He made several more gasps, arching up high, then lay still.
Mr. Kissel sat on a rock, chewing a piece of weed, and Mrs. Kissel still held the boy in her arms, rocking back and forth and smoothing his hair. Jennie had taken the other children a few yards away, on the ledge.
Hunched over, Bridger looked crushed, but now he straightened up and made a little speech.
“I reckon I’m to blame. These Mormons ain’t Crow Injuns—I won’t forget it again. Might be, I’ve fit Injuns too much—I can’t think like a white man any longer.”
“Fortunes of war,” said Marlowe. “Unhappy but true.”
Coulter tightened his gun belt and bent down to pick up his rifle. “Might be, but there’s still a few things to settle. I hope to catch up on the trail; if not, remember me to California.”
“What are you going to do?” cried Jennie.
“I count eight Saints still waiting for their heavenly reward.”
“Come back, you fool!” She put her head in her hands and burst into tears. “I hope I never hear the word California again as long as I live.”
“I’ll be trailing along,” said Bridger, “Here’s what—come dark, creep down and get on the move. Harness up, feed the stock, and move out as quiet as you can. They won’t follow. That’s a promise I’ll keep. There won’t be a blessed one of these sanctified heathens will follow.”
“I don’t like it,” said my father. “The odds aren’t what I call suitable. I’ll join you.”
“Not on this job, doctor. This’ll be Injun work, night style, downright ugly. Brother Marlowe will see you up the trail. It’s marked plain from here to the Humboldt, and the snow’s less than we figured. We’ll likely catch up, give a day or so.”
We shook hands, and he crawled down the rocks toward Coulter. The sky had boiled up black, with lightning squirting around, and dark would fall in about an hour. Before ten minutes had passed, a regular downpour hit us, probably the last big rain of the winter, according to what Marlowe said. Things here were all topsyturvy. Commonly no rain fell in the growing season, any time through the summer, but the winters were snowy and rainy, which didn’t do a particle of good to a soul.
We hung to our ledge, soaked and shivering, and the storm exploded all around.
“Now!” said Marlowe. “Best time possible. Wonderful cover. Single-file, same as before.”
Mr. Kissel and Coe and my father had piled stones over both Othello and the little Kissel boy, so we pried Mrs. Kissel loose and started on down, leaving behind a hard reminder of the Danites.
Chapter XXXV
April 27, 1850
Dear Melissa:
We approach the High Sierras. On the opposite side-California. It seems a decade since Jaimie and I arose on that Spring morning in Kentucky and began our strategic retreat from financial persecution. As previously stated, we had hoped to hear from home and loved ones while in the Mormon capital, but the winter was severe, and the mails presumably did not go through. So, not knowing, we must assume that all is well in Louisville. With any sort of luck, our strike should be made and ourselves well started to rejoin you by autumn.
In my recent missive, I described our tragic brush with the Danites, our flight under cover of storm from the rocks, and our ensuing journey, behind Marlowe, on the “South Trail” across the Great Basin to connect with the main route to California at the Humboldt (or Mary’s) River. Far back, bypassed on our Mormon detour, lay the “jumping-off point,” the dividing of the ways, where the trails to Oregon and California diverge, near a spot called Soda Springs, where the Oregon immigrants beat toward the watershed of the Snake, and most of those for California strike southwest for the Bear and Humboldt.
In the days after the fight we kept watch for Coulter and Major Bridger, but their absence continued. We are filled with foreboding. There has been no news of either in all the toilsome days of our struggle onward to this much anticipated point. We begin to wonder, did those two men, so contemptuous of danger, miraculously surviving countless set-tos with the aborigines, at last fall victims to a band of religious cranks? If so, will you be so good as to inform the Rev. Carmody? Perhaps he can find a moral here somewhere.
Once back on the main route, at the Humboldt, Marlowe spoke up in his usual elliptical style:
“Well, then. Must say goodbye. Road’s plain from here on. Most enjoyable.”
I was thunderstruck.
“Surely, you aren’t turning back?”
“Oh, yes. No interest in gold, you know. Not my line of work.”
