That noted pioneer, General John Bidwell, of California, once made a
longish step up the western slope of our American Parnassus by an account
of his journey "across the plains" seven years before the lamented Mr.
Marshall had found the least and worst of all possible reasons for making
the "trek." General Bidwell had not the distinction to be a great writer,
but in order to command admiration and respect in that province of the
Republic of Letters which lies in the Sacramento Valley above the mouth of
the Yuba the gift of writing greatly is a needless endowment. Nevertheless
I read his narrative with an interest which on analysis turns out to be a
by-product of personal experience: among my youthful indiscretions was a
journey over much of the same ground, which I took in much the same
way--as did many thousands before and after.
It was a far cry from 1841 to 1866, yet the country between the Missouri
River and the Sierra Nevada had not greatly improved: civilization had
halted at the river, awaiting transportation. A railroad had set out from
Omaha westward, and another at Sacramento was solemnly considering the
impossible suggestion of going eastward to meet it. There were lunatics in
those days, as there are in these. I left the one road a few miles out of
the Nebraskan village and met the other at Dutch Flat, in California.
Waste no compassion on the loneliness of my journey: a thriving colony of
Mormons had planted itself in the valley of Salt Lake and there were
"forts" at a few points along the way, where ambitious young army officers
passed the best years of their lives guarding live stock and teaching the
mysteries of Hardee's tactics to that alien patriot, the American regular.
There was a dusty wagon road, bordered with bones--not always those of
animals--with an occasional mound, sometimes dignified with a warped and
rotting head-board bearing an illegible inscription. (One inscription not
entirely illegible is said to have concluded with this touching tribute to
the worth of the departed: "He was a good egg." Another was: "He done his
damnedest") In other particulars the "Great American Desert" of our
fathers was very like what it was when General Bidwell's party traversed
it with that hereditary instinct, that delicacy of spiritual nose which
served the Western man of that day in place of a map and guide-book.
Westward the course of empire had taken its way, but excepting these poor
vestiges it had for some fifteen hundred miles left no trace of its march.
The Indian of the plains had as yet seen little to unsettle his assurance
of everlasting dominion. Of the slender lines of metal creeping slowly
toward him from East and West he knew little; and had he known more, how
could he have foreseen their momentous effect upon his "ancient solitary
reign"?
I remember very well, as so many must, some of the marked features of the
route that General Bidwell mentions. One of the most imposing of these is
Court House Rock, near the North Platte. Surely no object of such dignity
ever had a more belittling name--given it in good faith no doubt by some
untraveled wight whose county court-house was the most "reverend pile" of
which he had any conception. It should have been called the Titan's
Castle. What a gracious memory I have of the pomp and splendor of its
aspect, with the crimson glories of the setting sun fringing its outlines,
illuminating its western walls like the glow of Mammon's fires for the
witches' revel in the Hartz, and flung like banners from its crest!
I suppose Court House Rock is familiar enough and commonplace enough to
the dwellers in that land (riparian tribes once infesting the low lands of
Ohio and Indiana and the flats of Iowa), but to me, tipsy with youth,
full-fed on Mayne Reid's romances, and now first entering the enchanted
region that he so charmingly lied about, it was a revelation and a dream.
I wish that anything in the heavens, on the earth, or in the waters under
the earth would give me now such an emotion as I experienced in the shadow
of that "great rock in a weary land."
I was not a pilgrim, but an engineer _attaché_ to an expedition through
Dakota and Montana, to inspect some new military posts. The expedition
consisted, where the Indians preserved the peace, of the late General W.B.
Hazen, myself, a cook and a teamster; elsewhere we had an escort of
cavalry. My duty, as I was given to understand it, was to amuse the
general and other large game, make myself as comfortable as possible
without too much discomfort to others, and when in an unknown country
survey and map our route for the benefit of those who might come after.
The posts which the general was to inspect had recently been established
along a military road, one end of which was at the North Platte and the
other--there was no other end; up about Fort C.F. Smith at the foot of the
Big-Horn Mountains the road became a buffalo trail and was lost in the
weeds. But it was a useful road, for by leaving it before going too far
one could reach a place near the headwaters of the Yellowstone, where the
National Park is now.
By a master stroke of military humor we were ordered to return (to
Washington) via Salt Lake City, San Francisco and Panama. I obeyed until I
got as far as San Francisco, where, finding myself appointed to a second
lieutenancy in the Regular Army, ingratitude, more strong than traitors'
arms, quite vanquished me: I resigned, parted from Hazen more in sorrow
than in anger and remained in California.
