by Judy Alter
The pet of the household was a young monkey, but it frightened poor Lily half to death. I thought she was remembering the roast monkey until she told me that Sophie had taught her that monkeys held the souls of bad people and had always made her turn her head when they passed an organ grinder with a monkey. One day this pet monkey, having the run of the house on a long chain, sprang at her and wound its tail around her neck, putting its little face right into hers and chattering away, presumably with glee.
Lily took it as anything but glee and began to scream frantically, and for several nights she had nightmares. Still, if that was the worst that would happen to us, we were lucky, for around us the Americans in makeshift tents dropped like flies from the diseases that mosquitoes carried and sometimes from the high humidity itself.
Comfortable or not, we were in Panama for seven long weeks, and I was frantic with worry. Was John equally frantic in California? Had he even made it over the mountains? How would I hear from him? Rumors began to arrive with the weekly mail from New York, rumors that John's expedition had met with disaster. Once I heard that John himself was dead, and another time that he had to have his leg amputated. I lived in daily fear, not knowing if he was alive or dead, whole or broken, yet intuitively believing John would survive anything.
My knowledge of Spanish stood me in good stead during those long weeks, and I blessed Father for insisting that I learn the language. "You must learn the language of our neighbors," he told me long ago, "so that you can talk over the back fence without an interpreter." Always before I had practiced my Spanish by interpreting dull and dry documents, but now I was speaking it daily—and managing to communicate quite nicely. Even Lily began to speak it, after some enforced lessons.
Finally a letter arrived, written in January from Kit Carson's home in Taos. John was indeed alive, although he did not mention his leg, and I knew that if it was gone, he would be too proud to write of it. The party had become lost in blinding snowstorms, unable to find the pass they sought. John blamed the guide he had hired—"a man too old for the job, who had forgotten whatever he knew about the southern Rockies"—and wrote of men lying down to freeze to death, surviving for two weeks on one day's rations, afraid to go forward and unable to turn back. At length the party, divided into two groups for much of the time, reached civilization and were saved. What John didn't mention disturbed me most, for the rumors I heard had included the dread mention of cannibalism. But John, now safely ensconced at Taos with the horror behind him, wrote more of California than the tragedy just behind him. "We shall have our home by the sea," he said, and I wondered that he could put the tragedy of the expedition so easily out of his mind. I could not, and since one always suspects the worst, I carried in my mind a horror too great to mention.
Both Madame Arce and Lily knew that I was despondent, and the former tried to cheer me with sweet tropical fruits and civilized conversation while the latter held tight to my hand and talked of her grandfather and the house on C Street, as though the familiarity of such things would make me more cheerful. Lily was too young to know that her conversation at that particular time only made me more desperately aware of the awful gamble I had taken by leaving everything familiar behind to journey to a far and distant land.
* * *
BOOM! BOOM! The sound of a great gun awoke me, and while I struggled to come to consciousness and make sense of this, I began to hear excited shouts from the street just beyond Madame Arce's house. At length I realized just what the noise meant, and I threw open the shutters to get a view of the harbor. There was the steamer Oregon, long expected from San Francisco. The men in the streets went wild with celebration, and in the midst of it all a second gun boomed. The Panama had arrived from around the Horn.
"Lily! Lily! Wake up, child! We're going to California! We're going to meet your father!" All the long months of waiting and fear were as nothing. We were really going to California. For the first time I truly believed I would see John's promised land.
"Mrs. Frémont, Mrs. Frémont!" It was Lieutenant Beale, a young naval officer of our acquaintance who had most recently been in California. When he was admitted to the cool solarium of the house, he began an impassioned plea. "You and the child must return with me to New York. I am going to take this"—he fished in his pocket and brought out a dull rock in which I could see flakes of glitter—"it's gold, true gold!"
"Congratulations," I said wryly, not the least interested in gold, which was, as a matter of fact, the cause of my delayed journey. "But I am going on to meet my husband in California."
