parted on the big bend of the Bear River, I heard from William in a way
that was characteristic of the man. He had been back to "the States," as
we then called the eastern part of our country, and returning to
California by way of the Isthmus of Panama, he had brought fifty swarms
of bees. Three of these swarms he sent up to me in Washington. As far as
I know these were the first honey bees in that state. William Buck was a
man who was always doing a good turn for his friends.
When Snake River was reached, and in fact even before that, the heat
again became oppressive, the dust stifling, and the thirst at times
almost maddening. In some places we could see the water of the Snake
winding through the lava gorges; but we could not reach it, as the river
ran in the inaccessible depths of the canyon. Sickness again became
prevalent, and another outbreak of cholera claimed many victims.
There were but few ferries, and none at all in many places where
crossings were to be made. Even where there was a ferry, the charges
were so high that they were out of reach of most of the emigrants. As
for me, all my funds had been absorbed in procuring my outfit at
Eddyville, in Iowa. We had not dreamed that there would be use for money
on the Plains, where there were neither supplies nor people. But we soon
found out our mistake.
The crossing of the Snake River, although late in the journey, gave us
the opportunity to mend matters. About thirty miles below Salmon Falls
the dilemma confronted us of either crossing the Snake River or having
our teams starve on the trip down the river on the south bank. We found
that some emigrants had calked two wagon beds and lashed them together,
and were using this craft for crossing. But they would not help others
across for less than three to five dollars a wagon, the party swimming
their own stock.
If others could cross in wagon beds, why couldn't we do likewise?
Without more ado all the old clothing that could possibly be spared was
assembled, and tar buckets were scraped. Old chisels and broken knives
were hunted up, and a boat repairing and calking campaign began. Very
soon the wagon box rode placidly, even if not gracefully, on the waters
of the Snake River.
My boyhood experience at playing with logs and leaky old skiffs in the
waters of White River now served me well; I could row a boat. My first
venture across the Snake River was with the wagon gear run over the
wagon box, the whole being gradually worked out into deep water. The
load was so heavy that a very small margin was left to prevent the water
from breaking over the sides, and some water did enter as light ripples
on the surface struck the _Mary Jane_--for we had duly named our craft.
I got over safely, but after that I took lighter loads, and I really
enjoyed the work, with the change from the intolerable dust to the clear
atmosphere of the river.
Some people were so infatuated with the idea of floating on the water
that they were easily persuaded by an unprincipled trader at the lower
crossing to dispose of their teams for a song and to embark in their
wagon beds for a voyage down the river. A number of people thus lost
everything they had, and some even lost their lives. After terrible
hardships, the survivors reached the road again, to become objects of
charity. I knew one survivor who was out seven days without food other
than a scant supply of berries and vegetable growth and "a few
crickets, but not many."
We had no trouble to get the cattle across, although the river was wide.
Dandy would do almost anything I asked of him; so, leading him to the
water's edge, with a little coaxing I got him into swimming water and
guided him across with the wagon bed. The others all followed, having
been driven into deep water after the leader. It seems almost incredible
how passively obedient cattle will become after long training on such a
journey. Indeed, the ox is always patient, and usually quite obedient;
but when oxen get heated and thirsty, they become headstrong and
reckless, and won't obey. I have known them to take off the road to a
water hole, when apparently nothing could stop them till they had gone
so far into the mud and water that it was a hard job for them to get out
again.
We had not finished crossing when tempting offers came from others to
cross them; but all our party said, "No, we must travel." The rule had
been adopted to travel some distance every day that it was possible.
"Travel, travel, travel," was the watchword, and nothing could divert us
from that resolution. On the third day we were ready to pull out from
the river, with the cattle rested by the enforced wait.
Now the question was, what about the lower crossing? Those who had
crossed over the river must somehow get back. It was less than a hundred
and fifty miles to the place where we must again cross to the south side
(the left bank) of the river. I could walk that distance in three days,
while it would take our teams ten. Could I go on ahead, procure a wagon
box, and start a ferry of my own? The thought brought an affirmative
answer at once.
