Last of Chapter 16 REV. JOHN O. FOSTER ON EARLY DAYS When an old-timer begins to spin his yarns, people often say, "Let him alone, poor fellow!  He can't well help it, and if it will do him any good, just let him go on; it will not hurt us."  Now that is very knid, and if you will listen to the story for a few minutes, and then are not interested, throw the article aside and read something else. "Black Hawk Purchase!"  Whew!  How that brings up old memories .  Yes, father got the fever in 1837, and he talked about it day and night for nearly a year.  Then, in the spring of 1838, as soon as the grass was large enough for the teams, long lines of prairie schooners started for the Far west though Indiana was also the far west at that time, but neighbors were getting too thick around Michigan City, Indiana, and father decided to move to the Mississippi. The battle of Bad Axe, Wisconsin, had settled the controversy with the Indians, and the whole land once belonging to the Sac and Fox Indians was thrown open for settlers. The rush for the new lands was nothing like the tremendous boom of late years when new territories are opened, but for that day there was some excitement not to be overlooked.  The route lay, as we afterward learned, through Joliet, Ills.; thence over the long, bleak prairie, without the sign of habitation for miles and miles, save at certain crossings of rivers, like that at Dixon, where, if the waters were low enough, the streams were sure to be forded; if not then the new ferry was used, for which great prices were charged.  In due time our new home was made on the shore of the Father of Waters, about two miles below the town of Port Byron, Ills.  There the strong arms of the new comers soon threw up comfortable homes for the families destined to settle there and begin the battle of life for subsistence.  And it was a battle and no mistake, for every thing edible, such as salt, sugar, tea and coffee, and all articles of clothing, were held at exorbitant prices.  At our late home in Indiana game had been somewhat plentiful, but here it had been so generally killed off that there was no great supply left.  When you talk about fish, then the waters of the upper rapids, as this part of the river was known, could furnish enough to suppy the nation.  I have been at the mouth of the St. Lawrence, the straits of the great lakes, and have fished in the pools for bullheads when they were so plentiful that a tubful would not bring a dollar, but to describe the abundance of fish in this mighty stream at that time would stagger the credulity of any common believer. Think of a sixty-pound catfish, a ten-pound bass, a pike four feet long, and a muskellunge - well, no matter if he was never weighed or measured, for he was big enough and good enough for any of the freinds of Isaac Walton to admire.  Father set a trout line one night below the mill, and next day had fish enough to supply the neighborhood.  On a hot summer evening we used to go down to the bank and see the great fish jump up after flies, and it was a sight which has never faded from my memory.  Hundreds of great, gamy fish made this their feeding time, and when the water was a little low, the sight was marvelous.  It may be that something of the scene of other days may now and then appear, but the wanton slaughter of fish has gone on so long that they have become scarce in these later years. It was a bright day in 1840 when the great flat boat, a sort of scow, anchored just before our home, and the belongings of the family were put on board and we pushed off for the other side of the river, into Iowa territory.  That short voyage of a few miles made a deep impression on my young mind, for, like all other boys, I had a great liking for boats and this one, the Young Hickory was a model.  It was the year of the presidential campaign of William Henry Harrison, and as he was called "Old Hickory," it was well to name this boat Young Hickory.  We landed in Scott county, and made our home in a beautiful grove about ten miles northwest of Davenport.  The little stream that ran through the grove seemed large enough for a mill-site, and here it was determined to build a mill.  But there were not enough inhabitants to support such an expensive undertaking, and so father sold out. A call came from a place called Rockingham, on the river just below Davenport, where there was a mill owned by Sullivan & Moyer, who wanted a steady blacksmith to whom steady employment would be given.  That was just the opening for father, and teams soon conveyed us to the place.  But like many other new towns, there was not a house to be had, not a shanty to be rented.  To be compelled to build a home on such short notice was something of a task, for, unlike many other places, there was no timber at hand, lumber was expensive, carpenters were not to be had, and the men at the mill wanted the blacksmith to go to work immediately.  That great steam saw and gristmill was something of a curiosity in the mighty west.  It was probably the largest of its kind on the river north of St. Louis.  It was a large building, not far from the bank of the river designed to saw logs or grind the grists of the farmers and do a general milling business.  The proprietors had spent thousands of dollars in the plant and, for some reason, the sawmill part of the works was not a success, probably as no good anchorage for logs could be made on that shore. Father thought it best to call on the proprietors as soon as possible and secure the proffered enployment.  He was pretty closely examined as the head man wanted one who could do almost anything in the blacksmith line from making a horseshoe nail to mending or reconstructing any of the complicated machinery.  He was taken through the mill and shown all the parts.  The new motor force of steam was fully explained, and he was assured that a man who could meet any special emergency when a break-down occurred, would find steady employment at $1.50 a day.  Father did not tell them that he had studied steam power from the day he saw Robert Fulton launch the Clermont, the first steamboat ever made, or that he was present at the foot of Fulton street, New York, when the boat started off upon her maiden trip for Albany, and the application of steam power to boats was an accomplished fact.  