"That's just it," he said in the same desperate tone, "rumor has it he's gone back east for treatment of his leg. Injured it when he was stranded in the snow—frostbite, I believe."
I managed to remain cool. "I have had a letter from him, and there was no mention of returning east. He did mention the leg, but..."
"Ma'am, it's a chance you and your child cannot afford to take. San Francisco is without any kind of civilization—there's no government, no law, men just do what they please. Drinking and gambling seem to be the most favored activities. It is no place for a lady."
"My husband will see to our safety," I said with a confidence that covered growing uncertainty. What if John was not there? What if indeed Lily and I were thrust ashore in that wild land without any money, any way to survive, and no John to take care of us?
"That's just it!" Lieutenant Beale exploded. "He's probably not there. You cannot go....It would be folly!"
I stared long and hard at him. "Sir, I thank you for your concern, but I have promised to meet my husband in San Francisco, and I would not dream of disappointing him. I trust he will feel the same way about our arrangement."
And with all the dignity I could muster, I bid him good-bye and returned to my packing. But anxiety gnawed at me, a deep fear that would, I knew, be my traveling companion until I found John.
We sailed on the Panama May 1, 1849.
Chapter 11
When the steamer pulled into the harbor on June 4, 1849, San Francisco was anything but the paradise I had painted it in my mind. Like a foolish female, I had ignored Lieutenant Beale's stern warnings about lawlessness and primitive living conditions, preferring to remember John's description of lush green valleys, birds and butterflies, a land of milk and honey. I overlooked, of course, that the two men had told me of totally different parts of California and at totally different times.
The voyage from Panama had been almost a relief, in spite of the crowded conditions. The Panama, a mail steamer with accommodations for eighty passengers, carried nearly four hundred men... along with Lily and me. But the Pacific lived up to its name, its waters almost glass smooth the whole trip and the air balmy and pleasant. Lily and I slept on deck, in a makeshift tent under the boom. We could have had a cabin, but it was airless and hot, and I much preferred the outdoors. The men treated us with every courtesy, and each seemed to know of my anxiety about John. One by one they would stop by to reassure me.
"He'll be just fine, Mrs. Frémont, you wait and see."
"Bet he's pacing the beach at San Francisco right now, watching for this old tub to heave into the harbor."
"Can't keep Colonel Frémont down, ma'am, we know that. We got faith in him. Weren't for him, wouldn't none of us be here."
I wasn't quite sure if that was to John's credit or not, but the man meant well, and I thanked him.
When the men gathered on the deck at night to sing songs and talk of the fortunes they planned to find in the hills of California, I was part of the music, though I kept quiet about the fortunes. One man, a Major Derby who called himself "John Phoenix," kept spirits high by inventing musicals and entertainments that were sometimes so slapstick, I thought they were designed for Lily's amusement alone.
The men were loud, no doubt about it, but they were always considerate, never rude, and, released from the hellhole of Panama, they were filled with an excitement I couldn't help but catch.
"Mother? What are y
ou thinking?" Lily came up next to the rail where I stood staring out at the sea, thinking again that this was my expedition, my version of John's great adventures.
"That your grandmother would be horrified if she could see us," I said, reaching out a hand. "I'm afraid she'd say proper ladies would never sleep on the deck nor talk to all these men."
"It's fun, isn't it?" Lily asked, grinning, and I agreed that it was.
Would the Jessie who lived in Washington have done those things? I doubted it, remembering the timidity with which I had embarked on my expedition. In less than two months I had seen a world I never could have imagined... and learned an enormous amount about myself.
"Mrs. Frémont! San Diego's in sight. They'll have word about your husband."
I turned in alarm. These long, happy days I'd been able to reassure myself that John was fine, that he would be in California waiting for us. Now that the moment of truth was upon me, the old terror—typical of the Washington Jessie and not the new person—overcame me. As small boats were put over the side for several crew members to row into San Diego, I ran to that airless cabin and hid.
