A Conestoga Driver's Journal

A Conestoga Driver’s Journal

March 9, 1800. We’re off to Boston; the first stage of my adventure to go to my father’s house in the wilds of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. I’ve never been there before, so I have no idea what to expect. Father has tried to describe it to me, but I can’t picture it. He says it is very different from where I’ve lived with Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred, north of Boston.

My uncle and I stayed with his friends in town. The food was good, and the bed covers so soft and white I didn’t want to dirty them. I slept on the floor, despite Uncle Fred’s admonishments. I’ve been told I will be sleeping on the ground sometimes so I must be accustomed to it for my trip across the Appalachian Mountains. I’ve packed a couple books, a blanket along with a few other supplies Uncle Fred insists I’ll need. He also gave me $10 for expenses along the way.

March 16, 1800. I left Uncle Fred in New York City yesterday and hired a horse into Philadelphia. Both New York City and Philadelphia are grand places with cobblestone streets and beautiful houses. In Philadelphia I found friends of my father-Johan and Miram Manson and stayed with them overnight. It has been a while since I was here, but they still have a beautiful house. The carpeting in their library and my bedroom was so thick I itched to go barefoot in it. We’ve nothing like it in Aunt Sara’s and Uncle Fred’s house. The chandeliers loaded with candles dazzled my eyes. While I was there, the Mansons gave me a letter to add to the one from Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred for Father. The Mansons are old friends of Father’s, and it seems they all miss him dearly. From the stories I have heard from them and Father through the years, they worked closely together during the last war.

I wanted to visit the United States capital while I was in Philadelphia, but found it difficult, with all the disruptions right now. The government is moving to a place on the Potomac named Washington after our first President. It seems a shame to move the capital further south.

Tomorrow I start West. I can’t sleep, I’m so excited. Once again, I am on the floor.

March 17, 1800. I met Joe Lang. He’s the Conestoga driver with whom I will work. His horses are bigger than the horses on our farm back in Massachusetts. As long as I watch my step around them, I think all will be fine. Joe, is a big muscular man in his early twenties. His rough out-spoken manner made me uneasy at first, but I soon discovered he was friendlier than he looked and sounded. When it came to loading my bag of books and bundle of clothes in the wagon, he gave me a hard time but finally relented when I offered to pay him a dollar for the privilege. I do not want to risk losing or ruining the books in the rain. He was not happy with my choice of clothing, either. As a result, he had me buy two red flannel shirts, a pair of linsey pants, leather boots and a broad-brimmed wool hat. I dislike hats, but soon realized why we wear them. The hats protect us from rain on our heads and part of our shoulders while the wide brims keep the burning sun out of our eyes as we drive.

March 23, 1800. I’m in a place called Lancaster. The countryside is beautiful. The people are mostly German and very industrious. It is hard to talk with them, since they speak an odd combination of German and English. Their homes and farms are pleasant looking and have a very practical design. I’m slowly learning how to drive Joe’s team of horses. Although I’m as tall as Joe, he has been doing this work for a while and is stronger and much more experienced than I am. I daren’t complain though. This work will get me to Pittsburg to see my father and will provide me with some money until I decide what to do with my future.

           At night I lay awake under the wagon, wondering if I’ll be welcomed once I arrive in Pittsburg. Maybe I should have written first. But the milk is spilt, as my Aunt Sara  would say. She always told me I looked and acted like my mother whom I never knew. Since she died in childbirth with me, all I have of her is the stories they’ve told me. I wish I had known her. Enough for now, it’s getting dark.

March 30, 1800. I am fortunate to have Joe as my partner. He is the nephew of Jim Lang, a man my father once knew. Jim’s the owner of a general store and post office that was formerly the trading post in Ligonier. Though he is brusque, Joe is patient when he shows me how to drive a wagon load of five tons and how to handle a blacksnake whip without touching the horses. I was clumsy at first, but I managed to do it fairly well by the time we reached Harrisburg.  Twas a good thing, too, for we were joined by several other wagons headed west. Joe received a lot of jests about his green-horn helper.

           I notice that Conestoga drivers are strangely proud of the outfits their horses wear with bridles decorated with red string and big fringed leather housings which hang over collars. The hames or harnesses, attached to these collars, have bells that you can hear. Joe carries two extra sets of bells given to him through the years for his help to other unfortunate waggoneers. These are hung inside the wagon. All the bells make a pleasant jingling sound as we travel. Inside the wagon we are carrying iron, salt and dry goods to Pittsburg.

