by Earl Murray
She played a favorite waltz of Sean’s, tears streaming down her face. Millie and the McCord girls sat nearby while Rufus and Jake insisted that Owen pet them.
I told him how glad I was that the two dogs had found him, and that I would do a portrait of him and the girls, together with the terriers, if he wanted.
“What I want,” he said, “is for you to do a self-portrait for me.”
“But I’ve never done a self-portrait.”
“But you could. And do one of us together, too.”
“You want me to do a lot of work,” I said with a smile.
He smiled back at me. “Do the one of yourself first. That’s what I want most of all.”
OREGON CITY
Gabriella’s Journal
5 DECEMBER 1846
I’m not used to the traditional Thanksgiving that is the American way, but I enjoyed myself in the Rogue River Valley. There was no turkey, but plenty of beef and biscuits and beans and various greens that Guynema Rowe had harvested from the river bottom. Since that day, however, a great deal has happened.
It began raining before we had finished our Thanksgiving meal and Owen suggested that we take to our beds early and get going before dawn. He had us all up and grumbling before we knew it, and on our way.
True to his prediction, the journey turned unbearable immediately. The rains came even harder than during our Siskiyou crossing, and while in the Umpqua, most of the oxen that had survived now perished in the rivers and thick mud of the lowlands. We were forced to abandon many of the last wagons and carts, along with the goods inside them.
We crossed the main stream over forty times in the length of just three miles. I never thought I would ever feel dry again. Owen had wrapped my paintings securely in canvas and had packed them in bags with ties. He kept them secured to the mules during our travel and tied them in trees when we stopped.
I can only begin to wonder how we maintained our sanity as we pushed through day after torturous day. There was no relief as we continued through that nightmare of swollen streams and pouring rain. The days passed in a watery blur and at times we made but two or three miles.
But everyone kept mouthing the words, “We’ll reach the Willamette! We’ll reach the Willamette!” to keep spirits up as much as possible. No one wanted to quit, not when we were so close to our destination.
Annie Malone and Millie McConnell had lost everything but their clothes and blankets for the baby. Little Mary is very strong and Millie says she’ll survive when the rest of them collapse.
I feel sorry for Millie now. She lost her rosary in the rain and muck and uses her fingers to pray. She says it’s a lot harder to keep track but that she isn’t concerned.
“When you don’t remember when you started praying and there’s no end in sight,” she said, “then you’re always in the middle.”
Owen and I lead our ponies and help the McCord girls carry their dogs. Those two pets are hardy and don’t mind being lugged around like small sacks of flour.
Pearl has a phrase she uses in reference to the way Rufus shows his distaste for trying situations. His ears lie back against his head in a peculiar manner, which she calls “unhappy ears.” I don’t believe that little white dog has lifted his ears for a good number of days.
The rain finally lessened and settlers again came to our aid. We replenished our strength with fresh beef and potatoes and beans, and started the last leg of our journey anew. The going was much easier, as the valley was dotted with cabins and we were given shelter along the way.
Many in our group decided they had arrived at their new home, including Millie and Annie. There were a lot more settlers arriving along the Columbia to the north each day and the Umpqua Valley afforded land equal to the Willamette in fertility.
The Applegates, the road-building family, make their homes here. They have received a bad reputation and as far as I’m concerned, it’s unwarranted. When some of the residents defamed them, I asked if they thought they could have done much better by taking the road to the Columbia.
There was no argument, as they knew I was right. They had taken the Southern Route to save time. I didn’t have to mention that they had likely made the same mistakes as we had: resting too long in one spot, and believing there was all the time in the world to make it to Oregon.
After nearly a week’s stay I wanted very much to continue ahead and look for my mother, but suggested to Owen that he might take the opportunity to go back and retrieve the buried trunk for Silas McCord and his family. He told me that he had thought about it but didn’t want to bring it up, knowing how badly I wanted to get to Fort Vancouver.
I stayed with the girls and the dogs and helped Guynema cook while Owen and Silas retraced our steps back up into the mountains. They were gone a week and returned with the trunk tied securely to a mule.
“The going wasn’t all that bad,” Owen said. “We made good time and weren’t bothered by Indians.”
The girls were so happy to have their mother’s things that they hugged the trunk and tied colored ribbons to the handles. They didn’t even wait until all the mud was removed.
Owen met with the Applegates just before we departed for Fort Vancouver. He asked about the possibilities of opening a trading company in the valley.
“Would the settlers in the region be interested in trading furs for produce?” he asked.
Jesse Applegate, the eldest brother of the family, said the settlers had no desire to hunt for anything more than food and would have little time for that, as their main form of living would be farming the valleys.
“And the Indians aren’t inclined to do business with anyone but Hudson’s Bay,” he said. “It doesn’t matter who claims the land now, the old trade relations are still in effect.”
He went on to say that we had been lucky not to encounter trouble with the Takelma and Tututumi tribes of the Rogue River country. The heavy rains had no doubt kept them in their villages.