It seemed hours that I stayed there, almost in a trance, but I roused quickly enough when I heard shouting and the pounding of feet. "Mrs. Frémont, Mrs. Frémont! He's in California! He's fine! He'll meet you in San Francisco! He didn't lose a leg—bad frostbite, that's what it was!" The glad words came in a babble of several voices, and when I appeared again on the deck, a loud cheer went up from all the men around. That the words "bad frostbite" didn't alarm me was due only to my ignorance.
With that kind of enthusiasm around me, I waited to sail into the harbor at San Francisco. Instead we found a harbor full of eerie ghost ships swaying in the wind, their sails hanging empty and slack, their decks deserted. They were the ships that never returned to Panama, the ships whose crews had deserted to seek gold.
Beyond, I could see a few low houses and many makeshift tents scattered over windswept, treeless hills, the whole scene covered by fog. We were in San Francisco.
"Mother? Where's my father?" We stood at the rail watching as countless small boats came out to meet us. I peered into the fog as each new boat approached, hoping against hope to see John. But he was not there.
At long last we were shepherded into one of the tiny boats, and when the boats were as close as they could go, we were carried in sailors' arms through the surf to the shore, getting thoroughly muddy and soaking wet in the process. More men lined the shore, staring at us with open curiosity, but John was not among them. I knew that by now, for if he'd been in the city, he'd have been the first out to the steamer. Lily and I were cast on our own in a place not suited, as one man told me, "for decent women."
"Mrs. Frémont? My name's Howard... William Howard. Colonel Frémont sent word that I was to look out for you until he arrives."
I nearly sank into this strange man's arms, so grateful was I to see him. "Come, Lily, we will go with Mr. Howard." It never occurred to me that I might be foolish to trust—and follow—the first man who introduced himself. I was too desperate to be cautious.
He led us through a town of dirty canvas tents, makeshift shanties knocked together with odd pieces of wood, even shelters rigged of blankets. Here and there one saw a respectable house, but many of those seemed deserted.
"Decent citizens have mostly left town," Mr. Howard explained with a shrug. "These are all men waiting to go to the interior after gold... or else wondering what to do with their lives when they've gone bust without finding it." There were, he told me, some military officers who stuck to their posts and a few merchants like himself. "We do very well," he said with a smile.
Mr. Howard had found a small adobe house for us, with veranda, garden, and even a rosewood piano. "A Russian count lived here of late," he said without further explanation, and I wondered what had happened to the count. "Mrs. Anderson will help you," he said, introducing a woman who looked too much like Mrs. Pfeiffer of the journey out of New York for my comfort. She was Mrs. Pfeiffer without the wig—younger, fairer, but still hard of features. Mr. Howard whispered that he had gotten a real bargain, and she would work for $240 a month. I gasped in horror at that sum, but he assured me John would think it reasonable.
I soon learned that an outdated New York newspaper sold for a dollar, and a porter who carried your bags demanded two dollars. Dimes and nickels were unheard of and useless, and quarters frowned upon as too small. Merchants never bargained and didn't seem anxious to make a sale, for they had a captive audience for their over-priced goods.
San Francisco, some said, grew by thirty houses a day, and even the short time I was there, I saw it change—the shanties and tents covered more and more hills, and piers were built out into the ocean, for now ships began to arrive daily. Almost afraid to venture out, I stayed safely in my little house, reading the books left behind by the Russian—fortunately, they were in English—and waited for John.
One evening when the sun was setting over the distant ocean and its glow had softened the harshness of the scene around me, I stood in the doorway enjoying the air. A man on horseback approached, and it was but a minute before I recognized John. Then, with a great burst of joy, I was off down the road at a run, arriving with such abandon that I could barely wait for him to dismount, nearly leaping into his arms once his feet were on the ground.
His first words were not romantic. "Careful," he said, laughing, "this leg doesn't work quite right yet."
