FOREST AND STREAM 
269 
Across the Continent in “The Sixties” 
I N the latter part of 1867, I came from Cali¬ 
fornia to New York by what was called 
the Nicaragua Route in contradistinction 
to that by way of the Isthmus of Panama. We 
went by steamer from San Francisco to San 
Juan del Sur, in Nicaragua, and from there 
across the Republic to San Juan del Norte, or 
Greytown, on the Gulf of Mexico. From the 
Pacific to Virgirt Bay, on Lake Nicaragua, I 
made the journey alone on the back of a small 
but opinionated mule which persisted in stop¬ 
ping, and kicking violently whenever I applied 
my Stick to his flanks in my efforts to attain a 
speed of more than four miles an hour. 
From Virgin Bay to the Gulf, three or four 
different kinds of lake and river craft were re¬ 
quired to convey us, in as many days, to Grey¬ 
town where we took a steamer for New York. 
After visiting my friends, and transacting what 
business I had to attend to, the question arose; 
by what route shall I go home? I had gone to 
California while still a youth, at the invitation 
of a much older brother, who had resided there 
for many years. The offer came when I had 
just completed a short term of enlistment in the 
army, spent mostly in the mountains of West 
Virginia, and it seemed too alluring to be neg¬ 
lected. The cruisers of the Confederacy were 
at this time very active in their efforts to cripple 
the commerce of the Northern ports by the de¬ 
struction of ships flying the Union flag. Rumor 
had magnified the number of vessels in the ser¬ 
vice of the South; and whenever there appeared 
upon the distant horizon a streak of smoke, the 
passengers gathered upon the deck and speculated 
as to what vessel it might prove to be, and upon 
the chances of its displaying the Stars and Bars 
instead of our own, or some neutral flag. If 
the former, we were likely to lose our passage 
money and our baggage, and be put ashore with¬ 
out funds at some foreign port. My voyage on 
both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans was con¬ 
cluded, however, without our encountering any 
craft more dangerous than our own. 
Having travelled by both of the Isthmus routes, 
there remained now only one other, and as I 
wanted a new experience I decided to take the 
overland route to Sacramento, the capital of 
California, which was then my home. 
The Union Pacific Railway had at that time 
been pushed as far west as Cheyenne; but be¬ 
yond that to California, the stage coach ran 
through a country wholly given up to Indians 
and wild animals, except for a string of stage 
stations, an occasional trading post, and the in¬ 
frequent forts where a company or two of sol¬ 
diers represented the power and authority of the 
United States Government, and endeavored to en¬ 
force it. The preceding autumn had witnessed 
some of the most severe fights between our 
troops and hostile Indians, that had been known 
in western border warfare, and during the fol¬ 
lowing year, including the time of my crossing, 
stage coaches were attacked by Indians, on 
eleven different occasions; though as a rule the 
chance of failure was so great, and the booty 
to be secured of so little value, that the red men 
usually left the coaches unmolested, considering 
the game not worth the candle. 
By “Lexden.’’ 
In March, I was visiting some of my kindred 
in Fort Madison, Iowa, where the attractions of 
a young lady cousin inclined me to stay as long 
as possible; but the period I had fixed upon as 
the limit of my absence- from the Golden State, 
was drawing to a close, and accordingly, on the 
24th of March, I took a train for Keokuk, and 
thence to Des Moines; the end of the railway. 
From there to Boone (or Boonesborough, as I 
think it was then called), on the Chicago & 
Northwestern Railway, there was an interval of 
stage coach travel. 
I stayed at the old Savery House at Des 
Moines, and next morning with eight other pas¬ 
sengers, just filling the inside seats of a Con¬ 
cord coach, started on the forty mile drive to 
the railway. The morning was pleasant, the roads 
fairly good at the start, and as three of the pas¬ 
sengers were agreeable young women, the trip 
bid fair to be a pleasant one; but alas! for the 
vanity of human hopes, the sky became over¬ 
cast, and presently it began to rain. 
The frost was but recently out of the ground, 
which was consequently soft, and that, with the 
rain, soon made the roads almost impassable. 
Anyone who knows the prairie in a wet spring, 
will appreciate the state of affairs. We could 
only go at a slow walk; and at times were splash¬ 
ing through the water and mud nearly to the 
hubs. At length the coach stopped; we were 
fairly stalled, and the horses could do nothing. 
