The Oral History of Susan Manerva Weaver

(The Journey from North Carolina to Hopland, Mendocino County, California)
July 28, 1924

Transcribed by Zelpha Rawles Michelson, January 1925
Addendum by Marguerite McAbee Metzler, December 1977

Preface

Susan Manerva McAbee was my grandmother. My father, Sam, the youngest son remained on the farm and cared for his parents until their death.

In those days of my childhood, before television, before radio, and before electricity was brought to our community, Grandmother entertained us with stories of her early life in the South, and adventures that happened while "Crossing the Plains" in a covered wagon.

Grandfather McAbee, or Mac, as everyone called him, had made two trips to California before marrying Susan Weaver and bringing his family west.

Grandmother dictated her story to another granddaughter, Zelpha Rawles Michelson. I shall add some details that were not included in her dictation.

Addendum

Living in the South was a happy time for the Weaver children. Besides her Negro Mammy, Grandmother had her own little Negro slave-playmate, a pretty, red cheeked girl who later wanted to accompany her to California. Those were troubled times and Grandmother felt that bringing a black girl with her might cause misunderstanding. The white children were forbidden to go down to the Negro quarters, but they did go, and ate with them too. Many times they ate 'possum, and Grandmother said it was good. Their mother told them never to eat watermelon as it would cause malaria. Without her knowledge they visited the melon patch and ate their fill.

Living in Missouri they were familiar with the escapades of Jessie and Frank James. They were all sympathetic to the James Boys in spite of the robbing and killing. The feeling in that area was that they were driven to crime. The husband of one of Grandmother's friends rode with the gang. Later, the friends came to California, changed their name, and lived out their lives relatively free from fear of retaliation.

Another time the Mormons came to the wagon train, three of them talked to Mac for hours. Supper time came so Grandmother invited them to stay and eat, which they did. Later she learned that they had been trying to convert Mac to Mormonism and polygamy. Grandmother said "If I had known that, I would have thrown hot water on them!"

When the baby, George, was born he cried until they all were worn out, so Mac gave him a little laudanum on the point of a knife. George slept for three days and nights and caused no more problems.

Crossing the Sierra Nevada's was very difficult. Some places seemed impassable, but by taking the wagons apart and lowering them piece by piece over the cliffs, and lowering the animals also, then re-assembling the wagons, they conquered the mountains. On some steep hillsides they dug trenches for the upper wagon wheels, blindfolded the animals, then leading them and with ropes attached to the wagons the men walked on the upper hillside, holding the wagons to keep them from tipping over.

When traveling to their new home in Bodega, Grandmother rode ahead on horseback, and came to the house about two hours before the others. She found goats running in and out of the house. When Mac arrived she was sitting on the porch crying.

My grandparents' first home in Mendocino County was at Yorkville. Later they moved to Boonville and at that time they owned most of the land where the town was built. Mac donated the land where the Methodist Church stands, dedicating it for the use of any denomination for church services, except Mormon. I am sure that restriction was placed there by Grandmother! However, I am happy to say that in later years the Mormons were permitted to hold services there.

Mac was an outdoors man, liking to hunt and fish. Every time he went fishing he came home soaking wet, and Grandmother fussed at him, never understanding why this was so until one time when he insisted that she accompany him. When she saw the salmon in the creek, thinking it was getting away she jumped in, clothes and all.

She was a strong, hardworking woman who raised a large family, took in and raised several other children and ran a hotel. She knew sorrow in her long life, but was deeply religious and read her Bible every day. I am sure that her faith sustained her. I never knew her to complain, or cry, or to indicate in any way that life had been hard. She insisted on keeping up her own room and making her bed until the last few weeks before her death.

It is not surprising that with such a background the sons and daughters liked to travel and lived in different parts of the country:

John, a dentist, married Charlet York; they lived for a while in Canada, then in Nevada, but he practiced dentistry for most of his life in Boonville. They had three children, Effie, Frank, and Hazel.

George married Laura, had one daughter, Edna. After Laura's death he married Lottie, moved to Cuba, and had several more children.

