Something of the Pettijohn (Pettyjohn) Family

-3-

DYER  BURGESS  PETTIJOHN

OUR father, Dyer Burgess Pettijohn (37) was born September 10, 1834, near Sardinia, in Brown County, Ohio, and died at his home in Twin Falls, Idaho, July 19, 1924, in his ninetieth year. In his lifetime he saw great changes in all phases of American life. He truly lived in eventful times. Born of pioneer stock and possessed of the pioneer spirit and of adventurous nature, he was in many of the places where history was being made and played his part as an actor as well as an observer. Father's boyhood was spent near Huntsville, Illinois, where, as he once remarked, "At that time children raised on an Illinois farm had a chance to grow, but that was about all the chance they did have, as schools were scarce and very few of us were Lincolns."

Jerome (36) and Dyer (37) were so close together in age, and being the youngest of the family, were constant companions. Their sister, Hannah (182), told us that Jerome and Dyer were a lively pair and always up to something. She told of coming home on a visit after she was married and said it seemed entirely natural that the first thing she saw as she got in sight of the house was Dyer chasing Jerome and going his best around the house. They had been up to some of their tricks. Father said that when they got too noisy in the house his mother would say, "Out of the house, you gallus shacks, you." When we were living in British Columbia an occasional letter came to Father from Uncle Jerome who was then living in Huntsville. Thru the years they kept up an intermittent correspondence.

Father got what education he could at the district school and it was planned to send him away to college. He was a tall stripling of a boy and none too strong physically. One brother had died from tuberculosis. After consulting with the old country doctor it was decided that it would be best for his health if he should spend a year in his brother Eli's lumber camp in the pine woods of Minnesota, and that is what he did. Many are the stories he told us about that camp in the worth woods. It was built of logs with no doors or windows, tightly enclosed on three sides and heated by a huge fireplace on which the cooking was done. Father said it seemed that food never tasted so good as it did in that camp in the pine woods. On the coldest days the men kept comfortable at their work in the timber. At night they would entertain each other with songs and stories. The brothers, Eli and Dyer, played their violins and there were others. In all, they had quite an orchestra, or sorts. They debated, had wrestling matches and jumping contests, mixing work with play.

Uncle Eli was six feet two inches tall and built in proportion. Almost unbelievable were the stories told of his strength and physical endurance. It was said that he could and did out wrestle, out jump, out fight and out work any man in the camp. This can well be believed, for he was without sickness or any disabling infirmities up to within three days of his death which took place in his one hundredth year.

We have all heard this story, but Father told us more than fifty years ago that it actually originated there in the lumber camp in the pine woods. It seems that an Italian laborer was trying to impress the boys with the fact that he was from nobility. "Why," he said, "I am a Count in my own country." One of the men said, "Well, you may be a Count in your own country, but you're no Count here."

The winter in the pine woods lengthened into two years. Eli sold his holdings and went to Minneapolis. Dyer went home to Huntsville, husky and healthy, but not to stay. He worked one year for his brother-in-law, his sister Harriet's husband, and he must have worked hard for whenever he mentioned his employer he always said "He was cut out for a slave driver." Then followed several years of rambling around, seeing new country. He heard the famous Lincoln-Douglas debates in Illinois, went trapping one winter and in spring visited his brother Eli (25) and his sister Lydia in Minnesota. She (14), with her husband Alexander Huggins, were Presbyterian missionaries to the Sioux Indians. Father was a lover of good music and in his day was no mean performer on the violin himself. It is easy to understand that when he had an opportunity to hear the celebrated Norwegian violinist, Ole Bull, the event remained with him and was the subject of comment throughout his long life.

In the decade preceding the outbreak of the civil war, Kansas was the scene of much pro- and anti-slavery activity and Father, for perhaps no better reason than the hope of seeing what was going on, went to Lawrence in that state and was there when the town was sacked and burned and many lives lost when the slavery and anti-slavery factions came to virtual civil was in the spring of 1856. The Sharps rifle, a new weapon of precision and persuasion was much in evidence.

Born in the North of anti-slavery parentage, his reactions were entirely anti-slavery. As has been mentioned grandfather Abraham (13) was a conductor on the "underground railroad," an organization which was assisting negro slaves to escape from their masters in the South and to speed them on their way to freedom in Canada. Father was about twelve when one night his father (Abraham 13) took him out to the loft of the big barn (still standing in 1946), and showed him the runaway negroes secreted there. He thought it best to let Dyer in on the secret lest he inadvertently give away the fact that there were unexplained comings and goings from their place at night. Upon discovery any person aiding a "fugitive slave" was severely dealt with, but there were always those who would take the risk. Some of the slaves had come from cruel masters, as the scars on their backs gave testimony, while others had been kindly treated, but notwithstanding were willing to risk their lives for freedom.

Necessarily the business of aiding slaves to escape was a dangerous one calling for courage and ingenuity. Our father told us about a searching party which came to the place looking for two runaway slaves. Permission was given to search the premises but nothing was found, as the negroes were secreted in a shock of corn standing in the field. On another occasion, while traveling on the road, grandfather was overtaken by two officers on horseback who asked what he was hauling. He replied, "Meat." The officers looked in the wagon and saw several neatly dressed hogs on a bed of straw. What they did not know was that there were two shaking negroes underneath the straw.

In 1859 Father joined a party of gold seekers bound for Pike's Peak in Colorado. He said he exemplified the slogan, common among the pioneers of the day, "Pike's Peak or Bust," for he furnished most of the outfit and finances for the trip and was "busted" by the time he had made the rounds of Leadville and Cripple Creek and got back to Pike's Peak. While he was in a mining camp about forty miles from Denver an express rider came in with the news of "the war between the states." Nothing suited him better than to get into the scrap. At that time the people of the north thought the war would be of short duration, so if Father was to see anything of it he concluded he would have to hurry. He immediately started for Fort Snelling, Minnesota, where on October 5, 1861, he joined up with the First Company of Sharpshooters from Minnesota. which was being organized under permission direct from the secretary of war by Captain Francis Peteler who had seen service in the Mexican War. The intention was to form an independent company of practical riflemen, who had had experience with the rifle in hunting, and were inured to hardship by a life on the frontier. The company arrived in Washington, D. C., October 10, 1861, and reported to Colonel H. Berdan, at camp of instruction, near the foot of Seventh Street and became known in military circles throughout the world as "Berdan's Sharpshooters," later merged into the renowned First United States Sharpshooters, being Company "A" of the "gallant First Minnesota." The arduous duty of the organization in the battles of Fredericksburg, Spottsylvania Court House, Second Battle of Bull Run, Antietam, South Mountain, Chancellors Ville and the great Battle of Gettysburg, is a matter of history. In May, 1863, Father won his first commission and assumed the duties of a lieutenant. He remembered, and told about, seeing President Lincoln with his son Tad walking over the battlefield at Antietam. He fought in many of the hardest battles of the Civil War, serving with Generals Pope and McDowell at Bull Run, with McClellan at South Mountain, with Burnside at Antietam, at Fredericksburg with Hooker, at Chancellors Ville with Meade, and was taken prisoner at the Battle of Gettysburg, where he was commissioned captain in the field. As a prisoner of war he was sent south, first to Libby Prison and later to Macon, Georgia, and Charleston and Columbia, South Carolina. Father won a citation for bravery on the field of battle at Antietam and at the time of his death still carried a letter from his colonel commending him for his conduct in that great struggle. The story of his prison experience is best told by himself in a talk he gave while living at Dayton, Washington, where he took an active part in the local Grand Army of the Republic. Fortunately a record of the speech was made and transcribed, and, as we believe his descendants will be interested to read it, here it is in full, just as he gave it some three score years ago:

P R I S O N L I F E
"Comrades, Ladies and Gentlemen:

I had hoped that this occasion might pass without being called upon to respond, but it seems that your committee has ordered differently and have billed me to speak on "Prison Life," which carries the inference at least that I know something about that subject, or, in other words that I have been there; to which charge I suppose I may as well own up.

Twice in my lifetime I have been deprived of my liberty. The first time was when I was something of a boy and was brought about when I contracted a debt of thirty dollars to one John Anderson for "Store clothes." He, thinking that I was going off to Pike's Peak with a party of prospectors without paying him, swore out a warrant for my arrest and detention in the county jail. This he had power to do at that time in the state of Illinois, unless I saw fit to make affidavit that I was bankrupt and not able to pay the debt. This I refused to do, so the officer started with me to his destination the county jail. We had not proceeded far, when a favorable opportunity offering, I jumped from the hack and ran for the brush, followed by the officer. Thanks to my pair of long legs he was unable to connect, and I went on my way rejoicing to Pike's Peak. About a year afterwards I paid Anderson for his store clothes, as I had always intended to do, only I did not like the way he took to make the collection. So ended my first imprisonment. My second experience was somewhat different and did not terminate so speedily.

The beginning of the war of the rebellion, also known as the civil war, found me prospecting for gold in the Rocky Mountains, in the vicinity of Pike's Peak, in Colorado. The people in the North, at the outbreak of hostilities, thought the war would be of short duration. There was much talk about secession and the anti-slavery movement at that time and I soon took the war fever, returned to Minnesota, enlisted in the army and joined the forces being prepared to move to the front. My outfit was engaged in many of the important battles of the war, but as I am supposed to talk about prison life, I must pass them over and get on with my subject.

The fall of '61 arrived. I was a member of that great military organization known in military circles throughout the world as "Berdan's Sharpshooters." After training at Washington and elsewhere our outfit had been made a part of the Army of the Potomac, being attached to the renowned First United States Sharpshooters, being Company "A" of the "gallant First Minnesota." On the 2nd day of July, 1863, near the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, we contacted the army of General Lee who was marching on the city of Washington. My particular command - the sharpshooters - were thrown out in front of the left wing of our army, and directly between General Sickles' and General Longstreet's Corps. That part of the battlefield is undulating ground, interspersed here and there with groves of timber and with an occasional rock as large as a hay stack. About one o'clock on that day the enemy infantry advanced and as we were in his immediate front, we were soon actively engaged. The rebel line as it advanced was anything but straight, but was in rather a zigzag formation, but on they came. While we were paying some attention, and not without effect, to the enemy troops in our immediate front and to our left, another regiment of "Johnie" came up through a grove of timber on our right until they were within easy pistol range before we discovered their presence. When I saw that if they continued to advance our retrat to our line of battle would be cut off, and when they still came on, I realized that our position was hopeless. We were skirmishers out in front of the main body of troops and being practically surrounded by the enemy we were at his mercy. Thinking that discretion was the better part of valor, I jumped into a low spot of ground behind a large rock. Two of my boys who were with me at the time thought to escape to our lines by running. I heard the commander of the rebel regiment call out to them to "halt," which they failed to do. He then ordered his men to fire and a rattle of musketry was the response. I learned after coming back from the South that on the next day when our army reoccupied that part of the battlefield, those boys were found at that place - one was dead and the other badly wounded. Although a dozen bullets had struck him, hopes were first entertained for his recovery, but he dies in about a week. After the war I was told that the part of the battlefield which was occupied by my command during the battle was thoroughly searched for me, but without results, and for a very good reason. I was marching, as a prisoner of war, to the tune of "Dixie," in the general direction of Richmond.

