by Don Berry
He remained at the first village for a day, resting his horses, and then moved down to the next encampment. This time news of his coming had preceded him, and he was met by the cordial Mojaves some distance above their settlement.
Smith set up his own encampment at the point he intended to cross the Colorado. For the next three days the party remained there, building some rafts of cane grass and generally enjoying the hospitality of the tribe. Jedediah was able to exchange a few of his horses for fresh ones and trade for some of the Mojave agricultural produce. (Beans, wheat, corn, dried pumpkins, and melons are those he lists in his report to General Clark.)
It was a little after the middle of August—probably the 18th—when he was ready to depart. He loaded part of the goods aboard his rafts and, together with eight of his men, started the ferrying procedure. The remainder of the supplies, all the horses, and the rest of his party were to come across on subsequent trips.
Several hundred of the amiable Mojaves had gathered to watch the crossing, and as soon as Smith was well out on the river they butchered the party he had left behind. Almost before Smith had time to realize what the noise was about, the riverbank was strewn with the bodies of ten of his men.2 The two Indian squaws were taken prisoner. Now this friendly, agricultural people turned their attention to the small party that had already embarked. Smith and his men had hastily drawn up on a sand bar to take stock of the situation. Spreading out what goods they had—personal supplies and fifteen pounds of dried meat—Smith immediately threw everything sinkable into the river. The remainder was shouldered by the men according to their choice. What they did not want was strewn around, Smith hoping the Indians would squabble over it long enough to give them a start. Melanion and the Golden Apples, with the part of Atalanta played by a horde of screaming Mojaves.
They were less than a half mile from the river when the Indians closed in around them, making any further progress impossible. Jedediah and his eight men retreated to the bank, holing up in a cottonwood thicket. Quickly they chopped down some of the small trees, cleared themselves a place to stand in the middle of the thicket with the felled saplings forming a flimsy breastwork around them.
There were only five guns left for the nine men, and the others tied their butcher knives to light poles, "so as to form,"`said Smith, "a tolerable lance."
Some of the men asked Smith if he thought they would be able to defend themselves against the estimated four or five hundred Mojaves. Backed up against the river, with his attackers on the other three sides, Smith said, yes, he thought they would do all right. "But that," he adds in his journal, "was not my opinion." Smith was developing an easy facility in lying to his men about their prospects; and it was a talent he needed quite often.
He gave orders that "not more than three guns should be fired at a time and those only when the Shot would be certain of killing." This, of course, was standard practice; the first tactic of any Indian offensive was to lead the opponent into firing his guns; the first tactic of defense was to avoid firing your guns. As long as there was even one gun loaded, Indians were hesitant about storming a barricade. But a trapper caught with a ramrod in his hand was seldom seen with his hair again.
The Mojaves approached the little redoubt with great care, keeping well covered. Occasional warriors would scamper out and back again, just within long shot, in the usual tactic intended to draw fire. This, however, was a middling poor tactic to use on Smith's brigade, which had a far-reaching reputation for marksmanship. (The giant Isaac Galbraith was said to amuse himself by shooting off the heads of blackbirds at twenty paces.)
[Smith] directed two good marksmen to fire they did so and two indians fell and another was wounded,
which rather cooled the Mojave enthusiasm for attack. They scattered—'1ike frightened sheep”—and the nine lonely trappers could breathe again. The Indians stayed. clear of the impromptu fort and too-accurate occupants all the rest of the day. At dusk the trappers decamped and pushed directly into the desert, traveling all night. The next morning they reached a spring, where they encamped for the day.
Jedediah had decided he had no recourse in the circumstances but to 'again try the hospitality of the Californians."
He hoped to be able to use the beaver he had left with the first party for trade—"if the Governor would permit me to trade, and I could find any person acquainted with the value of furr." With this he could get provisions to carry him up the coast toward the Columbia. (His written intent was to "continue the business of the firm more northwardly so far as he supposed to be the U. States territory." His supposition, apparently, was that the joint-occupancy area was United States territory, since there was nothing else north of the
Spanish line at 42°.)
