waded in and reached home safely, though wet to my waist. Reaching into my pocket after getting home I was astonished to find therein a handful of clay. It was all that I had left of the marbles I had played with a few hours before.
During that summer I accompanied my father on one of his trips to town and when a few blocks from the river on the east side we found our way barred by a lagoon of back water from the Cedar, which it was necessary to cross in a boat. Here I got the scare of my life, for the boat was loaded as full as it could possibly carry and then someone carelessly rocked it and it began to dip water. I remember yet how terribly frightened I was, though I do not suppose the water could have been over three feet deep.
I think it was this same year that our family came to town to enjoy the Fourth of July exercises and were obliged to wait until afternoon before an approach could be built so we could get onto the boat from the east side. The exercises were in Mullan’s Grove, and speaking of that boat, will I ever forget how near our family came to being wiped out in the twinkling of an eye. The boat when in use was open at both ends—no bar or plank to prevent a team from getting off either at the front or rear. It was propelled by steam, had great paddle wheels at either side, and on this particular occasion, when those wheels started, the horses suddenly took fright and began backing away from the great blades as they began to move. Father jumped out and seized the horses by their heads, but was powerless to prevent the backward movement; mother was in the buggy with the reins in her hands, and an infant in her arms, with my sister beside her. I jumped out when the team began to back, but that was all I could do. The fortunate circumstance that one horse backed more rapidly than the other and cramped the wagon around so that one wheel struck the side of the boat was all that saved the family. Another foot farther and mother, sister, brother and team would have been engulfed in the swift current and doubtless all would have been drowned. What the fate of that old ferryboat was we have all forgotten, but we believe it twice went over the dam that year by the breaking of the cable, which held it in place. This, however, was not such an alarming event, as the dam then existing was a brush affair, not anywhere as high as the present one, and with the great quantity of water running over it its presence could hardly be detected. If we mistake not the old boiler from that boat lay for several years on the riverbank before being consigned to the junk shop.
In August of that year occurred the drowning of two very prominent young ladies who, with a young man, were out pleasure riding. Their boat ran onto the submerged roots of a tree on an island where the railroad bridge now crosses the river, was overturned and both perished, the youth hanging onto a tree until help came. No event in the early history of the city ever caused such a profound sensation as the drowning of these two young ladies. Months afterwards their remains were found, partly covered by sand and brush, some five or six miles down the river. Their clothing had been washed from their bodies and they were not recognizable, owing to the bloating induced by the water action.
At another time our family came to town to attend church, crossing the river on the ice, which then seemed sound. When the services were over we found the river had broken up and we were unable to return to home. Father found a boatman named Williams, a skillful oarsman of that day, who rowed him across in a skiff just above the dam at Second Street. I remember seeing father push cakes of ice away from the boat on their journey across. The family were obliged to seek refuge with friends for several days before returning home.
What a tide of emigration there was coming to Iowa in the spring of 1857. We crossed the Mississippi at Dubuque in the latter part of March of that year - partly on ice, partly in a rowboat, and secured a man with team and lumber wagons to haul us to Waterloo. No railroads out this way then. We slept on a floor every night, glad of a roof to cover our heads. When we reached Buffalo Creek we found more water running on either side of the bridge than was running under it. We piled boards on top of the box of the wagon, piled our boxes of household goods on top of them and climbed up on top of the whole, and thus we safely crossed the Buffalo, the water coming up into the wagon on either side of the bridge.
It must have been in the early spring of 1860 that father hauled a load of wheat to Independence - the nearest market. We started before daylight and before we reached Pilot’s Grove the sun was just peeping above the horizon. As we drove into a little clearing in the grove we met the man living there, who was coming from his barn to his house. As we drove up near him he sneezed. Now, why should I remember a sneeze, which occurred fifty years ago? Well, the atmospheric conditions and the surroundings were just right for the most beautiful echo which ever greeted my ears. I can remember yet this his "kish-ho" as it rang out on the still morning air and answering back came the echo "ho-ho, ho-ho," until it died away in the distance. We reached Independence after dinner, as the frost was out of the ground and the wheeling was heavy, and just as we got in sight of the bridge across the Wapsie, right on the main street of the city, our wagon sunk down to near the hubs in the mud, the doubletree gave way, and there we were in the middle of the town, stuck fast. Father picked the grain out off the wagon, a sack at a time, repaired the broken piece, and finally got things righted up and the grain to an elevator. I believe he received 54 cents a bushel for his wheat. It was midnight when we got home.