The first rebels I came in contact with were very sociable and friendly set of fellows, in fact entirely too much so for my good. The men of Lee's army seemed to me to be poorly equipped, particularly as to clothing. The first salutation I received was to trade hats, and "No" would not be taken as an answer. The next one relieved me of my pocketbook at the muzzle of a revolver, after exhausting a vocabulary of abusive epithets on me, to which I was forced to submit with as much grace as possible under the circumstances. I noticed that when I attempted to remonstrate the rebel officer began to finger the trigger of his revolver, as I thought a little carelessly, which made me fearful of an accident. I finally concluded that if life was worth living, it certainly was worth twenty dollars, the size of my pile. So when he started for his revolver, I started for my pocket book. I got there in time, so you see me here this evening.

The prisoners captured by the rebels that day were herded together and marched to the rear of the rebel line of battle. Early next morning, July 3,1863, General Lee with his staff passed by where we were stationed and I distinctly heard General Lee give orders for our further removal to the rear. General Lee at that time appeared to me to be a very ordinary individual, with little to mark him as the great general that he was. I saw him once after this. He and some of his generals were stopping by the roadside in consultation and we were on our way to the rear as he had ordered. We passed long lines of negro cooks baking corn pone for rebel soldiers at the front. In the afternoon of that day we heard a terrific cannonading which lasted some time, followed by a rattle of small arms and then it was comparatively quiet. We felt that something of importance had happened, but of course could make no guess as to the result until later in the day, when we noticed that thousands of rebel soldiers, wounded, but able to walk and wagon trains loaded with more badly wounded were moving to their rear. This was ominous and indicated to us that the battle had resulted in victory for us, although we were in no position to celebrate it at the moment. This was immediately after the heroic charge of Picket's men on Cemetery Ridge and was General Lee's last effort to drive our army from the position it had taken.

The fourth of July, 1863, was celebrated by our marching on towards Richmond, and a sorry looking outfit we prisoners of war were - Some without hats, others without coats and still others whose uniforms were a mixture of the blue, gray and butternut, indicating quick trades and small profits for the "Yanks." The only redeeming feature in this otherwise outlook was the fact that we knew our captors were beaten, and although we were going off as prisoners of war, our captors were compelled to go also. Our guards felt and looked gloomy, and I heard one of them say that this was their second trip across the Potomac and that they were defeated both times and would never try it again. They never did.

Those of my audience who have been soldiers in time of war will agree that it would be difficult to place soldiers in a position from which they could not extract some fun and amusement, however gloomy the prospects might be. The school of the soldier teaches the men to forget the past and to ignore the future. For example, at army funerals, however mournful and solemn the music may be on the way to the grave, on the return the band strikes up something quick and lively, such as "The Girl I Left Behind Me," which was a great favorite with the bands in the Army of the Potomac on such occasions. On the occasion of which I speak, as we were marching to the rebel rear as prisoners of war, the first man to break the ice and raise a laugh was a famous vocalist of Chicago - Lombard by name - who began to line off and to sing the song of the "Two Crows." He would recite the lines for the benefit of those who were unfamiliar with the composition about as follows: "There were two crows sat on a tree, and they were black as crows could be. Now you fellows sing," and sing we did. The tone of voice and manner of singing was somewhat after the style of what I recollect hearing at Baptist meetings some forty years ago. The song leader - Lombard - was greeted with loud shouts of good natured bantering and laughter. The thing seemed so ridiculous and with all so appropriate to the occasion and our surroundings it had its immediate affect on the morale of the men. The song was not half through before we felt one hundred per cent better, and from that time on until the end, from being strangers, we were brothers joined, ready to make the best of a bad situation.

On the fourth of July it began raining and as it had been two days since any of us had anything to eat, our kind hearted captors issued to us some captured flour. As we were entirely without cooking utensils or vessels of any kind we were somewhat like the man who got an elephant on his hands, but the boys were equal to the occasion. A few of us had blankets and the flour was turned into them, mixed into dough and baked by the fire in any way to suit the fancy of the cooks. All this was done while it was raining so hard that it was with difficulty that we kept the fire burning. On the fifth and sixth of July we were kept on the march day and night and it rained all the time. We as sharpshooters had a good opportunity to demonstrate our much vaunted stamina. We arrived at the top of South Mountain about day light on the morning of July sixth and then were told that we were to be paroled. Soon word came that General Lee had countermanded that order. The reason given for that action, so it was said, was because our General Meade had disregarded the parole of some two thousand captured federals who had been paroled on the field of battle, Meade claiming that it was contrary to the rules of war to parole prisoners nearer than twenty miles of the place of capture. Be that as it may, this was a "deadener" on us for it now looked like a trip to Richmond and confinement in some southern prison.

The day that we climbed South Mountain we could see our forces in pursuit and driving the rebel rear guard before them. AS we crossed over the mountain we saw where General Kilpatrick had gotten in his work on the enemy wagon train. The night before we was that the road was lined with broken and partly burned wagons for a long distance down the mountain. When we reached Chambersburg we knew, from the dead cavalrymen and horses lying in the streets, and along the road, that Kilpatrick had been there also.

When Lee made his advance into Maryland his army found no trouble in finding the Potomac river, but now, owing to the heavy rains of the past few days, fording was out of the question. We saw and realized this and thought that :Lee's army was doomed, but after crossing the river, and on the first day's march beyond, we met an old pontoon train coming up to Lee's relief. The boats looked to be nearly past use and were some the enemy had captured from general McClellan on the peninsula. However, they answered the purpose, by splicing with a raft of logs, to make a bridge, over which Lee's army passed, and thus escaped the second time out of Maryland.

What was left of Picket's men, after their great charge on Cemetery Ridge went with us as guard from the battle field for some distance down the valley. While they were with us we were used as well as we could ask under the circumstances. They showed themselves to be true and honorable soldiers, both in camp and on the field of battle, but they belonged to Lee's army and had to join their command. When they left us we were turned over to General Imboden, and some of our men knew something of him, and gave him a hard name, we were fearful of mistreatment, but even he was not as black as he had been painted. Like Moseby, he had an independent command and was lord of all that part of the valley unless interfered with by the "Yanks." He was particularly severe with citizens along the way who thought to turn an honest penny by trading with the guards and their prisoners. The southern people were sharp enough to know that the Yankee greenback was of more value than the confederate script. In trade they were willing to give two for one in favor of our greenbacks. When General Imboden heard how things were going he flew into a great rage and swore - yes swore - that any person thereafter putting the rebel script at a discount should be hanged by the neck until dead, and he meant it. This threat scared all concerned, after which the old women who were engaged in the pie trade had to "look a leetle out."

The farewell of the Imboden guards was a little peculiar. The night before the morning on which they left, they passed through the camps of sleeping Yankee prisoners and relieved them of what few hats they had been lucky enough to escape with up to that time. Some of our boys had been foolish enough to take off their boots and all such persons were left bootless. The boots had gone to keep company with the hats. When the sleeping camp of Yanks was aroused in the morning there went up a howl long and loud, but it was no use howling as the guards had been changed during the night. At that time the chivalrous and shifty Imbodens were well on their way down the valley. We footed it on to Stanton where we were herded into railroad cars for Richmond. I recollect that at one of the stopping places a high toned looking lady, who was standing on a veranda quite close to the cars, on being told that we were Yankee officers, assumed a very belligerent attitude, belaboring us with her tongue, and shaking her fist at us at a great rate. We answered her by Lombard singing "Kingdom Coming." The song was new in the army at that time. The lady could not hear the song through but vanished. Our guards appreciated it too, as they seemed to be much amused.

Before getting into Richmond some rebel soldiers came through the cars and relieved us of what few blankets we had managed to retain p to that time; so we marched into Richmond in what the army knows as "light marching order." Our destination proved to be the notorious Libby Prison. Upon our arrival there we were taken to the office of the commandant, Major Turner, to be searched. After what we had gone trough one would think that a further search would be useless, but it was found that there were still some of us who had money concealed about our clothes. Even the brutal search at Libby failed to bring it all to light, although they found some on our persons. It was not intended to leave us even a pocket knife, and when our lieutenant, Moran, remonstrated very mildly against Major Turner taking from hi a piece of shell, which he wished to keep as a relic of battle which wounded one of his men, Turner struck him a fearful blow in the face and said he would teach "the goddamned-son-of-a-bitch to dictate to him as to what he ought to do." When I saw that occurrence, I for the first time began to realize a little, but only a little, of what it meant to be a prisoner of war.

When we arrived at Libby Prison we found quite a number of prisoners already there, mostly of Colonel Straight's company who had been captured while on a raid. The rebels were particularly hostile towards raiders.

Libby Prison at that time seemed to have been reserved for the confinement of officers, for there were no enlisted men among the prisoners while I was there. During our stay several generals were put in with us and I recall that Generals Scammond, Shaler, Wessels and Neal Dow were among them, the latter being one of the first apostles of prohibition and father of the Maine liquor law. He was known at that time as a sort of crank or fanatic. If he believed a thing to be right he dared to stand alone in its defense. Neither fear nor favor could move him. He was quite a small man and looked the least like a soldier of all the men in Libby, but what there was of him was certainly of good material. Before being brought to Libby he had been kept in several of the prisons farther south, and on that account was supposed to be better posted as to the prospects of the war than the rest of us. I remember that at one time we thought to have the general deliver a lecture or discourse on the progress of the war. Appointments for meetings did not have to be of long standing. Notice would be given by one of the prisoners going through the rooms and calling out in a loud voice that General Dow would lecture in the east room in about ten minutes. One particular occasion the General was going for the "rotten confederacy," as he called it, without gloves, when suddenly he was notified that Major Turner, the commandant, was coming into the room. He instantly changed his subject to that of temperance and by the time Turner was in hearing distance the old general was spreading himself in a good temperance lecture.

We found it of the greatest importance not to anger the prison officials needlessly, as on their good will depended our daily allowance of bread. Our captors had the power of life or death over us and they were not slow to use it, as many of the prisoners learned to their sorrow. To be cut off without rations, even for one day, when a man is already starving, is no small matter. Previous to our arrival at Libby the "Rebs" had made their boast that no "Yank" had ever been allowed to escape from that prison, but during the winter of 1863-64 more than one hundred escaped by tunnel and other ways. One major got away by calmly picking up a hammer which had been laid down by some workman who were putting iron bars in the windows. The guards thought he was a workman and they allowed him to go down through the Commandant's office and from there he went on out to our lines. What little clothing we did have was mostly of the same material and color as that of the guards, and when we kept our mouths shut we could not be distinguished from the rebels themselves.

During the winter Colonel Straight planned an escape for himself and one of his captains. They had the guard all nicely bribed, as they thought, and were allowed to get out through a window and down to the ground, but on their attempting to escape the guard fired. They ran, but had gone but a few steps when they were confronted by a line of men, one of them being the officer of the guard who called on Colonel Straight to halt. When Straight failed to obey the command the officer began firing his revolver. The Colonel, although a man of valor, had some discretion and stopped in his tracks. Colonel Straight claimed that the guard shot to kill while the guard claimed to the contrary and that his only purpose was to scare Straight and cause him to stop running. The escaping officers later found out that the whole thing was a scheme to get their money and had been planned by the Rebel officer of the guard.