The trek across the desert was made in nine and a half days, mostly traveling at night, trying to stay out of the searing sun in the day.
Smith arrived at the San Bernardino Valley (probably via Cajon Pass) near the end of August. He stopped there to make meat, killing several cows. The overseer of the San Bemardino Rancho made him welcome and Jedediah traded him enough of his meager remaining supply of goods to get horses for all his men. Horses, in California, were cheap; a far cry from the $50 minimum in the mountains.
He remained encamped in the valley for five days, during which he wrote a letter to his former benefactor, Father Sanchez at San Gabriel, explaining his situation and thanking the padre for the cows he had just killed. He probably also pondered the sudden reversal in attitude of the Mojaves.
While at San Bernardino he heard from the overseer that some of the Mojave chiefs had been talking about the defeat of a party of Americans; this party, Smith concluded, was probably the same one he had heard of among the tribes, and whose tracks he had seen. The Mojaves had not mentioned a battle, of course, but had admitted a mixed party of Spaniards and Americans had come past, "quarreled," and split up. Smith decided "that they were defeated by the indians, separated in two parties in the affray, and traveled different ways."
(This may have been a partial explanation of the Mojave hostility, but Smith was later to learn of another: after his first trip the governor had instructed the Indians not to permit the passage of any more Americans into Mexican territory. In his report of the affair to General Clark, Smith says: ". . . to this advice, Mr. S. leaves the entire cause of his defeat,—it undoubtedly was, for any man acquainted, with the savage and hostile habits of Indians, cannot judge the
matter otherwise.")
At San Bemardino Smith lost another two men of his party, though in a less violent way. Isaac Galbraith, the giant who was later to bequeath his skeleton to a physician friend, apparently decided he liked the climate of San Bernardino. He wanted to stay. Thomas Virgin had been wounded by a Mojave war club and was to stay at the ranch recuperating until he could join Smith near San Francisco.
Jedediah then set out to make contact with the remnant of his first expedition, still encamped in the valley of the Stanislaus River (again following Dale Morgan’s geographic identification, as I do throughout), which Smith called the Appelaminy.
It was not the happiest of meetings. Jedediah’s intent to replenish the men for trapping had been abruptly short stopped by the Mojaves. "I was there at the time appointed," he says, "but instead of Bringing them the expected supplies I brought them intelligence of my misfortunes."
Just a sad story, in short, with which it is practically impossible to trap beaver. The men at the Stanislaus camp had fared a good deal better than their booshway, having passed a 'pleasant Summer not in the least interrupted by Indians .... They spoke in high terms of the climate." There was game around in plentiful supply: elk, antelope and deer, so food—for once—was not a problem. Smith learned now of the visit of Mexican officials to the S camp just after his own departure, and notes optimistically:
"They appeared satisfied with the reasons Mr Rodgers gave for his being in the country." His optimism, however, did not extend tothe point of downright foolh
ardy expectations; he knew he was going to have to deal with the satumine Echeandia again. He warned Rogers of possible difficulties, and suggested that in the case of official trouble he (Rogers) should take the party into the Russian post at Bodega, north of San Francisco.
Smith remained at the Stanislaus camp for two days, doing what organizing he could to get the brigade ready to trap again. For a man whose profession was catching beaver, Smith had done a great deal of walking and very little trapping in the past year. A large part of the trapping strength of Smith Jackson & Sublette had effectively been taken out of circulation, and their loss could pose a threat to the survival of the company itself. It was necessary to do something to make up for the pitiful returns of his party for the year. He had on hand fifteen or sixteen packs of beaver and ten otter skins. If these could be swapped off for enough gear to outfit a real trapping brigade, it was more than possible he could make up the losses on the way north to the Columbia.