Marques went to British Columbia, married Katherine, and managed a large ranch. Their children were Jack, Sam, Thelma, Katherine, Mark, George, and Mary.

Delcena married Robert Rawles and lived on a ranch in Anderson Valley. Their children were Vernon, Vera, Lois, Ernest, Zelpha, and Thelma.

Noredden (Ed) was also a dentist. He practiced for many years in Nevada before moving to Oregon. His wife was Alice Donohue, They had two daughters, Eva and Margie. His hobby was horse racing, usually riding his own horses.

Emsley, the baby who died suddenly in his mother's arms as she was rocking him.

Mary, whose marriage to Creighton, a remittance man, did not last, worked at hotels; in summer at various National Parks, in winters at famous resorts. She had a daughter, bur realizing that she could not support the child properly, gave custody to Creighton who returned to England with his daughter.

Emma also married a remittance man, Sam Howe, had one daughter, Beatrice. They had a large horse ranch in Calgary, Canada. Emma loved to travel and was in New Orleans at the time of a great flood, and was never heard from again.

Minnie left home permanently after a bitter quarrel with her family. No facts are known about her life, but someone reported seeing her in Oregon, and that she had a son, Jim-Bill.

Sam married Margaret Clow and lived on the home farm in Boonville. Their children were Glenn, Clair, and me, Marguerite.

Marguerite McAbee Metzler, December 1977

1831 - 1925

At the request of my granddaughter I will give a few facts concerning my family, early life, and the crossing of the plains in '52. 1 am now ninety-three years, four months and twenty-six days of age.

I was born in Buncombe County, North Carolina, in 1831, on March 2nd, of John Biffle Weaver and Lucinda Barnard Weaver. My mother's father was Colonel Barnard of the Revolutionary Army. My people are of Dutch descent. My grandfather and grandmother Weaver came from the Old Country with their respective parents when they were children. My great-grandfather Weaver settled, perhaps in North Carolina, at first, but I am not sure.

All names, and the family history were in the family Bible and I left it at home when I started across the Plains fearing it might, in some way, be lost. My sister Jane brought it in her trunk when she came through the Isthmus after the Civil War in 1865. Her trunk was lost when the ship was wrecked in the Caribbean Sea. She, and her four children, with the other passengers, were put on a raft and floated to an Island where they endured great hardship for ten days until rescued by a ship sent out from the mainland. Many things were rescued from the ship as it had not sunk from sight when the rescue ship arrived. My sister, however, traveling alone, her husband having died during the war, had no one to send for belongings.

My father had five brothers: Jake, who was a minister; Mountville, James, John and Christopher. He also had several sisters, but I recall only the names of Susan and Jane.

I had six sisters: Eliza, Jane, Margaret, Polly Jane, and two that died in infancy unnamed. I had one brother, James Biffle Weaver, and one half brother, William Benard. Polly Jane was scalded so badly at two and one-half years, that death resulted. One of the little ones died at two-months-old and the other at two weeks. The rest grew to maturity, but have long since passed on.

My early childhood was a very happy one spent in the lovely southland. Father owned slaves but always treated them kindly. He would not separate a family by selling into other service. I remember, particularly, how fond I was of my own Negro Mammy, who had complete charge of me.

Father sold some of his slaves when he left North Carolina and went to Alabama. He sold the others in Alabama.

I was five-years-old when we moved to Alabama. Father died of fever when we had been there but two years. Mother then went back to North Carolina and later married John Elkins. This was my half brother, William's father. William was killed in Tuscora, Nevada, in 1880, leaving a wife and two children: Gay and Maud, five and eight years of age. I took care of these children for three years, until their mother, who had married again, sent for them. They took the names of their mother's second husband "Extram" and lived with her in Alameda, California.

We lived in North Carolina three years and then moved to Henry County, Missouri, on the Tebo River. Tebo, I think, meaning Little River. Here she made her home until we children were grown.

My sister Jane married Dave Cathy, who died during the Civil War. They had four children--three boys and one girl. After con-dng to California via the Isthmus, she married John Ontis, and to this union were born three children: Will, May and Effie.

