WE HAD NO FLAG TO UNFURL, BUT ITS SENTIMENT WAS WITHIN US.
"It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance by solemn acts of
devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and
parade, with shows, games, sports, bells, bonfires and illuminations,
from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward for
evermore."
These words, written by John Adams to his wife the day following the
Declaration of Independence, and regarding that act and day, were
evidently the sounding of the key-note of American patriotism.
It has long been one of Uncle Sam's legends that "he who starts across
the continent is most sure to leave his religion on the east side of the
Missouri river." Conditions in Nebraska to-day refute the truth of this
statement, however. Whatever may be the rule or exception concerning an
American traveller's religion, the genuineness of his patriotism and his
fidelity to it are rarely questioned. Hence it was that during the
early July days the varied events of the past few months betook
themselves to the recesses of our natures, and patriotism asserted its
right of pre-emption.
The day of July 3d was somewhat eventful and perhaps somewhat
preparatory to the 4th, in that I did a bit of horse-trading, as my
riding-horse, through a hole in his shoe, had got a gravel into his
foot, which made him so lame that I had been walking and leading him for
the last ten days. We had just come to Soda Springs, where there was a
village of Shoshone Indians, numbering about one thousand, among whom
was an Indian trader named McClelland, who was buying or trading for
broken-down stock. I soon struck him for a trade. He finally offered me,
even up, a small native mule for my lame horse, and we soon traded. I
then bought an Indian saddle for two dollars, and, mounting, rode back
to camp with great joy to myself and amusement of the balance of the
company. I had walked for the last two hundred miles, keeping up with
the rest of them, and consequently was nearly broken down; and now that
I had what proved to be the toughest and easiest riding animal in the
bunch, I was to be congratulated. I afterwards saw the horse I had
traded for the mule in Sacramento, hitched to a dray. His owner valued
him at four hundred dollars.
We had gone into camp close to the Indians, right among their wigwams,
in fact, and, though it was Independence eve, the weather was cool and
chilling, which, together with the jabbering and grunting of the Indians
and their papooses, made sleeping almost impossible.
We had not been in camp more than an hour when three or four packers
rode up on their way to the "States." They were the first persons
travelling eastward that we had met since leaving the Missouri River.
One of the men had been wounded with a charge of buckshot a few hours
before, and there being no surgeon present, some of us held him while
others picked out the shot and dressed his wounds.
Soda Springs was in the extreme eastern part of what is now the State of
Idaho, at which point there is a town bearing the same name, Soda
Springs. Indeed, the 4th of July found us in a settlement of springs,
Beer Spring and Steamboat Spring being in close proximity to Soda
Springs. Beer Spring is barrel-shaped, its surface about level with the
ground surface. It was always full to the top, and we could look down
into the water at least twenty feet and see large bubbles that were
constantly rising, a few feet apart, one chasing another to the surface,
where they immediately collapsed. The peculiarity of the water was that
one could sip down a gallon at a time without any inconvenience. The
celebrated Steamboat Spring came out of a hole in a level rock. The
water was quite hot, and the steam, puffing out at regular intervals,
presented an interesting sight.
We remained in camp during the forenoon and celebrated the 4th of July
as best we could. I am quite positive that we could not have repeated in
concert the memorable words which open this chapter, but, while the
letter of the injunction was absent, the spirit was with us and we
carried it out in considerable detail, the Indians joining with us. We
shot at a mark, we ran horse-races with the Indians and also foot-races.
We had no bells to ring, but we had plenty of noise and games and
sports. We had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us; and
when we had finished we were prouder than ever to be Americans.
After dinner we packed up and started out again, our trail leading us up
in the top of the mountains, where, after going into camp for the night,
it began to snow, so I had to quit writing in my diary. We spent a very
uncomfortable night, and got out of the place early, going down into a
warmer atmosphere and to a level stretch of deep sand covered with a
thick growth of sagebrush. Having neglected to fill our canteens while
on the mountain, we had to travel all day in the sand, under a scorching
sun, without a drop of water. This was our first severe experience in
water-hunger, and we thought of the deserts yet to be crossed.
At night we were delighted with coming to a stream, by the side of which
we made camp, ourselves and our animals quite exhausted with the day's
experiences. The country along here was very rough and mountainous,
making travelling very difficult, so much so that two or more men
dropped out to rest up.
We were soon in the region of the "City of Rocks," which was not a great
distance south of Fort Hall, in Oregon. This place, to all appearance,
was surrounded by a range of high hills, circular in form and perhaps a
quarter mile in diameter. A small stream of mountain water ran through
it, near which we made our noon meal.
