Gabriella

by Earl Murray

  Owen is so wise about the wilderness and survival that I wonder if he has an equal. He is so aware of what could happen ahead of time that he precludes problems by making sound decisions far in advance. We are traveling slowly and stopping at selected locations to allow the horses and mules to graze and fatten up. We’ll be crossing some challenging country before we get into the Oregon forests and the animals will need to be as strong as possible.

  We are in a beautiful mountain park known as the Bayou Salade—or Salt Fork, as it is sometimes called. The area supports a great number of deer and elk, and at times buffalo will climb up here for the lush grass.

  As I watch Whistler enjoy himself in the tall grass, I think of the journey along the Santa Fe Trail and how it took substantial weight from him. The closer to Bent’s Fort we got, the worse the grazing conditions. When I recall that, I’m reminded of J. T. Landers. I refuse to dwell on his demise but will remember him as I knew him—an eager little man with a passion for botany.

  It saddens me to realize that he will never see these beautiful mountains, with all the many wildflowers that grace the meadows and hillsides. He would have been immersed in his collecting all hours of the day, and it would have been difficult to have made him move on with us.

  “I could spend the rest of my life out here and never collect every new specimen there is to catalogue,” he once told me. “This beautiful land is an endless study.”

  There will be many other naturalists who travel this region, no doubt, but none with more verve. And I would dare say none with a greater expertise.

  In my mind he was gifted not only in taxonomy but also given to a deep sense of duty to nature. He knew all the plants and the reason why they exist where they do. He realized their connection to the whole and deeply lamented the fact that many of the species would not survive the western migration.

  I will never in my life meet an individual more troubled by change, especially when it pertains to the degradation of the natural environment.

  I also miss Barton Strand and the Rivet brothers, as well as Bom and Jessie. I hope they’re all doing well and looking forward to each day. Perhaps I’ll see them again someday.

  As we travel, I am putting to use the knowledge gained from Willow Bird and her friends among the Arapaho. I have a forked stick that she gave me and have been digging breadroots from the moist soil. Mr. Landers found some of them in the hilly regions before we reached Fort Hall and I know he would have been enthusiastic to study the other plants I’m collecting for our stews and for future use.

  There is a dainty flower called a spring beauty that grows profusely in the mountains. Small leaves emerge from the ground in a rosette, along with dainty flower stalks that produce delicate rose and white flowers. They grow from corms, some of which are bigger than my thumb. When cleaned and baked in the warm coals of a fire, they are far tastier than any potato to be found anywhere.

  There are numerous other plants whose roots provide a wealth of sustenance. Willow Bird gave me two large deerskin bags and I’ve filled one of them already. There are any number of plants related to the common carrot that inhabit the meadows and lowlands. Yampa is as sweet and succulent as any root one could find and would hold its own in a Thanksgiving feast.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  25 JULY 1846

  This game of survival is very difficult for me to get used to. Having come from a background of plenty, I had never imagined struggling to make it through each week and having to fight off wolves and coyotes to keep our horses so that we might make our way to a fort or settlement where food and rest are easier to manage.

  Things have changed so much since leaving the Bayou Salade, and our fortunes took a turn for the worse. We celebrated the Fourth of July by crossing the Colorado River and meeting the largest bear, I believe, ever known to mankind.

  The water was high and we had to swim alongside the horses, holding their manes, so they wouldn’t go under with our weight. We had nearly made the crossing when Owen’s pony took a sudden turn in the water and headed downstream. Owen held on and waited until the horse found another place to leave the river.

  The mule he had been leading snapped its rope and broke free. Upon climbing onto the shore, it was attacked by a grizzly who burst from a thicket. The huge bear swiped at the poor mule with a massive forepaw, knocking its head into pulp. The mule screamed and kicked and fell back in the river, but the bear jumped in and pulled it out as though it was a sack of feathers.