My sister Margaret married John Cathy; a nephew of Dave Cathy's. She died in Yorkville, California, leaving three children: boys-Andrew, Charles and William.

Margaret came across the Plains in 1861 with Bill Owens' train. This train brought cattle. Bill Owens had made a previous trip in 1858. He married Laura Allen, a daughter of Mother's youngest sister.

James Biffle Weaver crossed the Plains in 1849 in the Santa Fe train. At Santa Fe he came through to Lower California; from lower California he went to Chile, South America, and stayed there the winter of '49. In the spring he came to California, by water, and prospected until '54. He came to Sonoma County where I first located upon reaching California, and stayed in my home there until '56. He came with my family to Mendocino County when doctors advised a different climate on account of the condition of my husband's health. From Mendocino County he went to Humboldt County in '67. He located permanently in Humboldt County and died there an old man. He never married.

I married John W. McAbee on August 19, 1852, when I was twenty-one, and we started the next spring across the Plains by o team and wagon to California to build our home in the new country.

ACROSS THE PLAINS

There were three teams that started for California from Henry County, Missouri, in May 1853; my husband's, his soon to be brother- in-law's, John L. Crow; and Rankin Crow's - John L. Crow's father.

John L., and Mac's sister Jane, were engaged to be married when the train started. But we were only one day out when they decided to go back to be married and catch the train further out. They were not able to overtake us, however, or so they said, until we were about three weeks out. It was at the Caw River, now known as the Kansas River, that they came up.

When we were about two weeks out, a family by the name of Brown joined us. Brown was driving three thousand head of sheep across.

We knew it to be dangerous to travel in such small numbers and we were more than anxious about John L. and Jane, as we knew the Indians were about and had some slight difficulty with them about a week before John L. and Jane caught up with us at Caw River.

One morning just before we crossed the Caw, the Indians stole thirty-nine head of Mac's cattle. Brown and Mac were loath to let the cattle go without an attempt at recovery, at least. So they tracked the cattle and Indians by the disturbed dew on the grass. The younger boys from the Brown family struck out by themselves, quite outdistancing Brown and Mac, who proceeded with guns and caution. The young ones found the cattle just as the Indians found them.

The cattle had been herded into a narrow river bed or enclosure of some sort, so they could be held against a possible attack. The Indians frightened the boys out of their senses. They danced around them, shouted and harangued at a great rate. They stripped them of everything possible to strip them; rings, tobacco, money, knives - everything - but signified to the boys to drive the cattle back. I never understood this. Perhaps those particular Indians were in a playful mood that day. Or, perhaps, the fact that the boys were young and unarmed appealed to their sense of native chivalry. Perhaps they were but a small hunting party far from their own village in an enemy country and afraid the white men would follow and attack them. However that may be, we were glad enough to get the boys back, unharmed, and we did not want to lose the cattle either at so near the beginning of our journey.

Sentinels were placed that night a mile and a half east of the Caw River crossing. The banks of the river were thick with wagons that had gathered here awaiting to be ferried across.

Brown was forced to shoot an Indian that night as he was attempting to steal the cattle. Mac heard the shot and ran to Brown's assistance. They both gave chase, but could not overtake them.

The next morning the chief and some gorgeous warriors came to the ferry, wanting the man that had "killed Indian". Mac told the ferry man who the man was and why it had happened. The ferry man assumed great anger toward the Indians and told the chief to get out of the woods and take his Indians with him or the White Man would kill every Indian. They went, riding their ponies like mad.

The trains waiting at the Caw were all crossed in due time, but from this point on, while they continued under their own immediate leader, all trains traveled nearer together by common consent for the sake of protection. We continued this way until we reached One Hundred and Ten.

One Hundred and Ten is where the Santa Fe train and the Emigrant train came together. The Santa Fe Train started from the Saint Joe River, in Missouri, and came South. There were about fifteen or twenty wagons in the Santa Fe Train that passed us. I do not know positively, but I think the Santa Fe train went onto some fort south on the Kansas River.