With only food and a small blanket for load, I walked to the lower
crossing. It may be ludicrous, but it is true, that the most I remember
about that tramp is the jack rabbits. Such swarms, as I traveled down
the Boise valley, I had never seen before and I never saw again.
I soon obtained a wagon bed, and all day long for several days I was at
work crossing people. I continued at this till our teams came up, and
for a few days after that. I left the river with a hundred and ten
dollars in my pocket. All but two dollars and seventy-five cents of this
was gone before I arrived in Portland.
But we could not delay longer, even to make money. I thought I could see
signs of failing strength in my young wife and the baby. Not for
mountains of gold would we jeopardize their lives.
All along the way the baby and the little mother had been tenderly cared
for. We used to clear away a space in the wagon bed for them to take a
nap together. The slow swaying of the wagon over smooth, sandy stretches
made a rock-a-by movement that would lull them off to dreamland and make
them forget the weary way.
When we left the lower crossing, the mother and baby were placed in a
small wagon. A sprightly yoke of oxen was hitched to it that they might
get an early start and keep out of the dust. What few delicacies the
pioneers had were given to them. By this tender care the mother and
child were enabled to continue to the end of the long journey, though
the brave little mother was frail and weak from the wearisome struggle
before we reached a resting place at last.
[Illustration: A nap in the wagon.]
What became of that baby? He thrived and grew to manhood and he is now
living, sixty-nine years of age, in California. Some of his
grandchildren are almost grown to manhood and womanhood.
[Illustration: _Myers, Boise, Idaho_
Thousand Springs of the Snake River, Idaho.]
[Illustration: The travel-worn wanderers sing "Home, Sweet Home."]
CHAPTER NINE
REACHING THE END OF THE TRAIL
AFTER leaving the Snake River we had one of the worst stretches of the
trying journey. From the lower crossing of the Snake River at old Fort
Boise to The Dalles is approximately three hundred and fifty miles over
mountains and deserts. It became a serious question with many travelers
whether there would be enough provisions left to keep them from
starvation and whether their teams could muster strength to take the
wagons in. Many wagons were left by the wayside. Everything that could
possibly be spared shared the same fate. Provisions, and provisions
only, were religiously cared for. Considering the weakened condition of
both man and beast, it was small wonder that some ill-advised persons
should take to the river in their wagon beds, many thus going to their
death.
[Illustration: _Benj. A. Gifford_
The cataract of the Columbia.]
The dust got deeper every day. Going through it was like wading in water
as to resistance. Often it would lie in the road fully six inches deep,
so fine that a person wading through it would scarcely leave a track.
And when disturbed, such clouds! No words can describe it.
[Illustration: _Benj. A. Gifford_
Shifting sands of eastern Oregon.]
At length, after we had endured five long months of soul-trying travel
and had covered about eighteen hundred miles, counting from the crossing
of the Missouri, we dragged ourselves on to the end of the Overland
Trail at The Dalles on the Columbia River. From here my wife and I, with
the baby, went by boat down the river, while Oliver took the ox team on
to Portland by the land way.
The Dalles is a name given to the peculiar lava rock formation that
strikes across the Columbia, nearly two hundred miles from the mouth.
These rocks throw the great stream into a fury of foaming rapids. An
Indian legend says that the Bridge of the Gods was once near The Dalles,
but that the bridge broke and fell.
On the September day in 1852 when we reached The Dalles, we found there
a great crowd of travel-worn people. This assemblage was constantly
changing. It was a coming-and-going congregation.
[Illustration: _Gifford & Prentiss_
Where the Columbia cuts through the Cascades.]
The appearance of this crowd of emigrants beggars description. Their
dress was as varied as pieces in a crazy quilt. Here was a matronly dame
in clean apparel, but without shoes; her husband perhaps lacked both
shoes and hat. Youngsters of all sizes were running about with scarcely
enough clothing to cover their nakedness. Some suits and dresses were so
patched that it was impossible to tell what was the original cloth. The
color of practically everybody's clothing was that of desert dust.
