TRIALS OF THE LONG TRAIL; DANGEROUS RIVER
CROSSINGS; THE DEATH OF CATHERINE; WEST OF
THE ROCKIES; SEPARATION OF THE PARTY; NEW
HOMES IN THE OREGON COUNTRY.
The Dust--clouds of which were so dense that oftentimes the leaders
of a team could not be seen--became almost intolerable. Kate adopted
the sensible practice of starting early in the morning with the
carriage and loose cattle so that her mother might escape as much of
it as possible. One day Mulhall saw her riding hastily back to the
team.
"Father," she exclaimed, "Ned has dropped dead in the harness and the
carriage can't go any farther." Craig had been ill for several days
and Mulhall was driving the team. Leaving it to Kate, he rode ahead
to find Catherine in distress and his favorite, trusty horse lying
stiff beside the carriage. Unsaddling Nell and harnessing her
alongside Dick, the Squire started the outfit on the road, advising
Catherine to camp as soon as a suitable place could be found.
The little twin girls had forgotten their loose stock, which by this
time was widely scattered; part of it had gone on with the other
herds, and some was on either side of the road. One old lame cow,
Beckey, had laid down where the carriage stopped {68} and was
unwilling to resume the journey. It was late in the evening when all
came together at the camp; three head of stock were missing; water
could be procured only from a deep ravine half a mile distant; no
fuel was in sight for a camp fire, and "buffalo chips" had
disappeared from near camping grounds.
With Ben's assistance, Kate unyoked both teams and started the oxen,
whose tongues were out from thirst, and such of the loose stock as
could be found, to the ravine for water. The entire party had been
without water for several hours before reaching camp; and how could
they prepare food without it, or fuel or Kate's help? Anyhow the
oxen must have the first attention, and water procured for the camp;
and it was a question whether or not they could get all the oxen out
of the ravine after their thirst had been slacked. It was past
midnight when Kate lay down to rest, and for the first time on the
trip she gave way to grief. Her mother had gone to bed supperless;
Kate had seen for some time that Catherine's strength was failing,
and realized that the strain was likely to become too heavy for her
to bear--a thought which fairly stunned and even terrified her.
Blaming herself for favoring abandonment of the Missouri borne and
undertaking the long trip, nature finally relieved her by deep and
restful sleep.
Mulhall and his fellow travelers had come to dread river crossings
without bridges or established ferries more than the Indians, dust,
the fatigue, lack of {69} grass for the oxen or anything else on the
trail. All were rejoiced to be safely across one, and hopeful that
the next would be less dangerous; but in this they were often doomed
to disappointment.
As they left the sluggish current of the main Platte River to ascend
its chief tributary the North Platte, the current was found to be
swifter as the trail led gradually up the east slope of the Rocky
Mountains. An account of the crossing of one of these, written upon
the spot at the time by W. P. Woods and preserved in his diary, will
illustrate the difficulty and dangers to be surmounted:
Thursday, June 21, 1849--We made an early start and drove 12 miles to
the mouth of Deer Creek, where we found teams crossing the Platte.
Four boats, each consisting of two dug-outs fastened together, had
been made by emigrants who had crossed before and gone on, others
buying their rights and continuing the work. We paid $3 per wagon
for the use of the boats, and swam the oxen.
Just before reaching here the accidental discharge of a gun by a
member of the Pittsburg Company, who was unloading a wagon to make
the crossing, killed a man from Illinois, the ball passing through
the body just above the heart. A man was drowned here yesterday; and
just 12 miles above seven men have been lost in two days while
rafting their wagons across.
Friday, June 22, 1849--We were roused early, and in good season
commenced crossing our wagons. The line for two miles along the
river bank presented as busy an aspect as it ordinarily does in St.
Louis, or any other small town in the States. Wagons in pieces,
boxes and chattels of all kinds made a scene of extraordinary
activity far out in this uninhabited western country.
Our "boat" was called the "Two Follies and Betsy," from their being
two dugouts, with a log between them. Joining forces with the twelve
Cincinnati mule trains, the "boat" started off in style with 30 men
to cordelle it against the current. The men were obliged to work in
the water, which {70} rendered it quite unpleasant; but by 4 o'clock
P.M. we were across, and then drove the oxen down to swim.
With all of our efforts, swimming and wading from that time until
dark, we could only get three of them across; so had at last to let
them return to the shore, and were obliged to keep watch of them
until morning. The water is remarkably swift and cold, the low
temperature probably due to our proximity to the snows of the
mountains. To the south of us, about four miles from the Platte,
there arises a range of very high pine-clad hills, which appears to
terminate in the Laramie Mountains.
