threats or blows, but he was forced to see that it was a great waste
of money to have one press after another thrown into the Mississippi
River. His friends in the town of Quincy urged him to set up his press
there, and he felt much inclined to do so. He decided to wait, however,
until the next meeting of the Presbyterian Synod, when he would learn
whether the men of his church sided with him or not. This meeting
ended in discussion, breaking up along the old lines of those who were
friends and those who were enemies of slavery. Some of the members had
already joined Anti-Slavery Societies, while others, although they were
opposed to mob-violence, did not approve of the newspaper's attack on
slaveholding citizens. In a stirring speech Lovejoy said that they were
to decide whether the press should be free in that part of the United
States. He ended with an appeal for justice. "I have no personal fears,"
he declared. "Not that I feel able to contest the matter with the whole
community. I know perfectly well I am not. I know, sir, that you can
tar and feather me, hang me up, or put me into the Mississippi, without
the least difficulty. But what then? Where shall I go? I have been made
to feel that if I am not safe at Alton, I shall not be safe anywhere.
I recently visited St. Charles to bring home my family, and was torn
from their frantic embrace by a mob. I have been beset night and day at
Alton. And now if I leave here and go elsewhere, violence may overtake
me in my retreat, and I have no more claim upon the protection of any
other community than I have upon this; and I have concluded, after
consultation with my friends, and earnestly seeking counsel of God, to
remain at Alton, and here to insist on protection in the exercise of my
rights."
This speech made a great impression upon its hearers. The words were
those of a man who had thought long upon his subject, and had made up
his mind as to what he should do. He expressed no enmity toward the men
who had treated him so ill, and he did not complain of the members of
his own church who were lukewarm in their support. A man who was present
said that Lovejoy's speech reminded him of the words of St. Paul when
brought before Festus, or of Martin Luther speaking to the council at
Worms.
Having decided to stay, Lovejoy ordered his fourth printing-press. This
was due to arrive early in November, and as the time drew near there
was no little excitement and anxiety among the friends of peace in the
town. Whenever the puff of a steamboat was heard men hurried to the
banks of the Mississippi. Some meant to defend the press from attack;
others meant to hurl it into the river as they had already done with
its predecessors. The press had an eventful journey. The first plan was
to land it at a place called Chippewa, about five miles down the river,
and then carry it secretly into Alton. But the roads grew bad, and
this plan was abandoned. The press reached St. Louis on Sunday night,
November 5th, and it was arranged that the steamer should land it at
Alton about three o'clock Tuesday morning. As soon as this was known,
Lovejoy and his friend Gilman went to the mayor and told him of the
threat that had been made to destroy the press, asking him to appoint
special constables to protect it. The town council voted that Lovejoy
and his friends be requested not to persist in setting up an Abolition
press in Alton, but the mayor refused to sign this request.
Monday night forty or fifty citizens, intent on seeing that the press
was protected, gathered at the warehouse of Godfrey, Gilman and Company
where the press was to be stored. Some thirty of them formed a volunteer
company, with one of the city constables in command. They were armed
with rifles and muskets loaded with buckshot or small balls. The editor
of the _Observer_ was not there. Only a night or two before his house
had been attacked, and his sister had narrowly escaped serious injury.
So he arranged with a brother, who was staying with him, to take turns
standing guard at his house and at the office.
At three o'clock the steamboat arrived at the dock. Lovejoy's enemies
had stationed sentinels along the river, and as the boat passed they
gave the alarm by blowing horns, so that when the dock was reached a
large crowd had gathered. Some one called the mayor, and he came down
to the warehouse. He begged the volunteer company to keep quiet, and
said he himself would see to the safe storing of the press. No serious
trouble followed. The crowd watched the stevedores carry the press to
the warehouse, but did not attack it, except to throw a few stones. It
was stood in the garret of the stone warehouse, safe from the enemy.
On Tuesday every one knew that the "Abolition press" had arrived, and
Tuesday night the same volunteers went down to the warehouse again.
Everything was quiet, and by nine o'clock all but about a dozen left the
place. Lovejoy stayed by the press, it being his brother's turn to guard
his house. The warehouse stood high above the river, apart from other
buildings, with considerable open space on the sides to the river and to
the north.
