Centennial

by James A. Michener

  With new courage he returned to the lodge. “We’ll start down the stream today,” he said.

  “In this snow?” she asked.

  “My traps are down there,” he said.

  “The little one?”

  “She will be mine,” he said, taking the child in his arms. “Her name will be Lucinda.”

  But as they set forth, and he realized that he was accepting responsibility for these two as long as they lived, the dreadful doubt returned. He put down the child and took Clay Basket by the hands. “You won’t laugh at me?” he asked.

  “I will not laugh,” she promised.

  CAUTION TO US EDITORS. The attractiveness of the rendezvous should not be underestimated. Pragmatic decisions relating to the political and governmental future of the west were made by the Frenchmen, the English, the Scots, the Americans and the Indians who met for informal discussion at these gatherings. It was the town meeting of New England, transferred to the valley and punctuated by gunfire, murder and the screams of Indian women being raped.

  I have omitted some of the gorier details: the planned battles against Indians, a drunk whose friends doused him with a bucketful of pure alcohol, then set him ablaze and watched him burn like a torch until he was pretty well consumed, the woman visitor who saw with horror, after one epic brawl, four men playing pinochle and using the stiffening corpse of a friend as their table.

  The rendezvous continued from 1825 through 1840, fifteen years in all. In 1831 it did not convene; the wagon train bringing the whiskey from Taos got lost and ended up three hundred and fifty miles off course to the east, where the Laramie River enters the Platte. Name of the mixed-up guide: Kit Carson.

  The rosters of those attending each rendezvous have been compiled. Notables like Jim Bridger, N. J. Wyeth, Captain Bonneville, Marcus Whitman and Father De Smet abound. You might want to look into Peter Skene Ogden, the savagely anti-American Englishman after whom Ogden, Utah, was named, and Alfred Jacob Miller, the painter, who did some sketches of the 1837 meeting.

  The 1827 rendezvous, which McKeag attended, has a distinguished list of participants: William Sublette, David Jackson, James Clyman and James P. Beckwourth, the famous black. But I think you might want to focus on the group of nineteen hardened veterans who came in from California under the leadership of Jedediah Smith; for me their names form an authentic roll call of the mountain men:

  x Boatswain Brownx Silas Gobelx John B. Ratelle

  x William Campbell Joseph La Pointx ? Robiseau

  x David Cunningham Toussaint Marishall Charles Swift

  Thomas Dawsx Gregory Ortaga Richard Taylor

  x Frances Deramme ? Pale John Turner

  Isaac Galbraith Joseph Palmer Thomas Virgin

  ? Polite

  These nineteen had one hell-raising time at the rendezvous; a few days after they departed, they were jumped by a band of Mohave Indians who had been suborned by the Mexican governor of California. Those marked with x were murdered.

  On the other hand, the train of sixty-three men who brought in the cannon and the trade goods returned to Saint Louis without incident, carrying with them one hundred and sixty-four bales of beaver, valued at just under $100,000.

  Photographs. Should you want authentic shots of a rendezvous, the citizens of Sublette County, in western Wyoming, recreate this raucous affair each year on the first Sunday in July. It convenes at Pinedale, and practically everyone in the area participates in an authentic, emotionally exciting remembrance of the days when beaver were prime and lonely men penetrated the farthest mountains in search of them.

  Note: When trappers like Pasquinel and McKeag outfitted in Saint Louis they bought their stores from a son of Daniel Boone, who had set up shop in that city. Daniel himself did not die in that lonely cabin in 1816. He died four years later in 1820, continuing to hunt till the last.

  Warning: Do not fall for the popular belief that bison bison bison took its American name buffalo from the fact that French coureurs like Pasquinel called the animal a boeuf, which degenerated quickly into boeuf-alo, hence buffalo. Good story, but unfortunately the early Latins called Europe’s similar beast a bubalus, which was corrupted in Latin to bufalus and from that to bufalo. The animal was never known in America during the historical period as anything but buffalo, and most westerners from 1750 to this day would be astonished to find that their regional symbol was really a bison.