Saturday, June 23, 1849--Again resumed our labors by recrossing the
river for the purpose of crossing our ox-teams, but at first with no
better success than the day before. Here we witnessed scenes far
surpassing anything the imagination ever conceived--the long to be
remembered crossing of the Platte. No pencil can portray or pen
depict the scene as it really was.
Fancy for one moment our feelings on observing the vast aggregation
of oxen, mules, horses and wagons mixed indiscriminately with men
clothed, half-clad and even almost naked, encountering the elements
that were temporarily stopping our progress. By about noon we
succeeded in crossing; but both men and teams were extremely
exhausted.
The onlookers witnessed sights ranging from the laughable to the
alarming. In one place six men were assisted ashore by hanging to
the tail of a mule, with a rider on him at that, while in another
case extreme efforts were being made to save a man from drowning. A
boat, with a wagon containing women and children, sank but was saved
by striking a bar.
I was carried by the swift current outside the jam of cattle, and
saved myself by catching hold of the tail of an ox as I passed him,
and letting him tow me to shore. Those scenes are over, though we
shall long remember them. We yoked our teams and drove on over a
very rough sand road for about four miles, where we encamped on the
river hank to feed our oxen and rest ourselves. Many a man here
wishes himself back in the States.[1]
For a considerable sum, Mulhall secured a means of crossing by a
train which had been provided for the emergency; and though not
detained or endangered, {71} was much relieved when safely landed on
the opposite shore. He knew, however, there were two more crossings
of a mighty river on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains about a
thousand miles ahead of them.
Catherine's strength had rapidly declined, and soon after the
crossing just described it became evident that the day of her long
rest was near at hand. Mulhall's first impulse was to stop and camp
until she recovered her strength; but if he dropped out of the
passing throng and was left alone, the peril of Indians would be
greatly increased. He was in the mountains with no permanent
settlements--in fact none on the whole length of the trail beyond the
Missouri; during the winter which would be coming on with heavy falls
of snow, his teams would undoubtedly perish, and his party suffer for
lack of food and shelter.
Taking charge of the carriage himself and driving carefully, he
fancied that Catherine's strength was gaining; but alas, was doomed
to disappointment. The sorrowful end was not long delayed. Among
the fleeting clouds well up on the eastern slope of the Rockies,
nearly a mile and a half in altitude above the home they had left in
old Missouri, they buried her in the shifting sands of the Sweetwater
River Valley. Her last words to Kate, "Take good care of father,"
rang in her ears ever afterward; and she did--loyally and
faithfully--until the last day of his life.
{72}
Nearly prostrated by the calamity that had befallen them, Kate felt
that she did not want to go any farther; but gradually recovered her
sense of duty to the little orphaned sisters, her father and herself.
The anguish in leaving the lone grave can only be known to those who
have been through some such experience; and the thought that the
little mound of sand would soon be leveled by the fierce winds of the
mountain slope added poignance to the already overwhelming grief.
Craig deeply sympathized with the stricken family. Little Sarah, one
of the twins, who was of an age to realize her great loss and yet not
old enough to be resigned--if that age ever arrives--would not be
calmed when the hour of burial came. She clung to the rough box
containing her mother's body, and with pitiable outcries pleaded with
her father, "don't leave her here; _don't; don't!_"
"Child, do you see the rift in yonder mountains?" Craig asked.
Between deep sobs she answered, "Yes."
"That's Split Mountain, two thousand feet high," Craig continued,
"none other like it anywhere in sight of the trail. The two
mountains stand so close together the space between them seems from
here like a black ribbon, although, we know they are many rods apart."
The child fixed her gaze intently on the mountain while Craig
continued, "That is almost exactly north of where your mother's grave
will be; I saw the North Star last evening just above it."
{73}
Craig had arrested the child's attention for the moment, and in a
tone of sympathy asked, "Did you notice those tracks in the stone
made by the wagon wheels just where we turned off the trail to this
camp? They are so deep they will last forever."
Craig had drawn the child's attention away from the bereavement, but
had not arrested her deep grief; and added, "Those tracks will tell
you where to stop to look for your mother's grave, if you ever come
out to search for it when you grow up to be a woman--no others like
them."
This thought impressed the little girl as no other words Craig had
ever spoken. Between the long infrequent, tremulous sighs that could
not be suppressed, she looked imploringly and trustfully into Craig's
eyes while he continued, "You remember that grave we passed marked by
a wagon tire half sunk in the ground?"
"Yes," answered Sarah, hesitating a moment, "I remember the name,
'Rebecca' inscribed on the tire, but have forgotten the other."
"Winters," Craig thought to himself, and then said, "that's it,
Rebecca Winters. Now my little friend, I'll mark your mother's grave
the same way, so you can find it the longest day you live;" and his
own tears dropped on the hand of his little friend, which he held in
his.