“See here, friend Marlowe,” I said. “There’s nothing we’d like more than to make you a member of our family. Perhaps if you came along, we could square our obligation in California.”
He looked embarrassed, and when he replied, it was in very close to normal speech. “I appreciate it, of course. But I’ve got to get back.”
“Get back to what? And where?”
“Why, Salt Lake City, of course.”
“They’ll kill you. You’ll be horribly punished.”
“Oh, no. They’ll try, probably. Make a lot of talk—Councils, and all that. But nothing’ll come of it. Seen it before. Uncle’s Brigham Young, you know. He doesn’t favor the Danites.”
I shook my head, saying, “I don’t like it. You’re taking an awful risk, and all for us.”
And then we were startled by his reply.
“I’m a Mormon. Intend to stay a Mormon. But I hope to end the bad things. It’s important to get witchcraft out of religion. My job. Mean to convince the Prophet.”
A little sadly, we wished him well, and the women crammed his saddle bags full of provisions. Sitting there on his horse, in the mid-afternoon, he looked frail and slight to begin such a journey alone. And he seemed curiously self-conscious about making his farewell. Suddenly he said, “Well, then—” and was off without finishing the sentence. We shouted and waved, but he never turned his head.
I very much doubt that he wanted to return. He simply responded to a sense of duty that is perhaps the essence of his personal religion. I have no idea what view Mormon history will take of Brother Hugh Marlowe, apostle of reason and moderation, but I hope it may prove lenient. When, in the inevitable course of progress, bigotry and narrowness, yes and violence and ugliness, have faded from the minds of these strong-headed people, Brother Marlowe must surely emerge as a milestone of enlightenment.
I shall not attempt to recount the details of our onward plod, with mule and oxen, from the Humboldt to our present position. I’m afraid that, after Marlowe’s departure, we made the grave error of taking a northward route, known as Lassen’s Cut-Off, which departed from the Humboldt at Lassen’s Meadow, proceeded west to Rabbit Hole Spring, thence across Black Rock Desert, and on to the Sienas. Suffice it to say that we have suffered indescribable tortures; in addition, we have prolonged rather than shortened our travel. Certainly we have defeated our basic purpose, that of dodging the privations of the arid Humboldt Sink. Those of the desert we negotiated were worse, we now hear, than anything likely to be encountered on the main trail.
Our supplies being depleted, we have scavenged for food; we are, in effect, living off the country. For days our mouths have been dried up of all saliva, parched for want of water; we have begged flour and sugar from other trains, themselves in distress, we have lost stolen goods to Indians, have fired on Indian skulkers, been ill, exhausted, frozen, burned, starved and harried, and yet we are here, all that remain of us, eager to scale the Pass and come to grips with the Great Adventure beyond …
As was his custom in letters home, my father slurred over the worst parts, and that seems too bad, because I started to make a full record of our search for gold in California. So I’d better use some things from his Journals of this Lassen’s Cut-Off period, giving it in almost the same sketchy form as he wrote it down, during those days when we were having our very hardest going.
Entries from March 25 to April 29.
Depositing letter for Coulter in barr
el post office at Lassen turn-off. This already filled with mail by emigrants who thus leave word of their new route for friends or relatives to follow. Have shuffled through all, nothing for us.
Dust, dust, dust, deep and nasty.
Want of rain makes the soil like a desert, which it really is.
Muskrats [company] have lent us a light wagon. Coe’s large blue Santa Fe wagon so very heavy that exhausted oxen could not have hauled it much further.
Pass grave, “E. A. Brown, Louisville.” I did not know him.
Twelve men left Muskrat Company yesterday to pack on foot, and left 2 wagons behind. Each took 30 pounds provisions and one blanket.
Still traveling desert-like valley—grass thin and poor.
Sunday—mowed hay for 70-mile desert run. I am tailoring-making my old coat new.
Monday—loaded hay and started, came to bill tacked up on stick: “Provide yourself with hay here for travel of 70 miles. 40 miles from this, take to right to a Spring ½ mile to the left. 12 miles to Hot Springs, 19 miles to Black Rock Wells. Along to Muddy Creek, 7 miles. Sacramento Valley, 32 miles. To Sutter’s Fort, 90 miles. Total distance from here to Sutter’s Fort, as per above, 270 miles.”