           The wagon itself is twenty-four feet long. The bows rise to a total of eleven feet above the ground. This rise on each end of the wagon keeps goods piled inside from tumbling out as we climb steeper terrain. Joe’s wagon is brightly painted, using red paint on the upper parts and gears and blue paint on the lower parts. Eight or more wooden bows support a large homespun canvas. The big broad wheels are well greased and good for the rough, rutted rocky roads. A must, he told me.

           As we neared the mountains Joe showed me how to use the big brake. He works the brake by holding down a long iron handle. We also had a chain that could be used to lock the brake for a long descent. I learned to drive the wagon from a horse and also from the left side on a lazy board platform on the outside of front of the wagon.

The trails we follow seem better than what father has described in his letters to me. But still, the terrain is rough, and when it rains, it can be dangerous. Oft times we must find shelter and wait out the storm. Sleeping out in the open is rough, the ground hard, the sky beautiful but the sounds of wild animals growling nearby in the forest can be unnerving. I’m fortunate I am used to hearing the wild animals back at the homestead where I lived with Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred.

Many nights I am sore from walking beside the wagon, directing the horses, and riding the brake on hills. I thought it would be easy to fall asleep either under the wagon or on taproom floors of inns, but it is not. At the inns we eat well, partaking of a meal of either ham and eggs or beefsteak, fried speckled trout, fried potatoes, griddle cakes, preserves, pickles, pie, cheese, cake and coffee. This costs us twelve and a half cents and they serve the food all at once on a huge table. Each man grabs the food he wants and eats till he’s full or everything is gone. Of course, when we sleep out on the road or at lonely cabins along the way, we do not fare as well. Occasionally we go hungry when it is too wet to start a fire. Then it’s deer jerky or dried biscuits.  

           I am responsible for feeding the horses each night. I put the grain we carry into the long box on the wagon tongue for their feedings. During the day, this long box is kept under the tailgate.

           My back stopped aching, along with my feet and posterior, about the second week on the road. My hands took longer and many nights the pain from broken blisters made me so uncomfortable I had a hard time getting to sleep. The blisters made it painful to drive, eat and to write in my journal. Often, I had to bind my hands with small cloths Joe gave me, after treating them with his liniment.

April 9, 1800. We’re at a place called Ligonier. It has changed from my father’s description of the place seven years ago. Now, a few streets have sidewalks and there are more houses, some made of brick. Fewer Indians walk the streets. Pigs are kept tied too.

We stayed at Joe’s uncle’s tavern for the night. We were up late listening to the men tell stories and drink. Not only waggoneers but westerners drink great quantities of whiskey. I tried some. Its fierce sting set me to coughing and the men laughed. Figuring I’d best acquire a taste for it if I want to fit in with the others, I tried it again. It wasn’t as bad the second time. I refuse to smoke a stogie though. The long, thin, villainous-smelling two-for-a-penny cigar is another trademark of the Conestoga driver. There I draw the line. I will just have to be different; I suppose. Once again, Joe and his uncle and friends laughed.

April 17, 1800. We’re in Pittsburg. It’s a busy, rough-looking city with log and clapboard houses crowded around each other. I rode past some nicer areas, such as Wood Street where the homes are brick and have glass windows. Joe collected the money for the hauling and will wait for the next shipment to go back east. Since it is $100 per ton, he collected $500. I got $50; beginners pay. I happily pocketed my money as I packed my books and clothes into my saddle bag on a horse I had purchased with my earnings. I am anxious to see my father but happy to be out here. I wonder if he’ll be happy to see me. My stomach is tied in knots, not knowing what to expect.

           After getting directions to father’s farm, I bade Joe goodbye till next week when I am to go with him on a return trip to Philadelphia. I plan to make two more trips this summer before settling in Pittsburg.

April 18, 1800. Father was very happy to see me. He couldn’t believe how much I’ve grown in the last two years since we’ve seen each other. I’m as tall as him, but thinner. He was in the barn when I arrived and helped me unsaddle and carry my belongings into the house. His home is a large, redbrick two-story with a wide porch that wraps around from the front to the back. The barn is big, filled with four horses, some chickens and two cows.