The scene was enough to melt a heart of stone; the faltering voice,
the Scotch brogue, the deep sympathy with the distressed child, and
Sarah's {74} trustfulness somewhat relieved the feelings of all, and
the burial was completed in silence. Craig immediately afterwards
disappeared from the camp, and returned after dark with a wagon tire
noticed a few hours before they had camped. It was from one of the
several wagons that had been burned--mute evidence of a massacre
where none were left to tell the story.
Douglas Craig was an all-around, handy man; in his native country he
had worked as a smithy, and was an expert with metals. Early the
next morning echoes of his work could be heard; he was inscribing the
name, "Catherine Mulhall, died 185-; aged fifty-seven."
All day long this labor of love went on with scarcely long enough
intermission for a hasty dinner. Kate and the little girls went out
in search of flowers to decorate the grave, and were rewarded by
finding an abundance of wild roses and several other varieties of the
flora in that region.
Kate noticed a very small but well formed pine tree that seemed
likely to grow into a suitable landmark. The thought came to her
mind that they might transplant it to grow on the grave; and Ben said
they could, without disturbing the roots.
Both busied themselves nearly all day changing the beautiful little
tree to its new home and planted it, with roots undisturbed, at the
head of the grave, with a vigorous wild rose bush. The girls
gathered leaves and decaying wood to mulch the ground. Before
nightfall, the little mound built over the sacred {75} spot was
partially leveled down, covered with flowers and the inscribed wagon
tire set in place.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: A CORRAL AT AN OVERNIGHT STOP ON THE TRAIL THROUGH THE
INDIAN COUNTRY; SEE PAGES 58 and 169]
The illustration shows the nature of the precautions adopted for
defense--soon abandoned when trains began to disintegrate and break
into smaller units, making it easier for the Indiana to attack and
sometimes massacre a company, with a result like that shown in the
illustration opposite page 175.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: ALMOST "DOWN AND OUT"]
Scenes like this were frequent on the Oregon Trail in the 50s, and
are vividly remembered by a few survivors, including the author of
this volume. Many suffered from thirst, hunger and exhaustion,
particularly on long drives through the desert regions; sickness and
death often disrupted or even annihilated families. When wagons were
worn out or broken beyond repair, they were sometimes cut down to
carts or abandoned, and members of the party continued along on foot,
driving their live stock. Most of those who passed through
experiences like this survived the hardships of the overland journey,
and some of them became leading citizens of the Pacific Coast and
Rocky Mountain States.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The throng of moving teams could be traced for miles by the clouds of
dust floating in the air; and the wagons were seen on the trail,
which passed within a half mile of the grave. Both horses lost flesh
until they appeared like skeletons; and it was decided to leave the
carriage there.
Nearly all the horses of the emigrants had died for want of food and
overwork, or both; and Mulhall feared he would soon lose his if
conditions did not improve. He had lost one ox by straying; another,
lamed, was sold to a trader, and now a second one had gone lame. It
became necessary to reduce one team to two yoke, or yoke up an
unbroken cow with the odd ox; the Squire chose the latter
alternative, with one team weakened.
Though at the eastern line of the Oregon Country when the summit of
the Rocky Mountains was crossed, they were not yet half way on the
long journey. Reaching the crest of the Continent at the South Pass,
they camped a short distance off the Trail; and when morning came
found banks of snow in the hollows and on the northern slopes, and
thin ice in the camp bucket.
A month later the party was struggling along the banks of the Snake
River, which had to be crossed twice; and they were still confronted
by the Blue and Cascade Mountain ranges. Apparently it was only a
question of time when Mulhall would be {76} compelled to leave one of
the wagons; this he did at the lower crossing of the Snake River,
where two young pioneers[2] had lashed two wagon-boxes together, and
constructed a platform to enable them to run a wagon onto it and
cross the river without unloading.
Mulhall soon arranged to send over the wagons by this improvised
ferry, swimming the oxen and horses. Ben mounted one of the horses
and rode ahead as a decoy, while Craig and friendly helpers urged the
oxen into the river until deep water was reached, when all followed
Ben's lead and crossed safely. While this was being done, a woman
died from exhaustion, leaving three little orphaned children to the
care of the stricken husband and father--a pathetic incident which
revived Kate's grief.
Men were never more loyal to one another than Ben and Craig were to
Mulhall. From all appearances, they might have been his own sons;
Kate had treated them as brothers and the whole outfit including the
little twins, were like one family.
For several weeks Ben and Craig counseled between themselves as to
the advisability, or possible necessity, of leaving father Mulhall
after the last crossing of the Snake River, and going ahead on foot.
