by Earl Murray
Gabriella’s Journal
10 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY
We left in the cool dawn, the mules grabbing clumps of grass as their drivers urged them into motion. Mr. Quincannon and Lamar led the column, followed by a man named Robert Colville, whom I understand Edward refers to as his “lieutenant.” I had never met any of these men and presume they arrived in St. Louis just prior to our departure. They arranged themselves at order in double lines and followed Colville at a march. But for the absence of a drum and fife, it seemed to me like a regiment of ragtag soldiers headed to war.
I had breakfasted with Edward and Uncle Walter and Aunt Avis, a somber meal at best. I wonder if they all don’t believe I will eventually come to my senses and stop worrying about the situation. I think not. Mr. Quincannon must feel odd, traveling with a group who so outwardly displays honor to the British throne. His friend, Lamar, is right to feel uneasy.
Sir Edward insisted that I ride in the front seat of his carriage with him, with Walter and Avis in the back. Directly behind, workers led the mules in pack strings and herders kept the horses together, allowing them to graze at intervals along the trail.
Edward had picked a special handler to care for his stallion and the chestnut mare he had bought for me. Whistler was turned out with the other horses. I didn’t mind having my pinto given a second-rate showing, as I knew all too well that I would be riding him when I wished, and not the red mare.
Ten miles out, Mr. Quincannon greeted a trader and his caravan coming towards St. Louis. He stopped to talk. Edward became upset with the delay and urged him to complete his discussion. Mr. Quincannon said that he needed to learn details of the trail ahead and that if he was in such a hurry to move forward, Lamar could take us onward.
“How can I trust your Indian to lead us?” Edward asked.
“Anyone could follow the wagon tracks,” he said.
Edward left it at that and waited for Mr. Quincannon to finish his discussion. We soon reached Round Grove, a large stand of various hardwood trees with an abundance of grass and water. Three separate wagon trains were camped there, all headed to Oregon. The area could have been Independence without the hotel and other buildings, with men working on wagons and tending stock, while women cooked over large fires and watched over their children.
We camped nearby, but kept our mules and horses separate from the emigrants’. Mr. Quincannon knows all too well that mingling stock could cost a lot of time and possibly hard feelings, if there were arguments over unbranded mules and horses. He told Edward that most usually there was trouble over animals and it often resulted in bloodshed.
Mr. Quincannon and his men set to cutting hardwood, for use as axles and wagon spokes should one of the carts break down. He told Edward that there was no wood to be found on the open plains and many a traveler, upon studying his broken-down wagon, had wished he had cut extra spokes and axles when he had the chance.
I was sitting at the table with Edward, having tea and awaiting our meal, when a lost pony wandered into our camp, followed quickly by a girl of eleven or twelve. The little horse jumped through the fire where the Rivet brothers were cooking, spilling everything.
I quickly stood up and addressed the girl before Edward could display his anger. The girl apologized for her pony’s behavior and I told her not to worry about it.
“You have a beautiful pony,” I said. “Would you like to pose for me?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I took out my easel and set it up. “Just stand over there,” I said, “and hold your pony as still as possible.”
Her eyes lit up. “You’re an artist?”
“Yes,” I told her, “and I think you and your pony would make wonderful subjects.”
The girl, her long blond hair shining in the late sun, smiled broadly while I worked. Edward came and stood looking over my shoulder.
“Why are you wasting your time and your supplies drawing this wagon girl?” he asked.
“She’s an interesting study, Edward.”
“Just be certain you have plenty of pads left to draw me when we reach buffalo country.”
Edward mounted his stallion and rode away by himself, his rifle in a buckskin sheath and a shotgun in hand, leaving Bom staring after him at the tent, wondering what to do. Barton, also beside the tent, shrugged and the two began a game of checkers.
I continued with the girl and her pony, deciding to do a watercolor. I finished a small piece quickly and gave it to her. She beamed and hurried back to her camp, leading the pony behind.
After she left, I began a larger watercolor of the girl and the pony. Mr. Quincannon walked over to where I was working and stood to one side. He held the reins to my pinto and his buckskin.
“That amazes me, how you can paint from memory like that.”
“I’m lucky to have the gift,” I said. “What are you going to do with Whistler?”
“I thought you might be interested in going for a ride.”
“Quite presumptuous of you, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t seem to me like Edward cares for Whistler like you do. Take advantage while he’s gone.”
“I don’t make a habit of riding alone with people I don’t know, Mr. Quincannon.”
“That’s understandable,” he said. “Maybe Bom would like to ride along, or even Barton.”
“The point is,” I said, “I’m not interested in riding right now, thank you.”
“Sorry to have bothered you,” he said, turning away.
“One thing before you go,” I said. “Would you answer a question for me?”
He stood holding the horses, waiting for the question. I couldn’t read him at all, to tell if he was angry or didn’t care. He simply stood there waiting, as if my rejecting him didn’t matter one way or the other.
“Why didn’t you insist that I go riding?” I asked.
“I don’t care to ride with someone who doesn’t want to ride with me. And I don’t value tests to see how far I’ll go.”
“You had no business asking me in the first place,” I said. “I’m engaged to be married.”