It was after we had continued along some distance that a rather amusing thing happened. Our band of horses were led by a bell mare. One night, Mac was lying out in the open near where the bell mare was staked out. We knew the Indians were about and always placed a watchman for protection. Mac was neatly covered by the tall grass, but was so situated as to be able to see all about him. At some little distance he saw something move. It might be a bush and it might be an Indian. He could not tell; so he waited. It was an Indian and he watched him stealthily approach the stake which held the bell mare. Mac believed that shooting the Indians was no way to aid the White Man's cause, so did not shoot, even though the Indian no doubt intended to steal the band. Mac was very close to the stake towards which the Indian was approaching; in fact, directly in front of it. As the Indian bent over to pull-up the stake Mac was up quickly shouting, "What are you doing here?" The Indian straightened up also, but so quickly as to nearly lose his balance. He recovered as quickly, though, and drew himself up, stoically facing what he evidently supposed to be a speedy trip to his Happy Hunting Ground. "Wigwam lost" he said. And Mac questioned him again. Of course, he did not believe him but at any rate he signified to the Indian that he understood him to mean he was lost. The Indian was disdainful. He replied, "No, Indian no lost. Wigwam lost." This unique expression flavored our speech for many days.

Mac would not kill the Indian then, nor later, though he was urgently requested to do so by the other men. He brought him a prisoner to camp, gave him something to eat, and made him lie down in front of a fire that was kept brightly burning directly in front of our own wagon. I had a big Newfoundland dog that hated Indians as he hated no other thing. Mac placed my dog to guard the Indian. And they lay there all through the night stretched out, facing each other. The Indian with his eyes closed and the dog zealously watching for the least movement. Mac told the Indian if he moved the dog would tear him to pieces and I think the Indian believed him, for he never moved-never turned nor lifted so much as a hand the whole night. The Newfoundland gave a vicious growl at the least pretext. This may have had something to do with his passivity. I think he also knew Mac kept him covered with his rifle within the wagon, although he, too pretended to be asleep.

The next morning Mac still refused to kill him. Instead, he give him breakfast, food to carry with him, and told him to "find Wigwam". I can see that Indian yet. A tall fellow, powerfully built, natively clad, with such a calmness about him as he turned his back upon us and slowly walked away into the woods.

Four days after this, this same Indian, his chief, and quite a few others, came up to our train. They made offers of friendship, many speeches which we took to mean gratitude, and the chief, with much ceremony, presented Mac with such a fat and pretty pony. "For the White Man's mahali," he said. Mac could not be prevailed upon to accept the pony. I whispered to him to please take it but he would not. He was afraid the pony had been trained as a decoy and would lead our horses back to his own village. Perhaps he was right. I do not know.

From One Hundred and Ten we crossed and continued along the South Platte, crossing "The Little Blue," a river narrow and very swift, and finally reached Fort Kearney, which is, I think, about three hundred miles from One Hundred and Ten.

In the Platte we had to swim six oxen to keep our wagons from sinking in the quicksand. Although "The Little Blue" was narrow v@e had to ford our wagons here, too, because it was so swift. In fact, all major rivers between One Hundred and Ten and Fort Kearney had to be crossed by swimming the cattle and fording the wagons. The swimming oxen were placed in the lead, men riding on either side using long whips with which to turn them when it was impossible to do so otherwise.

It was while traveling along the South Platte that Mac suffered his greatest loss. Like most men of that day, he carried with him his keg of sustaining influence. This keg was a ten gallon one, very prized and always carefully protected when the way was particularly rough. I have never believed in the use of liquor in the vulgar sense, but I am sure I never objected to the friendly cup that was passed at the close of day when the stress of going had borne too heavily upon our men. It seemed to tighten the load. So one can imagine the heroic efforts that were made to secure Mac's ten gallon keg of whiskey when the wagon tipped over, crushing it. John L. Crow was nearly killed, being badly injured. But this fact was not known at first-all eyes seeing but one thing-a keg of whiskey crushed-its liquid life refreshing an unappreciative wilderness. Mac told me afterwards that home seemed a long way off just then. The heroic efforts were not unrewarded, however. A gallon was saved.