  Names. A voyageur was a man employed by Canadian fur companies to transport supplies, usually by canoe, to and from distant stations. A coureur de bois was an illegal, that is, unlicensed, petty trader in the backwoods who carried trinkets to Indians in exchange for pelts. A trapper was one who gathered pelts himself, without bothering with Indian intermediaries. A mountain man was the later but lineal descendant of any of these types.

  River. Confusion surrounds the name Platte. Probably no river in history had been called by so many different names—at least thirty-one—of Spanish, French or Indian origin, but in each tongue at some point it was called “flat” river. In Spanish it was Rio Chato, in Pawnee the Kits Katus, in French La Rivière Plate, so named by the daring Mallet brothers Pierre and Paul in their 1739 exploration. Most wide of the mark was one claim printed in the 1860s that it was named by the Indians a few years earlier in honor of a white woman missionary named Platte. This is patently ridiculous because Nasatir reproduces a French map dated 1796 showing Rivière Platte clearly and accurately. But all this is of little moment, for if the Platte is a nothing river, it can survive with a nothing name.

  Chapter 6

  THE WAGON AND THE ELEPHANT

  If in the year 1844 a group of experts had been commissioned to identify the three finest agricultural areas of the world, their first choice would probably have been that group of farms in the south of England, where the soil was hospitable, the climate secure and the general state of husbandry congenial. Here sturdy farmers, well versed in the ancient traditions of the countryside, raised Jersey cattle, plump black-and-white Hampshire hogs, rugged Clydesdales and poultry of the best breed

  The experts might also have selected that rare and rich band of black chernozem that stretched across southern Russia, especially in the Ukraine. Two feet deep, easy on the plow, and so fertile that it needed less than normal manuring, this extraordinary soil was unequaled and constituted an agricultural treasure which the serfs of the area had mined for the past thousand years without depleting it.

  But whether the experts had chosen England or Russia, one area that would have had to be included was that fortunate farmland lying around the small city of Lancaster in southeastern Pennsylvania, at the eastern foothills of the Appalachians. For sheer elegance of land and profitability of farming, it stood supreme.

  It was not flat land. There was just enough tilt to the meadows to prevent rain from gathering in the bottoms and turning the land sour. Nor was the topsoil unusually deep or easy to cultivate. If a man wanted to have a fine Lancaster farm, he had to work. But the rainfall was what it should be—about forty inches a year—and there was a change of seasons, with frosty autumns during which hickory nuts fell and snowy winters when the land slept.

  The Lancaster farmer did not exaggerate when he boasted, “On this land a good man can grow anything except nutmeg.” And on all of it he could make a handsome profit, for his farm lay within marketing distance of Philadelphia and Baltimore. Corn, wheat, sorghum, hay, truck, tobacco and even flowers could be got to market, but it was the animals who prospered most and provided the best income, particularly cattle and hogs. Lancaster beef and pork were the standards of excellence against which others from less fortunate regions were judged.

  In the divine lottery which matches men and soil—that chancy gamble which often places thrifty men on fields of granite and wastes good farms on incompetents content to reap whatever the wind sows—a proper match-up was made. Into Lancaster County, in the early years of the eighteenth century, came a body of well-trained peasant farmers
fleeing oppression and starvation in Germany. Arriving mostly from the southern parts of that country, they brought with them a rigorous Lutheranism, which in its extremes manifested itself as the Amish or the Mennonite faith.

  It was the Amish who determined the basic characteristics of Lancaster. They were an austere group who eschewed any display such as buttons or brightly colored clothes, and rejected any movement which might soften the harsh Old Testament pattern of their life. At the age of ten each Amish boy was married to the soil, and to it he dedicated the remainder of his life, rising at four, tending his chores before eating a gargantuan breakfast at seven, laboring till twelve, then eating an even larger meal which he called dinner. He worked till seven at night, ate a light evening meal called supper, after the tradition of Our Lord, and went to bed. He worshipped God on Sundays and in all he did, and when he was old enough to have a black buggy of his own and a brown mare to draw it, as he drove from Blue Ball to Intercourse, he would pause sometimes to give thanks that fate had directed him to Lancaster County, a land worthy of his efforts.