“Then why aren’t you riding with Edward?”
“As you can see,” I retorted, “I’m practicing my art. I want to be sharp when Edward downs his game.”
“I’m afraid Edward doesn’t really appreciate your talent,” he said.
“Don’t be so harsh, Mr. Quincannon. After all, my portraits of him will be far more valuable than those of any wagon people.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Don’t you know the value of subject matter?”
“That, as you should well know, is in the eye of the beholder.”
“I believe Edward will make a fine subject,” I said. “And I know for certain that many of my countrymen are eager to gain an image of a true hunter on the American plains.”
“Are you saying that portraits of Edward Garr standing beside a dead buffalo will be more sought after than the image of a Comanche or an Arapaho war leader in full regalia?” he asked.
I persisted. “Of course! Edward will certainly make his mark in history. You can be sure of that.”
“You are truly dedicated to him, I’ll say that.”
A rider suddenly appeared in camp, calling for a doctor. Noel Marking emerged from his tent with his bag and climbed onto a borrowed horse. Mr. Quincannon handed me the reins to my pony and mounted his buckskin.
We followed the rider to a group of ten wagons that had just arrived from the Platte River Trail. A bearded man in late middle age was sitting slumped against a wagon wheel. Women of various ages surrounded him, offering solace. One woman in particular, with graying red hair, held the man’s hand, tears streaming down her face. Others from the nearby camps crowded around.
Dr. Marking dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby wagon. He examined the injured man’s right shoulder, where an arrow had entered from the back, driving the head deep into the socket. The shaft, broken off three or four inches o
ut, protruded from a wound dark and swollen. Smears of old blood had clotted around the tattered hole.
The redheaded woman, whom I guessed rightly to be his wife, asked Dr. Marking if he could save her husband.
“I won’t lie to you,” the doctor said. “It looks bad.”
The lady dabbed at tears. “I don’t want to lose him. I’ve lost two husbands before, and three sons, all to fighting of some sort.”
“Was there no one with you who might have extracted the arrow?” Dr. Marking asked.
“They were all afraid to,” she said. “Even the wagon-master.”
“It would have been much better,” the doctor said, “if the arrowhead had been removed right away.”
A woman whom I learned later was her daughter turned to the crowd. “The McConnell family will not give up, no matter how many arrows we take.”
The daughter’s husband, also standing nearby, said, “The Sioux won’t stop us, they won’t. We’ll carry on.”
Mr. Quincannon asked him where they ran into the Indians and the young husband stated, “We weren’t but a week out.”
The onlookers gasped. During his stories at the hotel, Mr. Quincannon had talked about the Sioux, explaining that they were a large tribe who lived and hunted in the very territory we were headed into. He had talked about an additional two tribes, the Cheyenne and the Arapaho, and had stated that they and the Sioux were allied, and comprised a very large number of native people who were not happy with the American movement across their lands.
This incident seemed to alarm him. He announced that to have the Sioux marauding emigrants so far east was a bad sign.
“It means they’ve decided to try and stop the wagons even before they get into their country,” he said.
Mr. Quincannon began to mingle among the emigrant men, asking them about the attack and exactly where it had taken place. Dr. Marking continued to treat his patient. He asked him, “Can you stand me probing for the arrowhead?”
“Just give me a long drink of whiskey and a stick to bite down on,” the man said, “and do what you must.”
The doctor began his work. The man held up well, but his wife and daughter were so worried that I took it upon myself to console them, stating repeatedly that this very surgeon was among the best England had to offer.
Sir Edward arrived and stepped down from his horse, visibly upset, and asked me what was going on. I told him about the Indian attack on the emigrants and he turned his attention to Dr. Marking.
“Does that man intend to pay me for your services?” he asked.
The doctor looked up from his work. “Take it out of my wages, if you must.”
Edward told Dr. Marking that it would be a costly night for him, but the doctor ignored him and continued.
“Are you returning to your tent?” Edward asked me.
I stepped away to speak to him. “When Dr. Marking is finished and the ladies are settled, I’ll be along,” I said.
He grabbed me by the arm and jerked me a short distance before I kicked him and broke away.
“I’ll not be made a laughingstock of here,” he said.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I said, rubbing my arm where he’d grabbed me.
He stared at me coldly. “Think about this: It’s not too late to send you back.”
I couldn’t believe he had said such a thing. It made me determined to resist him even more.
“You won’t send me back, Edward,” I said finally. “After all, who would there be to immortalize your all-important hunt? You can’t just find an artist anywhere you look.”
“That might be all you’re good for,” he snarled.
He mounted his stallion and rode off. Still in shock from the incident, I returned to the younger woman and began again to console her.
“I’m sorry to be this way,” she said, “but I don’t want to see my father die.”
Annie Malone was three years my junior, and eight months pregnant. She had married Sean Malone in Ireland a year before and together with her father, Martin McConnell, and his new wife, Millie, had decided to come to America for a better life. Millie said often that her flaming red hair had turned gray early, but would become natural again along the Oregon seacoast.
Being from farming families, they had not adjusted to the East Coast and after moving to Illinois, had not found it to their liking, either. They hoped Oregon would offer them the new start they so badly desired.