I think it was the winter before that we raised a lot of fat hogs. As there was no market for them in Waterloo my father loaded up, in the dead of winter, a load of dressed pork and drove to McGregor to dispose of them. I do not remember what he received for them. I do know he was absent about a week on the trip and on his return, when in the immediate vicinity of the residence, he thought to save a little time by driving across lots, although there was absolutely nothing to guide his course only the knowledge that he was near home. As darkness closed in upon him a gentle snow began falling, which kept up nearly all night. He spent the long and dreary hours on the prairie, knowing that he was near home, but being powerless to extricate himself from his dilemma. Fortunately the weather was not cold or he might have perished. When daylight broke, he found the home was in full view, about a mile to the southward.
What a time were those early years for game. One could not look upward in the early spring without seeing countless thousands of birds in their northern flight, and the prairie fowl were so numerous that the noise of their wings in flight was like distant thunder, and they almost darkened the sun like clouds as they flew over.
Fifty years and we are a boy again! We stroll to the summit of a hill hard by the old homestead. What a view is spread out before us. We cast our eyes to the eastward. A magnificent valley lay in the range of our vision. Miles upon miles of flower-bedecked, green-carpeted prairie, untrodden by the foot of man, untouched by the plow of the husbandman. Again we drink in the fresh, pure air of spring. We listen to the joyous warbling of the feathered songsters, to the melodious "boo-hoo-hoo" of thousands of the prairie fowl, as they sport unmolested in their native haunts. And at a point where earth and sky seem to meet, we see silhouetted against the sky the distant outline of Pilot’s Grove. We cast our eyes to the westward and note the onward progress of civilization, in the jets of steam which we observe through the woods at the fringe of the river. It heralds the approach of the Black Hawk, the first and only boat ever braving the treacherous shoals of navigation on the upper Cedar. We look again - we hear the shrill shriek of the iron horse - we note, day by day, the approach of the construction gang as it clips off the space between Waterloo and the outer world. We are struggling, backwoods village no longer. We step up and take our position in the ranks of the world.
Fifty years! What history has been written in this brief period. What changes - what joys and sorrows - have come to those of us who are left. The pioneers are passing-passing-over to the Great Beyond. There are empty chairs at the old fireside. The places they once filled in the family group are vacant. The teeming brain, the tireless footstep, the active body is at rest. They blazed the way and we who came after entered into their possessions. Here and there a few are still with us, pioneers who were the bone and brawn, the muscle and sinew of those early times. But the bent form, the silvery locks, the unsteady footstep speak only too eloquently of the great change that awaits us all.
"It was in the month of March, 1863, that the writer hereof, a stripling of fifteen, applied for the position of 'printer's devil' on the only newspaper then published in this city (Waterloo), The Waterloo Courier, in answer to an ad of ‘apprentice wanted.’ According to a custom in vogue we at once became a member of Mr. Hartman’s family, which consists at that time of Mr. Hartman, his wife and two sons, the youngest, Will, now deceased and John C., the present editor of the Courier. At the breakfast table that morning John occupied a high chair and an attempt to get acquainted with the gentleman elicited from him the exclamation ‘E’ and that was as near as he got to calling our name for several months. After breakfast we were introduced to a woodpile at the rear of the house, where we found one of the dullest axes it was ever our good fortune to wield, and at once proceeded to demolish sundry slabs of red elm, so green that the water oozed out of them as we split them up. How the women folks ever prepared meals with such fuel has ever been a wonder to your scribe, but we cheerfully testify to the fact that they did, just the same. The wood pile replenished, we wended our way across lots from Mr. Hartman’s place of residence, which was a small cottage standing near the head of Bridge Street, about where the dry goods store, Nos 510-512 Commercial Street, now stands, to the office, which occupied a one-story frame building about 16 by 24 feet in size, facing on Fourth Street, on ground later occupied by the Middleditch Block and now known as No. 510 Fourth Street West.
"The building was divided into two rooms, the larger one containing the printing outfit, which consisted at that time, as near as we can remember, of a small quantity of news type, a few fonts of display, a limited assortment of wood type, a job press large enough to print a letter head, and an old Washington hand press, with a chair or two, a plain pine table, or writing desk, and three or four racks for holding the type racks. The office force at that time consisted of Mr. Hartman, a young man by the name of Will Haddock, and myself, and this constituted the entire help about the office that summer.
"Mr. Hartman was editor, job printer, bookkeeper, collector; in fact, a general utility man; Haddock set the type for the paper, while I, occupying the humble position of apprentice, did all the odd jobs and errands which fall to the lot of the boy learning the trade. In the bottom of the racks where Bill Haddock and I set type were bunks, and here, after the labors to the day were over, we sought repose, but they were far from being ‘downy beds of ease,’ and on more than one occasion I have repaired to my father’s barn on North Commercial Street and found rest in a mow of new-mown hay, not a bad place to sleep I can assure the reader.