Traveling over our old acquaintance, “Ipecacuanha dust”—a powerful emetic in the concentrate.
Wild sage and greasewood, river bottoms very winding all over valley. Enormous dry ditches in which oxen often mire.
Fed oxen chained to the wheels or yoked in the wagons; others fed them loose. The oxen, when they saw the hay, ran to it like hungry dogs.
People we encounter are driving their exhausted cattle behind, or sometimes before, their wagons. When they lie down from exhaustion, people sometimes wait a while for them to rest. At other times they beat them, or set dogs on them, or go through all operations in succession.
Good moonlight tonight from new moon. Oxen stronger.
32 dead oxen, dead horse, passed 4 perfect wagons, 2 carts abandoned.
Are still on Oregon Road, what they call Lassen’s Route; it was ill advised.
Threw away my old patched coat, also pair of pants bought new at Independence; also a pair of boots.
The women very tired but uncomplaining. Jaimie walks horse and says little. This trial by desert must surely end soon.
Notice tacked up on abandoned wagon: “Water 10½ miles ahead. Grass 12½. This information by a notice ½ mile back. We are just in moving condition and that’s all.—C. B. Carr, F. Carmer.”
All manner of stuff abandoned. I now sit on excellent leather trunk.
Last night at 9 arrived Hot Springs. 222 dead oxen yesterday.
Cross hot stream to enter a desert with no water for 20 miles. Cut bunch grass as provender for cattle.
My greatest pleasure in traveling through the country is derived from the knowledge that it has seldom been traversed, or at least never been described by any hackneyed tourist; that everything I see or look upon has never been made common by the gaze or description of others. I don’t feel the degradation of being charged with the crime of copying the descriptive ideas of others.
We are out of Black Rock Desert but another desert of 20 miles to come.
A St. Louis company has arrived.
We have been out of bacon for some days, and now live on bread or boiled beans and charred coffee without sugar. We have dried apples and peaches in quantity, but seldom boil or stew any.
Sudden cold last night. Ice in coffee cups. Slept in hollow in creek bed to avoid wind.
Muskrats making about 5 to 10 miles daily.
Got 8 pounds sugar, piece of bacon from Muskrats. Godsend.
Played game of “Uca” with Muskrats for provender. Jaimie disapproved. Wolves made tremendous racket last night.
This morning poured coffee from the dregs and sweetened before commencing breakfast, so that no one got more sugar than another.
Learn that grave, of T. E. Carver, Des Moines, is a “cache,” containing hidden articles. Many graves are caches. Emigrants hope to retrieve abandoned treasure later. We forced open one cache, had 3 casks of brandy.
Can now see tops of Sierra Nevada.
Met party of men who left wagons to pack. Had made arrangements with another train, in better condition, to bring along their plunder.
Met man from St. Louis who had wandered with pack mules for 14 days in Wind River Mountains—where he ate a mule.
Immense dry lake bed—“mud lake.”
Sunday—pass man named Smith with wagons and $1500 worth of dry goods. He, down to 3 yoke of oxen, is burying his dry goods, cloth, calico, etc. He had been on Santa Fe Trail, came north, regretted it.
On the face of the hill above the springs is a row of singularly peaked, whitish pyramids, all shaped like a bishop’s mitre. They stand up insulated from one another like the minarets of some extensive monastery.
We leave behind several rifles from Coe’s wagon. Burn stocks and bend barrels so Indians will not benefit from them.
Indians stole piece of bacon had obtained from party last night. Fired at noise of men running, around 2 A.M. Indians here very mischievous.
Fine morning, flocks of wild geese. We are nearing the range, spirits rising.
Muskrats, up ahead, sold wagon to a St. Louis company for 115 lbs. flour.
Road here filled with large stones which jar the oxen’s shoulders badly.
Dust, sagebrush, made 14 miles today.
17 miles to foot of Sierra Nevada, then north 10 miles, then 3 to Summit.
Grave: “John Kean of St. Louis, aged 70 years.”