The digging of the tunnel by which more than one hundred prisoners escaped was a Herculean task successfully accomplished. In the basement of the brick building, which was Libby Prison, there was a fireplace from which the bricks at the back were removed and from that point the tunnel was started. But two men could work at a time, one doing the digging and the other drawing the dirt back in a sack tied to a rope. This work was done at night and the greatest secrecy was maintained. It was known that Rebel spies were among the prisoners, but just who they were we did not know. Consequently no one who was not actually working on the tunnel knew anything about it. The dirt from the digging had to be disposed of in such a way as not to arouse suspicion. This was done by covering it with the straw which was on the floor of the basement and on which the prisoners slept at night. One night my friend, Liet. John Mitchell (later of Pomeroy, Wash.), came to me and said they were going out that night. I wanted to go but was too sick and weak from starvation to make the attempt and had to remain. Every morning the prisoners were lined up and counted. The morning after the escape it was found that more than one hundred men were missing but it took the "Rebs" a half day to find out how it was done. It was at first thought that the guards had been bribed and they were disarmed and searched for money and valuables, but nothing of value could be found on their butternut clothes. Finally after a long search a hole about a foot square was found in the fireplace in the basement which had the appearance of having been made by woodchucks. The "Rebs" had no idea where the tunnel lead to or where it terminated. However, the mystery was soon solved when Major Turner, the Commandant, put a small negro in the hole with orders to find the terminus which was soon done and the negro boy was heard hallowing from behind a high board fence across the street. Shortly thereafter Turner with a party of horsemen, followed by a pack of hounds, rode out of Richmond in the direction of the Union lines in pursuit of the escaped "Yanks." About half were recaptured brought back, and some of them were put in the dungeon in the basement. The worst of it all, from the Rebel's standpoint, was that Colonel Straight, the man above all others they wished to hold, was missing. He knew where to find a friend in the city, and this the Rebel officers suspected. They felt certain that Straight was hidden near by; although they searched the town from one end to the other they failed to find him. About that time the Northern newspapers came out with the story that Colonel Straight, with fifty others, "lately escaped from Libby Prison, had arrived safely at Fort Monroe." Thereupon the "Rebs" gave up the search in Richmond where Straight had been secreted all the time. He quietly bought his way through our lines, the newspaper item being a ruse to aid him in his escape. The "Rebs" called it a "Yankee lie." Afterwards tunneling was often resorted to as a means of escape, but it was invariably without success as they always had spies in the prison with us who never afterwards failed to discover our work before the time was for going out. We even found out who some of the spies were, but we were hindered from hanging them by the prison officials who told us that for every spy that we hanged they would hang two of us.

During the winter of 1863-64 the authorities at Washington heard of the great suffering among the prisoners at Belle Isle which was across from Richmond. A boat load of clothing and rations was allowed by the Rebels to be forwarded from Fort Monroe to Richmond for their relief. Some Rebel officers were detailed to go over to the island to issue the rations and clothing and I heard them say that all prisoners on Belle Isle were supplied with overcoats. However, in a short time all the overcoats had disappeared, having been traded by the prisoners for bread. After supplying the prisoners there were a number of overcoats left over which were to be kept for prisoners who were continually being brought in from the front, but the Rebels broke into the building where they were stored and took them also. After that our guards wore Uncle Sam's clothing which they stained black. This indicated to me that they were not entirely without shame. All those supplies did the Rebels more good that they did the Union prisoners.

One morning in April, 1864, we were told to "pack up," which was a very short job for men who had absolutely nothing except what was on their backs, and not half enough there to keep them warm. We bade good bye to Libby, and while much has been said about it as a prison, it was the best kept of any we were in during our stay South. While we were there one officer was shot and killed and another had a close call, as the bullet went through his ear. Both of those men just happened to get too close to a window as the guards had orders to shoot any one who could be seen from the ground below.

The reason for our removal from Richmond was that General Grant had begun his march and Richmond must be cleared to make room for new arrivals. Our stay at Libby lasted over eight months from which prison we were sent to Macon, Georgia.

During the winter of 1863-64 General Grant organized a cavalry raid for the purpose of releasing, if possible, the union prisoners confined at Richmond. The raid failed after the loss of quite a number of men, among them being Colonel Dahlgren, who was killed near Richmond. In some mysterious way we were notified of the intended raid and were organized to assist in our release. During the progress of the raid our guards were quite nervous and took more than ordinary precautions to keep us secure. They trained a battery of artillery on our building and, as report had it, placed a mine of powder under it for the purpose, as Major Turner said, of "blowing the prisoners to hell," rather than permit us to regain our liberty. To make sure of the truth of the report we questioned negroes who did the work about the prison and they told us that the powder was there all right, as they had put it there themselves. The raid was a failure so the mine was not exploded. The negroes were not allowed to speak to us under penalty of forty lashed on the bare back, but we found opportunity to talk with them unobserved by the guard, and they were always ready to give us information as to what was going on.

During the year 1863 our army in Tennessee executed two Rebel captains as spies. The Rebels claimed that they were not spies and took measures to retaliate. One morning all the officers among the prisoners at Libby ranking as captain were called down to Major Turner's office. They were in high spirits, thinking that it meant an exchange, but when they were told that they were there to cast lots to decide which of them should be executed in retaliation for the execution of the Rebel officers, their spirits fell rapidly to zero. The choice fell on Captains Flynn and Sawyer and they were immediately put in irons and confined in the dungeon in the basement. It was not expected that they would come out except to march to the gallows. President Lincoln was soon apprised of the state of affairs, and as it happened the fortunes of war had thrown into our hands as prisoners a son of General Lee as well as a son of General Winder, who had charge of the Rebel prisons. These two men were placed in close confinement and the authorities at Richmond were informed that immediately after the execution of Flynn and Sawyer, the sons of Lee and Winder would also be executed. It was not long afterwards that Flynn and Sawyer were permitted to breath the fresh air with the rest of us. At the time of his confinement Flynn had coal black hair, but when he was brought up from the dungeon it was quite gray, proving, if proof were necessary, the agony suffered by the two Captains while in the dungeon.

Our prison life at Macon, Georgia, was terminated when five hundred of us were sent to Charleston to be put under fire of out own guns which were busy, night and day, shelling that "hotbed of treason." It was here that the first shot was fired at the stars and stripes, not on Fort Sumpter, as many suppose, but on the steamer Star of the West, which was endeavoring to land supplies. Before leaving Macon there was a plot formed to overpower the guard and to fight our way to our lines at a point on the coast south of Charleston. The plan seemed to be a good omen but owing to the failure of the leader to give the signal of attack, no effort was made to escape. We were all badly disappointed at the leader's timidity, as all of us wanted to take the chance. The plan was intended to be put into effect while we were on our way being transferred from Macon to Charleston. During the night, and after passing the place agreed upon for our attack, about fifty of the prisoners escaped from the train in different ways, but all but one were recaptured and brought back to us the next day, having been tracked and treed by dogs. The Rebels patrolled that part of the coast daily with a pack of blood hounds, and they were hard to get away from.

Upon our arrival at Charleston we were put into the jail and yard. We had not been there long before one of our shells from across the bay burst right over our heads. The "Rebs" dodged and the "Yanks: cheered. It seemed like getting home to us who had not been within hearing of a Union cannon for over a year. That night one of our men escaped across the bay to our forts through the aid of an old negro who took him across in a boat. When our fellows across the bay heard of our arrival, they ceased firing until our exact location was determined, and then they turned their attention to a different part of the city. Prior to that time our position had been the most exposed, but it became the safest in the city, and the vacant houses in that vicinity were reoccupied. The batteries on both sides threw mostly fuse shells and it was better than a Fourth-of-July fireworks at night to watch them firing on each other and on the city.

Previous to our arrival at Charleston we were hard up for something to eat, although many of the officers had succeeded in secreting what little money they had about their persons. We were now allowed to send out for provisions if we had the money to pay for them. Some of the officers were lucky in hiding their money and were generous to divide with those who had none. It was a great help and to this I owe my life, as I am confident I could not have lived six months on Rebel rations alone.

During our stay at Charleston we were visited by some men who were believed by us to have been agents of the Rebel Government. They proposed to loan us money on our individual checks or drafts drawn on parties in the North. The checks were drawn in such a manner as to make the party on whom they were drawn think that the money had been loaned to us by some friend whom we had found in the South. When the agents got to going good the checks were issued as fast as the blanks could be supplied. We could draw the check or draft on any one we saw fit. Of course the "Rebs" took the chances on that. Thinking this to be a favorable opportunity to honor my old friend, John Anderson, from whom I had purchased the store clothes years before in Illinois, I drew on him for one hundred dollars. I never heard of the check again, although I think he did, for when I returned from the war he refused to speak to me. One of the boys, for a joke, drew a draft on "God Almighty," which, in the hurry, the "Rebs" paid the same as the others, as they did not take the time to read the names on the checks, and would not know the persons on whom they were drawn if they had read them. They thought that if they could in this way convert some of their depreciated Rebel currency into the federal money they could afford to take almost any chance of the drafts and checks being paid. I heard afterwards that our government stopped payment on all such drafts.

During our stay at Charleston we saw no chance to escape and therefore were glad to give our parole not to attempt it. In this way we obtained the promise of greater privileges. After being in Charleston for two months we were ordered to pack up for a move, the excuse given for such orders being that yellow fever had broken out there. We believed that the real reason for the move was the fact that five hundred of their officers held prisoner by our forces had been brought from the North to an exposed position in one of our forts just across the bay. This was done by our government in retaliation. When we were moved out of Charleston those prisoners were also moved and the "Rebs" were beaten at their own game.

Our next stopping place was Columbia, South Carolina. On the journey to that place two of my comrades jumped from the train during the night. They were soon brought back by the guards, one of them being so badly torn by the dogs that he died soon afterwards. They had been overtaken when there was no chance to climb. Upon our arrival at Columbia we were put in an open camp called "Camp Sorghum" by the prisoners from the scarcity of sorghum syrup in the rations that were issued to us at that place. There was a dead line around the camp, marked by low stakes, which the guard did not respect as well as we did, as the first man who was shot was well within the dead line. Our ranking officer went to the commander of the guard and asked him to go and see for himself that the officer shot was within the dead line, but he refused to do so. The Rebel guard was granted a furlough for shooting a "Yank." Columbia was the only prison, so far as I learned, from which any of us escaped by bribing the guards, and many who did escape were recaptured. To escape was a hard job for the prisoners, for they had to travel about three hundred miles to a point in Tennessee. In order to do this they had to have and were glad to accept the aid of the negroes. After the war I was told that the negroes near Columbia had a regular "underground railroad," and that if a man could contact it he would go through our lines without fail. At this camp we were allowed to give our parole of honor not to attempt to escape while going outside the lines to get wood for fuel, and it became so common that the officer of the guard got careless and allowed some to pass without requiring the parole. After that became known some persons took advantage of the liberty and struck for greater freedom. The "Rebs" claimed that such persons had violated their parole of honor, but I did not know of any cases of that kind, although I was acquainted with many of the boys who escaped. I remember that one night some of the prisoners were going out and were discovered. It caused quite a stir in camp as the bullets whistled around and things were quite lively for a spell, but the only man hurt was one who was quietly resting in his tent. In nearly every instance of recapture, blood hounds were used by the guards who followed the dogs on horseback armed with shot guns. Every means and device that could be thought of was used by the prisoners to throw the dogs off the track, but they all failed. Hounds were kept by the guard for this purpose. One morning two very pretty spotted hounds chained together followed the guard into camp at roll call. The prisoners were no great dog fanciers at that time, so, when the guard was not looking the two dogs were knocked in the head and thrown into and old well. It was not long until the guards missed their dogs and searched the camp high and low. Finally they found them low down in the old well. We had some mad Rebels and if the persons who did the deed could have been found they would likely have been shot on some trumped up pretext or another. The guard said they would shoot them on sight if known and they were not slow to keep a promise of that kind.