  In the process, my root bags were lost, as well as our camping equipment and all of our food. I watched it all float down the river as the grizzly tore into the dying mule and began feeding. My clothes, along with my precious collection of sketches and watercolors, had been packed on my mule. Luckily, Whistler had chosen to turn and follow Owen’s pony, and we had no trouble once out of the water.

  “That mule should have smelled the bear, too,” Owen said, sick with disgust at losing so many valuables.

  I feel ill-tempered a great deal now that I’m sleeping on the ground with just a thin blanket. And I can’t get over losing all my hard-earned roots. I had prided myself on having collected them and will find no more where we’re headed. The country is much drier and those plants don’t exist here.

  Owen keeps saying that we’re nearly to Fort Hall. I don’t believe him anymore. I think he’s been attempting to pacify me for the last two weeks. Maybe he thinks that if he really tells me how far it is and what kind of country we’re going to cross, I’ll lie down and die. Perhaps he’s right.

  He says this is nothing compared to the wasteland on the other side of Fort Hall, so I might as well enjoy myself while I can. I can’t see his humor and he knows better than to cross me in the mornings after I’ve been awake all night wondering what’s going to happen next.

  It’s not only the discomfort of going without sufficient covering, but also the constant worry that we will be left without the remainder of our necessities that makes rest impossible. Owen always sleeps, as he terms it, “with one eye open,” so that trouble is avoided. Even so, he manages to rest somehow and assures me that should there be real trouble, he will be ready for it.

  We haven’t met any Indians and Owen believes we won’t before we reach Fort Hall. They are to the south, hunting buffalo, he says. At one time they would have been here, but most of the herds have migrated away from the Oregon Trail, which is not far to the north. Our troubles are caused by predators.

  The coyotes present more trouble than the wolves. They sneak into camp at every opportunity for any morsel of food they might find. Owen always carries one or two bags of salt and we have to be careful not to leave them on the ground or they will disappear.

  The other morning, while cooking elk meat and beans together in a stew, I noticed a coyote watching me closely. I knew better than to turn my back for too long. Owen laughed and told me that I should do what he does. He’ll wait for the rascal to pick up the bag and then yell, “Hey!” then watch the scared animal drop it and scamper off.

  I told Owen that one of these times his yell wouldn’t do any good. That happened yesterday morning. I maintain it was the same coyote simply out for vengeance, but one of them skulked into camp and picked up the bag. Owen yelled and the coyote simply ignored him. He was lucky the bag was too heavy for long transport. When he gave chase, the coyote finally dropped the bag. But Owen was in the far distance, running in zigzag lines, his arms waving in the air.

  Quincannon’s Journal

  2 AUGUST 1846

  I’ve seen transformations in my life, but none as astounding as Gabriella Hall’s change from the afternoon teas of the British elite to the evening thunderstorms of the Rocky Mountains. She’s lost none of the grace and charm that is her trademark, but now exhibits it in a doeskin dress and knee-high moccasins.

  I’m willing to believe that she now shares more in common with her biological mother than she does with the parents of her previous life. From the tone of her true moth
er’s letter, she appears to be a woman whose calling is to help those in need. It’s not hard to see where Ella comes by her desire to nurse sick or injured people.

  Our troubles have taken her mind off Fort Vancouver for the time being. It was unfortunate to have lost a mule and the bulk of our possibles, but we’ll get by. She’ll be stronger as a result, and when we reach the real tests of the trail, she should make it through with flying colors.

  We’re not far from the fort and still haven’t met up with Lamar and Latour. I don’t know if they ran into Garr somewhere along the trail or not, and have no way of knowing. Bear River and the main trail is another long day’s ride. Then once we cross over to Soda Springs it will be just a hop and a step to Fort Hall.

  Ella has been different since the Colorado River crossing. Maybe she sees life as a flash in the pan. Last night I got her to open up a little about what’s on her mind. She’s spending a great deal of time staring into the distance, maybe wondering who she is now and who she will become once we get to Oregon. I can understand her concerns. I had no idea that we would be running into my father until it happened. He saved our lives and I still don’t know how I feel about him.

