The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana)

by Robert Lewis Taylor

  Chouteau gave me a calm, unhurried scrutiny, then looked back, perfectly unruffled, at John. I could have spoken up if I’d wanted to, but I was enjoying myself too much, and preferred to drag out the moment.

  “Do I understand that I should recognize this boy?”

  John’s face fell as if he’d been kicked.

  “What’s that? Who are you, anyhow—where’s Pierre Chouteau?”

  “I believe I am the only Chouteau, certainly the only Pierre Chouteau, on the premises.”

  “Ain’t this the runaway apprentice you advertised for?”

  “To the best of my knowledge,” said Chouteau, “I have never seen this boy before in my life. Neither am I aware of having advertised for a runaway anything—boy, horse or dog.”

  I almost laughed out loud, it was such a pleasurable occasion after the days of bullying and violence from those monsters.

  “What is this?” screamed John. “What’s going on here?” Then, when a glimmer of the truth worked its way through his rage, he lunged forward and seized my throat, crying, “By God, I’ll wring your neck like a chicken’s—”

  My eyes had begun to pop out and everything was swimming when I noticed a peculiar thing happen to his hands. Across the backs, just under my nose, there suddenly appeared a thin, gaping, wet-pink crevice which filled with blood that welled up and spread out all over, even running down his wrists. Unseen by me, whilst I was fighting for my breath, Jennie had snatched a paper knife from Chouteau’s desk and given him a slice that probably went a long way toward evening up old scores.

  He let go all holds in an instant, and I got back my vocal cords at last. But the only word I could think of was “Murderer!” so I shrieked it out with all the force I could muster, and when John, with Shep right behind him, sprang down the stairs, I yelled out to Mr. Chouteau that I was Jaimie McPheeters, that had fallen off the boat, and that these frauds were nothing but thieves and killers.

  “Stop those men!” he cried, and I added my bit with another “Murderers!”, which I seemed to have got stuck on. Then I looked back and saw that Jennie was sitting down in a chair, weeping, and that Slater had never moved so much as a finger to escape. He just stood there, gazing somberly around, as much as to say that no matter what lay ahead, he had gone as far as he intended to go with scum of that kind.

  The scene below was rackety and scrambled up. Most of the fur traders were very comfortably refreshed, with whiskey, and welcomed a diversion, in particular an entertainment as lively as this. Two men unloading skins made a dive for John, who dodged, and they caught Shep’s arm instead, but he brought up a knee hard and slipped out. Then they darted first this way and that, running back and forth in little spurts, like some people I’d once seen dancing at the opera house in Louisville, not quite real, and finally, leaping up on a table, they went through a window, sash and all, with that maniac Murrel leading the way.

  “A hundred dollars if they’re taken alive!” cried Chouteau, and the traders poured out the door in pursuit. But they were seconds too late. Grabbing the two likeliest horses at the hitching post, the murderers sprang into the saddles, as the darky boy tried to hold them back, and ran him down in a wild thunder of hooves and mud. When we burst outside, he was lying very still, almost white-looking, in a rut, the gorgeous silk hat smashed to tatters, and the scarlet coat very muddied and torn.

  Chapter VIII

  Independence, Missouri

  June 10, 1849

  My dearest Melissa:

  I have arrived here at the last outpost of civilization. This is the jumping-off point; beyond lies the wilderness—the prairie, the alkali plains, the desert, the great Rocky Mountains, and Elysium! (or California). All is going forward at a tremendous pace. My hopes have never been higher, and were it not for the heart-felt absence of Jaimie, my spirits would be hard to contain.

  As it is, I have made progress in several directions. Let me assure you it is no easy matter to accustom oneself to the raw exuberance and whimsical humors of the frontiersmen with which this town is jammed. The seams of Independence are bursting with the most varied and boisterous humanity it has ever been my lot to encounter. I think it is the total lack of restraint that sets the trails-men apart from their fellows, and I append an anecdote in illustration. We are blessed, or cursed, here with two butchers, both of them thieves, though one, a certain Mr. Schmidt, surpasses in dishonest ingenuity his competitor, Mr. Burke, who is merely a run-of-the-mill rogue and not destined, I fear, to rise very far above petit larceny. (For clearness, I interpolate that the general fleecing and gouging of these poor, credulous emigrants is a public scandal and should be acted upon by the authorities, as I have stated emphatically upon several occasions.) To resume, our precious Schmidt made the tactical mistake of selling to an encampment of drovers, at an outrageous fee, a gigantic cut of horse under the representation of its being beefsteak.