About ten o'clock that night loafers and stragglers began to come
from saloons and restaurants, and gather in the streets that led to
the warehouse. Some thirty, armed with muskets, pistols, and stones,
marched to the door, and demanded admittance. Mr. Gilman, one of the
owners of the warehouse, standing at the garret door, asked what they
wanted. The leader answered, "The press." Mr. Gilman said that he would
not give up the press. "We have no ill feelings toward any of you," he
added, "and should regret to harm you; but we are authorized by the
mayor to defend our property, and shall do so with our lives." The
mob leader answered that they meant to have the press at any cost,
and leveled a pistol at Mr. Gilman, who drew back from the door. The
crowd began to throw stones, and broke a number of windows. Then they
fired through the windows. The men inside returned the shots. One or
two of the mob were wounded; and this checked them for a time. Soon,
however, others came with ladders, and materials for setting fire to
the roof of the building. They kept on the side of the warehouse where
there were no windows, and where they could not be driven away by the
defenders. It was a moonlight night, and the small company inside the
building did not dare go out into the open space in front. At this
point the mayor appeared and carried a flag of truce through the mob to
Lovejoy's friends, asking that the press be given up, and the men in
the warehouse depart peacefully without other property being destroyed.
He told them that unless they surrendered the mob would set fire to
the warehouse. They answered that they had gathered to defend their
property, and intended to do it. He admitted that they had a perfect
right to do this, and went back to report the result of his mission to
the leaders. Outside a shout went up, "Fire the building, drive out the
Abolitionists, burn them out!" A great crowd had gathered, but there
were no officers of the law ready to defend the press.
Ladders were placed against the building, and the roof was set on fire.
Five men volunteered to go out and try to prevent the firing. They
left the building by the riverside, fired at the men on the ladder,
and drove them away. The crowd drew back, while the five returned to
the store. The mob did not venture to put up their ladder again, and
presently Lovejoy and two or three others opened a door and looked out.
There appeared to be no one on this side, and Lovejoy stepped forward
to reconnoiter. Some of his enemies, however, were hidden behind a pile
of lumber, and one of them fired a double-barreled gun. The editor
was hit by five balls. He turned around, ran up a flight of stairs in
the warehouse, and into the counting-room. There he fell, dying a few
minutes later.
With their leader killed some of the company wanted to give up the
battle, while others insisted on fighting it out. They finally resolved
to yield. A clergyman went to one of the upper windows and called out
that Elijah Lovejoy had been killed and that they would give up the
press if they might be allowed to go unmolested. The crowd answered
that they would shoot them all where they were. One of the defenders
determined to go out at any risk and make terms. As soon as he opened
the door, he was fired upon and wounded. The roof was now blazing, and
one of their friends reached a door and begged them to escape by the
rear. All but two or three laid down their arms, running out at the
southern door, and fled down the bank of the river. The mob fired at
them, but only one was wounded. The crowd rushed into the warehouse,
threw the press out the window, breaking it into pieces, and scattered
the pieces in the Mississippi. At two o'clock they had disappeared,
having accomplished their evil purpose of preventing a "free press" in
Alton.
Elijah Lovejoy was only thirty-five years old when he met his martyr's
death. His life in Missouri and Illinois had been one constant fight
against slavery, and for liberty of speech. His Puritan ancestry made it
impossible for him to give up the battle he knew to be right. The story
of his heroic struggle and death aroused lovers of liberty all over the
country, and newspapers everywhere denounced the acts of the mob at
Alton. Such acts meant that men could not speak their minds on public
questions, and a "free press" had been one of the dearest rights of
American citizens. Men in the North at that time had by no means agreed
that slavery must be abolished, but they did all believe in the freedom
of the press. For that cause Lovejoy had been a martyr.
More than two decades were to pass before the question of slavery was to
be settled forever, and in the years between 1837 and 1860 many men of
the same stock and stripe as Elijah Lovejoy were to give up their lives
in heroic defense of their belief in freedom. He was one of the first
of a long line of heroes. His voice sounded a call that was to echo
through the border states for years to come, inspiring others to take up
his cause. A freedom-loving country should place among its noblest sons
this dauntless editor and preacher.