Every little while other sweat-streaked, motley-dressed homeseekers
would straggle up to this end of the long trail. Their thoughts went
back to their old homes, or to the loved ones that they had laid away
tenderly in the shifting sands of the Plains. Most of them faced the
future with fortitude; the difficulties they had met and mastered had
but steeled them to meet the difficulties ahead. There was an
undercurrent of gladness in their souls with the thought that they had
achieved the end of the Overland Trail. They were ready now to go on
down the Columbia to find their new homes in this great, unknown Land of
Promise.
Almost every nationality was represented among them. All traces of race
peculiarity and race prejudice, however, had been ground away in the
mill of adversity. The trying times through which these pioneers had
just passed had brought all to a kinship of feeling such as only trail
and danger can beget.
Friendships, sincere and lasting, came as one of the sweet rewards of
those days of common struggle and adversity. Few of the pioneers are now
left to talk over the old days; when any of them do meet, the greeting
is one of brotherhood indeed.
We camped but two days on the bank of the Columbia River. When I say
"we," let it be understood that I mean myself, my young wife, and the
baby boy who was but seven weeks old when the start was made from
Eddyville.
[Illustration: _Kiser Bros._
St. Peter's Dome--one of the sentinels of the Columbia.]
I do not remember the embarking on the great scow for our trip down
the Columbia to the Cascades. But incidents of the voyage come to me as
vividly as if they had happened but yesterday.
Those who took passage felt that the journey was ended. The cattle had
been unyoked for the last time; the wagons had been rolled to the last
bivouac; the embers of the last camp fire had died out. We were entering
now upon a new field with new present experiences, and with new
expectancy for the morrow.
The scow, or lighter, upon which we took passage was decked over, but
without railing, offering a smooth surface upon which to pile our
belongings. These, in the majority of cases, made but a very small
showing. The whole deck surface of the scow was covered with the
remnants of the homeseekers' outfits, which in turn were covered by the
owners, either sitting or reclining upon their possessions, with but
scant room to change position or move about in any way. There must have
been a dozen families or more on the boat, or about sixty persons. These
were principally women and children; the young men and some of the older
ones were still struggling on the mountain trail to get the teams
through to the west side of the Cascade Mountains.
As we went floating down that wonderful old river, the deep depression
of spirits that, for lack of a better name, we call "the blues," seized
upon us. Do you wonder why? We were like an army that had burned the
bridges behind it. We had scant knowledge of what lay in the track
before us. Here we were, more than two thousand miles from
home,--separated from it by a trackless, uninhabited waste of country.
It was impossible for us to retrace our steps. Go ahead we must, no
matter what we were to encounter.
Then, too, we had for months borne the burden of duties that could not
be avoided or delayed, until many were on the verge of collapse from
strain and overwork. Some were sick, and all were reduced in flesh from
the urgent toil at camp duty and from lack of variety of food. Such was
the condition of the motley crowd of sixty persons as we slowly neared
that wonderful channel through which the great Columbia flows while
passing the Cascade range.
For myself, I can truly say that the journey had not drawn on my
vitality as it had with so many. True, I had been worked down in flesh,
having lost nearly twenty pounds; but what weight I had left was the
bone and sinew of my system. The good body my parents had given me
carried me then and afterwards through many hardships without great
distress.
[Illustration: _Benj. A. Gifford_
Multnomah Falls along the Columbia; named after a famous Indian chief.]
In our company, a party of three, a young married couple and an
unmarried sister, lounged on their belongings, listlessly watching the
ripples on the water, as did also others of the party. But little
conversation was passing. Each seemed to be communing with himself or
herself, but it was easy to see what were the thoughts occupying the
minds of all. The young husband, it was plain to be seen, would soon
complete that greater journey to the unknown beyond, a condition that
weighed so heavily upon the ladies of the party that they could ill
conceal their solicitude and sorrow. Finally, to cheer up the sick
husband and brother, the ladies began in sweet, subdued voices to sing
the old familiar song of "Home, Sweet Home," whereupon others of the
party joined in the chorus with increased volume of sound. As the echo
died away, at the moment of gliding under the shadow of the high
mountain, the second verse was begun, but was never finished. If an
electric shock had startled every individual of the party, there could
have been no more simultaneous effect than when the second line of the
second verse was reached, when instead of song, sobs and outcries of
grief poured forth from all lips. It seemed as if there were a tumult of
despair mingled with prayer. The rugged boatmen rested upon their oars
in awe, and gave way in sympathy with the scene before them, until it
could be truly said no dry eyes were left nor aching heart but was
relieved. Like the downpour of a summer shower that suddenly clears the
atmosphere to welcome the bright shining sun that follows, so this
sudden outburst of grief cleared away the despondency, to be replaced by
an exalted, exhilarating feeling of buoyancy and hopefulness. The tears
were not dried till mirth took possession--a real hysterical
manifestation of the whole party, ending all depression for the rest of
the trip.
