Christiana awakened as the sun rose over her cabin in Missouri. The woods surrounding her home shrouded the sun for much of the day. At times the quiet of the woods made her lonely. She often thought of when she lived in Tom’s Brook, Virginia. Christiana missed the view of the Shenandoah Mountains in the distance. The faint green of trees on the mountains in the Spring foretold new life for the earth and the colorful red and gold of the trees in the fall spoke of winter to come. She yearned for the days when John Ridenhour, her husband, wooed and married her.

They lived on land next to the Great Wagon Road in Tom’s Brook. Her parents Henry and Mary Catherine Zumwalt lived nearby. The road was one of the most important colonial routes, traveled by German and Scots-Irish immigrants looking for greener pastures.¹ Each day clouds of dust and the clang of metal meeting rock arose on the road as wagons loaded with people, furniture, and goods rumbled by while the Zumwalts and Ridenhours watched. 

The corn husks in her mattress rustled as Christiana arose from her bed. She shivered and dressed quickly. The cabin was cold. She remembered when her father announced he would follow his brothers to Lexington in Fayette County, Kentucky. John decided they would head west with the others. The Zumwalts traveled in flatboats down the Ohio River arriving in Lexington, Kentucky in 1781. Christiana and John arrived sometime in the mid-to-late 1780s.

Christiana quickly put logs in the fireplace to warm the cabin; the glow from the crackling fire warmed her. As lovely as Kentucky was, she was always looking over her shoulder on the lookout for Native Americans. While she resented having no say in her future, she was excited to learn they would be following the Zumwalts to an area west of the quickly growing village of St. Louis. She was hopeful the growing population would insulate them from problems with the Native Americans.

John purchased two tracts of land from the Spanish government in 1799. One was on the Missouri River in the district of St. Andrès.² Christiana was mistaken if she thought they would have little interaction with Native Americans. Unbeknownst to them, the land purchase was on the hunting grounds of the Osage Indians, who also prized horses.

The coffee smelled good. She hoped her supply would last through the winter. Christiana tried not to think back to the day John died in 1803. Like most pioneers, they left horses and cows to graze in the forest. On that fateful day, after rounding up their horses, they stopped to water them at the creek that ran through their property.

She felt their presence before she saw the looming shadows of the mounted Osage Indians approaching them. They were imposing. They began yelling and demanded the horses. It happened so quickly. John yelled for her to go; he and the horses would follow. Then came the sound of the blast from a gun. Turning, she saw John on the ground; blood was oozing from under him. As she jumped off her horse, she slapped him to make him run; he took off and the other horses followed him. An Indian hit her with his rein when she ran toward John. He was angry the horses had gotten away. She never knew why they rode away and left her unharmed.  

As she cleaned her breakfast dishes, she was thankful to be alive. It was an ordeal to get John’s body back to the cabin, alert her relatives, and bury him. Christiana was left a widow of thirty-six with six fatherless children to raise.

I don’t really know Christiana’s thoughts and actions back then. Through research, I know she had enough money to live. However, she was alone and living in an area of the U.S. where French, Spanish, and English cultures often clashed. Christiana had to learn how to navigate this world that was so alien to her.

Several books on the history of Franklin County, Missouri have captured the true story of the death of John Ridenhour and his wife’s escape from the Osage Indians.³

The creek that ran through John and Christiana’s property was called Ridenhour Creek for many years. Today it is called Fiddle Creek. When I was twelve, I spent a week at the Girl Scout Camp, known as Camp Fiddlecreek. Little did I know my connection to that land.

John and Christiana are my fourth great-grandparents. Upon reflection, I thought my mother’s mettle came from her Schwegler immigrants on her father’s side who arrived here in 1854. After learning this story, I believe she received her fortitude from the long line of Zumwalts and Ridenhours that preceded her.

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¹The Great Wagon Road, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Wagon_Road

²Land Record for John Ridenhour, Book C, P. 195, 7 Dec 1799; Commissioner’s Certificates, U.S. Recorder of Land Titles; digital images, Missouri State Archives, “1st Board of Land Commissioners, U.S. Recorder of Land Titles,” Missouri Digital Heritage (https://s1.sos.mo.gov/records/archives : accessed 30 Aug 2017). Note: An arpen is a French unit of land equal to .85 acres.

³Louis Houck, A history of Missouri from the earliest explorations and settlements until the admission of the state into the union.   (Chicago, Illinois: R. R. Donnelly & Sons, 1908), II: 73. 

¹⁵Louis Houck, A history of Missouri from the earliest explorations and settlements until the admission of the state into the union.   (Chicago, Illinois: R. R. Donnelly & Sons, 1908), II: 73.