VI
HOW MARCUS WHITMAN SAVED OREGON
The Hudson's Bay Company, whose business was to buy skins and furs
from the American Indians, had located a trading-post at Fort Walla
Walla, in the country of the Cayuse and Nez Percés Indians. This was
in what was known as Oregon Territory in 1842, although it is now
near the southeast corner of the state of Washington. Here was a very
primitive settlement, the frame houses of a few white men and the tents
of Indians. Very little effort had been made to grow grain or fruit or
to raise sheep or cattle, since the Hudson's Bay Company wanted the
Indians to be continually on the hunt for furs, and discouraged them
from turning into farmers. Besides the traders and the Indians there was
a small missionary camp near at hand, located on a beautiful peninsula
made by two branches of the Walla Walla River. This place was called
by the Indians Wai-i-lat-pui, meaning the region of rye grass. Beyond
the fertile ground on the river's banks were borders of timber-land,
and beyond them plains stretching to the foot-hills of the great Blue
Mountains. In 1842 this wonderful country was free to any who cared to
come and settle there, but as yet very few had ventured so far into the
wilderness.
The chief man at the missionary camp, Dr. Marcus Whitman, was called to
Fort Walla Walla on the first day of October, 1842, to see a sick man.
He found a score or so of traders and Hudson's Bay clerks, almost all
Englishmen, gathered there, and accepted their invitation to stay to
dinner. The men were a genial company, and had already taken a liking
to Whitman, who was frank and amiable, and an interesting story-teller.
Gradually the conversation at the dinner table came round to a subject
that was vastly important to the men present, although the outside world
seemed to be paying little attention to it--to which country was this
great territory of Oregon to belong, to the United States or to England?
The general opinion appeared to be that under the old treaties it would
belong to the country that settled it first.
In the midst of the discussion there was the sound of hoof-beats
outside, the door of the company's office was flung open, and an express
messenger ran into the dining-room. "I'm just from Fort Colville!" he
cried. "A hundred and forty Englishmen and Canadians are on the march to
settle here!"
There was instant excitement. A young priest threw his cap in the
air, shouting, "Hurrah for Oregon--America's too late; we've got the
country!" The traders clapped each other on the shoulder, and made a
place for the messenger at the head of the table. As he ate he told them
how he had ridden from the post three hundred and fifty miles up the
Columbia River to let all the fur-traders know that the English were on
the way to colonize the country.
Marcus Whitman smiled, and pretended to enjoy the celebration; but in
reality he was already considering whether he could not do something
to save this vast and fruitful region for his own nation. It was an
enormous tract of land, of untold wealth, and stretching over a long
reach of the Pacific coast. As he considered, Whitman heard the Hudson's
Bay Company's men grow more and more excited, until they declared that
they intended to take possession of all the country west to the Pacific
slope the following spring.
The missionary had been expecting this struggle between the English
and the Americans for the ownership of Oregon, but had not thought
it would come to a head quite so soon. He left the men at Fort Walla
Walla as early as he could, and rode back to the little settlement
at Wai-i-lat-pui. There he told his wife and friends the news he had
learned at the trading-post. "If our country is to have Oregon," he
said, "there is not a day to lose."
"But what can we do?" the others asked him.
"I must get to Washington as quick as I can, and let them know the
danger."
His friends understood what that meant, a journey on horseback across
almost an entire continent, through hostile Indians, over great rivers
and mountain ranges, and in the depths of winter. Some one pointed out
that under the rules of the American Mission Board that had sent them
into the far west none of their number could leave his post without
consent from the headquarters in Boston. "Well," said Whitman, "if the
Board dismisses me, I will do what I can to save Oregon to the country.
My life is of but little worth if I can save this country to the
American people."
His wife, a brave, patriotic woman who had shared his hard travels
westward without a murmur, agreed with him that he must go. They all
insisted, however, that he should have a companion. "Who will go with
me?" asked Whitman. In answer a man who had only lately joined the small
encampment, Amos L. Lovejoy, immediately volunteered.
Urging upon their friends the need of keeping the plan a secret from the
Hudson's Bay Company fur-traders, the two men quickly prepared, and left
the camp on October 3d. They had a guide, three pack-mules, and for the
start of their journey an escort of a number of Cayuse braves, men of
an Indian tribe that was not large, but was wealthy, and that seemed to
have taken a liking to Whitman and his friends at the mission settlement.