  Vengeance was not long forthcoming, and I marvel yet at the diabolic wit of the man who wreaked it. The head drover, a huge bearded fellow with mischievous, deep-set eyes, waited until the mid-morning hour, when Schmidt’s emporium was filled with housewives; then in he burst with a dead cat, which he banged down upon the counter. “That makes nineteen,” he said. “Since you’re busy, we’ll settle up another time.” And he thereupon ran out of the shop.

  You ask, how did I make my way to this riotous sink of predatory butchers, prank-loving plainsmen, lamblike emigrants and other oddities of humankind (including Indians), many of whom would have remained in Louisville only long enough for the constabulary to usher them out? In the interval since my last dispatch, my eyes have been opened to a new manner of life, rude and bustling, but one which will advance the torch of progress to the outermost limits of our nation. After combing both banks of the Mississippi on my futile quest, I took a packet from Cape Girardeau to St. Louis, where I called upon your family’s friends, the Chouteaus, and was received with every courtesy. Indeed, Pierre Chouteau, Jr. (his father or grandfather founded the family’s fortunes, I believe), insisted that my belongings be removed from the Planter’s Hotel, a sprawling edifice with wings and dreary hallways not unlike our own Marine Hospital (though, thank God, with greatly improved fodder) and installed in the principal Chouteau residence, a stone mansion set in spacious grounds and supported by numerous outbuildings—negro shanties, warehouses, and the like.

  You, who have looked askance at my venture, will be pleased to know that Pierre Chouteau himself is interested (by indirection) in the rush for gold in California. Moreover, he displayed for me a letter from the much-sung scout and now storekeeper far out on the overland route, Jim Bridger, the legend of whose exploits has reached Louisville long before now. I asked and received permission to copy out the document, with the notion that I should profit by a knowledge of, and visit to, that wily frontiersman later on in my journey. Thus I quote from it in part:

  “I have established a small fort [writes Bridger], with a blacksmith shop and a supply of iron in the road of the emigrants which promises fairly. In coming out here they are generally well supplied with money, but by the time they get here they are in need of all kinds of supplies, horses, provisions, smithwork, etc. They bring ready cash from the States, and should I receive the goods ordered, will have considerable business in that way with them, and establish trade with the Indians in the neighborhood, who have a good number of beaver with them. The fort is a beautiful location on Black’s Fork of Green River, receiving fine, fresh water from the snow on the Uintah Range. The streams are alive with mountain trout. It passes the fort in several channels, each lined with trees, kept alive by the moisture of the soil.”

  Upon my taking leave of Chouteau (and he with all his connections send you their best “souvenirs”) I sensed that he would have liked nothing better than to buy a share of my expedition. He made no outright mention of it, canny merchant that he is, but I have a very good instinct in these things. Though grateful for his interest (still implied) I kept silent
, not being willing, even for a friend and benefactor, to convey a valuable property for a song. For I will without doubt establish a handsome estate in the California gold fields! Nothing can stop me now, and I only wish I could imbue you as well with my excitement for the adventure.

  Chouteau saw me to the boat, as I took deck passage (in my new caution for economy) at four dollars for the 450-mile journey up the Missouri of three days and a half. And this good man has volunteered to press further inquiries along both banks of the Mississippi to Cairo, out of concern for our beloved Jaimie. At my offer of money for this work, he declined stoutly, not wishing, I feel sure, to jeopardize my chance of success by even a small depletion of my store. He knows, does Chouteau, that my acquisition of wealth in fabulous quantity is only a question of weeks; indeed, I am surprised that he could restrain himself from speaking out for a partnership. But the French of his class have ever had a delicacy in matters financial, in happy contrast to the boorish greed of their menials, who would cheerfully poison you over an inadequate tip.

  I shall not vex you with details of my ride up the Missouri. Suffice it to say that I was in a fever of anxiety to arrive at Independence and strike onward into the wilderness. The days dragged slowly, and the sight of that silent, mud-swollen stream proved at length a lively irritation. No words of mine can depict the scenic primeval grandeur, the monotony of the rivershed, the ugly, sluggish movement of this cold, vast coil of mud writhing its way toward the sea.