  In most other parts of the world the Mennonites would have seemed impossibly rigid, but when compared to the Amish they were downright frivolous, for they indulged in minor worldly pleasures, were expert in conducting business and allowed their children other choices than farming. Some Mennonite children even went to school. But when they did farm, they did it with vigor and were wonderfully skilled in extracting from their soil its maximum yield. When this was accomplished, they became uncanny in their ability to peddle it at maximum profit. Mennonite women in particular were gifted at selling; they knew to the penny what they could demand of a customer, giving him in turn such a good bargain that he was likely to come back. Dressed in demure black jackets, black skirts, white aprons and white net caps, they were prepared to haggle a wagon driver into the ground and to extract the price they wanted, and if they lost a sale they grieved.

  In January 1844 one of the most interesting spots in Lancaster County was the rural village of Lampeter. It had been named after a profane and riotous wagoner called Lame Peter who had used that particular spot, as a depot when freighting farm produce to Philadelphia. In time all wagoners adopted the custom of laying over in Lampeter, and since they were a rough lot, the main thoroughfare of the village, with Conestogas hitched to every tree, became known as Hell Street.

  “Meet you in Hell Street with bells on!” wagoners shouted as they departed Philadelphia on their way home, and when the long canvas-covered wagons jingled into Hell Street, pulled by six dappled horses, each with its canopy of bells—five on the first pair of horses, four on the second pair, three on the third pair—the street echoed with jollity. Many girls who had been leading drab lives on farms in other parts of the county gravitated to the inns that lined Hell Street to listen for the bells of the incoming wagoners.

  On a Thursday afternoon, January fourth, a disgruntled wagoner approached Hell Street in silence. His horses lacked the twenty-four brass bells which a proper team of Conestogas should have, and loungers at the inn came into the street to mark this strange arrival. “He lost his bells!” one of the girls cried, and soon customers had left the bars to stand in the snow around the unhappy wagoner.

  “How’ja lose yer bells, Amos?” a fellow teamster shouted.

  “That damned left rear,” Amos replied, tying his lead horse to a tree. “Started to work loose east of Coatesville. Had to be pulled out.”

  The Conestoga wagoning fraternity had strict rules: if a teamster got himself into such a predicament that he required help from another, he was obligated to give his rescuer a set of bells. This was the ultimate humiliation.

  “You getting’ another set of bells?” an innkeeper asked as Amos moved away from his horses.

  “That I ain’t,” Amos growled. He was a tall, angular man with a mean scowl.

  “You quittin’?”

  “That I am,” he replied, and with this he rushed back to the offending Conestoga and began kicking the left rear wheel, at the same time shouting such curses as even Lampeter had not heard for some time. He grew purple in the face, throwing the vilest words he could think of until it seemed that he must scorch the canvas. With a final mighty kick he tried to knock the wheel into the next county, then stood with his arms folded, staring at the wagon and uttering a summary curse that repeated no single profanity but required a minute to discharge. Then, flinging his arms wide and surveying the crowd, “Anybody can have this bullshit wagon. I never want to see it again.” With that he stomped into the White Swan.

  At the edge of the crowd, stamping his feet to keep warm while he watched this remarkable performance, stood a young Mennonite in black suit and flat-brimmed hat. He was twenty-four years old, stockily built, with a reddish beard that started at his ears and met in a neat line just at the edge of his chin. Since his face was already square, the fringe of beard made it look as if it had been framed.