He had long desired a chance to see and work in machinery of this kind, for he had constructed a model locomotive in 1831 at Rob Roy, Ind., that was large enough to pull two men over the circular track laid within his large blacksmith shop.  The history of that first locomotive this side of the state of Massachusetts I have lately put in print. So John I. Foster sucured the job of blacksmith and general repairer of broken machinery for Sullivan & Moyer in the town of Rockingham, in the county of Scott, Iowa territory.  That same town was the county seat of Scott county at that time, and there was a young earthquake coming on, the mutterings of which were only a shade less than a cyclone.  Davenport was the candidate for the permanent county seat, and Rockingham declared she would fight for her rights to the death.  The mill men saw in the movement the ruin of their business.  The store keepers declared the change would bring disaster to them.  The farmers were content to go to Rockingham for their grists, and Davenport had not a corn cracker in its neighnorhood, and why should the county seat be moved?  There really was no call for the action. But there was one argument more powerful than all else combined and this was the theme on which Davenport had determined to win.  Back of Rockingham there was a swamp, a big, deep morass, and when the river was high, there was no way to get to the bluffs.  The city authorities saw the point, turned out en masse, and made a long, high causeway to the high ground back of the town.  But the Mississippi had a fashion of laughing at such jokes as that, and proceeded to wash away the obstruction during the next rise in the river.  The citizens fell to again, and made a more formidable embankment, fixed a bridge over the deepest place and in the end beat the river out of its old channel.  Once more the high water arose in its might and carried away the bridge, and I, poor fellow, happened to be over at David Sullivan's and had to stay there two days before I could get home; and then only by the kindness of the said Sullivan who took me over in a skiff.  It was painful to be in sight of home and mother and yet unable to cross the dark, deep strem flowing between me and the loved ones. The county seat went up stream, and the old town practically went out of existence.  The Rockingham hotel, the largest and finest hostelry on the upper Mississippi followed the departing greatness of the town and fell away piecemeal, to be seen no more.  And the mill-well, that stood the longest of all the original structures, for that stout frame bade defiance to winds and weather for many years.  The old engine was taken out and made to do service on a river steamer, and the building was left to decay. But to return.  The skillful mechanic heard of a vacant house down the river, nearly half way to Buffalo, owned by Joseph N. Robinson.  Thither Father Foster made his home and here ended his days. I have wandered over many lands, seen the sun rise over the plains of Lombardy, run through the whole length of France, skirted the Rivieri, climbed to the summit of Vesuvius and watched the play of lights and shades in the Alps, but where, in the wide world, can a more beautiful spot be found than that high bluff jutting down toward the river about four miles south of Davenport?  You, who are denizens of that land, go some day to the top of that beautiful hill where the modern house now stands and look for yourselves.  I have been there of late years and taken testimony from those who know how to judge, that this spot has some of the greatest attractions of any one in western lands.  Not a great mountain range, not the frayed edge of an ocean washed shore, not the beetling crags of Niagara's gorge, not the windings of Bonny Doon, but the cleanest sweep of beautiful vistas imaginable.  How did it look in those days?  Well I will tell you.  Here to the right down the stream was old Buffalo.  Over yonder was Camden.  Here to the left was the fading village of Rockingham.  Up the river, three or four miles, was the young city of Davenport.  With its long white row of soldiers' barracks close by the hill at the lower end of the village, across the river was Stephenson, now the city of Rock Island.  (Why was that name changed?)  And still farther up the stream was the little town of Moline.  In those days there were no great, dingy factories; no tall smokestacks to puncture the sky line, and no bridge to tie the states together.  And yonder, clear and white, was the fort at the lower end of the island with its old log block houses, stockade and loopholes, through which we used to crawl when we went picnicking over there, and the beautiful white house of William Cook about half way this side.  Then look at the islands, three in number:  Rock island, Credit island and Horse island, all in a row, covered with beautiful trees.  Then the winding river, with its broad sweep of more than a mile in width and fully ten miles in length; while over there almost in front, comes in the mouth of the clear, deep Rock river, from the northeast, while yonder, on that high tongue of land just above the mouth of Rock river is the old Indian camping ground which Black Hawk prized more than all his other possessions, and for which he fought till fully overpowered.  And here, just above old Rockingham, was where the troops had a bout with the redskins in an early day, where my sister found an officer's beautiful sword, somewhat rusty, yet just the thing for father to cut up and make three or four good butcher knives. Is this not enough to convince anyone of the beauty of the place where my father's pure spirit fled for the other and brighter world?  The owner of that home on the hill has not given me a reward for writing thus, but I wish he would send me an invitation to come some day and sit on his front porch and let me muse over the scenes of sixty odd years ago; then maybe I might learn his name and wish him as many pleasant memories as have come over the writer. Debbie Clough G-erischer G-erischer Family Web Site http://gerischer.rootsweb.com/ Assistant CC, Iowa Gen Web, Scott County http://www.celticcousins.net/scott/ List Manager for: IASCOTT-L * G-erischer-L * D-encker-L Fitzpatirck-L * V-lerebome-L * Huntington-L * Otis-L * Algar-L EIGS-L * Pickens-L * McNab-L * Patris-L - Rankin-L