On this last stage of the journey other parties had much more trying
experiences than ours. John Whitacre, afterward governor of Oregon, was
the head of a party of nine that constructed a raft at The Dalles out of
dry poles hauled from the adjacent country. While their stock was
started out over the trail, their two wagons were put upon the raft.
With the women and children in the wagons, perched on the provisions and
bedding, the start was made to float down the river to the Cascades.
They had hardly begun the journey when the waves swept over the raft. It
was like a submerged foundation upon which their wagons stood. A landing
a few miles out of The Dalles averted a total wreck, and afforded
opportunity to strengthen the buoyancy of the raft with extra timber
carried upon the backs of the men for long distances.
Then the question arose, how should they know when they would reach the
falls? Would they be able to discover the falls in time to make a
landing? Their fears finally got the better of them and a line was run
ashore; but instead of making a landing, they found themselves hard
aground out of reach of land, except by wading a long distance. This
occurred while they were many miles above the falls, or Cascades. At
last they gave up the raft and procured a scow. In this they reached the
head of the Cascades in safety.
As we neared Portland we felt that a long task had been completed. Yet
reaching the end of the Overland Trail did not mean that our pioneer
struggles were over. Before us lay still another task--the conquest of
the new land. And it was no easy work, we were to learn, to find a home
or make one in the western wilderness.
PART TWO
SETTLING IN THE NORTHWEST COUNTRY
[Illustration: This is the region in which Ezra Meeker settled in 1852,
when it was all known as the Oregon Country and had not been divided
into Washington and Oregon. The journey from Portland to Kalama, where
the first cabin was built, is shown by line 1. The line marked 2 shows
the route followed in the journey to explore the Puget Sound region. The
brothers went as far as Port Townsend, but turned back to make the
second home at Steilacoom. Line 3 is the trail through the Natchess
Pass, the trail that Ezra Meeker followed to meet his father's party
coming up through the Blue Mountains.]
[Illustration: Looking for work on the good ship _Mary Melville_.]
CHAPTER TEN
GETTING A NEW START IN THE NEW LAND
ON the first day of October, 1852, at about nine o'clock at night, with
a bright moon shining, we reached Portland. Oliver met us; he had come
ahead by the trail and had found a place for us to lodge.
I carried my wife, who had fallen ill, in my arms up the steep bank of
the Willamette River and three blocks away to the lodging house, which
was kept by a colored man.
"Why, suh, I didn't think yuse could do that, yuse don't look it," said
my colored friend, as I placed my wife on the clean bed in a cozy little
room.
This was the first house we had been in for five months. From April
until October we had been on the move. Never a roof had been over our
heads other than the wagon cover or tent, and no softer bed had we known
than the ground or the bottom of the wagon.
We had found a little steamer to carry us from the Cascades to Portland,
along with most of the company that had floated in the scow down the
river from The Dalles. The great Oregon Country, then including the
Puget Sound region, was large enough to swallow up a thousand such
migrations.
Portland was no paradise at that time. It would be difficult to imagine
a sorrier-looking place than the one that confronted us upon arrival.
Some rain had fallen, and more soon followed. With the stumps and logs
and mud and the uneven stretches of ground, it was no easy matter to
find a resting place.
The tented city was continually enlarging. People seemed to be dazed; it
was hard to find paying work; there was insufficient shelter to house
all. The country looked a great field of forests and mountains.
Oliver and I had between us a cash capital of about three dollars. It
was clear that we must find work at once, so at earliest dawn next day
Oliver took the trail leading down the river, to search for something to
do. I had a possible opportunity for work and wages already in mind.
