Barton Robinson and his family find a home-A true story WC 1471
He felt just as anxious as the horse, to be off to somewhere new. A man could set down roots in the Kansas Territory and have a family tree that would spread far across this new land. They'd traveled from Illinois. All their belongings and stored until they found a parcel of land to build on. He pulled the reins and the surrey with its faded fabric top and fringe with missing tassles slowed to a stop in front of the hotel.
“Father! we've been waiting forever. What took you so long?” Three young boys jumped from the wooden porch pushing each other to get the best seat in the buggy.
Behind them, Barton’s eldest son Herbert, escorted his mother to the surrey’s step and helped her in to the seat behind his father.
“Father, if it’s all right with you. Could I take the reins today? I need some practice finding my way around these roads.” He stood beside the step up to the front bench and waited.
Barton knew what his son asked. Herbert had watched him put liniment on his hands the night before. It was his way of taking over a duty to be hard on his father by the end of the day's adventure.
“Herbert, the only way to learn the lay of the land is to drive it.” His smile welcomed his son and the answer was the rock of the buggy when Herbert climbed up the step and settled on the bench.
“You can handle this. I'll sit back with your mother like a proper Englishman and enjoy a ride in the country.” He thickened his British accent and touched the brim of his new Bowler hat as he moved to sit next to Mahala.
“I want to sit with Herbert.” Lander and James began to scramble over the seat to reach the front. John Charles just bounced on the back seat with excitement.
“Here now, none of that. Herbert doesn’t need you as navigators. Sit back there and enjoy the ride.” Barton grabbed one son by his collar and the other by his britches, preventing them from going any further. “Onward Herbert.”
The sun rose in the sky and a slight wind stirred the hot air. As they passed plowed lands, they saw both sod and board farm houses with matching barns. Forests of trees gave them cool cover from the blazing sun.
“It sure is different from Illinois,” Herbert called over his shoulder.
Barton nodded as the buggy made the sudden dip in the road that led to a small bridge over a creek.
“Do you miss it?’ Mahala turned her face toward him so that she could see his expression and not just the sides of her bonnet.
“It was getting too crowded. Houses being built on top of each other. The roads so full of carriages and lorry’s it's no wonder my practice was full of clients. No, I love it here. I won't hear my neighbors. They're not just a few yards away, most are a mile or two.”
“Are you sure that isn’t too close?” She teased.
“Father, look! there're Indians here.” James yelled and pointed down the road to a group of Indians moving along side the road toward them. Some rode and others walked.
“How do you know they're Indians?” Barton asked. He tapped Herbert to slow the carriage. The horse shook her head and pawed at the ground. Herbert held her in check, speaking in low tones to calm her.
“Our teacher, in Mt. Pulaski, showed us pictures of them. They're wearing the same clothes.”
“These are different Indians. They aren’t wearing the same clothes as the Indians in Illinois.” Lander chided his brother.
“Stop it boys,” Barton ordered. He turned back to look at the group. The men at the hotel told him the Indians around here treated the settlers kindly and traded with them. "They're Indians. They're not heathens to be shunned. Let’s go Herbert.” Barton held on to the front seat and his wife as the surrey jerked forward and the horse seemed to know the way and started to trot. The younger boys leaned over the back seat until the group passed out of site.
"Our first Indians up close!" James leaned forward to inform his father.
After a couple of hours of looking at the shops in the villages they passed, they stopped, spread a blanket and set out the lunch basket. Mahala requested a lunch from the hotel’s kitchen. They ate mouth watering fried chicken, biscuits and fresh vegetables with a cake for dessert. Sweet tea in a gallon jar was still cool and refreshing in the heat of the day. The boys expended their energy in the afternoon sun.
Mahala and Barton gathered the remnants of lunch and called the boys to the surrey to finish the tour. They hadn't traveled more than a mile sown the road when a cloud of dust appeared ahead of them and from cloud came a line of men on horses, led by a man in military attire . Herbert pulled the surrey to the side of the road to let them pass.
The leader slowed his mount next to the surrey. “Good afternoon Sirs, Ma’am,” he tilting the wide brim of his hat and touching it with a gloved hand. “What brings you out on this fine day?”
“We're looking for land to purchase.” Barton offered, not sure why this many men were armed to the teeth for battle and out on the road. The war was over, he reminded himself.
“British you are.” The man observed. “I'm Colonel Montgomery. We've just run a pro-slaver, who's been terrorizing Negro freemen off their property. He ordered the Negros to leave the territory with in twenty-four hours or have their houses burned down. We can’t have that. The war is over and all men are free. If you're looking for a piece of land that's already proven and a house ready to move in, I have one for you.”
“Sir, we would very much like to see this place.” Barton held out his hand to the Colonel, who leaned forward to shake it. The Colonel ordered a couple of the men on horses to escort the surrey to the farm they had just left.
At the farm, people scurried back and forth piling furniture and goods into a wagon. The two families didn't speak. Men stood guard watching the family remove their belongings.
Barton viewed the house from a distance. It was a white washed sod home. Built sturdy, it stood not far from a grove of trees. A bluff a few yards away away and a valley must lay below.
"It's the Sugar Creek." One of Montgomery's men informed him. "Good water, The land beyond the grove has been planted."
"How much land?" Barton asked.
"I'm not sure. You can inquire in Pleasanton, just down the road a ways."
"Tell the Colonel we'll take it and thank him for the reference." They returned to Pleasanton to make arrangements to move.
They moved in and settled firmly in the community. Barton bought a number of lots, one for each of his four boys.
They farmed the land and watched as the local Indians ran buffalo over the bluff, not far from their house. Below their women would skin and butcher meat for winter. They never bothered Barton or his family.
Many years later, after the boys were grown and married, Barton stood in the grove where white stones outlined the graves of his niece and babies that didn't live long after their birth. He looked out over the land his son's had settled and built their own homes.
This land would be here for many years to come. It would house his descendants. He smiled with contentment.
The original sod house was destroyed in a tornado and Barton built a wood house closer to the bluff and it is standing today, though not livable as the present owner allowed the horses to use it as a barn.
There are many arrow heads found in the vicinity of Flat Rock on Sugar Creek. Later it was a place young people came to have picnics in the summer.
Barton added plots to the original property making sure all his sons had plenty of room to build a home and farm their own land.
Two of his sons had the same itch for open spaces. Charles moved on to Wyoming, married and had many jobs, one as a sheep herder. Lander found oil in Hays, Kansas. He married and his family is still there.
Note: After I located my ancestors, I arranged for a family reunion. Decedents from all four boys were represented. We toured the old homestead and found white painted stones outlining unmarked graves. The woman from the Linn Co. Historical Society, who had accompanied us to verify the graves, contacted the owner at that time and he agreed to fence off the grave area from the livestock that roamed the homestead. I imagine there is nothing left down there after a hundred years, but it was a nice gesture. When the owner decided to sell the property, I heard one of the family members purchased it.
The account of this story is found in the Linn County Historical book.