Judging by what we saw of the southern women, it was lucky for us that the men had us in charge, as the women seemed to be very bitter toward us. At one time at Camp Sorghum when we were in line to be counted, some ladies who were at the guard tent wanted the guard to fire the cannon at us. At least we heard them make the request and there was no doubt about what they said. I don't much wonder at their feelings as nearly all of them had lost relatives or friends in the war, and we were regarded by them as their murderers.

During our stay at this camp there was a special exchange of two hundred sick prisoners. I was not down in bed sick, but was so run down in health and so weak that I dared not attempt the hardships of an escape, so I was particularly anxious to get away with the two hundred. As my Colonel who was with me was something of a schemer I put the matter in his hands to help me get away. He succeeded in his own case, although not at all sick, but in my case my name came too low down on the list. To say that I was greatly disappointed is to put it very mildly, as my hopes had been aroused by getting my name on the list, and all the gold of the Vanderbilt's would not have been sufficient to have bought my chance. My Colonel, to let me down as easily as possible, said that he had a hundred and fifty dollars which he had borrowed from the "Rebs," and that he would leave it to me to help me through. But the Colonel was a very genial and sociable man, and withal a good judge of whiskey. On the night before starting North he was allowed to go out of camp with the Rebel officers, and the next morning he did not have a dollar, which was another great disappointment to me.

During the winter we were moved across the river and confined in the Insane Asylum grounds and, during our stay, there was little suffering as many of the officers appeared to have plenty of money and some seemed to enjoy themselves quite well. Reckless betting of the Rebel money was quite common, bucking the tiger being the favorite amusement. We had a fine string band and a company of good vocalists as well as professional men of all kinds. It was at Columbia that Sherman's March to the Sea was composed, set to music and sung for the first time.

During the month of February, 1865, some of the prisoners claimed that they heard the sound of cannon, and that night we were ordered to get out of camp in quick time. The guards did not tell us what the trouble was, but we guessed that Sherman was coming by that way. We were herded to the railroad depot where we found that the civilians were on a stampede and attempting to board the cars as a means of escape from Sherman's army. Most of them were left behind as the transportation was all needed to move supplies for the Rebel army. The old fellows looked pretty mad to see a "Yank" preferred to themselves so far as getting aboard the train was concerned. We were soon on our way North, our destination being anywhere to keep out of the way of Sherman's advance. Before leaving Columbia some of our men dug holes in the ground in which they secreted themselves when we were ordered out of camp. Several hid between the ceilings and upper floors of an old building and were not discovered. They had to stay there but twenty-four hours when they saw the Stars and Stripes.

We were taken to Raleigh where we arrived half starved, as no rations had been issued and we were not allowed to buy any. I recollect seeing one of the men, while we were standing in the street give a negro money to buy bread. One of the Rebel guards was the negro handing the officer the bread. The negro started to run and he was ordered to halt, but he only ran the faster, and as far as we could see him he kept on running although a number of shots were fired at him.

Soon after leaving Raleigh we were told that we were going to be paroled and put through the lines. So we all gave our paroles not to try to escape and thus thought to obtain more liberty, but the guards did not relax their vigilance to any great extent, although at one time some of our fellows were taken out by the Rebel officers, and when they came back they were locked arm in arm, and singing like larks. In fact I believe they called the occasion a "lark."

While stopping at Raleigh the preliminary work of organizing the Grand Army of the Republic (G.A.R.) was gone through with, and if that old list is still in existence my name will be found among the others who signed the document. We were to perfect the organization when we got to Washington, but when we arrived we thought of nothing but getting a furlough and going home. So the society did not get into running order for a few years after that.

With us the time passed slowly, but at last the time came for us to be put through the lines which was on the first day of March, 1865. I used to keep that day as a holiday to celebrate my release from prison.

On arriving at the Union front we were honored by being marched between long lines of infantry, all at present arms. For many of us it was almost like being resurrected from the dead. It was somewhat strange to witness the effect the occasion had on different individuals - being released from the long imprisonment and permitted once more the sight of the old flag. Some jumped as high as they could, some shouted as loudly as possible, some both jumped and shouted, while still others went along quietly as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Many, however, were entirely overcome and had difficulty in controlling their emotions. The Union troops lined the roads waving the old flags as we passed. We finally came to what the boys called a "N----r Brigade" and stopped to eat dinner and I know that I heard no objections of any kind about eating with a "n----r."

And so my stay in the South in Rebel prisons for over a year and a half was ended. I might add that while we were in prison there was a great deal of bad blood shown because our government did not arrange for our exchange as prisoners of war. I have heard plenty of officers curse the government and wish the "n----r" troops in hell for being the innocent cause of the failure to exchange. The Rebel government would not recognize negroes as soldiers and our government was in honor bound to stay by them, and it did. I always took the position that the government had the right to do as it did and that we, as prisoners, were of more value where we were than if we had been exchanged, as one man with Lee in the defense of Petersburg was worth two on the outside. So ended our imprisonment. As I have never been exchanged, I am still at liberty to fight against the Rebel government."

Gettysburg, where Father was captured, is classed as one of the decisive battles in world history, and the First Minnesota Regiment is credited by military authorities as having turned the tide of battle in that great struggle on July 2, 1863. The regiment had been through Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania Court House, the Second Battle of Bull Run, Antietam and South Mountain, and had stood up so well under fire that the commanding officers had confidence that those troops could be depended on to carry out any orders and would not be easily stampeded. On that occasion Father's company of Sharpshooters of the First Minnesota Regiment were deployed out in front as skirmishers, their position being directly in front of General Sickles' Corps of the Union Army and opposite General Longstreet's Corps of the Rebel Army, the main body of troops being somewhat to the rear. The action of the regiment on that occasion is perhaps best told by Lieutenant William Lochren in his "Minnesota in the Civil and Indian Wars," which was prepared and published under the supervision of the Board of Commissioners appointed by the Act of the Legislature on April 16, 1889, of the State of Minnesota:

"The enemy forces, under General Longstreet and Hill compelled the Union troops under General Sickles to give way and retreat in utter disorder. The Rebel troops came on. They had reached the low ground and in a few minutes would be at our position, on the rear of the left flank of our line, which they could roll up, as Jackson did the Eleventh Corps at Chancelorsville. There was no force near to oppose them, except our handful of two hundred and sixty-two men. Most soldiers, in the face of the near advance of such an overpowering force, which had just defeated a considerable portion of an army corps, would have caught the panic and joined the retreating masses. But the First Minnesota had never yet deserted any post, had never retired without orders, and desperate as the situation seemed, and it was, the regiment stood firm against whatever might come. Just then General Hancock, with a single aide, rode up at full speed, and for the moment vainly endeavored to rally Sickles' retreating forces. Reserves had been sent for but were too far away to hope to reach the critical position until it would be occupied by the enemy, unless they were stopped. Quickly leaving the fugitives, Hancock spurred to where we stood, calling out as he reached us, 'What regiment is this?' 'First Minnesota,' replied our Colonel Colville. 'Charge those lines!' commanded Hancock. Every man realized in an instant what the order meant - death or wounds to us all; the sacrifice of a regiment to gain a few minutes' time and save the position, and probably the battlefield - and every man saw and accepted the necessity for the sacrifice, and responding to Colville's rapid orders, the regiment, in perfect line, with arms at 'right shoulder shift,' was in a moment sweeping down the slope directly upon the enemy's center. No hesitation, no stopping to fire, though the men fell fast at every stride before the concentrated fire of the whole Confederate force directed upon us as soon as the movement was observed. Silently, without orders, and almost from the start, double-quick had changed to utmost speed; for in utmost speed lay the only hope that any of us would pass through the storm of lead and strike the enemy. 'Charge!' shouted Colville, as we neared their first line; and with leveled bayonets, at full speed, we rushed upon it; fortunately, as it was slightly disordered in crossing a dry brook at the foot of a slope. The men were never made who will stand against level bayonets coming with such momentum and evident desperation. The first line broke in our front as we reached it, and rushed back through the second line stopping the whole advance. We then poured in our first fire and held the entire force at bay until our reserves appeared on the ridge we had left. Had the enemy rallied quickly to a counter charge, its great numbers would have crushed us in a moment. But the ferocity of our onset seemed to paralyze them for the time and they kept at a respectful distance from our bayonets, until the added fire of our fresh reserves forced them to retire. What Hancock had given us to do was done thoroughly. The regiment had stopped the enemy, held back its mighty force and saved the position. But at what sacrifice! Nearly every officer was dead or lay weltering with bloody wounds, our gallant Colonel and every field officer among them. Of the two hundred and sixty-two men who made the charge, two hundred and fifteen lay upon the field, stricken down by Rebel bullets. The annals of war contain no parallel to this charge. In its desperate valor, complete execution, successful result, and in its sacrifice of men in proportion to the number engaged, authentic history has no record with which it can be compared." Colonel Fox in his "Regimental Losses in the American Civil War," says, at page 68, speaking of the Battle of Gettysburg: "The fighting was deadly in the extreme, the percentage of loss in the First Minnesota being without equal in the records of modern warfare." At page 26 of the same work, Fox tells us that General Hancock, who witnessed the charge of the First Minnesota, said: "There is no more gallant deed recorded in history. I ordered these men in there because I saw I must gain five minutes time . . . . It had to be done, and I was glad to find such a gallant body of men at hand willing to make the terrible sacrifice that the occasion demanded."

The war was over and, after having served three and one half years, Father received his honorable discharge from the army and returned to civilian life. During the time he was in the southern prisons he could not, of course call for his pay as a soldier, and upon his discharge he at once took steps looking to the collection of what was due. Governmental red tape was never more in evidence and it was nearly thirty years after the close of the war that he finally received his pay for the time he was a prisoner of war, and it took a special act of Congress to get the money. We have in our files a printed copy of the Bill introduced by Knute Nelson, then a member of the House from Minnesota, authorizing the payment of the obligation.

The "Grand Review" of the victorious northern armies was held in Washington City soon after the surrender of General Lee and Father was present on that memorable occasion and attended Ford's Theater the night before the assassination of President Lincoln plunged the nation into mourning.