The leader himself had one fixed idea in his mind, to reach Washington
before Congress adjourned. He was convinced that only through his
account of the riches of Oregon could the government learn what the
country stood in danger of losing.
The little company got a good start, and with fresh horses, riding
southeast toward the border of what is now the state of Idaho, they
reached Fort Hall in eleven days. Here was stationed Captain Grant, who
had always done his best to hinder immigration into Oregon, and had
induced many an American settler to go no farther westward. He knew
Whitman of old, and six years before had tried to stop his expedition to
the Walla Walla River, but Whitman had overcome his arguments, and had
taken the first wagon that ever crossed the Rocky Mountains into Oregon.
As he had tried to prevent Whitman from going west before, so now he
tried to prevent him from going east. He told him that the Blackfeet
Indians had suddenly grown hostile to all white men, that the Sioux and
Pawnees were at war with each other, and would let no one through their
country, and finally that the snow was already twenty feet deep in the
passes of the Rockies, and travel through them was altogether out of the
question.
This information was far from reassuring, and, backed as it was by
Captain Grant's entreaties and almost by his commands, would have
deterred many a man from plunging into that winter wilderness. Whitman,
however, was a man who could neither be turned aside nor discouraged.
His answer to all protests at Fort Hall was to point to the official
permit he had carried west with him, ordering all officers to protect
and aid him in his travels, and signed by Lewis Cass, Secretary of
War, and to declare that he intended to push on east, hostile Indians,
mountains, and blizzards notwithstanding. Captain Grant saw that he
could not stop Whitman, and, much to his chagrin, had to let him pass
the fort.
The route Whitman had plotted out lay first east and then south, in the
general direction of the present site of Salt Lake City. His objective
points were two small military posts, Fort Uintah and Fort Uncompahgra.
As soon as the two men left Fort Hall they ran into terribly cold
weather. The deep snow kept them back, and they had to pick any shelter
they could find, and crawl slowly on, sometimes taking a day to cover
a few miles. At Fort Uintah they procured a guide to the second post,
which was on the Grand River, and at the latter point a Mexican agreed
to show them the way to Taos, a settlement in what is now the state of
New Mexico. So far their southeasterly course had allowed them to skirt
the high mountains, but here they had to cross a range, and in the pass
ran full into a terrific snow-storm.
It was impossible to go forward in the teeth of that gale, so Whitman,
Lovejoy, and their guide looked about for shelter. They found a rocky
defile with a mountain shoulder to protect it, and led their horses and
pack-mules into this pocket. In this dark, cold place they stayed for
ten days, trying each morning to push on through the pass, and being
blown back each time. On the eleventh day the wind had abated somewhat,
and they tried again. They went a short distance when, coming around a
corner, a fresh storm broke full upon them, blinding and freezing the
men, and pelting the animals with frozen snow so that they were almost
uncontrollable.
The native guide now admitted that he was no longer sure of the way,
and refused to go any farther. Clearly the only thing to be done was to
return for the eleventh time to the sheltered ravine. But now the snow
had drifted across their trail, and none of the three men was at all
certain of the road back. Whitman dismounted, and kneeling in the snow,
prayed that they might be saved for the work that they had to do.
Meantime the guide resolved to try an old hunting expedient, and turned
one of the lead mules loose. The mule was confused at first, and
stumbled about, heading one way and then another, but finally started to
plunge back through the drifts as if to a certain goal. "There," shouted
the guide, "that mule will find the camp if he can live long enough in
this storm to reach it." The men urged their horses after the plunging
beast, and slipping and sliding and beating their half-frozen mounts,
at last came around the mountain shoulder and got in the lee of the
ravine. That bit of hunter's knowledge and that mule had much to do with
saving the great northwest to the United States.
Once safe in this comparative shelter the guide turned to Dr. Whitman.
"I will go no farther," said he; "the way is impassable."
Whitman knew that the man meant what he said, and he had just seen for
himself what a storm could do to travelers, but he said as positively in
the ravine as he had already said in the comfortable protection of Fort
Hall, "I must go on." He considered their situation a minute, and then
said to Lovejoy, "You stay in camp, and I'll return with the guide to
the fort and get a new man."