"The country was new, money far from plentiful, the wants of business men limited: the Civil war engrossed the attention of all, and the office force as then constituted easily took care of all the business coming its way. Gold and silver had disappeared from circulation and the business men had to resort to $1 and $2 paper checks issued for them by the banks and for a medium of exchange in smaller amounts the banks issued cards good for 10, 15, 25, and 50 cents, which would be redeemed when presented in sums of one dollar or more. We well remember these tickets, signed by the old banking firm of Leavitt & Lusch, which passed freely among our citizens as silver coin does now. The man in business now can hardly realize the struggles and hardships borne by the business man of a half century ago. There came a time in the history of the Courier when its proprietor had to have money, no matter at what cost, or lose his whole investment. Then it was that Mr. Hartman applied to a local money lender and was compelled to pay the outrageous price of 3 per cent a month for the accommodation of a small loan.
"The Courier at that time was a four-page paper, five columns to the page, and while it would seem now not much more than a hand bill, then it was fully equal to the demands of the times.
"I well remember the night before the Fourth of July that year. The office had a job of hand bills to get out for Raymond Brothers grocery and Haddock and I worked until long after midnight to finish the job so that we might have the Fourth as a holiday; haddock worked the press and I, behind the machine, manipulated the roller which inked the type. Young America had already begun to celebrate before we got to bed that night; in fact, my fellow worker did not go to bed at all, but began at once the celebration, and when morning came with guns banging, crackers exploding, anvils firing and bells ringing, we found Bill curled up on the lawn beside the Hartman residence, in the hot July sun, sound asleep.
"During that summer how well I remember what a shock came over the community when word was conveyed from mouth to mouth that Capt. Fred Washburn was dead. The captain had been dangerously wounded in a battle a few weeks previously and had reached home only the night before, just in time to breathe his last under his own roof. The funeral service, which was held in the Methodist Church, which stood on the south corner of the intersection of Jefferson and Fourth streets, was one of the largest conducted in this city up until that time.
"One day I happened to notice a crowd of men and boys gathered on the walk in front of Maverick & Siberling’s hardware store and D. Kruse’s shoe shop, almost across the street from the old Central House. On repairing thither we found in the center of the group Peter Dorlan, in his army blue, with a red sash around his waste. Peter had been granted a furlough and was recovering from a wound received at the battle of Pea Ridge, and from the interest taken by our people at that time one could see it was no ordinary event. Mr. Dorlan recovered from his wound, went back to the front, and after serving his country faithfully, came back at the close of the war and was permitted to live for many years, an honored resident of Waterloo.
"In the fall of ’63 Mr. Hartman made a trip to the East, being absent from the office for several weeks, and in casting about for someone to fill the editorial chair, secured the services of our late fellow townsman, Henry J. Harrison, who, even at the early age, gave evidence of literary ability far above the average. It is needless to say Mr. Harrison gave eminent satisfaction in his position as local and editorial writer during his brief sojourn as editor.
"Sometime during the war Mr. Hartman decided to branch out in a business and putting an outfit of a printing press, type and a couple of printers into a wagon, started for Grundy Center, then but a mere hamlet, but with big possibilities for the future. The Grundy County Pioneer soon made its appearance as a result of this effort. The patronage was not sufficient to warrant Mr. Hartman in continuing the publication and after a few weeks it was suspended. The enterprise, however, was not without results, as the publication of the delinquent tax list brought several hundred dollars into the Courier’s exchequer.
"It was in 1865 that business improved and Mr. Hartman felt called upon to secure more commodious quarters, and the second story of the ‘old stone store’ was leased, and here the office found a home for several years. The old stone store stood upon the Russell-Lamson Block corner of Fourth and Commercial streets and up to this time Benight’s Hall was one of the principal places for public gatherings, church meetings, lectures, singing schools, etc., but after its occupancy as a printing office it was never used again as a public hall. Here it was that the Courier did its first two-sheet poster work. Somewhere near Jesup lived a family by the name of Orton and in 1865 they decided to start a circus company. Old man Orton came to Waterloo to arrange for some printed matter and it was then that the office got out this work for the Orton show. The sheets were printed in red and for want of a better place to dry them were spread upon the office floor, and after lying there for a day or two were gathered and pasted together and quite a creditable job was the result, considering the facilities then at hand for its accomplishment.
"As I remember the surroundings of the office at that time, just across the alley stood a wooden building occupied as a furniture store by O. W. Ellsworth; immediately across the street was a stone residence occupied by Mr. Wellman and family, and we had daily evidence of the job it was to keep the ‘small boy’ of the home within bounds, even a picket fence and a rope tether not always proving sufficient, and Mrs. Wellman had many an anxious hour in searching about the town for her wandering boy. Just across the street from the Ellsworth furniture store stood an old stone building occupied as a blacksmith shop by Ben Stewart and at the other corner of the lot was his residence on the spot now occupied by the Iowa State Bank. Just at the rear of his residence was a well of excellent water, where ye printer’s devil secured the needed liquid for use about the office.