At the time of his discharge from the army in March, 1865, Dyer was still suffering from starvation and hardships of a year and a half in Rebel prisons. To recuperate, and in an attempt to regain his health he visited for several months with his sister, Lydia (14), who, with her husband, Alexander Gilliland Huggins, were and had been for many years, Presbyterian Missionaries to the Sioux Indians and lived near St. Peter, Minnesota. The following winter he spent with a party of trappers in northern Minnesota, and the next year bought land on the shore of what was then called White Bear Lake, near the town of Glenwood, in Pope County, where he served as County Commissioner from 1869 to 1872. In 1868 he married Mary Spencer, a widow, who died at Walla Walla, Washington, in 1876. The purchase of a small saw mill proved to be an unprofitable investment for Dyer knew absolutely nothing about the saw mill business, nor the machinery necessary for operation. He soon discovered that he had a white elephant on his hands as the equipment was worn out, it was impossible to keep water in the steam boiler and the whole outfit was a pile of junk. He at first thought to make repairs and with that idea in mind took the boiler to St. Paul to have it mended, but finally gave it up and abandoned the enterprise as a total loss. The Fountain House, the principle hostelry of that locality, had acquired something more than a local reputation, and was the stopping place at Glenwood for all that part of the country. Dyer decided to try his hand at hotel keeping, bought the property and remodeled it. He ran the hotel as a resort for several years. It was quite a place for those times, a rambling two story and a half building, with a veranda and balcony running around three sides. It boasted a billiard room and a ball room, which really was something in those days in that western country, and was especially noted for the fine food served in the commodious dining room. In looking over the Old Fountain House cook book it seems it must have taken a butcher shop and grocery store, with a winery thrown in to make use of the recipes in that book. About everything called for a "dash of wine or brandy." Governor Ramsey and Senator Knute Nelson, still remembered as prominent personages in the political life of Minnesota, were frequent guests, and many old time friends enjoyed the hospitality of Fountain House. Jake Clepper was one of these. Jake and Dyer, as boys back in Illinois, were obliged to go to church with their parents. On one Sunday Jake, evidently wearied with the long sermon, thought he would quietly get up and go outside. His father, sitting up front with the elders, caught the sound of Jake's boots, He did not move or even turn his head, but merely tapped on the floor with his boot heel. Jake evidently knew what that meant for he changed his mind about going outside and went back to his seat. Father was much amused by this little accident and more than fifty years afterwards related it to us in all its details.

After several years of hotel keeping Father began to feel "the call of the wild" and to think of going to what was then the far west to live. He sold the Fountain House and his other Minnesota property in 1875, visited his sisters Lydia (14) and Harriet (34), who were living near Minneapolis, and then went back to Huntsville, Illinois, to see his mother and his brother Jerome (36). His mother had given over the active duties of the household to others and sat much in the chimney corner by a window where, as she said, she "could see the road, but it was too far to tell who the folks were" as they passed. In her black dress, white apron and lace cap, and with her fingers busy with knitting or mending, was Father's mental picture of his last visit with his mother. Father turned over his share of the estate to his brother Jerome, knowing that he would care for their mother as long as she lived, and for the last time left the ancestral home at Huntsville to which he never returned. Uncle Jerome (36) was about a year and a half older than Father and as boys they were constant companions, but as their paths diverged they led very different lives. Father was of a roving spirit and he never got over it. The desire for change of scene and the excitement of the frontier remained with him all his long life of nearly ninety years and he was never contented to remain long in any one place. It was said of him that when the construction of the railroads brought the locomotives ear enough so that he could hear the whistles, it was time for him to move on to new fields. In his many migrations a family of eight children proved no handicap, and while he acquired no great amount of property he always depended on his own efforts on his own behalf, and not as an employee of others for a livelihood. His family was always well provided for, as pioneer families went in those days, and several of his children received college educations.

Uncle Jerome (36) was entirely different from Father in one respect in that his entire life from early boyhood was spent on or near the old home place at Huntsville, Illinois. He married Susan Thornhill, and one of their sons, Orson (294), became a lawyer and during the Spanish American War was commissioned as a Captain in the Commissary Department of the volunteer army. After Uncle Jerome's death, his children, Orson, Celia and Gertrude, and their mother "put their section of the family in reverse," as Orson said, and went to Akron, Ohio, to live, where Orson was engaged in the manufacture of rubber goods, and where Gertrude taught music and Celia taught in the public schools. None of the three ever married but maintained a home together after their mother's death in 1918. After the death of Celia (297) in 1932, and of Orson (294) in 1938, Gertrude (296) returned to the vicinity where she was reared and engaged in the teaching of music, where she now lives at Augusta, Illinois. During the autumn of 1946 Mrs. C.A. Pettijohn, wife of C.A. Pettijohn (38), one of the compilers hereof, visited Gertrude at Augusta, and found her to be a most gracious hostess. On that occasion Gertrude arranged a visit to the old house at Huntsville and pointed out places and objects of interest, including the old barn which had stood for more than one hundred years and the private cemetery on the home place where grandfather Abraham (13), and grandmother Jane lie sleeping.

Before the Civil War Jonathan Pettyjohn (112) had migrated from Edgar County, Illinois, and had settled in Linn County, Oregon. In 1858 he moved with his family to a point about five miles from where the town of Prescort, Washington, now stands. His brother, Thomas (364) located on the Touchet River, a shot distance above the present site of the town of Dayton. Jonathon and Thomas were cousins of some degree removed of our Father and when he came west he located near them. Jonathon married Hannah Warner and reared a large family. Seven boys and two girls made things lively in the vicinity where they grew up, the boys being particularly venturesome. Many were the stories which were told, some true, some false, of their escapades. Indians were numerous at that time and the and taken up by Jonathan had been their camping place for many generations, and, throughout his entire lifetime the Indians were welcome to make camp on his lands, a privilege which they often enjoyed. It is said that it was not unusual to see as many as a hundred teepees at one time on the tract which Jonathan reserved for that purpose. The Indians were of the Palouse tribe and have almost disappeared, but at this writing in 1947, there were still some of them living near the mouth of the Palouse River. Jonathan, and after him his son, John (116), were ever friends of the red man. Bible history tells us of the friendship of David and Jonathan; ancient Syracuse, in Dionysius day, had its Damon and Pythias; and eastern Washington had its Jonathan Pettyjohn and Okosque and later John (Jack) Pettyjohn and Tewatenaset, reenactment of those historic friendships. Both Jonathan, and his son John, better known as "Jack" were ever loyal friends, defenders and benefactors of those two colorful Indian chieftains, and I return received protection from them in the trying days of pioneer existence. It was Chief Okosque who brought the body of the daughter of Marcus Whitman from the waters of the Walla Walla River after her tragic drowning. After the death of Okosque his son, Tewatenaset, became chief, and during the troublesome times of that era the Pettyjohn family were neither molested nor annoyed by the Indians, although other settlers were often the subject of depredations. In his old age Tewatenaset set up his wickiup on the Pettyjjohn homestead where he was supplied with food, fuel and water. One spring the woodpile was low and the old Indian was worried. With native showmanship he staged a prayer-scene to the white man's God asking loudly for more wood. Jack Pettyjohn soon thereafter replenished the woodpile, proving to the Indian that God was good. When Chief Tewatenaset had lived out his days and lay dying, he sent for Jack Pettyjohn and said, "Now, Jack, I die. You be chief of Palouses." Thereupon he gave Jack all the habiliments of the office of chief, among which were his chief's belt, tribal robes, and a peace pipe made of Dakota wood inlaid with hammered silver which had been purchased at a cost of twenty-five ponies. The writers had the privilege of visiting in the home of Jack Pettyjohn some years ago and at that time the Pettyjohns had one of the most unique collections of Indian relics and handiwork privately owned in the State of Washington. Jack understood and fluently spoke the "Chinook Dialect," which was compiled and used by the Hudson Bay Company in its transactions with the various Indian tribes of the Northwest when the fur business was at its height. He also was familiar with the languages of several of the tribes and was himself a striking figure, straight as his Indian friends, tall and slender, with as heavy moustache. When he "dressed up" and went to town, he invariably wore a huge broad brimmed hat, and around his body he wrapped a broad silken sash which he tied at the side and allowed the tasseled ends to fall below the tail of his coat. He married Kate Walter in August, 1890, at Walla Walla, thus uniting two of Eastern Washington's earliest families.

Jonathan's brothers, Thomas (364) and Streeter (299), and two sisters, Huldah Hubbel (398) and Sarah Ellen (400) Manning, and their families, all located in the Dayton and Prescott vicinities, in the early '70's, in what is now Walla Walla and Columbia Counties, Washington. For many years it has been the custom of the descendants of the original Pettyjohn families to hold a reunion in the month of June at Dayton, at which, on some occasions, more than one hundred members of the family have been in attendance.

Long prior to the time Father decided to go to the West, his brother, Eli (25) had located at San Francisco, California, where he was engaged in the manufacture of "Pettijohn's Breakfast Food." Eli had perfected his process at Minneapolis, but the wheat grown in the western states proved to be the best for his product, and for that reason he moved his factory to be near the source of supply. As we have said, Father paid a last visit to his mother and brother, Jerome, at Huntsville, Illinois, and turned to the West where he was with his brother Eli for a time. The following summer he bought an outfit consisting of two teams of horses, wagons, and such things as emigrants required when going into a new country, and drove through Walla Walla, and thence to Dayton, knowing that Jonathan (112) and his brother Thomas (364) were living in that vicinity. He bought a farm on Pettijohn Mountain, and on September 30, 1877, he was married to Mary Catherine Rainwater, our mother, she being the daughter of Jacob Rainwater, a pioneer farmer and stockman, of Dayton. While living on the farm near Dayton, two children were born, Clive Abraham (38) and Homer Chip (39). That name "Chip" may be a little intriguing, and here is how the second son acquired that cognomen, this particular portion of this narrative being in the language of Clive Abraham (38), who, after the lapse of more than three score years, remembers the event as though it had been but yesterday: "Before Homer's arrival I had been the center of attraction, but that was all changed when the baby came. I was then but two and a half years of age. I remember distinctly that it was a rainy day. I was standing by the window looking out at a man chopping wood in the yard and was much interested to see the chips come from his axe and fly in all directions, some of them striking against the window. Father and Mother were in the room and were discussing the momentous question of a name for the baby, and so that I might not be left entirely out of the picture, they asked me what I would like to have them call the new arrival. That was a new subject to me and I was disgusted with the whole situation. I looked out at the useless chips that fell from the man's axe and that gave me a brilliant idea. 'Call him "Chip,"' I said, 'that's good enough for him,' and Chip it was."

In the fall of 1881 Father and Mother, with their two children moved to Dayton from the farm and Father took a leading part in the activities of the G.A.R., which was for many years a dominant political force throughout the entire country. Father's Civil War sword hung on the lodge wall and was lost in the fire which destroyed the building and all its contents. At that time country dances were in vogue and many an old pioneer danced to the music of his violin. It was the custom to take down the beds, set the furniture outside the house and dance until morning and father and his violin were much in demand on such occasions.

Father went in for politics in a mild way, always being interested in good schools and everything in the way of civic improvement. He served as County Commissioner of Columbia County, Washington, of which Dayton was the county seat and filled various other minor positions. We find among his papers a certificate of his appointment as Notary Public for Garfield County dated November 23, 1883, and signed by William A. Newell, as Governor of Washington Territory; however, perhaps it can be said to his credit, he lacked some of the qualities that go to make up a successful politician. He claimed allegiance to the Presbyterian Church and the Republican party and in his younger years was extremely partisan as to both institutions. As time went on, and in his later years, he became extremely liberal in his views. At one time he entertained very unfavorable, but decided, opinions with reference to Catholics and Mormons, but after his son, Clive (38) married a Catholic, and his fifth son, Roscoe Jacob (43) married a Mormon, and the universe still continued to exist, he never again offered any criticism of either of those two religious organizations, evidently coming to the realization that it does not lie in the mouths of any of us to condemn the religious beliefs of any of our fellow men.