  To my surprise, we were disembarked at a port six miles from Independence, having tacitly been led to believe that our passage would deposit us on the edge of the town. In company with others, I made haste to protest, but our Captain, a man of demeanor so languid that he seemed in a permanent doze, even at the wheel, had the impertinence to suggest that if we wished to carry the boat overland, he would set us down in the public square, “since there ain’t any water to float it on betwixt here and there, leastways none that I’ve seed.” The atrocities of grammar together with the offhand incivilities of these Westerners can be immensely trying. They appear impervious to the usages of cultured society. When we informed the Captain that, on our return trip, we would forsake his boat and proceed by horse, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, within earshot of several ladies, “It’s yore—[a portion of anatomy usually designated medically as the postus fundamentum]; flog it all you please.”

  We were able to stow our gear (I was, and still am, traveling with both Jaimie’s and my kits) in the wagons of some freighters, then we treated ourselves to a trudge over ruts and stones of six miles! Before it was over, I was gladdened for the experience, for it was the beginning of my conditioning for the long, long trek that lies ahead. It did not put me out of countenance when I stumbled and went head first off a log spanning a stream, and I was exhilarated when a wagon wheel passed over my instep, inflicting nothing more serious than a painful sprain, with no fractured bones that I could discover. These happy portents, I feel, are an augury of what is to come. Having used up my capacity for adverse luck, I am doubtless due for a long season of good fortune, and the foregoing will serve as examples.

  Independence, when we arrived here, in excellent spirits, having recovered fully from the little peeves attendant upon wet clothes and bruises (I was lucky enough to fashion a capital crutch from a kind of yew that grows in abundance hereabouts), proved to be an unsightly, temporary sort of place, composed mainly of frame houses and buildings, with now and then one of brick rising amongst its fellows like a poppy in a bank of weeds.

  All about us the country, fertile and picturesque, undulates like a broad sea-swell, its various timbers—oak, maple, cottonwood, elm and sycamore—forming darker oases in the polychrome carpet of prairie wild flowers. For that rolling immensity, the Prairie, begins here. I rode out with acquaintances to its veritable edge—ahead lay the lonely, treeless reaches of blossom and grass, waving, wind-rippled, a few silent birds circling overhead, a botanic desert solemnly brooding. The grasses are not yet high, nor the flowers blooming in their later wild profusion; black patches showed through the green and yellow, adding to the impression, at this season, of bleakness surpassing the British moors.

  The town itself numbers a thousand souls, in a permanent way, but swelling this population are the swarming hundreds of movables: the traders, trappers, drovers, mule skinners, emigrants and adventurers. Not only is Independence the point of embarkation for the California-Oregon Trail but it also provides the last stop for those taking the southerly Santa Fe route, so that large numbers of Mexicans and half-breed Indians are seen daily lounging over the town. These latter have dusky complexions, are dressed in filthy costumes, and are mounted on raddled mules and horses, presenting altogether as shabby an air as can be imagined. They will beg or steal, being equally insensitive to blows and curses. One Indian, a fine, straight young fellow, several cuts above the others, approached me two days ago, holding out a paper envelope. Suspecting the usual trickery, I made haste to detour around him, but he spoke up in very passable English. “Me Sioux name Che-Tom-W-Ku-Te-A-Ma-Ni, the Hawk that Hunts Walking,” was the crux of his address. I stopped, curious about his next overture, but with a firm clutch on my purse, you may be sure.

  “White doctor go with wagons—make trails into California?” I replied that this was indeed the case. “Mr. Reese [he is our local minister] put writing for Hawk to father,—Doctor carry?” For a minute I was nonplussed; then I divined that he was petitioning me to act as mailman. But what a hit-or-miss arrangement!

  “Where do I find him? What is his country?” I asked, and he pointed toward the west, with all the accurate fervor of the government mail system; then he said, “Many suns,” opening and closing his fingers several times. Now an Indian’s “sun,” for measurement, I have learned, is approximately fifty miles, or what the average of them travels in a day, to that I was able to put his “Sioux father” somewhere in the region of South Pass, or far, far out on my journey. And when I asked for his father’s name, in the interest of making delivery, what finally emerged in English, after the usual crackle of Indian syllables, was “Black Poddee.”