"It was in the same year of ’65 that the old Red Jacket Fire Company made a Fourth of July excursion to Iowa Falls. The train was well filled. I can yet see in memory on that bright, summer morning, Morris Case with his long drover’s stick, as he walked from one car to another of the packed waiting train, and heard his keen "Hi! Hi! Hi!’ while he jabbed vigorously some particular friend, as he was wont to do with an ornery animal in a train of cattle. The fire boys were all there – Bob Chapman, George Beck, George Crittenden, Sam Hoff, Dick Morrow, Charley White, My Barker, Mart Adams, Harvey Jenney, Lafayette Walker, John Hubbard, Jule Hollister and host of others.
"How ruthlessly has time thinned the ranks of those faithful fire fighters of a half century ago! How the firemen of that period fairly idolized the one they long called chief – Bob Chapman – as he was affectionately known, and we venture the statement that no more faithful fire fighter or more loyal captain ever directed the destinies of the department of our city.
"The memories of ’65! How they came sweeping over us, notwithstanding the lapse of years. Will any old resident forget that ever-memorable night when the news flashed over the land that Lee had surrendered. All knew this sounded the death knell of the war. How the leading men of the town, Judge Couch, John Leavitt, Doctor Barber, Gad Gilbert – we cannot enumerate them all for they all were there – merchants, lawyers, bankers, ministers, doctors, formed a procession with torch lights and an impromptu band and marched, shouting, through the streets, singing ‘Glory, Glory, Hallelujah.’
"Then from the very pinnacle of joy, what a plunge into the depths of despair. Is there a soul living in Waterloo of mature years who cannot remember that fateful Saturday morning, only two days later, when business houses were closed and men stood in whispering groups about the street, seemingly paralyzed, stunned by the sudden awful news that our beloved President had been assassinated. A great American flag hung across Fourth Street, heavily draped in black and across its face appeared a large portrait of Abraham Lincoln. Those were the days that tried men’s souls.
"And speaking of war times, how well we remember the Great War meetings that were held in the early ‘60s on the steps of the old Congregational Church. We can in memory hear the silver-voiced Curtiss, the ringing denunciations of old Doctor Smith, the fervid patriotism of Father Eberhart, who gave five boys to save the Union, and then capped the climax by volunteering himself as chaplain. And there were others, many others, but greater than all were the boys who shouldered their muskets and marched to the front. And some of them never returned, and in our midst today are others where the empty sleeve, the bent and decrepid form speak eloquently of battles fought and hardships borne without a murmur that we might have a united country.
"About this time a tailor conducted a small shop in the Bueghley Building on Bridge Street, where the Irving Hotel now stands. When Lee’s surrender was announced he was waited upon by some of our citizens and asked to illuminate his shop on the evening of jollification. He refused, but intimated that he would be glad to do so if the nation’s chief could be gotten out of the way. This cruel remark was overlooked in the excitement of the moment, but when Lincoln’s death was announced, it was recalled only too clearly. It was gently intimated to him that it would not be conducive to his health to remain in our city another night. Mr. Tailor took the hint and that afternoon was seen with his pack on his back, several miles down the road, going towards Raymond.
"There was great unanimity of views among our people as to the conduct of the war, but occasionally a hot head talked more than it was wise for him. In this class might be named a lawyer named Rawson, who lived in our city during the Rebellion. Rawson was a pronounced secessionist and his rabid views got him into trouble. A crowd got after him one day after he had been expressing himself in a peculiarly obnoxious manner. He took refuge in an upstairs room at the Central House. Rawson was followed to his hiding place and brought down to the street where a rope had been secured and suspended from the top of the hotel. With disheveled hair and a torn coat he was mounted on a dry goods box and made a speech to the assembled crowd in which he expressed very modified views on the subject which then engrossed the attention of all. He was allowed his freedom and did not get a chance to test the strength of the rope, but a few weeks later Mr. Rawson concluded it would be more congenial for him in some other community, and, packing his belongings, left for other fields, never to return. We believe he holds the distinction of being the only citizen of Waterloo whose departure was celebrated by the firing of cannon.
"But all this is in the past. A few of the gray heads and bent forms still are among us, but the active business and professional man of a half century ago has passed from the stage. A new generation is to the front, eager to take up the cares and duties of the present, which the older heads very willingly relinquish. Will the next half century show such advances in material, mental and moral growth? We trust it may, but time alone can tell."