Blast the leg! I had the whole man in front of me, and I was overjoyed. Holding tight to his arm, I nearly dragged him toward the house, calling, "Lily! Lily! Your father is here!"
She came hesitantly, walking shyly toward him, needing as she always did after his absences the period of reacquaintance, whereas for me, the world instantly went back into its proper order when John arrived.
John bent to her and held out one gentle hand, which she took with a certain shyness. Looking up at him, she asked clearly, "Are you going to stay with us now? We needed you in Panama."
John winced. "Yes, Lily, I plan to stay with you always from now on."
I squeezed his arm tightly. There were no words I wanted more to hear than those he had just uttered.
Late that night John said, "There was a time that I doubted I'd ever see you again, Jessie. We had been led into mountains so snowbound that we couldn't go forward, and we couldn't go back... and there was nothing for it."
"Tell me about the expedition," I said. "Not for a report. Just tell me so I'll know what happened." And thus John described the winter crossing of the fourth expedition.
* * *
"You know, Jessie, that I left with thirty-three men, and since I couldn't get Carson, I took 'Old Bill' Williams as a guide. That was my biggest mistake—but more about that in a minute.
"We reached the Rockies on November 26. I remember Alexander Godey looking up at those icy slopes and saying to me, 'Friend, I don't want my bones to bleach upon those mountains.' We all seemed to have a premonition of disaster, and perhaps I should have turned back—but turning back is not in my nature.
"The first few days were hard enough—the cold was intense, and the rocky ground was treacherous. Sometimes the sleet came so directly at us that we could not—I repeat, we could not make the mules face into it. And the mules were driven to the last of their strength—they had shelled corn and water, but nothing else. One by one they began to drop and die. The men suffered too—with their breath congealed on their faces, and their beards standing out stiff and white, they could hardly speak. Every step upward the temperature got colder, until it would no longer register on our thermometers.
"At last, though, we crossed the Sangre de Cristo range and came down into the San Luis Valley. From there we pushed on to the headwaters of the Rio Grande. By December 11 we were at the foot of the San Juan Range. This was the critical moment—we had to decide which pass to aim for. Williams insisted on Wagon Wheel Gap, which has an altitude of 8,390 feet, but I thought
another one, though higher, more passable. But we made the decision to follow Williams—he was, after all, the scout, and a man who I'd been told knew the mountains better than anyone, except perhaps Bridger.
"I don't know that I can begin to describe the country we entered, Jessie. The track went through deep gorges with precipices and crags towering above. We inched along slopes so steep that time and again a mule lost its footing and went crashing to the bottom of a ravine. When we crossed the streams, the water rushed down the slope so fast that it terrified the mules and they would bunch in the middle. Then we had to wade in and shove them to shore.
"The corn was gone now, of course, all one hundred thirty bushels of it, and the mules went crazy with hunger. They ate their rawhide lariats by which they were tied and the blankets we threw over them at night. Finally they even chewed on each other's tails and manes.
"At last we crossed the Great Divide—12,000 feet above sea level. But the western slopes were buried in snow. We couldn't go back, and we couldn't go forward. We were overtaken by sudden and irretrievable ruin. I decided we must retreat, and on December 22 we began to move. The mules were almost all gone now, and we were reduced to lugging our baggage ourselves, so it took a week to recross the divide. At that altitude the least task seemed impossible, and any effort could cause severe nosebleed.
"We spent Christmas Day in deep depression, and I could not help but remember, Jessie, the joy of the previous Christmas, with all the comforts of your father's home. We were now eating bacon, macaroni, and sugar, but our provisions would not last two weeks.
"In desperation I separated the party and sent four men, including Williams, to the nearest settlement for help. They were to bring mules and supplies to a point on the Rio Grande, while the rest of us struggled the equipment back down the mountains. We averaged only a mile a day, but at last we reached the meeting point. By then we were out of provisions and boiling rawhide ropes to make a sort of gluey soup. One of the men lay down beside the trail and froze to death, almost before our eyes. We dared not stop long enough to bury him.