From Fort Kearney, we crossed the North Platte on a bridge. A bridge of very primitive construction, but nevertheless a bridge. Even now, I cannot bring myself to grumble when the machine is gliding along on our beautifully paved highways and hits an unexpected bump. Immediately, there springs to mind a comparison which quickly dispels all thought of grumbling.

After crossing the North Platte, we traveled west to Laramie. Here, we stayed over night, and went on the next morning. We had not been long out from Laramie when we found ourselves in a blinding sand storm which made going impossible. We were forced to stop, protect ourselves as we could, and wait until the storm was over.

After the storm, we started on toward Salt Lake. Each day was filled with its unusual incident of great or small importance. But, after all these years, I find it is only the greater adventures I am able to recall. No one in our immediate train was either killed or captured by the Indians. A friend of mine, Mrs. Clement, who came by another train, was nearly captured by the same band of Indians that took Fanney Kelley and kept her captive for so long. A tumbled-down shack was found near where Mrs. Clement's party was attacked and the men were able to hold out against the Indians. The wagon train, of course, had to be abandoned in seeking shelter in the shack. The Indians left nothing of the train. It was ransacked and then burned. Even the feather beds were split oven, scattering the feathers to the wind, and the ticking carried away. Mrs. Clement's party was picked up and brought to California with a later train.

Green River lies between Laramie and Salt Lake. We crossed this I remember, and continued on toward Salt Lake. The cattle became very weary, but there was no stop over, at all, from Laramie to Green River. We knew we must not delay if we were to reach California before a certain date that seemed advisable because of the condition of my health.

We were forced to lay over four days, however, on the California side of Green River. And, again, just over a little upland at Hamsfork, we were forced to stop one hundred and six days on account of Grandpa Crow being stricken with Mountain fever. He was very ill and we did not think he would live to see California. He did see California, though, and enjoyed a prosperous life there.

I think all of us remember the number of those one hundred and six days. It was not only an anxious time because of Rankin Crow's illness, but it proved almost disastrous to me as we neared the end or our journey. Had we not been forced to lay over here, we would, in all likelihood, have reached California before my son was born.

It was at Green River, too, that we nearly lost John McAbee Jr. He was almost three years old, my stepchild, and very fond of fishing. He was forever fishing somewhere. It was a stream when he could get to it. If not, he tried his luck in the tall grass, seated in the back of the wagon. I discovered him this day, just in time, and he was snatched to safety, as the bank upon which he was standing caved in to the whirling stream.

We stopped over another four days in Big Canyon, which is about six miles out from Salt Lake. Here the Mormons took "for the Lord" four sheep Mac was driving that belonged to Brown. Inasmuch as Mac was sometimes behind and sometimes Brown, they had agreed to pick up each other's strays. Mac explained this to the Mormons. They knew he was telling the truth, for Brown had passed through Salt Lake shortly before and they knew these sheep were of the same band. Nevertheless, they confiscated the sheep in spite of Mac's explanations and all the swearing that John L. could do.

We did have one stray-a big, fine-looking, brown, blind horse we had found swimming ain-dessly around in Green River. The horse, being blind, could not find the bank. By talking to the horse, the men were able to bring him close enough to the bank to throw a rope on. John L. showed the Mormons this horse, told them he was a stray, and, in no feeble language, dared them to take it. I believe John L. was fined for swearing, but he kept the horse.

We reached Salt Lake City in August of 1853.

From Salt Lake, we traveled right on toward the summit of the Rocky Mountains. We had, of course, been gradually climbing the Rocky Mountains from Laramie. As we neared the summit, the way was very gently sloped and perfectly smooth. We would not have known it was the summit had the rivers not ran west instead of east.

We were a month coming from the summit of the mountains to the beginning of the sink of Humboldt. The way was not rough as compared with the descent from the summit of the Sierras. We stopped here three days and took on hay, grass and water for the cattle, so as to be prepared to cross the desert of Humboldt sink.