As we were passing up the Willamette, a few miles below Portland, on the
evening of our arrival, a bark lay seemingly right in our path as we
steamed by. This vessel looked to our inexperienced eyes like a
veritable monster, with hull towering high above our heads and masts
reaching to the sky. Probably not one of that whole party of
frontiersmen had ever before seen a deep-sea vessel.
The word went around that the bark was bound for Portland with a cargo
of merchandise and was to take a return cargo of lumber. As we passed
her there flashed through my mind the thought that there might be
opportunity for work on that vessel next day. Sure enough, when morning
came, the staunch bark _Mary Melville_ lay quietly in front of the
mill.
Without loss of time my inquiry was made: "Do you want any men on board
this ship?"
A gruff-looking fellow eyed me all over as much as to say, "Not you
anyhow." But he answered, "Yes. Go below and get your breakfast."
I fairly stammered out, "I must go and see my wife first, and let her
know where I am."
Thereupon came back a growl: "Of course, that will be the last of you!
That's the way with these newcomers, always hunting for work and never
wanting it." This last aside to a companion, in my hearing.
I swallowed my indignation, assured him that I would be back in five
minutes, and went post-haste to impart the good news.
Put yourself in my place, you who have never come under the domination
of a surly mate on a sailing vessel of seventy years ago. My ears fairly
tingled with anger at the harshness of the orders, but I stuck to the
work, smothering my rage at being berated while doing my very best. As
the day went on I realized that the man was not angry; he had merely
fallen into that way of talking. The sailors paid slight heed to what he
said. Before night the fellow seemed to let up on me, while increasing
his tirades at the regular men. The second and third day wore off. I had
blistered hands, but never a word about wages or pay.
"Say, boss, I'se got to pay my rent, and we'se always gits our pay in
advance. I doan' like to ask you, but can't you git the old boss to put
up somethin' on your work?"
I could plainly see that my landlord was serving notice to pay or move.
What should I do? Suppose the old skipper should discharge me for asking
for wages before the end of the week? But when I told him what I wanted
the money for, the old man's eyes moistened. Without a word he gave me
more money than I had asked for, and that night the steward handed me a
bottle of wine for the "missus." I knew that it came from the old
captain.
The baby's Sunday visit to the ship, the Sunday dinner in the cabin, the
presents of delicacies that followed, even from the gruff mate, made me
feel that under all this roughness lay a tender humanity. Away out here,
three thousand miles from home, the same sort of people lived as those I
had left behind me.
Then came this message:
St. Helens, October 7th, 1852.
Dear Brother: Come as soon as you can. Have rented
a house, sixty boarders. This is going to be the
place. Shall I send you money?
OLIVER P. MEEKER.
The mate importuned me to stay until the cargo was on board. I did stay
until the last stick of lumber was stowed, the last pig in the pen, and
the ship swinging off, bound on her outward voyage. I felt as if I had
an interest in her.
Sure enough, I found St. Helens to be the place. Here was to be the
terminus of the steamship line from San Francisco. "Wasn't the company
building this wharf?" "They wouldn't set sixty men to work on the dock
unless they meant business." "Ships can't get up the Willamette--that's
nothing but a creek. The big city is going to be here."
This was the talk that greeted my ears as I went looking about. We had
carried my wife, this time in a chair, to our hotel--yes, our
hotel!--and there we had placed her, and the baby too, of course, in the
best room the house afforded.
One January morning in 1853, our sixty men boarders did not go to work
at the dock building as usual. Orders had come to suspend work. Nobody
knew why, or for how long. We soon learned that the steamship company
had given up the fight against Portland and would thenceforward run its
steamers to that port. The dock was never finished and was allowed to
fall into decay. With our boarders scattered, our occupation was gone,
and our supplies were in great part rendered worthless to us by the
change.
Meantime, snow had fallen to a great depth. The price of forage for
cattle rose by leaps and bounds, and we found that we must part with
half of our stock to save the rest. It might be necessary to provide
feed for a month, or for three months; we could not tell. The last cow
was given up that we might keep one yoke of oxen, so necessary for the
work on a new place.