  To sum up, I tucked the curious dispatch in my coat and promised to hand it over to Mr. Poddee just as soon as I ran across him, and so we parted, the Hawk and I, with much arm-waving of mutual esteem.

  I have found cheap lodging at the home of a storekeeper, Mr. Wilson, who with his partner, Clarke, is the principal outfitter here. True to my new vows of temperance and abstention, I am commonly off the streets by sundown, not unhappily so, since they are filled with rowdies, oxen, mules and a general congestion of such clamor that to make one’s way is scarcely feasible. The migrant element among us abides largely in tents, without plumbing, and a lively stench flavors our prairie air which would otherwise be sweet with the scent of larkspur, wild pink, verbena, indigo and lupin. So carefully have I trod in the paths of righteousness that I attended, yesterday, a basket social prepared by the “lady Masons,” and Sunday I was at the forefront for the services of the Reverend Mr. Reese. I must confess that I deemed his sermon badly overstrained in pathos; at its end he consigned us all either to the grave or to perpetual exile, a summary dismissal that I felt to be in bad taste, since many of his listeners were soon to depart under conditions that would make either alternative a strong possibility. To clear our nostrils, we sang some verses to the tune of “Old Rosin the Bow,” and left, having abandoned all hope of salvation.

  In my next epistle, I shall relate to you, and to my dear Hannah, the details of my setting out. I must join a “company,” either as member or passenger, in the first case to own a share of the chattels—wagons, oxen (or mules), tools, arms and provisions—and in the second merely to join one group of families, called a “mess,” for an agreed-upon sum of money. In seeking to make these arrangements I have had the most incredible windfall of fortune. And it must be confessed that I owe it all to the benign influence of religion.

  On Sunday, following the melanch
oly accusations of Rev. Reese, I so far broke my rule as to look in on one of the gilded Palaces of Chance, filled with commiseration for the poor misguided creatures there in thrall, and hoping to aid them in some small way. The prevalent game was something called “Sledge,” an importation from the prospecting camps further west, and surely enough, one pale young man, with a look of terrible depression, was losing what I imagined to be his priceless all, a grubstake probably got together by doting family and friends.

  Watching this pitiful spectacle, I became aware that the Rev. Reese, together with his Superior, would have wished me to guide this lost sheep out of the field of wolves and into safe pasture. So I took a hand, much against my present instincts, and began to support him in bucking the combination playing against him, for it grieves me to tell you that, as in Louisville, there are those unscrupulous enough to snare any innocent who comes their way. In all, it cost me upwards of forty dollars before I had succeeded in indicating to my pallid friend the true nature of things, upon which he quit abruptly, with, I trust, enough left of his store to reorganize and continue as planned. As for myself, I considered it money spent in the service of the Lord, via Rev. Reese, and I’m sure that you would have been proud, Melissa, to see me thus forcing myself to an enterprise which I now condemn as heartily as yourself.

  Moreover, had it not been for a calamitous fall of cards, I stood to make a potful, again in the name of Providence, for I am certain that the Heavenly wisdom would have applauded any clipping of these wolves. But as the book tells us, He moves in strange ways His wonders to perform, and in brief, He saw fit, at a moment of climax, to slip me the jack of spades when any small heart would have provided His humble servant with upwards of three hundred dollars.

  So much for that. I feel cleansed and purified at having made this worthy sacrifice for a weak brother-in-need.

  And now the stroke of fortune: Before I left, I permitted myself to be stood a very small, or medicinal, draft, or glass, of spirits, following the inviolable custom of the house in providing a “nightcap” to clients whose contributions to the entertainment have not been niggardly. Ranged alongside me at the counter, or bar, were a rough-hewn pair with hearts of gold, the prototypes of fighting men who have made our great nation what it is. One, a cadaverous, white-maned, rather elderly fellow with piercing black eyes and an inborn sense of piety, informed me that they were raising a company to be called “the Merinos,” and that they would welcome me either as member or passenger. His companion, a bluff, meaty giant with some recently healed scars on his cheek, clapped me resoundingly on the back and cried out that with my capital and their brains we’d “get our share of loot and more.” At first glance, this seemed hardly complimentary, but I later realized that what he meant by “brains” was experience. These honest bravos have the look of competence; they will meet any emergency, I am sure of it. And, Melissa, your sympathy would go out to the patriarch, for as we left, with plans to meet in two days, he sped me on my way with a ringing passage from the Bible—“Unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”