tidings they could obtain from each end of the long and tedious road, the
jaded immigrants pushed onward through the heat and dust till nightfall,
when they came to a small stream, where they were compelled to halt for
the night on account of the water, though the grass was poor and the
cattle fared badly.
The relief party reported the Willamette valley as the “Garden of Eden,”
and gave glowing accounts of the soil, climate, scenery, and plenty with
which the western part of the great Oregon country abounded. Even the
dumb animals seemed to understand and take courage; for they stepped more
briskly under the yoke and chewed the cud to a later hour than had been
their wont.
Guided by the advice of the relief party, the train was again put in
motion at midnight.
“It is fully twenty miles to the next camping-ground where there are wood
and water,” said a kindly recruit who had recently been over the road. It
was a forced march, but the animals were well repaid for making it, as
they found good water and a tolerable supply of grass.
“September 16. We are encamped near the mouth of the Des Chutes River,”
wrote Jean. “It is a clear, swift, and considerable stream which empties
its waters into the Columbia.
“I know to-night just how Balboa must have felt when he discovered the
Pacific Ocean. For have I not set eyes upon the lordly Columbia, the
mighty river of the West, which
“‘Hears no sound save its own dashings’?”
The Des Chutes was safely forded by the teams, under the direction of an
Indian guide, and the women and children were taken across it in a canoe.
The wild and broken desolation of the plains now gave way to vast
alluvial uplands,—dry, owing to the season, but giving promise of great
prosperity for future husbandmen. Numerous gulches intersected the
otherwise unbroken level, upon which the teams would often come without
warning; therefore travel was difficult and progress slow.
“If the season were not so far advanced, I’d like to stop over at The
Dalles and visit the mission,” said Captain Ranger; “but a storm is
threatening, and it will never do to risk such an experience in the
Cascade Mountains.”
“Quite right you air!” exclaimed a mountaineer, who visited the train
avowedly in search of a wife. None of the women or girls saw fit to
accept the negotiations proposed; but his advice as to a coming storm was
good. The train, in seeking to slip through the mountains by the way of
Barlow’s Gap,—a road made passable for teams by the indefatigable labors
of an honored pioneer, whose name it perpetuates,—was halted just in time
to prevent a disastrous ending.
Captain Ranger’s worn and famishing cattle were reinforced at Barlow’s
Gap by two yokes of fat oxen sent to the rescue by an immigrant of
1850,—a grand and enterprising preacher of the gospel, who, all unknown,
even to himself, was a striking example of a working parson, imbued with
the practical idea of what constitutes a “Church of the Big Licks.”
Not that he was pugnacious, but he was philanthropic and practical and
enterprising; and many are the beneficiaries of his industry and skill
who have long survived his ministry, and date their material progress in
Oregon, as well as their spiritual welfare, to this practical promoter of
an every-day religion.
Provisions were by this time running short, and the necessity of
reaching the settlements was imperative; but there was no appeal from
the borderer’s experience, and the impatient wayfarers were compelled to
remain in camp for four consecutive days and nights, while the excited
heavens warred among the serrated steeps, as
“From rock to rock leaped the live thunder.”
The storm, which condensed its forces into a deluge of rain at both the
eastern and western bases of the Cascade Mountains, had raged as snow in
the forest-studded heights; and this, melting rapidly under the sunny
skies which succeeded the heavy precipitation, made Barlow’s Gap so
slippery that the teamsters had to exercise the utmost care in guiding
the oxen and to keep their own feet.
Provisions ran lower every day, and finally gave out entirely; and one
jolly wayfarer, who had for many weeks professed to be enjoying the
prospect of a ten-days’ famine, grew so ravenous when compelled to face
the reality at the foot of Laurel Hill, that he begged piteously for some
coffee-grounds to ease the cravings of his stomach.
The next morning the three girls crossed the raging torrent of the
glacial river Sandy by jumping from rock to rock over the roaring and
perilous current, and gathered a bountiful supply of salal-berries for
the children; but it was almost night before the half-starved men (who
would not eat the purple fruit) were met by a packer, who brought beef
and flour; and as soon as a fire could be kindled, a meal was made ready.
On the 27th of September the company descended the last long and rocky
steep, and halted with a shout at the foot of the mountains on the famous
Foster Ranch, where fresh vegetables, milk, cream, and butter were
added to the beef and flour on which they had been glad to subsist when
necessary.