  “I used to believe that life could be predicted,” she said as we talked. “Now I don’t believe the word ‘prediction’ has any true meaning, other than perhaps a desire or a false hope in something.”

  “Are you expecting something?” I asked.

  “It’s not that I expect anything,” she said. “I just don’t know what to expect.”

  “You’ll discover that to be true every day out here.”

  “I think it’s doing something to me,” she said. “Perhaps I’m becoming more accepting of Providence.”

  “You’ll find these mountains to be a pretty good church,” I said.

  “What if it all makes me somebody different?” she asked.

  “You won’t change any,” I told her. “You might become more fulfilled after meeting your mother, but you’ll still be the same great lady I know.”

  “Stop buttering me up,” she said. “I want to feel sorry for myself.”

  “We haven’t got time for that,” I said. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”

  FORT HALL

  Gabriella’s Journal

  23 AUGUST 1846

  We reached Fort Hall two days past, quite late in the morning. The post reminds me of Bent’s Fort on a smaller scale, with people milling around everywhere and travelers coming and going.

  The surrounding grasslands are lush and many herds of horses and cattle roam the area. The proprietors trade fattened and strengthened oxen for the worn-out beasts the settlers bring in. They make quite a profit, I’m told.

  A large number of emigrants were camped along the river. The scene was similar to any of the gathering points: Men working on wagons and shoeing horses while the women washed clothes and tended children.

  We had no sooner arrived than two horsemen came galloping towards us. One of them was Mr. Latour. He greeted Owen rather curtly and commented that he was ready to go to war.

  “Are you declaring your own?” Owen said.

  “What, are you a traitor?”

  “I’m just asking. Where’s Lamar?”

  Mr. Latour pointed to the fort. “He’s in talking to the Hudson’s Bay people. He’s like you. He doesn’t want to start something. But I say it’s already started.”

  “Did you find Edward Garr?” Owen asked.

  “He’s only a couple of weeks out on the trail,” Mr. Latour replied. “He picked up more men here and maybe more at Fort Boise. He wants war and I do, too.”

  “Two weeks is a big start,” Owen said.

  “I plan to travel day and night with the men. Do you think you’re up to it?”

  Owen thought a moment. “Do you know where Garr plans to set up his resistance?”

  “The Columbia, of course. Where else?”

  “Where on the Columbia? Surely he won’t go clear to Fort Vancouver.”

  Latour laughed. “I intend to arrest him long before he gets to the Columbia, in the name of the American government. We’ll hold him until Oregon can put him on trial.”

  “You haven’t got that authority,” Owen said.

  “Garr doesn’t know that. So, do you plan to join me or not?”

  “We’ll talk more later,” Owen said.

  “I can’t wait long.” Mr. Latour studied me and smiled. “So, you’re dressed for the mountains now. I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”

  “Life is full of surprises,” I replied.

  Latour left and Owen rode to the fort. He told me to find a camping spot I liked and picket the horses and mules. I might have told him to do it himself, but I rather enjoy my newly learned frontier chores. The horses like being led to water and combed after long rides and I’ve come to believe they will go to no ends to please when treated well.

  I rode through the main encampment, studying the emigrant women at work. They all looked tired and emaciated, and I decided they had not fared well in their journey so far.

  I discovered a little pocket of grass among a colony of cottonwoods and brush along the river and had no sooner cared for the stock than a woman with a baby walked up to me. I was flabbergasted to greet Annie Malone.

  “Boy, do you look different,” she said. “Are you still painting pictures?”

  We hugged and I said that I would never stop painting until the day I died.

  “In that dress, some people might want to make that happen soon,” she said.

  She explained how Indians had harassed them all the way, stealing stock and trying on occasion to set fire to the grasslands around them in an attempt to stop their progress.