Annie told me all this and thanked me for my help. “You don’t seem like a stranger,” she said, “but a sister, maybe.” Sean, now assisting the doctor, was a strapping man who never seemed to give up on anything.
“I told you we’d find a doctor and that you’d get fixed,” he told his father-in-law. “We’ll find our dream yet.”
Martin McConnell nodded feebly. Millie, who had pulled a rosary from her apron pocket, smiled for the first time. She told me later that she and Martin had married together with Sean and Annie, in the same ceremony. Both had been too long widowed and had decided to commit to one another and reach out for the shores of America. When she had seen the arrow strike Martin’s shoulder, she had wished they were still back in Ireland.
I could see her spirits improving rapidly. Having found Dr. Marking, and gaining hope that her husband was going to mend, she believed that their lives would surely go forward now as they had planned. Dr. Marking didn’t have the same confidence, though he said nothing to the family. I didn’t know how she would react if Martin passed on, as she had told me that all her family had died in the old country and she believed this new road to Oregon would bring them the comfort she had prayed so hard for. If they could just get past the Indians, the fighting would be over at last.
I didn’t want to bring up the notion that Indians were only part of the problem, that war with my native England might break out in her promised land. I said nothing and watched her kiss the crucifix of her rosary and place it back in her apron pocket. She smiled and gave me a hug. She said that she had to get to work, as it was time to bake bread for the evening meal, so they could prepare for a renewed journey again.
Quincannon’s Journal
10 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY
With the sun falling fast, I joined Lamar atop a nearby hill to sing an evening song. I kept seeing the vision of LaBruneue’s death and the strange turns my planned journey to Oregon have taken. I listened to Lamar, but my mind wandered. His low chants and drumming against the small, handheld drum made me feel close to creation, yet I couldn’t release myself enough to make that all-important connection.
I have a hard time praying under difficult circumstances; ironic, because that’s usually the time a person needs the most help. It’s always easier for me to pray during the good times, when everything’s going well. I always pray for those times to last, though I realize that they won’t, that they can’t. That’s just not how life is.
Lamar’s small pipe—filled with his own blend of tobacco, as handed down through his family—felt heavy in my hands as I accepted it and smoked, acknowledging the earth and sky, and the four directions. Praying with a pipe was a good means of reaching the Creator, but there needed to be some stress placed on the body before prayers really brought benefit.
Even more than I, Lamar has become distraught of late, wishing there was a means for us to take a sweat bath. He does not have the right to conduct a sweat himself and is worried that we won’t have the chance to sweat with anyone before reaching Oregon. I told him that with a good amount of luck, we might locate the band of Arapaho I once lived with. He reminded me that the Arapaho had gone to war against the whites crossing their lands and that their old feelings toward me might not apply any longer.
I have been a part of many sweat ceremonies and since coming back to St. Louis, have missed not participating. I had to think that what he said about the nation of people I once called my own might be true.
As darkness fell, we left the hill and returned to camp. Lamar went to his tent whi
le I became curious about a group of pioneer men who had just finished laying boards tightly across the grass. Nearby, another group began playing fiddles, banjos, and guitars, while everyone gathered to dance.
Sean Malone stood with Annie, he holding a mandolin and she a fiddle, resting it against her very large stomach.
“Good evening, Mr. Quincannon,” she said. “Have you heard? Father is improving.”
“Already?” I said. “He’s hardly had time, has he?”
“He’s ready to turn right back around for Oregon,” Sean said. “The Sioux be damned.”
“What about the Sioux?” I asked.
“Nothing can stop us now,” Sean said. “We’ve joined up with a big caravan.”
“We’ll get there,” Annie said, “God willing and the creeks don’t rise.”
“Believe me, the creeks will rise,” I told them. “Teach your baby to swim.”
“He’s going to learn to do a lot of things,” Sean said.
Annie whacked him on the arm. “He? I won’t tolerate another man in the house.” Then she turned to me and asked, “What’s it like out there, so wild and open?”
“You’ll have to see it for yourself,” I said.
“Folks say you’re the real thing,” Sean said. “That you’ve done it all—fought Indians and near starved and chased buffalo. However did you stay alive?”
“A day at a time,” I said.
Annie studied him. “And that English lady, she’s a painter, she is. I watched her earlier this evening. Is she going to paint you? I’ll bet she does.”
“Now, Annie,” Sean said. “She’s with that British lord, you know.”
“Maybe,” Annie said, smiling at me. “Maybe not. Here she comes.”
I turned to see Miss Hall approach. Her hair hung in ringlets and she wore the new blue dress she’d spoken of, with the little slippers that matched.
“Good evening, Mr. Quincannon,” she said.
She looked magnificent to me and I couldn’t help but smile.
Gabriella’s Journal
10 APRIL 1846, 2ND ENTRY
Before coming to the dance, I had spent a lot of time in front of the mirror and knew that it had paid off when I saw the light in Mr. Quincannon’s eyes. Sean and Annie took their places with the other musicians and Annie winked at me as they broke into a rendition of “The Irish Washerwoman.”