By the spring of 1883 the Dayton community was becoming quite stable, the whistle of the trains as they came in could be heard throughout the Touchet Valley, and Father's adventurous spirit again began to assert itself. He decided to make another move, this time going to Asotin, a new country about six miles up the Snake River above Lewiston, but on the Washington Territory side, where he bought a general store handling farm machinery, hardware, feed, groceries and general supplies. He became postmaster and, after selling out the store, established, and for a time, edited and published a newspaper which he called "The Asotin Spirit," which was the antecedent of the later day "Asotin Sentinal." His next venture called for the purchase of a farm near Anatone, some twelve miles from Asotin, where, with Ed Alcorn as a partner, he engaged in the livestock business. It was while living on that farm that his sons, Arthur Jerome (40) and Harold Ray (41) were born. The farm at Anatone was sold and in 1888 Father bought a tract of land in Tammany Hollow, across the Snake River from Asotin and on the Idaho side, where the daughter Era (42) was born and where the family lived for about two years. That area was sparsely settled at that time and the farm was on the old Indian trail which led from Lapwai, the winter camping ground of the Indians, to the "Wallowa County," their summer hunting and fishing grounds just over the line in Oregon. The massacre by the Indians at Cottonwood, Idaho, was fresh in the minds of the settlers, and while none of the tribes were actually on the war path, they were looked upon with distrust by the whites. Therefore it caused some excitement in the family one evening, when it came time to "round up" the children, to discover that two of them - Homer and Arthur - were missing. A search was instituted and, long after dark, they were found soundly sleeping, wrapped in their blankets, on the floor of an old miner's cabin on the banks of the Snake River some three miles distant. The boys were then of the ages of about eight and six years, and had decided to take a couple of blankets and start out for themselves.

In the summer of 1891 the Tammany Hollow ranch was sold and the family moved back across the Snake River to Asotin where, in the fall of that year, brother Roscoe was born. Asotin county at that time was certainly on the "frontier" and one would think that conditions there were sufficiently in a primitive stage to satisfy any demand in that direction. There were no railroads and, as a matter of fact to this day, the "iron horse" has never crossed the boundaries of the county. There were practically no roads and about the only communication had with the outside world during the winters was by horse back. In summer stern wheeler steam boats plied the swift waters of the Snake River from Riparia and transported to market what little wheat was produced by the farm lands on Asotin Flat. Some of the crops were hauled to Asotin in sack where it was loaded on the boats, but much of the grain was dumped into chutes, which led down from the table land where it was grown to the warehouses on the river's bank, where it was resacked so it could be loaded on the steam boats for the trip down the river. It may have been the whistle of the steamboats on the river announcing the advance of civilization which caused Father to prepare for another move, which was, without doubt, the most venturesome of any he had undertaken up to that time. With a family of small children, the eldest but thirteen years old and the youngest but a babe in arms, mother must have had her hands full with the six of them, but she uttered no complaint when Father decided to go to Canada. His immediate objective was the Kettle River Valley of which he knew nothing. How he ever learned of the place we never knew. Clive tells the story of the trip:

"Father disposed of his real estate holdings at Asotin and in Tammany Hollow which gave him sufficient cash to equip the party and purchase some livestock. Much time was given to the preparations for the journey. It was known that we were going into a new country, but just how new and what the conditions were remained to be discovered. Of necessity we had to take with us everything that might be needed on the journey which, from all that could be learned, would require a month or more. It was planned to go into the stock business in connection with farming, and therefore breeding stock and farm machinery would be required. Rolling stock in the nature of wagons were a necessity and two wagons - one a 3½ inch Bain and the other a 3-inch Schuttler - were purchased, and in addition there was a so-called 'hack,' or light spring wagon. Two tents were obtained, one about eight by ten feet as a sleeping tent for the the horse wrangler and the older boys, and the other a more commodious tent, about fourteen by sixteen feet, in which could be erected a sheet iron stove, and which furnished shelter for Father and Mother and the younger children. The tents, as well as two wagon sheets and bows, were purchased from Montgomery Ward by mail or express from Chicago. The wagons were rigged out in prairie schooner style while the 'hack' was reserved for Mother and the younger children. The Mother was equal to the occasion is evidenced by the fact that, during the entire journey the story of which we are about to relate, she drove the 'hack' team while holding on one arm her youngest offspring, then not six months of age. In the outfit were about thirty head of cattle, young and old, and about the same number of horses, mostly brood mares. There was also a percheron stallion which had been raised on the Asotin farm and he caused us a lot of trouble during the journey. Fortunately for us a man named Sterns had been in father's employ on the Asotin ranch. He wanted to see the country, was an experienced horse wrangler, and consented to make the trip with us. He proved to be invaluable in several rather difficult situations which we encountered during the journey. We loaded into the wagons a small amount of farm machinery among which were an acme harrow, a sod breaking plow called a 'prairie queen,' scythes, garden implements, and such other tools and equipment as was thought to be necessary in a new country. Father took along his Remington shot gun, which the manufacturers gave him in payment of an advertising bill while he was running the newspaper at Asotin, and also his old single shot Ballard rifle of .46 mm fire caliber. Game and fish were plentiful and it was thought we could live off the country so far as meat was concerned. Beds and bedding, a few chairs, a table or two, and a limited amount of kitchen equipment were loaded on the wagons as were two or three large trunks which contained the family's wearing apparel. Finally the day for our departure arrived. We had intended to start out early in the morning, but first one thing and then another prevented, and it was after noon that we got the cavalcade in motion, that being the sixth of May, 1892. It was quite a task to get everything lined out on the road. The horses were not used to the work, some of them had scarcely ever 'looked through a collar,' and had to be broken in gradually, and we had some young calves which could not walk and had to be hauled in a wagon. The first day we made about eight miles and camped on the Snake River below Lewiston. Twelve miles proved to be about the limit of distance we could cover in a day. We tried to get quite an early start each morning and camped well before dark so as to have plenty of time to arrange for the night. The Snake River was crossed on a ferry boat at Alpowa, from which point we went over much roads as we could find and made camp the third day some miles south of Pullman, thence by way of Palouse and Spangle to Spokane, where we arrived May 15. Camp was made on Hangman Creek where Peaceful Valley now stands and just below what is now known as the 'High Bridge' on the Sunset Highway leading west out of Spokane. That territory is now all built up and is within the city, but at that time there were no houses in sight. The livestock needed rest so it was decided to lay over for a day, during which time some of the horses decided they had gone far enough and took the back track. They were eventually found down near the little hamlet of Marshall and when Sterns, the horse wrangler, brought them in he had with him a fine catch of trout which were a welcome change from the standard bacon and eggs which were usually served for breakfast.

"The Spokane River was crossed on a bridge, but the Little Spokane was forded. Camp was made on Walker's Prairie, where some of the horses were poisoned by eating loco weed. At least this is what we supposed, as some of the settlers told us there was such a weed growing on the prairie and that it was a deadly poison to stock not accustomed to eating it. Addy, south of Colville, was one of the camping places and as the weather was rainy and the livestock needed rest, we laid over at that point. Then, as now, Clive (38) would rather go fishing than do almost anything else, so he soon found an old discarded fishing pole near an Indian camp beside a stream and soon caught enough fine trout to feed all hands, using some salmon eggs, which were given to him by an Indian boy he met on the stream. After resting up for a day at the camp near Addy we proceeded on our way ,stopping over night at a place called Arden, where some enterprising spirit had installed a great mill, the power for which was supplied by a water wheel in the Little Pend Oreille River.

"The party finally arrived at the old trading post of Marcus, on the Columbia River about four miles above Kettle Falls. As had been stated, the 'promised land' seemed to be the Kettle River Valley in British Columbia. Just why that particular spot had been selected as a destination has never been satisfactorily explained, as it was entirely undeveloped and almost inaccessible. In order to get there it was necessary for us to cross the Columbia River and then follow up the Kettle River which joined the Columbia about five miles below Marcus, and to traverse the Colville Indian Reservation, through which white men were not supposed to travel. There were no roads as the term is understood at this time, although a few individuals, with more physical strength and perseverance than good judgment, had blazed the way over the reservation.

"The undertaking of transporting the outfit, and particularly the livestock, across the Columbia River, which at that time was running bank full, was an arduous one attended with great danger, as the only means of getting across the river was by row boats propelled with oars by drunken Indians, which oars they operated by hand. It should be remembered that the west bank of the river, where we wished to land, was in the reservation and controlled by the Indians, and they therefore likewise controlled the transportation. The boats were of flat bottom construction and barely long enough to carry the wagon and two horses. At the best the situation was bad, but it was made worse by the fact that the Indian operators of the boats, like some white men, were addicted to the excessive use of 'fire water,' the use of which seemed to make them even more reckless in their daring. The river was swift and we could hear the roar of Kettle Falls just below. It took all the man power available to make the far bank before being swept over the falls and several times we had but little to spare. After attaining the far bank, which would be perhaps two miles down the river from the landing place, the Indians would take a couple of saddle horses, make their lariats fast to the boat, and with the assistance of poles in the hands of those on board, would work the boat back up the river to the landing place. This operation had to be repeated many times and several days elapsed before we were all safely on the other side, all without loss of man or beast. Then followed the trip up the Kettle River and at time it seemed that no further progress could be made as the so-called road was little better than a mountain trail and it had to be rebuilt and repaired in many places before we could pass over it. In some places where the mountains came down to the river's bank in rocky cliffs it was necessary to leave the river canyon and take to the hills, some of which were so steep it was all that four good horses, and sometimes six, could do to haul to wagons. We crossed the Kettle river, which was running bank full, several times. One crossing was by a makeshift bridge, while the others were by boats. The International Boundary line between the United States and the Dominion of Canada was crossed about where the Custom House at Laurier now stands. However, at that time, there was no Custom House and no one lived within many miles of that place. We knew we were at the 'line' only when we saw the swath about four rods wide, then clearly discernable, which the engineers had cut out through the timber when the boundary was surveyed. Some three miles further on we crossed the Kettle River on a boat manned by Robert Kerr who, in 1946, was still living at Grand Forks. This last crossing was about two miles up the river from the present site of the hamlet of Cascade, and as we were at last in Canada it was thought best to make quite a permanent camp and to send out a scout to look over the country ahead and, if possible, find a location. The Canadian Customs Officer was an Englishman named R. Gilpin. He was a bachelor and lived on his stock ranch several miles up the river from where we were camped. He had evidently heard of the arrival of our outfit, for within a day or two he called o nus and placed our livestock in quarantine which he said would prevent us from moving on for three weeks. We had not yet reached the 'Promised Land' of Kettle River Valley and the prospect was not any too bright. No farms were in sight but we were told that some ten or fifteen miles farther on there was something of a settlement. A few days later we located on Fourth-of-July Creek where a squatter was glad to trade his equity in half a section of prairie and timber land for some of Father's horses.