II
The problem was, as he had predicted, finding someone "acquainted with the value of furr." The idea of trapping beaver was, to all appearances, completely beyond the Mexican comprehension. In describing Smith’s activities, the closest equivalent they can find is a fishing party. Thus we find a crack trapping brigade of Smith Jackson & Sublette referred to in the Mexican documents as "Smith, the fisherman’s company? No amount of explanation—and there was of necessity a great deal—ever, sufficed to make it clear just exactly what Smith did for a living. Writers have the same problem, but are not automatically assumed to be foreign spies, as was Smith.
After putting the Stanislaus party in as good shape as possible, Jedediah secured two Indian guides, who took him to the Mission San Jose, seventy miles away, to begin the dreaded wrangle with the Mexican authorities.
Smith greeted the two padres who met him there (one of them Narcisco Duran), explained his purpose in the country, and requested permission to travel through the province to the governor’s seat (at Monterey): "The reverend fathers appeared somewhat confused by my sudden appearance and could not or would not understand me."
In fact, they took him to "a dirty hovel which they called a guard house .. . horses seized and taken away, and only allowed the privilege of writing to the Captain of the Upper Province."
There he remained for two days, unable to communicate and with "No provision whatever . . . for my subsistence.” He could not even establish the terms of his imprisonment, since "They would neither put me in close confinement nor set me at liberty."
Finally, through the intercession of an American named William Welch, Smith was granted an interview with Padre Duran, which eventuated in the sole piece of information that an official would be along directly to inquire into Smith’s case.
Said official—Lieutenant Ignacio Martinez—arrived in due course. (Martinez was temporarily in command of the company at San Francisco in the absence of the comandanre, Luis Arguello.) Smith was then treated to the rather startling intelligence that he was about to be tried, not only as an intruder but for "claiming the land" on the San Joaquin!
This, it tumed out, was the report of an Indian. Lieutenant Martinez convened an impromptu court, and in the presence of Duran questioned both Smith and the Indian carefully. Duran himself was obviously anxious to have Smith convicted, "for what reason I know not unless perhaps it might be that he was apprehensive of danger to the true faith."
Martinez, after listening to both stories, decided Smith was innocent, at least in respect of claiming Mexican land, and ordered the Indian flogged: "which perhaps he did not deserve," adds the charitable Smith.
Martinez told Smith he would not be able to go directly to the governor at Monterey but would have to wait at San José until an express could be delivered and return. After inducing Father Duran to provide the American with a room and a semblance of regular feeding, Martinez departed, leaving Smith in the tender care of the padre for the next two weeks.
The only break in the prison monotony was the visit of an American, Captain John Cooper, who lived in Monterey. Cooper stayed at San José for two days, and expressed his willingness to help Smith in any way possible. This, to some extent, "relieved the anxiety of mind attendant on the uncertainty of my situation." Cooper was, in fact, called on for help a little later.
Finally a letter came from Echeandia: a 'polite note from the Governor to pay him a visit." And as a possible suggestion that the visit was not entirely social, Echeandia sent along an armed guard, which stripped Smith of his arms and escorted him to Monterey. They arrived in the middle of the night, and Jedediah was promptly deposited behind bars.
His new-found ally, Captain Cooper, arrived with his breakfast and such encouragement as he could offer. Sometime later in the morning, Smith was summoned before Echeandia; but there was no interpreter available immediately and the discussion was postponed.
Disconsolate, Smith was allowed a limited freedom of the town (under the sponsorship of Cooper) and encountered two of the men from his first expedition: Ferguson, who had
remained behind at San Gabriel, and the discharged John Wilson.
Finally the talks with Echeandia got under way, and the issues were fairly clear-cut, at least to the dour and suspicious governor.
Smith was almost certainly a spy, as had been Echeandia’s original contention, and was without doubt a liar—though being "much of a Gentleman" Echeandia did not phrase it in quite those terms. Near enough, though, as to make little difference.