From about the center of this circle arose two grand, colossal steeples
of solid rock, rising from two hundred to three hundred feet high; in
outline they resembled church steeples. From the base of these great
turrets, allowing the eyes to follow the circular mountains, could be
seen a striking resemblance to a great city in ruins. Tall columns rose
with broad facades and colossal archings over the broad entrances, which
seemed to lead into those great temples of nature. Many of the
formations strongly resembled huge lions crouched and guarding the
passageways. Altogether the spot was one of intense interest and stood
as strong evidence that
"The manuscript of God remains
Writ large in waves and woods and rocks."
In crossing the valley of Raft River, which is tributary to the Snake
River, and finally empties into the Columbia, we came to a deep,
ditch-like crack in the earth, partly filled with water and soft mud.
It was about a rod in width, but so long that we could not see its end
either up or down the valley as far as the eye could reach, so there was
no possible show to head it or go around it. Scattered along its length
we could see a dozen or more wagons standing on their heads, as it were,
in this almost bottomless ditch of mud and water, each waiting for the
bank to be dug out in front of it, when a long cattle-team would haul it
out. After looking the situation over, we put our wits to work for some
means of crossing, and finally hit upon what proved to be a feasible
plan. A part of the men stripped off, plunged in and made their way
through to the opposite bank. We then led the animals up, one at a time,
secured a good strong lariat around its neck, and threw the end of it
across to the men on the other side. Then we just pushed the brute into
the ditch and the men ahold of the lariat pulled him through. We then
did up our traps in light bundles and threw them across. After
everything else was over, we took turns in being pulled through at the
end of the lariat. This was a successful way of getting over, but, O my!
we were the dirtiest lot of men and animals one ever saw. We were
little more than one-quarter mile from Raft River, and we lost no time
in getting there and wading out in the clear, running water, about two
feet deep, with rocky bottom, where we and the animals were washed sleek
and clean.
Leaving the river we entered a narrow defile in the mountain, where
horses and men were crowded close together. One of the men having a
rifle with the hammer underneath the barrel attempted to mount his horse
without stopping and accidentally discharged his gun, the shot shot
taking effect in the horse's side. As I happened to be walking on the
other side of the wounded horse I was fortunate in not getting some part
of the discharge. We pulled the pack off the horse and led him a few
steps off the road, where he soon fell dead.
We camped for the night farther up this ravine. It was the same place
where, a few years afterward, some immigrants were massacred, when a
part of the Wright family was killed and others badly wounded. Years
afterward I became well acquainted with the survivors. Their description
of the place and its surroundings left no doubt in my mind that our
ravine camping-spot was identical with that of their massacre.
Our passage up Goose Creek Valley was extremely slow and difficult, the
valley in places being no wider than the road, while in other places
rocks and streams were so thick and close together that the way was
almost impassible. We camped in this valley at nightfall, and, as there
was no feed in sight for the animals, several of us took them up on the
mountain side and gave them a feed of bunch grass, one man and myself
remaining to guard them.
Very soon a storm came up, dark clouds, deep thunder, sharp lightning,
and a perfect deluge of rain were sweeping through the mountains. We
brought the animals as close together as we could, tied them to the
sagebrush, and kept going among them, talking to them and quieting them
as best we could, for they were whinnying and trembling with fear. It
was an awful night. Over and above the roaring storm could be heard the
howling of wolves, which added much terror to the situation. On being
relieved at daylight and going down to camp, the men were trying to find
themselves and a lot of traps that were missing. It seemed that the men
had lain down in a bunch on a narrow bit of ground close to the creek,
and when the rain began to fall they drew a canvas wagon cover over them
for protection, when, without any sound or warning that could be heard
above the storm, a tide of water came down upon them which fairly washed
them off the earth. They got tangled up in the wagon cover and were
being washed down the creek, not knowing in the darkness when or where
they were going to land. They kept together by all keeping hold of the
wagon cover, but for which some or all of them might have lost their
lives. They were finally washed up against a rocky projection and pulled
themselves ashore. We were a sorry-looking lot--wet, cold, dilapidated,
and suffering from the terror and fright of the night.
After breakfast we went out to hunt for our missing goods, some of which
we found caught in the brush; some was washed beyond finding.
This was Sunday morning and the weather had cleared up bright. All
Nature seemed anxious to make amends for her outrageous conduct of the
night before. We concluded to stop here until Monday morning, and spread
our traps out to dry, and cook some rice, and rest and replenish in a
general sense.