On the thirtieth day of the month they reached Oregon City, and were
royally welcomed by Dr. John McLoughlin,—the renowned, revered, and
idolized hero of Old Oregon.
XXXII
_LETTERS FROM HOME_
Oregon City, in the autumn of 1852 and for more than a decade thereafter,
consisted chiefly of a single narrow street bordering the Willamette
River and lying under the sheer bluffs of lichen-clad basaltic rock
that overlook the Falls of the Willamette, valued at that time only
as a fishing site for the wily Indian and a strenuous leaping-place
for schools of salmon. But future enterprise was destined to utilize
the stupendous water-power for the convenience of man in the city of
Portland, a dozen miles below. In this one narrow street the Ranger
company halted to read letters from the States. These letters, many
of them now nearly six months old, brought to them the first tidings
from the old home. The latest was dated August 1, and was from
Grandfather Ranger, announcing the transition of “Grannie,” the beloved
great-grandmother, whose demise was described with much detail:—
“She was in usual health up to the last day of her sojourn in the body,”
he wrote, “and retained her faculties to the last. She had walked to
Lijah’s and back during the day, with no companion but Rover, who deemed
her his especial charge from the time he took up his abode with us. But
she complained of being tired on her return, and ate less dinner than
usual. While your mother and I were sitting at the table, we heard a
peculiar gasp and gurgle from Grannie’s chair in the next room, and we
hastened to her side; but she never spoke again, except in whispered
messages of love to us all.
“We laid her precious remains in the family lot, in the dear, peaceful,
leafy burying-ground of Glen Eden, and returned to our lonely home,
and put away her empty chair. On the last morning of her earth-life,
as she sat at breakfast with us, she said, ‘I saw Joseph in my dreams
last night. I heard him speak as plainly as if he had been in this room.
He had a troubled look, but he said: “Tell mother I have written.”’ We
thought little of it at the time; but to-day we had a letter from him,
saying he is alive and well. He spoke of having seen you, John, but he
said you had quarrelled with him, or rather at him, and had left him in a
fit of anger. He did not say why you had quarrelled. But, oh, John, how
could you do it? We know he must have given you cause, but you should,
for our sakes, have risen above it. My old heart is heavy with sorrow.
And your dear, patient mother, who has prayed so long and earnestly for
this meeting between you two,—to think when her prayer is answered at
last that you would add to it such a sting! No matter which one of you is
the more to blame, you, my son, as the elder brother, should be the first
to make concessions. I know your gentle Annie joins me in this appeal.
She seems strangely near me as I write; and I can almost hear her say:
‘To err is human; to forgive divine.’ Give her and all the children our
messages of love and sympathy.”
The strong man wept convulsively. No tidings of his wife’s transition had
yet been despatched to the folks at home; nor could letters reach them
now for a month to come. There was no overland mail, and all “through”
letters sought transit _via_ Panama.
A long postscript was added, over which father and children shed tears in
unison. It said: “The dog, Rover, returned at nightfall on the memorable
day of your departure, weary, wet, and bedraggled. He would take no
notice of me, your mother, or Grannie, although we all tried to pet and
console him. But he went straight to your deserted doorstep, where he lay
for a long time moaning like a man in pain. Grannie regularly carried him
food, but he refused to eat for many days, and his wailing and howling
could be heard at all hours of the night. But finally your mother won
him over, and he now makes his home with us, and seems quite happy and
contented. We all thought he would want to leave us and go back to the
old house when Lijah took possession of it, but he didn’t. He just clung
all the closer to us old folks in the cottage; and it would have done
your soul good to see the faithful watch he kept over dear old Grannie
to the last day of her life. He was conspicuous among the chief mourners
at the burial, and lingered alone beside the grave long after we all had
returned to our homes.”
Jean, recalling her father’s words on that far-away ferry-boat, where
she had last seen the faithful animal watching and wailing from the
river-bank, said, as she looked up from reading her own letters: “Daddie,
don’t you think now that a dog has a soul?” And her father answered
huskily: “I don’t see why he hasn’t as good a right to a soul as I have.”
“Here, Mame,” said Jean, “is a letter from Cousin Annie Robinson. Listen.