Why was Smith back? To relieve his Appelaminy party.
Then why had he come by such a circuitous route; why had he not gone directly to them, particularly after he had described his first route as almost impassable? Well, Smith had tried the direct route on his return, and found it even worse. Why had Smith not notified Echeandia immediately when he came in near San Gabriel? Smith had written a note to Father Sanchez, which he expected to be forwarded to the governor immediately.
And so it went. For each of Echeandia’s questions there was an answer, which is not to say a satisfactory answer. Echeandia was far from satisfied; and it must be admitted that Smith‘s story is not a logical one to a man comfortably seated in the pleasant town of Monterey. To Echeandia it must have been almost incomprehensible that this man had crossed the Great Basin—on foot—three times in the past year; twice within the last six months. And all in pursuit of a small and insignificant animal whose name Echeandia barely knew. It was beyond all reason; ergo, there was more to this mysterious "fisherman" Smith than met the eye; Echeandia would have to think it over.
Echeandia, in common with most bureaucrats before and since, was of a contemplative turn of mind; which, freely translated, means he hated to take any action on a problem. What Echeandia really wanted was to forget about the whole thing, in hopes it would sort of wisp away. So he meditated on the problem of the fisherman’s company at great length, without discernible result.
For his part, Smith would have liked nothing better than to evaporate like the morning dew, redepositing himself and men somewhere out of Mexican territory. Unfortunately he couldn’t do it. Therefore, there was nothing for it but to badger the governor incessantly until he did something. This was most annoying to Echeandia.
Under Smith’s—prodding the governor finally decided he couldn't decide. Smith would have to go to Mexico. Fine, said Smith in desperation, the sooner the better. Echeandia agreed.
A few days later, Jedediah learned of an English whaler bound for Acapulco. He broached the subject to Echeandia, and that gentleman most graciously granted him permission to sail with the English ship. However, says Smith:
I soon found that he was not disposed to put himself to any trouble about it. I asked him if he intended that I should go to Mexico as a prisoner and at my own expense. He said most certainly, if I had the privilege of going in a foreign vessel, but if I would wait two or three months a Mexican Vessel would be going to Acapulco when he might perhaps as a favor from the Capt get a passage for
me.
It seemed that this man was placed in power to perplex me and those over whom he was called to govern. That a man in possession of common sense should seriously talk of making a man take himself at his own expense to prison. That he should talk to me of waiting 2 or 3 months for a passage to Acapulco. I plainly told him that on such conditions I would not go.
Echeandia’s reaction to this is not recorded but is reasonably easy to guess.
Finally an idea arose which seemed to promise some solution to this quandary. It was possibly Hartnell, the interpreter, who suggested it. In British law there was a provision for dealing with emergencies among her travelers in [foreign lands where there was no official representative of the government. It permitted any four shipmasters in a foreign port to appoint a sort of pro tem consul, who would act in that capacity until the government could be advised. and the official opinion recorded. It was suggested that something of the sort might apply here. Echeandia was agreeable to the notion, and Smith now called on the proffered aid, of Captain Cooper. The ship captains who were requested to appoint an agent "were not perfectly satisfied of the legality of the proposition, but thought the urgency of the case would justify the proceding."
It was done, and Cooper, as the most logical choice, was appointed agent of the United States government. He forthwith accepted responsibility for Jedediah’s behavior until such time as he and his men left California.
Echeandia wanted Smith’s party to come in where he could keep an eye on them. There were some fantastic stories circulating about them in the Mexican territory, mostly revolving around their marksmanship; it would be just as well, thought Echeandia, to have such a group under surveillance. What he had in mind by way of surveillance was heavily armed guard. Accordingly, Smith was to write them, ordering them into San Francisco.
I therefore wrote to Mr Rodgers that it was the Govemor request that they should come in, and at the same time hinted at the treatment I had received.