The pack-mules needed rest, and so this plan was agreed to. Whitman and
the obstinate guide went back, while Lovejoy waited in the ravine and
tried to nourish the mules by gathering brush and the inner bark of
willows for them to eat. Fortunately mules can live on almost anything.
For a week Lovejoy stayed in the ravine, only partly sheltered from wind
and snow, before Whitman returned. He brought a new guide with him, and,
the storm having now lessened, the little party was able to get through
the pass and strike out for the post at Taos.
The route Whitman was taking was far from direct, was in fact at least a
thousand miles longer than if they had headed directly east from Walla
Walla, but they were avoiding the highest Rockies, and were traveling
to a certain extent in the shelter of the ranges, where there was much
less snow and plenty of fire-wood could be found. The winter of 1842-43
was very cold, and if they had journeyed direct the continual storms and
lack of all fuel for camp-fires might have caused a different ending
to their cross-country ride. As it was they suffered continually from
frozen feet and hands and ears, and lost a number of days when one or
the other could not sit his saddle.
Traveling far to the south they came to the Grand River, one of the most
dangerous rivers in the west. The current, even in summer, is rapid,
deep, and cold. Now, in winter, solid ice stretched two hundred feet
from either shore, and between the ice was a rushing torrent over two
hundred feet wide.
The guide studied the swift, boiling current, and shook his head. "It's
too risky to try to cross," he declared.
"We must cross, and at once," said Whitman positively. He dismounted,
and, picking out a willow tree near the shore, cut a pole about eight
feet long. He carried this back to his horse, mounted, and put the pole
on his shoulder, gripping it with his left arm. "Now you shove me off,"
he said to the men. Lovejoy and the guide did as he ordered, and Whitman
and his horse were pushed into the stream. They disappeared under the
water, but soon came up, struggling and swimming. In a minute or two the
horse struck rocky bottom and could wade. Whitman jumped off, broke the
ice with his pole, and helped the animal to get to the shore.
Meantime Lovejoy and the guide, breaking the ice on their side, headed
their horses and the pack-mules into the river. Animals in that country
are always ready to follow where their leader goes, and they all swam
and splashed their way across. The men found plenty of wood at hand, and
soon had a roaring fire, by which they camped, and dried out thoroughly
before riding on.
The delays caused by their stay in the mountains and physical hardships
had made their store of provisions run low. At one time they had to
kill a dog that had joined them, and a little later one of the mules
for food. Eating and sleeping little, and pushing on as rapidly as they
could they finally reached the old city of Santa Fé, the metropolis of
the southwest. But here Whitman only stopped long enough to buy fresh
provisions.
They were now heading for Bent's Fort near the head of the Arkansas
River. The storms in the hills were past, and they were riding over
vast treeless prairies, where there was plenty of grass for the horses,
and any amount of wild game if they could have stopped long enough to
replenish their larder with it. Again and again they were forced to
prairie expedients. Once, as they reached one of the tributaries of
the Arkansas River, after a long and tedious day on the plains, they
found the river frozen over with a layer of smooth, clear ice, hardly
strong enough to bear a man. They must have wood, but although there was
plenty of it on the other side, there was none on their shore of the
stream. Whitman took the ax from his kit, and lying down on the thin
ice, contrived with great caution and patience to make his way across.
On the other bank he cut long poles and short cross-pieces. These he
pushed across the ice to Lovejoy, and with them they made enough of a
bridge for the latter to urge the horses and mules to try to cross. They
all got over safely, though with much slipping and splashing. In cutting
his last pole Whitman split the ax-helve. When they camped he bound the
break with a deerskin thong, but that night a thieving wolf found the
ax at the edge of the camp, wanted the fresh deerskin, and dragged away
ax and thong. The loss would have been very serious if it had happened
earlier in their journey.
When they were within four days' ride of Bent's Fort they met a
caravan traveling toward Taos. The leader told Whitman that a party of
mountaineers was about leaving Bent's Fort for St. Louis, but added that
Whitman and Lovejoy, hampered by their pack animals, would not be in
time to join them.