The subject of Fort Vancouver came up and Mr. Applegate advised Owen that if we had business there, it would be wise to meet with the previous Chief Factor, Dr. John McLoughlin.
“He’s always been a fair man and has taken land up at Oregon City,” he said. “He can make arrangements for your business at the fort.”
I was aware that the letter I had sent with the settler some weeks before was to have gone to Dr. McLoughlin. I was anxious to learn that my efforts might have helped me find my mother that much sooner.
Owen reminded me that even though war would not occur, informal conflict between the new Oregon government and the Hudson’s Bay Company hadn’t receded. The present Chief Factor, James Douglas, might not be willing to help us in any way.
Still, I won’t be dissuaded from my goal. I’ve resolved to find her. Since we’ve traveled this far, I will not be denied the chance, with or without the help of Hudson’s Bay.
The day before our departure, Silas McCord organized a going-away party. Everyone gathered where one of the Kentuckians had already built a cabin. During the festivities, Mr. McCord broke the news that he and Guynema Rowe would exchange wedding vows. It turns out that Mrs. Rowe had never actually been a Mrs., but was the reverend’s sister and had traveled with him at the insistence of their parents.
They had decided to call themselves married to keep people from gossiping about a brother and sister traveling together in the same wagon.
“Mother said it would keep me out of the eternal fire if I was to go with him to Oregon and have him find me a God-fearing man,” she said.
“That was hardly fair,” I said.
“I didn’t consider him much of a brother,” she said. “I had to remind him most every night that hell waited for men who bedded their kin.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked.
“Say what? I wasn’t brought up that way.”
“I’m sorry you had to endure it,” I said.
“It wasn’t all that bad, once he understood about my rifle. A
fter that, he wanted to get rid of me. So I got rid of him first.”
Everyone joined in congratulating the couple, as well as showing their appreciation to Owen for the effort he had put forth in leading them to their new homes. Many wept at the memories of the hardships along the way.
Owen called for a moment of silence to commemorate those who had passed on during the journey. One of the Kentuckians then led the group in “Nearer My God to Thee.” Then, after a very large dinner, Pearl and Katie came forward with a cake.
“We think you’re pretty special, Mr. Quincannon,” Pearl said. “You didn’t get to celebrate your birthday, except for getting out from under those rocks.”
Owen sat down in front of the cake and thanked the two girls.
“We made it ourselves in a cabin and baked it in a real stove,” Katie said.
The cake had fallen somewhat and the icing was smeared unevenly, but the taste held up. Owen blew out candles carved from pitch pine.
“We didn’t know what age you were,” Katie said, “so we got Pa to carve enough candles for a medium-old person.”
Owen smiled and let her climb on his lap. “I surely appreciate it,” he said.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Owen told her.
“We know that you can’t stay here,” she said. “You’ve got to go climb more mountains. As long as there’s mountains, you’ll be going to them.”
I believe that young girl about summed it up. I could see in Owen’s eyes that remaining settled in a farming valley was something he just couldn’t do. Perhaps it’s a result of his childhood and the difficult times after his father left. He will no doubt never forget how it felt to see his mother’s pain at losing their farm.
He hadn’t been able to stay in or near St. Louis, and now with no opportunity for a trading venture here, he will likely look for another place to explore.
He told me in the Bayou Salade that there were few if any places left to be discovered.
“Most every place has been found and there will be settlement someday in everywhere that a house can sit,” he said. “I’d like to see some areas grow, but it would be nice to leave others alone.”
I watched the settlers laughing and eating together. When the meal was over and the dishes done, the musicians would break out their instruments. I asked Annie if she intended to play for dances in the valley once everyone got settled.
“Likely so,” she said. “But I’ll take it a day at a time.”
I hugged her and Millie and the McCord girls and their dogs, and many others. We started out and I couldn’t get them off my mind. We’ve traveled so far and been through so much it seems as if we’ve been joined forever. In fact, there’s no one can say that we haven’t become like family.
Gabriella’s Journal
15 DECEMBER 1846
We came to the falls of the Willamette River and looked upon Oregon City, a bustling little town nestled against the hills just back from the water. There was both a sawmill and a gristmill and a number of buildings under construction. There were any number of bakeries and blacksmith shops, and a large boardinghouse with carriages in front.
Again I was reminded of Independence, except that the scene was one of triumph and celebration as opposed to anxiety. Wagons and children and dogs filled the streets, the mothers laughing rather than shouting, while men stood in groups and talked of their claims and how the crops would come in with all the rain.
It was easy to find Dr. McLoughlin’s home, a large, two-story white structure of rectangular design. He met us in his study and asked how the trip had gone.
“We had a hard time,” Owen said. “Some of them didn’t make it.”
“That won’t slow things down at all,” he said. “You Americans are a hardy lot.”
I found Dr. McLoughlin to be one of the most interesting men I had ever met. Owen had told me some things about him but I wasn’t prepared for his, literally, enormous presence.