"It was the middle of June and too late to put in much crop but a few acres were broken out for potatoes, corn and other garden vegetables. None of the land had been plowed and was in virgin bunch grass and timber. That fall, the children population of the valley having been materially augmented by the arrival of the Pettijohn family, a school was opened with about fifteen pupils under the tutelage of I. N. Mathers, who proved to be a most capable instructor.

"The following winter, that of 1892-93, was a very severe one and we lost some cattle because of the shortage of feed. We had raised no crop, but did cut a considerable number of tons of slough grass for hay with scythes and also made some bunch grass hay which was cut with a mower. That first winter in the valley the family lived in a log house on the bank of the river about two miles above the present site of Grand Forks, the settlement of which did not begin for several years afterwards."

The second winter the family lived in a deserted cabin on father's land. The prospector who built the twelve by fourteen foot cabin no doubt had room to spare in the one room, but it must have taken some management on the part of Mother to provide for the family, which then comprised, besides the parents, six children - five boys and one girl. The boys slept in tiers of bunks built up off the floor, while the daughter had a trundle-bed, which in the day time was folded and pushed back under the one bedstead.

We had to carry water from "down on the creek" about a half mile away, but by the next winter a grade had been built down the side of the big hill and we were living in a good five roomed log house which Father had hired built for us. Though we still had to carry water for house use, we were now quite near Fourth-of-July Creek, and this was a welcome change from melting snow for wash water, or taking the family washing to the creek. After the winter in the tiny cabin the new house seemed fine indeed. It had two bedrooms down stairs and a good sized kitchen-living room. The upstairs was unpartitioned, leaving a large room which served as dormitory and study room for the five boys. A year or two later a kitchen was added, thus making our living room more roomy and comfortable.

Lumber and supplies of all kinds had to be hauled from Marcus, Washington, some fifty miles away, which was the nearest point on a railroad, so of course timber in the rough was made to do all that it would. The road was covered with hard split "shakes" from the largest cedar trees to be found. In winter the temperature ranged from zero to thirty-two below, but we were always snug and warm in our log house. It was under these conditions that Harriet (44), the second daughter, was born November 30, 1894. There was no doctor nor hospital in that whole area, but a kindly, mission trained quarter breed Indian woman, leaving her own children at home on the reservation, spent the day with Mother.

Father set out an orchard of the hardier fruits - apples, prunes, apricots and cherries. Small fruits and vegetables did especially well in the soil along the creek bottom. The farm comprised 320 acres a portion of which was heavily timbered mounting land, the remainder being prairie of a hilly nature, which was plowed up and planted to grain. The horses and cattle had plenty of good outside range in the summer, but had to be fed during the long winter months. There were trout in the streams and game in abundance. Prairie chicken, grouse, pheasant, deer and caribou, made it a "hunter's paradise." Bears lynx, cougars and wild cats roamed the mountains, and Father and the boys were never slow to take advantage of the hunting and fishing which that new country afforded. Father, with his old reliable .46 caliber, octagon barrel, single shot, rim fire, Ballard rifle, brought down many deer, and the meat house in the fall and winter was always well supplied with venison. As the boys grew older, and were well able to handle themselves in the mountains, it was the usual thing every fall for Father to say, "Boys, it's about time to kill up the winter's meat," and no sweeter music ever fell on youthful ears. Clive (38), the eldest, perhaps hunted most, and was one of the first persons in that whole country to try out what was then the new 30/30 Winchester Repeating Rifle. One morning two deer were seen passing along a hillside about a hundred and fifty yards from the house. Clive rushed in and brought out his rifle and fired several shots, all without effect. Homer (39) who was little given to shooting, stood by watching the performance. Evidently disgusted with the display of poor marksmanship he said, "Give me that gun," and proceeded to shoot once at the rapidly disappearing deer. Once was enough to bring down the game, probably the only one he ever shot in his life.

A long hill ran parallel with the mountain and the family home was snuggled between. We actually at the end of the trail, as no wagon tracks led any farther on. Father had exceeded his fondest expectations and had not only reached the last frontier, but had crossed it to a point where a team of horses could not proceed any farther. When a wagon road was finally built over the mountain to Boundary Falls it followed the brow of the ridge and from the house could be seen the huge pieces of machinery as they were being hauled to the rich mines which were later developed. Before that time, the Pettijohn place, being, as you might say "at the head of navigation" so far was wagon transportation was concerned, was the starting point on the trail over Boundary Mountain. Freight wagons brought supplies from Marcus and Bossburg on the Columbia River for the whole Boundary Country, in British Columbia, and at the Pettijohn place they were loaded on pack horses for the trip to the Phoenix and Boundary Creek mining camps.

On February 22, 1896, the President signed the bill which opened the "North Half" of the Colville Indian Reservation to mineral entry. Through the exaggerated reports brought out by the "sooners" who had secretly gone upon the forbidden lands, it was thought the mines of fabulous richness would be discovered. Many prospectors had gathered at Grand Forks, B. C., just across the international boundary line from the reservation, ready to make the dash as soon as word came that the territory was open for mineral entry. Clive (38), then seventeen years old, took some saddle and pack horses from the ranch and headed a small party in which a Swede named John Endahl, who had come over from the Kootenai Lake Country, and an old California "forty-niner," named George Arnett, were members. That February was cold and the snow was deep. None of the Pettijohn party had ever been over the trails and had no idea as to where those rich prospects were supposed to be. It so happened that Harry Baer, of Spokane, a partner of Dutch Jake Goetz, of Bunker Hill and Sullivan fame, had outfitted a party under the leadership of one George Wolf and was ready at Carson City, on the line to make the dash to the place where their scouts had reported rich diggings. When the horseman, who had been employed for that purpose, brought the message from Marcus, Wash., the nearest telegraph office, that the president had signed the bill opening the reservation, there was a grand stampede. Clive's party, having no one along who was acquainted with the country, decided to follow the trail left in the snow by the Harry Baer party, which was among the first to pull out. They left Carson City late in the afternoon, going up the Kettle River which was forded near the mouth of Curlew Creek. Thence the trail led up that creek where, before proceeding very far, darkness overtook the party and it was no longer possible to follow the tracks in the snow. Camp, without a tent, was made under a big pine tree, which was near the foot of Curlew Lake, although none of the party knew it at the time. No blankets were unrolled, but a good big fire was kept burning throughout the night and, although the temperature was below zero, no member of the party suffered any undue hardship. Hot cakes, bacon and eggs and good stout coffee at daylight served to satisfy the inner man and the trail, which was then easily followed, was resumed. The horses were in need of feed, but speed was considered important. and the party pushed on through the snow, which at that point was about two feet deep. Along about noon, upon topping a ridge overlooking what was later called Lambert Creek the sound of chopping was heard. The Baer party were staking out mining claims and without further ado the Pettijohn party proceeded to locate one claim, six hundred by fifteen hundred feet in size, which was christened "The Iron King." The Mining Recorder's Office was then at Carson to which the party repaired and, after making the necessary entries on the records, they returned to Grand Forks. The next summer Clive sold out his interest in the mining claim and with the money he received bought a half interest in a furniture business at Grand Forks, where cheap furniture, bed springs and mattresses, were manufactured for the mining camps which were springing up all about the country.

Each year saw more settlers coming into the valley. The passing miners brought fabulous tales of "gold in them thaar hills," and there was gold, both placer and quartz. The Granby smelter, largest on the continent at that time, was built at Grand Forks, and all was activity in mining and prospecting circles, but Father followed the lure no more. The fever had run its course. He had prospected at Cripple Creek, Leadville and Pike's Peak before the Civil War. The responsibility of years and a growing family no doubt were factors in keeping him unmoved by the sight of nuggets as large as grains of wheat in the bearing quartz.

The country came to be dotted with interesting "characters." There was Dead Shot Jim, whose old forty-five "tolled the knell of parting day" for more than one careless individual. "Johnie Come Lately," a picturesque Frenchman from France (and not Lower Canada), appeared on the scene, driving a nondescript flea-bitten pony hitched to a dilapidated four-wheeled buckboard. "Lone Ranch Kate," an Indian woman, made periodic visits to the miner's cabins, while "Crazy Brown," told of his intentions to pay off the national debt of the United States just as soon as he could get his Volcanic Mine into production. One old codger bought three beautiful sorrel colts from Father. They had never been broken to harness or saddle but followed their new owner every where he went as he took long jaunts about the valley. He said they were too pretty and too fine specimens of horse flesh to ever look through a collar or be burdened with a saddle, and they never suffered that ignominy. Another odd specimen had fourteen children, a bony old pack horse and not much else. But, like most of the "queers" he had a mine. His family was always next door to starvation and the mine was all he thought or talked about. It was really a rich mine but in some way he was euchred out of it, or at least realized very little from it. Father always said he would get beat out of his mine, and tried to advise him, but it was no use. He would be gone from home for weeks at a time leaving his family to get along on jack rabbits. The Pettijohn children, on coming home from school would often find the wretched old horse eating hay at the stack, his owner all the while "wolfing" down bacon and eggs in the kitchen, all the time talking confidently to Father in his cockney twang. It was "Gov'nor" this and "Gov'nor" that, being his special name for Father, who, mindful of the fourteen hungry children often loaded up the hack with flour, meat and other eatables and took it the ten miles to their mountain cabin. After we left the valley he wrote Father that he had hold his mine for several thousand dollars, but he did not think to mention the hundred dollar note which Father had paid for him.

Our place, there on Forth-of-July Creek, was quite a stopping place. Father was particularly susceptible to preachers and would give them anything he had. One such itinerant, turned miner for a while, spent one winter with us. He said grace at each meal, thankful (audibly at least) for his provisions three times a day. In the spring, when he went on his way rejoicing, he slyly secreted in his bed roll a pair of Mother's best woolen blankets, unbeknownst to her however.

Another "Character" was a black haired, stockily built German named John Hammer, who claimed to be a horseman and to have served in the cavalry in the old country. He was about thirty years of age and lived at the Pettijohn's for several months. He was supposed to chore about the place in the winter time for his board, but did little more than nothing. According to his "say so" he was a great horseman and could ride anything that wore hair. Thinking to get something for the board and lodging furnished, Clive suggested that they break some horses to ride. It was probably a mean thing to do, but a particularly wild and vicious chestnut sorrel animal was selected on which Hammer was to demonstrate his equestrian prowess. The horse was a four-year-old and had barely had on a halter. He was one of those animals who would always let out a few snorts if any one came near him in the barn. He was securely snubbed to a post and blindfolded, and, after much difficulty, was saddled and cinched up tight, and snubbed up close to another saddle horse ridden by one of the boys. Hammer, in fear and trembling, but too late to back out, finally got himself into the saddle. All went well until it became necessary to open the gate leading out to the public road, when, probably with malice aforethought, the rider of the tame saddle horse, to which the wild animal was snubbed, reached over and pulled away the blind, and at the same time released the rope. In much less time than it takes to tell it that cork-screwing cayuse had not only bucked off the German, but to make a good job of it, had thrown him clear over a high rail fence. We heard no more bragging from Hammer about how he used to break horses for the German cavalry.

In that western mining district there was a rough and ready atmosphere not generally considered as conducive to good family life. The mining camps harbored the toughest characters and had everything in the nature of wild life that was ever found in the West. Through it all, with his growing family, Father steered a straight and unwavering course, and sought by every means within his power, by example as well as by precept, to instill within the minds of his children ideas of honesty, dependability and clean living. As long as he lived he never so much as had a bottle of liquor, or a deck of cards, in his house, and never overlooked an opportunity to condemn them as being, as he believed, handmaids of the Devil.