She says: ‘Please break it gently to Cousin Mame that her _beau ideal_ of
a man, the Reverend Thomas Rogers, took to himself a wife before she had
been gone a week. And who should it have been but that detestable Agnes
Winter, who used to say such spiteful things about Mame? She won’t be as
happy after a while as she is now, but she’ll know a whole lot more. Who
could have believed that so saintly a sinner as the Reverend Thomas would
prove so fickle? I hope Mame will see him with our eyes after this. He
isn’t worthy of her passing thought.’”
Mary, whose dreams for long and weary months had been of a package of
letters from the preacher that never came at all, faced suddenly the
first great crisis in her life; and stilling, with a strong effort of the
will, the tumultuous beatings of her heart, she walked rapidly on, ahead
of the teams, from starting-time until nightfall, fighting her first
great battle with herself alone, and gaining the mastery at last without
human aid or sympathy.
The immigrants, having concluded their purchases, toiled up the narrow
grade to the table-land above the bluffs, and pursued their way through
the stately evergreen forests and level plains of the Willamette valley
to the homes of relatives, who awaited their coming with joy that was
changed to mourning when they learned for the first time of the death of
Mrs. Ranger.
After a few days of much-needed rest among the hospitable pioneers who
had preceded them by two years and were now installed on a beautiful and
valuable donation claim, the immigrant party decided to remain in each
other’s vicinity, and removed for the purpose to a beautiful vista of
vacant land under the friendly shadow of the Cascade Mountains, with a
westward outlook across the Willamette valley to the Coast Range, which
alone intervened to shut from sight the surging billows of the Pacific
Ocean.
It was here that the genius and education of Scotty, who will hereafter
be designated by his lawful name, proved of inestimable value. Supplied
only with a rope and a carpenter’s square, he led a private surveying
party through the woods and prairies, locating their claims with such
accuracy that the government survey, which was made years after, fully
approved his work.
“You may not be a success at driving oxen or taking care of steers at
night,” said Captain Ranger, “but you are an artist with a rope and a
square.”
“Didn’t I tell you he’d be worth his weight in gold when he reached
a place where he could have a chance to use his brains?” asked Mrs.
McAlpin, who took as kindly and intelligently to her surroundings as if
to the manner born.
“Women have a way of divination that I won’t attempt to analyze,” was the
laughing reply.
The donation claim of each settler, the acreage of which had by this time
been cut into halves by Act of Congress, was still of ample proportions,
being a mile long and half a mile wide, and was so surveyed as to allow
four families or claimants to settle on extreme corners of their land at
points where four corners met.
“This will enable each claimant to build a cabin on his own claim, so he
can reside upon and cultivate his own land, as required by the law, and
at the same time have neighbors within call in case of accident or other
need,” said Mr. Burns.
“What a grand and glorious prospect!” exclaimed Captain Ranger, standing
on an eminence where his new house was to go up, and gazing abroad over
the wide expanse of the Willamette valley, in which the winding river
was gleaming through the openings in the forest; “but I can sense one
drawback to your scheme, Mr. Burns.”
“What is it?”
“Some of us will be getting married before long and doubling our
opportunity for holding government lands; and as each must reside upon
and cultivate his claim and his wife’s, it will make it a little awkward,
won’t it?”
“Not if the contracting parties exercise a little ordinary business
ability and discretion, sir. They have but to locate their claims with a
view to matrimony and settle their own bargains to suit themselves.”
But the Captain, who had dealt with the domestic infelicities of his
neighbors too often to look upon all such bargains as imbued with
old-time stability, had his doubts.
“If an engaged couple should tire of their bargain, and their change of
sentiment should fail to fit the agreement,—what then?”
“It would be a blessing for them to discover their mistake in time to
forestall the divorce court,” was the ready reply.
“Mr. Burns is right,” said Mrs. McAlpin. “Two-thirds of the unhappy
marriages we hear about are the result of haste and lack of
understanding. A couple will marry, and when it is too late to recede
from the bargain they want to break it. I don’t mind telling you, Captain
Ranger, that Mr. Burns and I expect to marry each other some day, and our
claims were chosen accordingly; but we’ll wait until the law frees me
from a bargain which I repudiated in spirit before it was consummated.
And we’ll not marry then if we conclude we are making a mistake.”
“I am glad to hear you make so open and frank a statement in the presence
of so competent a witness,” exclaimed Mrs. Benson, who still carried an
important note in her pocket, frayed and travel-soiled, but none the less
precious from being scarcely legible.