Around us was water nearly knee deep, and no 
land, firm enough for a footing, nearer than 
twenty feet. There was nothing to be done but 
get out and wade; this the women passengers 
could not be expected to do; so we carried them 
to firm ground by the simple expedient of each 
pair of men making what, as children, we used 
to call “a chair” by grasping our own and our 
partner’s wrists, so as to offer a seat for the fair 
one. As there were six strong young men and 
only three -women, fortunately none of whom 
were very heavy, this was soon done, and then the 
horses, there were four of them, succeeded in 
hauling the empty coach to a place where we 
could once more get in. Again and again this 
experience was repeated until a kingdaolt, or 
something equally important, broke, and the 
driver announced that he could not go on until 
repairs were made, which would take sometime. 
It was so near night, that there was no chance 
of resuming the journey that day. 
Fortunately there was a farm house close at 
hand, where the women and some of the men 
could be accommodated, but the writer and 
another of the passengers, a Mr. Buckley of St. 
Louis, with whom I had become somewhat inti¬ 
mate, hearing there was another farm in the 
river bottom -about a mile away, went there. 
We located it from the blue smoke ascending 
from its single chimney, and made a bee-line for 
the place. The house was of logs, and had but 
two rooms. A man was chopping wood at a 
pile near the front door. On learning our plight, 
he welcomed us cordially. He had no extra bed, 
but could give us buffalo robes and blankets to 
spread on the floor, a warm house and a com¬ 
fortable fire. He and his brother were keeping 
bachelors’ hall vriiile they cleared up part of 
their farm; neither of them were married; they 
were from Maine and had come out to Iowa to 
grow up with the country. The one whom we 
found at the woodpile was the elder, who had 
come in a little earlier than usual to get supper, 
milk their cows and feed their stock, of -which 
they had considerable in log pens and sheds in 
the rear. We warmed and dried ourselves be¬ 
fore . the fire while our host went on with his 
work. When the younger brother -came in, sup¬ 
per was soon got ready, a meal we heartily en¬ 
joyed. 
The night was passed upon the floor in front 
of the open fire, and no bed -could have seemed 
more luxurious. In the morning the weather 
was colder, but not enough to freeze -more than 
a crust on the mud, making the traveling rather 
worse than on the day previous. Acting upon 
the advice of our hosts, we decided to walk the 
remainder of the distance to Boonesborough, 
about twelve miles, leaving the coach to bring 
on our traveling bags, -thus relieving ourselves 
of any responsibility as regards that vehicle, or 
interest in it, except as it carried our small lug¬ 
gage. 
Having told the driver of our intention, we 
started across the unfenced prairies, in the direc¬ 
tion which had been pointed out to us. By the 
time we had covered three or four miles of oUr 
journey, the sky was overcast, and soon a bliz¬ 
zard upon a small scale accompanied by snow 
and sleet, was howling around us. The left side 
of my face received the full effect of the ice¬ 
laden wind, and for protection I tucked my 
handkerchief under my cap and held it as a 
shield; it was soon frozen as stiff as a board, 
and served its purpose well. Our brisk walk 
kept our bodies and feet warm; about two 
o’clock we reached Boonesborough, and an hour 
later the coach arrived with the rest of the pas¬ 
sengers. I doubt if their experience was any 
more agreeable than ours, for we could at least 
keep our blood in circulation by exercise. To 
Council Bluffs, the journey was made by rail- 
. way in comfort. Here I purchased my ticket 
to Sacramento, California, paying therefor an 
even three hundred dollars .($300.00) for trans¬ 
portation only, meals to be paid for as furnished. 
The price for these -was $1.00 each at all sta¬ 
tions. 
This was in the days before the resumption of 
specie payments by the Government, after the 
Civil War, and greenbacks were at a discount in 
California, where only gold and silver circulated 
as currency; and paper money was unknown, 
except as a commodity bought and sold by 
brokers at fluctuating prices. A Californian of 
those days, if going to “the States” on business 
or pleasure, would purchase some greenbacks, 
just as one buys a small -supply of foreign money 
before sailing for Europe, but I lived for years in 
California without seeing any paper currency 
except in brokers’ windows. 
East of the Rocky Mountains, on the other 
hand, paper was the currency in use, while gold 
and silver, being at a premium, were not in cir¬ 
culation. At the bank in Council Bluffs where I 
