To one emigrating from the banks of the Mississippi this may seem an
unfitting expression. But at the time a new "west" and a "far" one had
just entered on the stage of colonisation. It was called California, a
country at that time little known; for it had late come into the
possession of the United States, and the report of its golden treasures,
although on the way, had not yet reached the meridian of the
Mississippi.
It was its grand agricultural wealth, worth far more than its auriferous
riches, that was attracting planter Blackadder to its plains--this and
the necessity of escaping from the too respectable society that had
sprung up around him in the "Choctaw Purchase."
He had not taken departure alone. Three or four other families, not
very dissimilar either in circumstances or character, had gone off along
with him.
Let us follow upon their track. Though three months have elapsed since
their leaving the eastern side of the Mississippi, we shall be in time
to overtake them; for they are still wending their slow and weary way
across the grand prairie.
The picture presented by an emigrating party is one long since become
common; yet never can it be regarded without a degree of interest. It
appeals to a pleasant sentiment, recalling the earliest, and perhaps
most romantic period of our history. The huge Conestoga wagon, with its
canvas tilt bleached to a snowy whiteness by many a storm of rain, not
inappropriately styled the "ship of the prairies;" its miscellaneous
load of tools and utensils, with house furniture and other Penates,
keeping alive the remembrance of the home left behind, still more
forcibly brought to mind by those dear faces half hid under the
screening canvas; the sun-tanned and stalwart horsemen, with guns on
shoulder, riding in advance or around it; and, if a Southern migration,
the sable cohort forming its sure accompaniment, all combine to form a
tableau that once seen will ever be remembered.
And just such a picture was that presented by the migrating party of
Mississippi planters _en route_ for far California. It was a "caravan"
of the smaller kind--only six wagons in all--with eight or ten white men
for its escort. The journey was full of danger, and they knew this who
had undertaken it. But their characters had hindered them from
increasing their number; and, in the case of more than one, the danger
left behind was almost as much dreaded as any that might be before them.
They were following one of the old "trails" of the traders, at that time
becoming used by the emigrants, and especially those from the
South-western States. It was the route running up the Arkansas to
Bent's Fort, and thence striking northward along the base of the Rocky
Mountains to the pass known as "Bridger's."
At that time the pass and the trails on both sides of it were reported
"safe." That is, safe by comparison. The Indians had been awed by a
sight unusual to them--the passage through their territory of large
bodies of United States troops--Doniphan's expedition to New Mexico,
with those of Cooke and Kearney to California. For a short interval it
had restrained them from their attacks upon the traders' caravan--even
from the assassination of the lonely trapper.
As none of Blackadder's party was either very brave, or very reckless,
they were proceeding with very great caution, keeping scouts in the
advance by day, and guards around their camps by night.
And thus, watchful and wary, had they reached Bent's Fort, in safety.
Thence an Indian hunter who chanced to be hanging around the fort--a
Choctaw who spoke a little English--was engaged to conduct them
northward to the Pass; and, resuming their journey under his guidance,
they had reached Bijou Creek, a tributary of the Platte, and one of the
most beautiful streams of prairie-land.
They had formed their encampment for the night, after the fashion
practised upon the prairies--with the wagons locked tongue and wheel,
inclosing a hollow space--the _corral_--so called after a word brought
by the prairie-merchants from New Mexico. [Note 1.]
The travellers were more than usually cheerful. The great chain of the
Rocky Mountains was in sight, with Long's Peak raising its snow-covered
summit, like a vast beaconing star to welcome, and show them the way,
into the land of promise that lay beyond it.
They expected, moreover, to reach Saint Vrain's Fort, by the evening of
the next day; where, safe from Indian attack, and relieved from camp
watching, they could once more rest and recruit themselves.
But in that hour of relaxation, while they were looking at Long's Peak,
its snowy crown still gilded by the rays of the setting sun, there was a
cloud coming from that same quarter that threatened to overwhelm them.
It was not the darkening of the night, nor mist from the mountain-sides;
but a dusky shadow more to be feared than either.
They had no fear of it. They neither saw, nor knew of its existence;
and, as they gathered around their camp-fire to make their evening
repast, they were as gay as such men might be expected to be, under
similar circumstances.
To many of them it was the last meal they were ever destined to eat; as
was that night the last of their lives. Before another sun had shone
upon Long's Peak, one-half their number was sleeping the sleep of
death--their _corralled_ wagons enclosing a space afterward to become
their cemetery.
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Note 1. The Spanish word for inclosure, adopted at an early period by
the prairie-traders, and now become part of our language.