“I think it is a shame to make a commercial bargain of a matrimonial
agreement,” exclaimed Mary Ranger.
“And so do I!” echoed Jean.
Nevertheless, when the boundaries of the several donation claims were
established, and the different allotments were assigned to the proper
claimants, it was noticed that, in addition to the Captain’s own quota of
virgin acres, an extra claim was reserved adjacent to that of each of his
daughters, Mary and Jean, and one next to that of Sally O’Dowd.
* * * * *
“Equality before the law is a fundamental idea in the government of the
United States of America,” the Captain explained at the Land Office; “and
I am glad to see it practically applied to the property rights of the
pioneer women of Oregon. It is a good beginning, and none can see the
end.”
“Sally O’Dowd isn’t a free woman, and she can’t get married, thank
goodness!” cried Jean, as she and her sisters talked the matter over
together between themselves alone.
“That’s so,” echoed Mary. “Sally has a husband living, and so there is no
danger of our losing father.”
“Let’s not be too certain,” cried Jean. “If you’d kept your eyes open for
the last month, as I have, you wouldn’t be surprised at anything. Sally’s
case was up on appeal when she left the States, but it has doubtless gone
by default. She has the custody of her children, and that was all she
asked of Sam O’Dowd.”
“Then Sally is a free woman,” said Marjorie.
“No woman is free when she is married,” retorted Jean. “The laws of men
do not recognize the individuality of a married woman. I, for instance,
am Jean Ranger to-day, but if I should marry to-morrow, I’d be—”
“Nothing but a nonentity named Mrs. Ashton Ashleigh,” interrupted Mary.
“Women delight in surrendering their names in marriage to the man they
love.”
“You’re right,” cried Jean, her eyes blazing. “I’d surrender to-morrow if
Ashton would come to claim his own. But it would be a partnership, and
not a one-sided agreement.”
“That’s what every woman thinks when she puts her neck in the noose,”
laughed Marjorie; “but when the man comes along who is able to capture
her heart, she is ready to make the venture.”
“That’s because the fundamental principle of matrimony is correct,”
retorted Jean.
“Dat’s so, honey,” said Susannah. “Women is jist like pigs. When one
of ’em burns his nose in a trough o’ hot mash, dey’ll all hurry to
’vestigate an’ git de same sperience.”
“Of course you’ll get some land,” said Jean.
“I’ve done axed de Cap’n ’bout it, an’ he’s looked up de law. He says I
can’t take up no lan’ ’cos I’m nothin’ but a niggah. De laws o’ Oregon
are ag’in it; so are de laws o’ de gen’ral gov’ment. A free country’s a
great blessin’ to women an’ niggahs! It’s a great blessin’ to be bawn in
a free country; ain’t it, Geo’die Wah?”
The coon, who had grown and flourished under his six months’ regimen of
flapjacks and bacon, shook his bright brown curls and grinned, displaying
an even set of polished ivories.
“I couldn’t git married if I wanted to,” added the negress, “’cos the law
is sot ag’in mixed matches; but da’hs no law nowhar ag’in coons”; and she
ended hers harangue with a characteristic “Yah! yah! yah!”
“Then, if you can’t marry, you can always work for wages, Susannah;
and you’ll be better off than Mrs. McAlpin,”—she was coming to join
the group,—“who is going to be married soon, if I can read the stars
correctly,” laughed Marjorie.
“No, Marjorie; I cannot even talk of marriage with the man whom God
created for me, and me only. I am not even a grass widow. I cannot
legally file upon a claim because I am the victim of a marriage I cannot
honor. And the law cannot set me free because the party of the second
part objects.”
“What’s that you were saying to the Ranger girls, Daphne?” asked Mrs.
Benson, who had been engaged in assisting Captain Ranger and Mr. Burns to
plan the two sets of log houses that were to be erected a mile apart, and
to be so arranged as to form separate abodes for four families.
“Nothing, mamma, only I was bewailing my fate.”
“Come with me, Daphne; I have something to show you,” said Mrs. Benson,
in a low tone.
“Listen to this letter,” said the mother, as soon as they were seated
among the trees. “The time has come for you to know its contents:—
“MY DEAR MRS. BENSON,—You have been a brave, devoted mother to
an unhappily environed daughter. I have long known that you
and I were made for each other. We became mismatched through
adherence to false customs. Daphne does not love me, and has
never willingly accepted our union, as you have painful reason
to know. You love me! Pardon this abrupt announcement. You have
never told me so, but I have known the truth for years. To have
this opportunity to tell you that I reciprocate, is at present
my only joy.