As the country developed, the mines and the settlement at Grand Forks bought everything the place produced in the way of meat, eggs, chickens, vegetables and small fruits. Before the ninth year of our residence in the valley three railroads were building, and the compilers hereof rode in the first coach to pull into the smelter town. We had been "outside" to school, Clive at the University of Washington, at Seattle, and Era at a grade school at Dayton, where she stayed with Grandfather Rainwater's family. The railroad was still under construction and such trains as were run over its uncertain roadbed were being operated by the building contractors. When we boarded the train at Marcus no one could tell us whether it would run on through Grand Forks or not, and Era kept anxiously waiting for the place where, as Clive solemnly assured her, they were to be transferred to a handcar to finish the trip. However, for the first time, the train went through.

One of the last frontiers, rich, vital, and colorful, was in the course of development. A story was to be found along each stream, in every cabin, and by every camp fire. A long and expensive civil case over priority of water rights strung out in the courts for seven years was hard on Father financially and physically. The case, which involved the right to the waters of Fourth-of-July Creek went through the local County Court, thence by appeal to the Supreme Court, at Victoria, and, after Father sold out, the mantle falling on the new owner, the case was carried to the Court of Appeals of the Dominion, and finally to the Court of Queen's Bench at London, England. It was while that case was being litigated that Clive decided to study law, a purpose which he realized when he enrolled in the second law class at the University of Washington.

The children were growing up. Father wanted to be closer to better schools. In the fall of 1902, he sold out everything except a few household goods. These and the books and keepsakes he had carried with him in all his travels were shipped to Spokane where the family spent the winter. Clive had graduated from the University and was engaged in the practice of law at Sprague, Washington, at that time. Just a work about these books may be of interest because, in those days on the frontier, it was unusual to find anything of that kind in the possession of the settlers. However, Father had quite a comprehensive library of reference books which he frequently consulted among them being "Webster's Unabridged Dictionary," a set of "Encyclopedias," "The Greatest Events of the Greatest Century," "Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant." histories, and biographical works. Then there were a number of extremely large leather bound "Commentaries on the Scriptures" which had been published long before the Civil War. Homer, the epic poet of Greece, was not forgotten, and a good translation of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey," with well thumbed pages, was a part of the reading course which Father recommended to his children who would much rather give attention to "Leather Stocking Tales," or "Robinson Crusoe." When the family first located in the Kettle River Valley there was no established, or official, mail route from Marcus, on the railroad, and such service as there was to be had was furnished by volunteers when they made trips "outside" for supplies. The Canadian mail came by horseback and pack animal every three weeks from Vernon, B. C. During all of those years the family subscribed for "The Youth's Companion," and its coming was looked forward to by every member of the family. In the evening, after all the chores were done, Father would read to us the continued stories of travel and adventure which were an ever source of wonderment.

As had been said, the family moved from Canada to Spokane in the fall of 1902, but that is not strictly correct, for at that time Arthur (40) was living on his homestead which he had taken up at the foot of Bonaparte Mountain, in Okanogan County, while Clive (38) had graduated from the University of Washington and was practicing law at Sprague. The following winter Homer (39), who was with Father and Mother and the younger children, attended the old Blair Business College at Spokane. City life never appealed to Father and he was not content to remain long in Spokane. He began to cast about for a new location. There was some talk at the time about Kennewick, a new town on the Columbia River, where that stream was crossed by the main line of the Northern Pacific Railway, and Father went there in the early spring of 1903, where he bought a town lot, had a house built and a well drilled. He purchased a tract of raw sage brush land, with no improvements, and started in to make a farm. Some years before, the railroad company had put in a canal and developed a small project there. A few of the early settlers were still there, well established on farms with bearing orchards. A new company put in a bigger canal and placed more land on the market. Father's land, which was a part of this tract, was in sagebrush, and, like the rest of the country, was nothing but sand. A Sahara Desert scene could well have been filmed on his property. The dunes shifted with the winds, which, particularly in the spring, blew almost constantly. For days at a time it was impossible to see across the street.

Father had the land cleared of sagebrush, but in three years it bore no crop. It was difficult to get a field seeded, and after the crop was up, if anything broke the crust on the sandy soil, the sand would commence blowing and the entire field would be blown out, as there was no way to stop it. The prospect was discouraging, indeed. Mother had taken all of Father's many moves more or less philosophically, but she now rebelled and said that Kennewick was the worst place in which to try to live she had ever seen, or expected to see, and that any change would be for the better. Shortly after the family located at Kennewick, Father had a serious illness which terminated in pneumonia. Clive, Homer and Arthur went home to help take care of him, but it was three months before he was able to go outside the house.

In 1904 Homer (39) went to Twin Falls, Idaho, to work on a surveying crew employed in the new irrigation project there. Father and Mother and the younger children remained in Kennewick until June, 1905, when the Kennewick property was sold for about what it cost. Three years with no income, Father's long illness, and the cost of maintaining a family of seven, made a considerable dent in the family exchequer. Preparations were made for what proved to be Father's last venture in pioneering. He was then past seventy years of age and had a family of seven dependant upon him for support. Nevertheless, he was ready and eager to take the chance of moving into another new and undeveloped country. He bought some livestock, including a cow, four good horses and a saddle pony, and, loading a wagon and hack with a few household goods, books, and keepsakes which had followed him on all his wanderings, the family said good-bye to Kennewick with no regrets. In justice to the Kennewick country it should be said that after the land was placed under irrigation the picture was entirely changed, and that area is now one of the most beautiful and productive in the state of Washington.

The trip took almost a month and July 3, 1905, the party made camp in Rock Creek Canyon, near Twin Falls, just a short distance from the place where mother, with her parents, had camped as a child while traveling over the "Oregon Trail" on their way to the West some forty years before. Homer (39) had been at Twin Falls about a year, working with a surveying crew on the canal construction, and was in on the big land drawing, getting a tract of land two miles south of Twin Falls. Father bought raw land near Kimberly.

There were two hundred eighty thousand acres in the Twin Falls irrigation project, all sage brush land. Everything was freighted in by team from Shoshone, Idaho, across the desert and over the tortuous Snake River-Blue Lakes road. Twin Falls was a town of tents and shacks. The first train over the Oregon Short Line pulled into Twin Falls on August 7, 1905, and that was quite an event. People came from all over the tract - from the cattle ranches to the south and from Oakley, fifty miles away. Eight thousand people celebrated in Twin Falls that day.

That first fall Father made several trips to Oakley, a pioneer Mormon settlement, to haul hay, fruit and vegetables, paying $27.00 a ton for the hay. There was absolutely nothing growing on the Twin Falls tract other than sage brush, and the settlers were compelled to burn that in their stoves for fuel. Late as it was Mother raised a garden that first summer. The next year shade trees, a small orchard and berry patch were started and sixty acres of the sage brush land was cleared and put in crop.

For several years, while the land was being cleared on the project, and before any considerable portion had been seeded, terrific dust storms, almost as bad as at Kennewick, would sweep over the country, and last for days at a time. The condition was so bad that it was impossible to work outside in those storms, and inside the loosely built shacks the air was thick with dust. The wind blew over the barren country weeks on end and particularly in the spring of the year. The winters were cold with sufficient snow for sleighing for months at a time. The nails driven in the shack walls from the inside wore a coating of frost. The heat of summer was terrific and there was no shade from the sun beating down on the desert waste. There were no wells and settlers had to depend on the canal for water for every purpose. Typhoid fever scourged the country. Mother boiled and filtered every drop of water we used, but the land produced. There was no fuel and the people had to depend upon the sage brush, which they cleared from the land, which was a poor substitute. They hauled it in and piled it up like great hay stacks, and in winter it took the time of one person to keep a stove going.

With encouragement, or even cooperation, Father would have moved again. He said the country had four drawbacks - wind, water and no wood and was too far from markets. But Mother said "No"; that she was through fixing up new places. However, Father, Mother, Harriet and Mabel did spend one year at Gridley, California, where a house and lot was purchased, leaving Ray, Ross and Era to hold the fort on the ranch. They came home with Father's health very much improved. With the help of two of his sons, Ray (41) and Ross (43), who had taken up homesteads near Artesian, about fourteen miles away, Father farmed the Kimberly land for eight years, and it was during that time that Aunt Hannah (182) and her husband, Uncle Henry Allphin, paid them a visit. Later Aunt Hannah's daughter, Ermina (259) came and it was quite an event in the family, as she had not seen Father since she was a child. She could not wait for him to come to the house from he field where he was working, but ran out to meet him.

In the fall of 1914 Father sold the Kimberly farm and with Mother and Mabel (45) moved in to the town of Twin Falls where he bought a home and other property. There, at the age of eighty, he renewed his acquaintance with two gentlemen from Huntsville, Ill., the town of his boyhood. They were J. H. Ashton, a lawyer, and C. L. McPherson, a nurseryman, the latter of whom distinctly remembered the day Father returned from the Civil War in his army uniform. Having at one time been engaged in the publication of a country newspaper at Asotin, Wash., Father could never get away from his attachment for printer's ink, and he spent any enjoyable afternoons visiting with the editor of the local daily who always seemed to be glad to have him come in.

In 1918 he attended the 70th wedding anniversary of his sister Hannah (182) at Walla Walla, Wash., where she and her husband, Uncle Henry Allphin made their home with their daughter, Mrs. Phocian Hooper. Having been present at the wedding seventy years before at Huntsville, Ill., it was a rare occasion for Father, who, although 84 years of age, was looked upon by Aunt Hannah as her "kid brother." Aunt Hannah declared that they - she and Uncle Henry - were all right, excepting that they were "old, lame and deaf," none of which, however was strikingly apparent. Father, too, was active up to the last year of his life, helping with the garden and mowing the lawn. Always of strong religious convictions he was a member of and attended the Presbyterian Church, walking on his way to the services as though he had been sent for. He loved a circus and as late as 1922, at the age of 88, he took Mother, Mabel (45) and Era (42) to the "big top" and enjoyed it as much as ever. He lived to see his son Ross (43) return from World War I, and to see his second grandson, Dyer (43B), who was named for him. (It was to his grandson, Dyer, he gave the fine oil painting of himself that Grandfather Abraham (13) had made in Rushville, Ill. The artist came and stayed at their home and painted pictures of the entire family. Gertrude Pettijohn (296) of Agusta, Ill., has the paintings of Grandfather Abraham and Grandmother Jane. The picture of Father at this writing in 1946 is in good condition and shows him to be a good-looking boy about fifteen.)

Up to the day of his death Father subscribed to two daily newspapers and took a great interest in world happenings. It was his common habit to spend most of his days sitting in his big chair, reading much aloud to Mother, as she was busy with her sewing or knitting. He died July 19, 1924, in his ninetieth year. Mother followed him June 21, 1940. A modest stone on Lot Four (4), Block Twenty-two (22), in the Plat of Twin Falls Cemetery Association, at Twin Falls, Idaho, marks the spot where they lie, side by side, to await the resurrection. "May their souls, and the souls of all the Faithful, rest in peace."

To the top