In his early sixties, he was dressed neatly in a white shirt and black trousers, with black coat and tails, and he stood well over six feet tall. Layers of cotton-white hair spilled over his collar. His eyes were a piercing blue under heavy eyebrows that I imagine could appear very menacing if he were to become angry.
Yet his manner was light and friendly, and we shared an afternoon high tea with him while he spoke of Oregon and the Northwest, and how his affiliation here had been both good and bad for him.
“The land has been wonderful and the natives a source of interest and, at times, joy,” he said. “I must confess, though, the growing political climate will likely do me great harm.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Owen said. “I know how much you did for the settlers of this region. It’s only fair that they reward you.”
“I feel that the hardworking, common man knows me but is helpless to assist me in any way,” he said. “I fear it stems more from the religious factions gaining power here. But enough about my troubles.”
He produced the letter I had sent him with the settler and said that he had heard of Lucy James, and that the last he knew, she was living in a Chinook Indian village along the Columbia.
“It is my understanding that she is still a British subject,” he said. “I would suggest that you visit with the Chief Factor at Fort Vancouver to learn of her exact whereabouts.”
He said that he would send ahead a letter of introduction to James Douglas. Then his eyebrows furrowed and he grew sullen.
“There is another matter that needs immediate attention,” he said. “Are you acquainted with a Sir Edward Garr?”
“We’ve had a long-standing rivalry,” Owen said.
“So I understand.” The doctor looked sideways at me. “The man is trouble, I won’t hesitate to say it, and Hudson’s Bay has done nothing to stop him.”
Dr. McLoughlin explained that Edward hadn’t come into town but that he had been sending threatening letters to various settlers, advising them to move out of Oregon. If they do not, he will visit them with his “officials” and physically remove them from the property.
“He is obviously ignoring the quest for settlement between Great Britain and the United States,” the doctor said. “And to complicate matters, he conveniently stays on the north side of the Columbia and is therefore not approachable by the people he has challenged.”
“I had hoped we might have stopped him a few months back,” Owen said. “He has caused trouble along the trail from the beginning.”
“Well, spare me all the history,” Dr. McLoughlin said. “I am no longer affiliated with Hudson’s Bay and cannot press an issue that directly relates to their interests, but I’m asking you to see what you can do to stop this man from causing further trouble. Some of the citizens here believe that I am somehow connected to him, preposterous as that may seem. Nevertheless, I am striving to assist you in locating Lucy James, so I would appreciate the return of favor in the matter of Edward Garr.”
“We will travel to the fort as soon as possible,” Owen said.
“Excellent,” Dr. McLoughlin said. “I will send an envoy with the letter of introduction. I would be pleased to have you stay here tonight, and on the morn, you may take one of my personal canoes, given to me by the Chinook people. After you have attended to the Garr problem, you can take the canoe wherever you’d like.”
Quincannon’s Journal
15 DECEMBER 1846
Dr. McLoughlin and his family have retired for the night and I sit here by the fire in his home, with Ella beside me, and we both write of what we’ve seen and done. His wife, Margaret, and his widowed daughter, Eloisa, who had been gone when we first arrived, prepared a fine meal this evening. David, a son, spoke graciously to us and excused himself.
I wonder if David doesn’t like me, or maybe Americans in general. His father is being treated harshly by the political forces at work to control the new Oregon. Strange how it is that a group of people will go through dust
and dirt and the winds of hell to escape governmental control and then quickly construct the same organization for themselves, as soon as they find a place to settle.
I don’t believe that Dr. John, as most people call him, could have ever turned his back on anyone in need. He has given so much to the emigrants here that it’s no wonder the Hudson’s Bay Company saw him as more against them than with them.
It’s all too difficult to put into proper perspective. Perhaps if the Company hadn’t done him so wrong at different turns, he might have been harder on the settlers. I know that in the early years I was in the mountains, his men and we Americans fought tooth and nail for prime beaver grounds. No doubt he heard stories of our atrocities the same as we told tales about the things they did. Now all that has passed and this man who invited us into his home may soon be a man without a country.
I believe that the entire family sees Ella as both charming and unusual, and they were definitely taken by the beautiful portrait she painted of them this evening. In the blue dress and new slippers, she presents herself as any English lady is supposed to. But if they were to know how she can ride an Indian pony and shoot a rifle, they wouldn’t think I was speaking of the same person.
I do hope she finds her mother. I don’t know how long it will take and if we will even be successful, but I will do what I can to help her for as long as it takes to get the job done.
I often think about my father and wish I had the chance to meet him for the first time all over again. I want to think I would be more forthcoming, but I guess I don’t believe he cared all that much that I arrived. Sparing our lives was the least he could do and it required virtually no effort.
Perhaps I’m being too harsh. I know that it’s said that everyone should be beholden to their parents, but what if the parent doesn’t care for the child? Is it necessary to try to make something work that’s doomed from the beginning?