“I will meet you in the wilds of Oregon. Daphne’s latest
erratic movements to escape me have all along been known. To
follow you I became a wanderer in these Western wilds. I will
take measures to set your beautiful daughter free. A couple
whom God hath _not_ joined together it is man’s duty to put
asunder. Keep your own counsel till such time as you are strong
enough to take your life and destiny into your own hands, and
declare yourself accountable primarily to yourself and God for
your own actions.
“I will be in Portland, Oregon, by November first. We shall
surely meet again.
“Faithfully, through time and for eternity, your devoted but
never yet accredited counterpart,
“DONALD MCPHERSON.”
The daughter clasped her mother’s hand and fervently exclaimed, “Thank
God!”
Mrs. Benson wept.
“It will never do for you and me to meet again after this revelation,”
said the daughter, after a long silence. “I will take up my permanent
abode in this new country, and you can rejoin Donald in New York or
Philadelphia, _via_ the city of Panama. But you must go to Portland now.
We will not set idle tongues to wagging here. It is fortunate indeed that
Donald took his mother’s name as a part of his last inheritance.”
XXXIII
_LOVE FINDS A WAY_
“You needn’t select any lands for me, Captain,” said Mrs. Benson. “I
have decided to go to Portland to-morrow with the team that’s going down
for supplies. I shall not return. But my daughter will remain and take a
claim. She has decided to turn rancher, but I do not like the life.”
“Isn’t this a rather sudden change in your programme, Mrs. Benson?”
“Not at all. I didn’t intend to remain when I came here. I wouldn’t have
come any farther than Oregon City, but I wanted to get a view of the
future home of Daphne; and now, as she has chosen for herself and has
a fair prospect of happiness ahead, I am ready to look out for myself.
I shall stop awhile in Portland, and be ready to take the next steamer
for San Francisco. I will go to New York by way of the Isthmus, and will
spend the evening of my days in Paris or London.”
“I’m sure I wish you well, Mrs. Benson.”
“Thank you, Captain. My heart is too full for words! I know you will
always be a friend to my dear daughter.”
“You surely do not mean to go where you can never see your daughter
again!”
“Yes, Captain. Do you recall that tall and bronzed and handsome man of
whom you bought the buffalo robe you gave to your wife a short time
before her death?”
“You mean Donald McPherson?”
“Yes, sir. The fates have settled it. He is to be my husband, and Daphne
and I must part.”
“You have my best wishes for success and happiness,” said the Captain,
earnestly, as he offered his hand.
“There is some peculiar mystery about all this!” he exclaimed to himself
the next day, as Mrs. Benson climbed into the wagon and started off to
meet her fate. “But it’s the way of women. They are as fickle as the
wind.” He thought bitterly of his own budding and now blighted hopes.
“Don’t grieve for her, Daphne,” said Mr. Burns, in a husky voice, as the
wagon disappeared. “She was kind to me when I was crippled and cross,
and I shall never forget her watchfulness and care for me under the most
trying conditions. She is your mother, too, and that of itself is enough
to inspire my everlasting gratitude. I have no respect for the man who
fails to appreciate the woman to whom he is indebted for his wife.”
“It is well for the three of us that we have learned our lesson, Rollin.
We are all young yet, and all eternity is before us.”
“Yes, Daphne! Eternity is both before and behind us. We are henceforth to
be all in all to each other, as I believe we have been in the past, my
darling.”
“No, Mr. Burns, do not ‘darling’ me yet. We must await the tardy action
of that human imperfection called the law before I can honorably become
your ‘darling.’”
Nevertheless, being human, she feigned not to notice the prolonged
pressure of his hand at parting, nor did she refrain from answering his
eager and tender gaze with a look that quickened every pulse and sent a
thrill of gladness to his heart.
* * * * *
At the primitive hotel in the primitive little city of Portland, Mrs.
Benson met an Indian woman, the mother of many children, who was
introduced to her as Mrs. Addicks. The woman was richly and stylishly
gowned and seemed much at home among the guests. Her mien and carriage
were queenly, as she moved about the little parlor, exchanging a word
here and there among the loiterers, with whom she seemed a general
favorite.