  Casually he inspected the abandoned Conestoga. It was old; he could see that. “Probably been used for forty years,” a farmer near him judged. “The paint’s wore somethin’ awful.” The original deep blue of the box had faded to a pastel, while the bright red of the wheels and tongue had become gray-orange. “That left wheel don’t look much,” the farmer said, kicking at it several times. “Lissen to it rattle.”

  As they looked at the worn old wagon a tardy arrival from Philadelphia pulled his Conestoga into Hell Street. With one swift glance he perceived what had happened to his associate. “My God! Amos Boemer lost his bells,” he shouted, and a crowd left the White Swan to greet him.

  “Jacob Dietz had to haul him out of a drift,” one of the crowd explained. “East of Coatesville.”

  The new arrival walked around the old Conestoga, kicked at the wheel and said, “Told him he should get a new one. Told him last month.”

  “Wagon’s for sale. If’n you want it.”

  “Me? Want a used-up Conestoga?” He laughed and led the way into the White Swan.

  The young man with the square beard was left alone in the snowy road. Moving slowly, he walked around the Conestoga, judging its condition, then started for home. He was headed east of town toward one of the finest farms in Lancaster County, just beyond the tollgate. It stood to the south of the road, down a lane marked by handsome trees, now bare of leaves.

  From a long distance the stately stone barn—with its red-and-yellow hex signs to ward off evil—was visible, and in the cold moonlight the young man could see the proud name worked into the masonry:

  JACOB ZENDT

  1713

  BUTCHER

  As with any self-respecting Lancaster farm, the barn was six times the size of the house, for Amish and Mennonite farmers understood priorities.

  As the young man walked down the frozen lane, his heavy shoes making the snow crackle, his attention focused mainly on the trees. Because hickory and oak were so vital in his business, he could spot even a young hickory at a hundred yards, marking it in his mind against the day when it would be old enough for him to harvest.

  The Zendt farm contained many fine trees: there was the perpetual woods first harvested in 1701 when Melchior Zendt arrived from Germany; then there was the line of trees along the lane, planted by his son Jacob in 1714, and best of all; there was the miniature forest set out by Lucas Zendt in 1767. It rimmed the far end of the pond and was as fine a collection of maple, ash, elm, oak and hickory as Lancaster County provided. Each tree on the Zendt farm was a masterpiece, properly placed and flourishing.

  When he reached the farm buildings, the young man looked briefly at the huge barn, then at the small red building in which he worked, then at the even smaller one stained black from much smoke, then at the various snow-covered pigsties, chicken coops and corncribs. Finally, tucked in among the larger buildings, there was the house, a small clapboard affair. There was a light in the kitchen window, and pushing open the door, he saw that his mother was preparing supper while his oldest brother, Mahlon, r
ead the Bible.

  “Amos Boemer lost his bells,” he announced as he hung up his hat. “He cursed somethin’ awful.” His mother continued working and Mahlon kept to his Bible.

  “I never heard cursin’ like that before,” the young man continued.

  “God will attend to him,” Mahlon said in a deep voice, without looking up from his Bible.

  “Got into a snowdrift east of Coatesville,” the young man said. There being no response, he went to the washstand and prepared for supper.

  But as he washed his face Mahlon observed, “Amos Boemer is a blasphemous man. Little wonder God struck him down.”

  “It was the left rear wheel.”

  “It was the will of God,” Mahlon explained.

  Now his mother lifted a heavy bell, ringing it for half a minute until the whole farm filled with sound. From the big barn came Christian, whose job it was to purchase hogs and cattle from surrounding farmers; on his ability to buy cheap at the right time depended the financial success of the family. From the pigsties came Jacob; it was his responsibility to see that there was a steady supply of pork. From a clean white building came Caspar; he did the butchering. Levi, the youngest brother, who had watched the arrival of the Conestogas, worked in the two smallest buildings, the red and the one stained black; his job was to make sausage and scrapple, and at this he was so proficient that Zendt pork products brought the highest prices in Lancaster. There was even talk of shipping them in to Philadelphia when the railroad was completed to Lancaster.