           That night we ate the roast beef, mashed potatoes and green bean dinner Father’s housekeeper had made and then talked late, as we sat around the fire in his sitting room. He puffed on his pipe as we talked, the cherry smoke encircling his clean-shaven face. He was curious about my plans. Before I could say much, worried he would not want me to stay long, he welcomed me to be there as long as I liked. That was a relief. I told him I was contracted to do two more Conestoga wagon trips this summer and then would be interested in seeing what opportunities existed in Pittsburg.

           Father was delighted with the letters from Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred and the Manson’s. I promised to take his letters to them, when I go back to Philadelphia where I will post the one to my aunt and uncle.

That night I bathed to rid myself of the dust and grime from my travels. Then slept in a bedroom next to my father’s. With the window left open for the warm night air, a rooster’s crow woke me at dawn.

April 23, 1800. It’s been a busy week, helping father around his farm and finding my way about the area. I packed my clothes and I am trying to get some rest before I ride into Pittsburg in the morning to set out East with Joe. I look forward to my next adventure and am glad Father wants me to stay with him when I return.

May 20, 1800. It was a tiring but uneventful trip back to Philadelphia. We followed the same trail we had taken to Pittsburg, only in reverse. At one point Joe and I had to help another driver and his team with a broken wheel. It was sweaty back-breaking work, but between the three of us we managed. As I result, however, the driver was obliged to give Joe another set of bells. ’Twas puzzling to me but Joe seemed very proud of them. We listened to the four sets of bells jingle all the way into Philadelphia. I’m getting sick of hearing them although it does ward off wild animals.

May 25, 1800. We set out for Pittsburg, carrying cloth goods, some kitchen supplies, three boxes of securely packed glassware and a cash box designated for a bank in Pittsburg. We followed the same routine as on my first trip. I’m curious to see how well the glass products fare going over the mountains.

June 18, 1800. Unfortunately, word must have gotten out about the cash box. Just outside of Bedford, three men bushwhacked us. We had just settled for the night, a little off the trail in a secluded, but protected area before the Cumberland Plateau when shots rang out. I was back at the tail of the wagon, putting the horses’ feed bags away. Joe was with the horses.

I pulled myself into the wagon and reached for a loaded rifle. I heard Joe’s pistol and the wagon lurched. I fell forward and the wagon started to roll. Still clutching the weapon I crawled to the canvas front flap, lifted it and swung myself over the lip of the wagon and onto the seat. I grabbed the reins and pulled back. As the horses stopped, I put on the brake and raised my rifle. A hulking man on a large horse thundered by. I aimed and fired. The man grabbed his arm and slumped in his saddle. As his horse took off, the man fell forward, but managed to stay astride as the horse ran off. Two other men, one draped across his horse and the other guiding it, followed the first man into the woods.

I waited, expecting Joe to catch up to me. When he didn’t, I climbed down and made my way where Joe lay in the dirt. Fearing he was dead; I called his name.

He managed to sit up and clutched his shoulder. “Hey Greenhorn. Can you help me into the wagon?”

Weak kneed in relief, I leant on the rifle for a moment, then helped him stand. In the dusk, I turned the wagon around and we traveled until we came to a lone farm for the night. The farmer’s wife tended Joe, removing the bullet from his shoulder. He was feverish till morning, then seemed to rally.

At dawn, his wound wrapped tightly, Joe insisted upon climbing back into the wagon and sitting beside me as we left the farm and traversed the plateau. Since he was wounded, I did the driving. We pushed on as long as we could, the next couple of days. I was anxious for Joe. By the fourth day he was feverish once more and his breathing raspy. A day out from Ligonier he died. I laid him out in the bed of the wagon between the boxes and crates and pushed on to his uncle’s house.

The next week was a blur. Between the funeral for Joe and then maneuvering the wagon by myself into Pittsburg for the delivery, I ached in body and soul. I told Jim Lang I’ll bring the wagon and horses back to him as soon as I can. I was given the $700 Joe would have gotten for this special trip and brought the wagon and horses back home to my father.

When I told him all that had happened, he shook my hand, then grabbed me in a long hug. I think both our cheeks were tear-stained when we finished. I look forward to resting a few days with father before returning the horses and wagon. After that, I’ll start my next adventure.  God willing, it will not be as grueling or deadly.