Tuesday, May 16.
The boys sat up with the corpse last night. I stayed with Gus. We had
only just shut ourselves in when a terrific storm came upon us; the
wind blew, and the rain fell in torrents. Before eleven o’clock it had
passed; soon after Gus slept heavily. It seemed hours before I slept.
Very early this morning Gus awakened me praying. How surely do the
sorrows of this life drive us to the mercy-seat for comfort, refuge and
strength.
“Had earth no thorns among its flowers,
And life no fount of tears,
We might forget our better home
Beyond this vale of tears.”
What a precious, what a comforting, satisfying faith the Presbyterian
faith must be, if one can really and conscientiously accept it.
According to their belief one never dies, nothing ever happens without
God’s providence, approval, and foreknowledge that it will happen in
just that way.
I wish I could accept such a faith, and believe it, but I cannot. I do
not believe it was ordained that Mr. Milburn should die in that way
and at that time. I believe it was an accident that might have been
prevented by the most trivial circumstance. The laws of nature are
inexorable. If a bullet is shot into a vital part of the body it kills.
Yet God is able to bring good out of this seemingly great and grievous
evil. I do not know which suffers most--the poor boy whose gun did the
deed or Gus. They seem to take comfort in each other’s society, and are
together the most of the time to-day. I am so sorry for both of them.
The funeral services of the Presbyterian Church were held at two
o’clock this afternoon, a resident minister officiating. Mr. Milburn
was very nicely laid away, and his grave marked and enclosed with a
neat, strong fence before Gus and I left the cemetery. The people have
been so very kind. The funeral was largely attended for a stranger in
a strange place. There is no telegraph office here, so we have had to
write letters instead of sending telegrams.
I believe Gus’s plans are to go on with us to the Missouri River, sell
her outfit, and return home by steamboat down the Missouri River, up
the Mississippi to Canton, where friends will meet her and go with her
to Etna.
* * * * *
Wednesday, May 17.
Another night with Gus. She wakes in the morning to weep. We started
once more on our now sad journey. I have ridden with Gus all day. We
do not hear the sound of song and laughter as we did last week; we all
seem to be under a pall. We came through Redoak this morning, are
camping in a beautiful place, near a pleasant, homelike farmhouse. The
weather is perfect.
* * * * *
Thursday, May 18.
The friends that stayed with us Sunday night told us that the
authorities are not allowing emigrants to take the northern route,
because of the Indian depredations that have been committed on that
route. That if we went to Council Bluffs we would have to come down the
river to Platsmouth to get on the southern route. So we changed our
course accordingly.
We came through Whitecloud, Glenwood and Pacific City to-day. At
Whitecloud I made a few purchases, traded with a little German merchant
who crossed the plains a year ago; he says we have a delightful trip
before us. He expects to go again to the Rocky Mountains, and make his
home there, as soon as he can sell out and settle up his business here.
Just before we came to Glenwood, as the girls passed on their ponies,
Gus said to me, “Sallie, go ride your pony, too; you have not had a
ride for several days. Pardon me if I have been selfish in my great
sorrow.”
“No, Gus, I would rather stay with you than to ride Dick, as long as
you need me.”
“Thank you, dear; your company has been very grateful to me, but now I
would really enjoy seeing you ride through Glenwood.”
To please her, and myself, too, I soon had saddled and mounted Dick and
overtaken the girls. As we were riding through Glenwood a photographer
sent a messenger to request us to “Please stop five minutes and let
him take our picture.” We rode to the position indicated, doffed our
sun-bonnets, and looked as pleasant as we could. We did not wait to see
the proof, and I expect he was disappointed.
Pacific City is on the Missouri bottom, or lowlands. Above the town are
the highest bluffs I have ever seen. We hitched our ponies and climbed
to the top. The view was magnificently grand, the sun sinking in the
west, the river could be seen in the distance, with large trees on the
banks, the lowland between the bluffs and the trees was dotted with
cattle and horses grazing, here and there a pond or small lake with its
waters shining and sparkling in the glimmering sunset, the city below
us in the shadow of the bluffs. Everything was so sweet and peaceful,
we were more than paid for our climb. The wagons had passed before we
came down, so we mounted and hastened to overtake them before driving
into camp.