  “I can see their anger to a degree,” she said. “I remember how it was to be pushed off our lands in Ireland.”

  She told me that she had given birth to her child, Mary Elizabeth, the same day that Martin McConnell had died from his arrow wound, just a week after leaving Round Grove.

  “He never recovered, even after that good doctor operated on him,” she said. “We got to the same spot where he was wounded and right there he up and died. Said good-bye to us all and closed his eyes. He let out a long breath and was gone. The Good Lord wanted him to end his earthly days there, I know that for a fact. I had the baby that night and held her the next morning when we buried him.”

  Sean was with a group of men, discussing the route they would take to Oregon. Annie told me there had been a lot of meetings since arriving at the fort. Brothers Jesse and Lindsay Applegate, and a frontiersman named Levi Scott, had been trying to persuade emigrants to follow them along a new trail. They had left two weeks earlier with a caravan of wagons.

  “They’re calling it the Southern Route, or the Applegate Trail,” Annie said. “It’s supposed to be a shorter way into Oregon.”

  I asked her about the possibilities of war with the British and she said no one seemed to know for certain, but Fort Hall was a Hudson’s Bay outpost and the men in charge were seeking to have everyone turn back.

  “No one’s listening to them,” Annie said. “We’re all headed to Oregon, war or not.”

  She invited me to their camp and I accepted, grabbing my bag of sketchpads and paints, which I never leave far from sight. I followed her to her mother’s wagon, where Millie McConnell was rubbing her eyes with a kerchief. She brightened up and hugged me, then explained that she was getting ready to see another emigrant woman off, a friend named Martha Rush.

  “She and her daughter decided to go the main route,” Millie said. “They’ll be leaving soon and it will be hard to tell her good-bye.”

  After meeting at Fort Laramie, she and Martha Rush, herself a widow, had become fast friends, sharing the hardships of their lives and helping one another while traveling.

  “She’s come to be like a sister,” Millie said.

  I asked Millie if she and her friend would mind sitting for a portrait. She blushed and said, “Can you take a
little of the gray out of my hair?”

  “Anything you want,” I said. “I’ll even add some curl.”

  Annie insisted her mother change clothes in the wagon before going over to the Rush camp.

  “This painting will hang on our wall when we get settled,” she said.

  “No,” Millie said, “it will hang on my wall.”

  Martha Rush, along with two daughters and a daughter-in-law, were hanging newly washed clothes on a makeshift line to dry. They greeted me cordially, and after changing clothes, Millie and Martha stood in front of the wagon, holding hands, dressed in their Sunday best.

  I painted a small canvas for each of them and they thanked me graciously. Martha presented me with a knitted sweater and one of her daughters handed me a new mirror, freshly unwrapped from a box.

  Later I painted another scene and entitled it “Pioneer Women Saying Good-bye.” It depicted Millie and Martha Rush, hugging one another, their faces stained with tears. They stood next to a wagon where two young children, with their small and lively dogs, looked on from the seat above.

  The children introduced themselves as Pearl and Katie McCord, daughters of a widowed barber named Silas McCord. They are ten and eight, respectively, with blue eyes and blond hair and big smiles. They told me that their mother had perished from cholera far back along the trail, even before reaching Fort Laramie. I found it interesting that they hadn’t died as well.

  “All of the people in the wagon train died but us and Papa,” Pearl said. “He buried twenty-one people and we thought we would die, too. But we didn’t even get sick.”

  “You are very brave girls,” I said.

  “We traveled by ourselves until we caught up with another wagon train,” Katie said. “We miss Mama, but it would have been real hard if we didn’t have Rufus and Jake.”

  I bent over and petted them both, fine little terriers with wagging tails. Rufus was a West Highland white terrier, common to the Scottish Highlands and bred for digging into holes after varmints. His ears were perky and sharp and his eyes bright. He looked like a miniature white wolf with a broader nose, a stocky body, and strong, stubby legs.