I have thought since that this may have been a youthful error: the
Government probably meant no harm, and if I had served long enough I might
have become a captain. In time, if I lived, I should naturally have become
the senior captain of the Army; and then if there were another war and any
of the field officers did me the favor to paunch a bullet I should become
the junior major, certain of another step upward as soon as a number of my
superiors equal to the whole number of majors should be killed, resign or
die of old age--enchanting prospect! But I am getting a long way off the
trail.
It was near Fort C.F. Smith that we found our first buffaloes, and
abundant they were. We had to guard our camp at night with fire and sword
to keep them from biting us as they grazed. Actually one of them
half-scalped a teamster as he lay dreaming of home with his long fair hair
commingled with the toothsome grass. His utterances as the well-meaning
beast lifted him from the ground and tried to shake the earth from his
roots were neither wise nor sweet, but they made a profound impression on
the herd, which, arching its multitude of tails, absented itself to
pastures new like an army with banners.
At Fort C.F. Smith we parted with our _impedimenta_, and with an escort of
about two dozen cavalrymen and a few pack animals struck out on horseback
through an unexplored country northwest for old Fort Benton, on the upper
Missouri. The journey was not without its perils. Our only guide was my
compass; we knew nothing of the natural obstacles that we must encounter;
the Indians were on the warpath, and our course led us through the very
heart of their country. Luckily for us they were gathering their clans
into one great army for a descent upon the posts that we had left behind;
a little later some three thousand of them moved upon Fort Phil Kearney,
lured a force of ninety men and officers outside and slaughtered them to
the last man. This was one of the posts that we had inspected, and the
officers killed had hospitably entertained us.
In that lively and interesting book, "Indian Fights and Fighters," Dr.
Cyrus Townsend Brady says of this "outpost of civilization":
"The most careful watchfulness was necessary at all hours of the day and
night. The wood trains to fetch logs to the sawmills were heavily guarded.
There was fighting all the time. Casualties among the men were by no means
rare. At first it was difficult to keep men within the limits of the camp;
but stragglers who failed to return, and some who had been cut off,
scalped and left for dead, but who had crawled back to die, convinced
every one of the wisdom of the commanding officer's repeated orders and
cautions. To chronicle the constant succession of petty skirmishes would
be wearisome; yet they often resulted in torture and loss of life on the
part of the soldiers, although the Indians in most instances suffered the
more severely."
In a footnote the author relates this characteristic instance of the
Government's inability to understand: "Just when the alarms were most
frequent a messenger came to the headquarters, announcing that a train _en
route_ from Fort Laramie, with special messengers from that post, was
corraled by Indians, and demanded immediate help. An entire company of
infantry in wagons, with a mountain howitzer and several rounds of
grapeshot, was hastened to their relief. It proved to be a train with mail
from the Laramie Commission, announcing the confirmation of a
'satisfactory treaty of peace with all the Indians of the Northwest,' and
assuring the district commander of the fact. The messenger was brought in
in safety, and _peace_ lasted until his message was delivered. So much was
gained--that the messenger did not lose his scalp."
Through this interesting environment our expeditionary force of four men
had moved to the relief of the beleaguered post, but finding it impossible
to "raise the siege" had--with a score of troopers--pushed on to Fort C.F.
Smith, and thence into the Unknown.
The first part of this new journey was well enough; there were game and
water. Where we swam the Yellowstone we had an abundance of both, for the
entire river valley, two or three miles wide, was dotted with elk. There
were hundreds. As we advanced they became scarce; buffalo became scarce;
bear, deer, rabbits, sage-hens, even prairie dogs gave out, and we were
near starving. Water gave out too, and starvation was a welcome state: our
hunger was so much less disagreeable than our thirst that it was a real
treat.
However, we got to Benton, Heaven knows how and why, but we were a
sorry-looking lot, though our scalps were intact. If in all that region
there is a mountain that I have not climbed, a river that I have not swum,
an alkali pool that I have not thrust my muzzle into, or an Indian that I
have not shuddered to think about, I am ready to go back in a Pullman
sleeper and do my duty.
From Fort Benton we came down through Helena and Virginia City,
Montana--then new mining camps--to Salt Lake, thence westward to
California. Our last bivouac was on the old camp of the Donner party,
where, in the flickering lights and dancing shadows made by our camp-fire,
I first heard the story of that awful winter, and in the fragrance of the
meat upon the coals fancied I could detect something significantly
uncanny. The meat which the Donner party had cooked at that spot was not
quite like ours. Pardon: I mean it was not like that which we cooked.