Mac had crossed this desert in 1850 and it was then very hot and dry. When we crossed in 1853, about ten miles out we found a river that came up to the hubs. I have never been able to fathom this. Mac claimed he was not mistaken, either, in the time of year or the place. I have heard others say that at one time, a dry dessert extended from Humboldt sink to Ragstown. Evidently a river had overflowed its banks, or, in some way, a new channel had been cut.

We crossed the sink one lovely moonlight night so as to save both ourselves and stock from the intense heat. This brought us to Ragstown. An old time name for either Humboldt City or Carson City. I really do not recall its modem name. Everything not absolutely needed was dumped here by the different trains, as the oxen were generally weary and the Sierra Nevadas steep and rough. It was a ragged-looking place. Pieces of clothing, broken down wagons, discarded furniture, chicken coops, all heaped together. All left behind to lighten the load for the tremendous climb up the High Sierras.

From Ragstown, we climbed to Walker River and traveled right up Walker River to where it heads in Mono Lake.

We had been delayed too long in our journey and the way was very rough. So rough that I could no longer ride in a wagon, but was put on horseback. I had ridden many days, that way, before the last hard day which had begun at daybreak and ended about eight or ten miles below Mono Lake, at sunset. Here, with the aid of our womenfolk, George was born. I think this event was a surprise to all of us. I know it was to me. I believe we women gave little heed to the thought that hardships of those days harm us physically.

George was a premature baby, but a healthy one, and got along nicely. I had not yet prepared for him in the way of clothes, but we managed after a fashion until I reached California, where I set to work quite industriously.

We laid by but one day on account of my illness. The baby was born at sunrise on October 10 '53 and we started on the next day at sunrise. The other wagons had gone on the same day George was born and were to wait for us at Mono Lake, if we were not too long in coming up. It was getting late in the year to stay much longer in the mountains.

I now had a light wagon to ride in-a wagon with springs-a spring wagon to travel in. I had found this wagon by the wayside near the summit of-the mountain, while riding in advance on horseback. Evidently it had become a dead weight on some previous train and they had been forced to abandon it. It was in unusually good condition, so I asked Mac to bring it for me. He could not do it. Every draft oxen was doing his all to carry the load already given him. Grandpa Crow, however, found a place for my spring wagon on behind his light wagon. He used it as a kennel for a favorite dog that was about to increase her household.

So I, and my young son, traveled "in state" from Mono Lake to Sonora, a matter of about three weeks. But the way was very rough, almost unbelievably rough, both going up and coming down the mountain.

From Sonora, we went to Shaw's Flat. Here, Will Crow, a cousin of John L. Crow, wanted to pay Mac $100.00 a month if he would stay and work on his ranch during the winter. We did not stay. We had come too far to make our home and been too long on the journey to wish to delay longer. We were anxious to get to the valley-to farming and stock raising. Mac did not want to prospect. He had tried it during his first trip to California, before he came back for me. He did not like it and did not think it was the way to be happy and prosperous.

So we left Shaw's Flat and came to Bodega, in Sonoma County. Here we held good land under a Spanish grant. It became necessary, however, for Mac to find a different climate on account of his health. He heard of the Mendocino Mountains so we decided to go there.

Mac wanted to install me in a comfortable house in Petaluma, the nearest town, until he could go to Mendocino and make it comfortable for me. But I prefer-red to go with him and we did so in '59. We started north into a wilderness, sometimes finding a trail of a road and sometimes no road at all, and at the end of sixty miles or so, we settled and made our home for good in the new country.

That was about sixty-six years ago. Since then, Mac has passed on, some of my children, many of my grandchildren, all of my first friends. But there have been joys as well as sorrows and I find it good to have lived and been unafraid of life.

January 1925.

Transcribed from dictation given me July 28, 1924. The continuity of the trip across the Plains is identically as given me; the paragraphs have not been rearranged. Grandmother used no notes, references or data of any kind, when she told me her story, but spoke in a pleasant undisturbed manner, as one would tell a story with which one has long been familiar.

Zelpha Rawles Michelson

Home | Contact | Sources | Names Index | Domain Names