“ : “M. Brooker, Va. Aged 31 years.”
“ : “John A. Davison, St. Louis, Mo. Died from eating a poisonous root at the spring.”
Within 1½ miles of Sierra Nevada foothills. Hills before us white with snow. Their Eastern face is sprinkled over with small green patches to the top, and the extensive valley at their bottom with grass of all kinds. This is luxurious to behold after such a long journey through such an inhospitable and barren wilderness.
We kill antelope, energy much recruited by fresh meat. Sunday traded dried fruit for ½ side bacon—no sugar.
April 29: Ready for the ascent. We learn that Governor Smith of California has sent men and supplies for those in need to every pass in these mountains. One of his advance company brought this request of Captain Todd, for perusal of emigrants:
“Notice is hereby given that a Government train sent out by Gov. P. F. Smith, commanding in California, is encamped 8 miles further on than this place. All parties who stand in need of assistance are therefore requested not to camp here but to push on to it as to cause no unnecessary delay. All information as regards this route can be furnished. Inquire for Captain Todd’s camp.
ELISHA TODD
Com’d Party”
We are ready for the Summit!
The Journals, you see, came nearer to telling our true condition than my father’s letters home did. Still, even in them he couldn’t keep his spirits down for long; I remember very well when he wrote that sentence: “We are ready for the Summit!”—though half starved he was as happy as he’d ever been in his life. Anyhow, we were up before daylight, in bitter cold—ice again in the coffee cups—and stirring with excitement, preparing for the climb. The Muskrats were camped nearby, very beat out. Half were planning to pack their goods on the oxen and leave their wagons behind.
My father and Mr. Kissel and Mr. Coe had a conference last night, after drinking a cupful each out of a brandy cask, which my father said appeared to make him stronger. They decided to “double-team” our two wagons to the top, using all mules on one and oxen on the other. It’s a waste of time to mix them, because all they do is fight.
We were under way at dawn, wearing anything warm we could find, children wrapped up in blankets in the Brice wagon. Road very rocky, winding in and out, several times crossing an ice-cold stream that was coming down from the snow. The wagons bumped and jarred, and one sprung a tire iron loose, but we let it flop-there
wasn’t much else we could do.
No green but scrubby pines in the crevices, and heaps of snow in the shade. The higher we got (stopping every fifteen minutes to rest) the cloudier it turned, but things were peaceful and still—no storm. I tied Spot to the tail gate of Coe’s wagon and walked ahead up the trail. No sound except water dripping off of those icy rocks; you could imagine the mountain was alive and breathing; it had just that little rustle of life. We were getting up toward nine thousand feet. The pass itself was nearly ninety-five hundred, so they said, and my father and Mr. Coe observed that something called the St. Gotthard Pass, in the Alps, wasn’t any more than seven thousand.
We got to the top close to noon. It was disappointing, in a way. I think we expected to look down on a kind of paradise—a green valley with running streams, crops growing, and nuggets lying around as big as walnuts. The truth is, all we saw was more rocks, because of the sifty clouds, and when we went down on the other side, hitching animals before and aft to keep the wagons from slipping, there was nothing but the same old desert. We were discouraged, but nobody said a word, even the women.
Davis’ settlement was a hundred miles further, the first civilization we would strike in the Sacramento Valley, much of the trip across desert, with Indians stealthier than before. We were still strapped for food, too, but at Goose Lake, a few miles on, got a side of bacon, sugar and flour from a Government wagon parked there. This first wagon crew was fine; they sympathized with our condition and appeared interested when my father said that the Muskrats, back behind us, were worse off yet. But ten miles farther along we met another Government wagon which was selling its commodities at a very stiff price.
My father and the driver, a man wearing a coonskin cap, with his mouth puckered up in a half-moon, exchanged some hot words, after which my father said he was “a typical Government official, slippery, self-serving, and crooked as a snake.” He’d forgot about the other wagon, of course. But it gave him something to do, as we walked along, so he lectured to Coe and Kissel on “the tarred brush of politics”—how anybody living off the Government sooner or later loses his fibre, along with his character, and turns into a swine. It passed the time.
The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) Page 39