Craig had carefully ascertained the amount of food on hand and
calculated the quantity used each day to supply six persons
constituting the party; and demonstrated to his own mind there was an
insufficient {77} supply for the remainder of the trip, probably at
least another three weeks.
"We ought to go ahead, Ben," Craig said in his broad Scotch brogue,
particularly when considering grave subjects. "The two of us are
consuming one-third of the daily food," he continued; "and, Ben, did
you ever think of what an appalling calamity of famine would have
overtaken us all had it not been for so many[3] dying on the way?"
"Won't you speak to father Mulhall about it?" Ben hesitated to
approach the Squire on the subject lest he might think of the
suggestion as a proposal of desertion. "Well, I'll talk to him,"
Craig said, seeing that Ben was reluctant to do so.
When broached on the subject by Craig, the Squire would not agree to
it at all. The sacrifice and danger to Craig and Ben was too great;
better go upon short rations and all keep together; leave one wagon
and kill one ox--"Anything rather than to have 'the boys' take the
risks and endure such hardships," he said to Kate.
That very morning Kate had given breakfast to two "tramps," who had
been without food for forty hours, "Except a few grasshoppers, but
not many," as one of them, a lad of twelve,[4] naively said, "they
were too hard to catch."
{78}
A near famine now confronted the whole of the emigration; and finally
all agreed that it was best for the two to go ahead on foot as they
had discussed, for the young men could travel farther in one day than
the ox-team could in two. Before reaching a final conclusion Ben and
Kate consulted together, keeping their own counsel as to what passed
between them. Ben and Craig had great respect for the Squire--if
indeed affection would not be the more appropriate word; and it was
with genuine feelings of regret that they parted from him.
On the fifth day, when it was estimated that they were a hundred
miles ahead of "father Mulhall," as they now called him, the young
men met the relief train coming out from Portland to the rescue, and
arranged to have him supplied with such articles of food as they knew
Kate and he needed most. Mulhall received the letter Ben had written
and the provisions with tears of affection for "my boys," as he was
fond of referring to them.
The supplies sent out to relieve the pressing wants of the incoming
pioneers were not for sale, but for relief. If a man could pay, all
right--the money received would be used to purchase more; but the
majority who were unable to do so, were supplied without obligation
as to future payment. Ben and Craig soon felt their strength failing
from reduced rations; so when they heard of supply trains ahead, they
resumed their usual allowance, and soon regained normal condition.
{79}
Knowing that she must be uneasy about him, Ben wrote to his mother at
the end of his journey, and even before he slept under a roof. The
trip had taken nearly two months longer than expected; and now he
learned that another month would be required to send a letter back to
Missouri. Under present circumstances he could not encourage Linda
to think of coming to him, or expect that he could soon return to her.
Would she conclude that his love for her had declined, or lose faith
in him if he wrote of the most insuperable barrier that now lay
between them? At the time it occurred, he had written to Linda the
facts of Kate's and his adventure in crossing the Missouri. The
gossips had wagged their tongues and surmised that because he had
rescued Kate, she would feel under obligations to marry him; and
Squire Mulhall ardently wished that that, or something else, would
bring about such a result.
Ben and Kate were both annoyed, but could do nothing to silence the
busybodies; to deny it would only whet their zeal. So much talk
going the rounds of the camp set Ben to wondering if the same gossip
prevailed in his old neighborhood; and if so whether or not it had
come to Linda's ears.
In this perplexing mood Ben went to bed inside a dwelling for the
first time in more than half a year, and woke up in the morning with
the memory of pleasant dreams of home and Linda. His anxiety to
secure a home in the new country had not abated {80} one jot or
tittle from the time he parted with her on the memorable Sunday
evening before starting with Squire Mulhall for Oregon. The last
words from Linda, "I'll be true to you to the end, Ben," still rang
in his ears as if spoken but yesterday, and had followed him across
the greater part of the continent.
At the parting with Kate he had given up his secret, reluctantly but
prompted by intense loyalty to the girl of his choice. If anything
should happen to him, he wanted Linda to know from Kate of his
undying love for her to the last; and from Kate's own lips, or by
letter from her, the senseless nature of the gossip concerning them.
Another matter he wished to confide to Kate--he was going to Oregon
to secure a home for Linda and himself; and desired to make provision
that Linda should fall heir to it in the event that he should die
before they married. Ben was prompted to these serious thoughts by
the experience of being close to death's door twice on the trip--once
in the near catastrophe while crossing the Missouri, and again at the
buffalo hunt, from both of which he had emerged without serious
consequences.
He regretted to be parted from his mother for her sake and from Linda
for her sake, but took very little thought for himself. The tenets
of endless punishment after death, widely taught in his boyhood days,
never found lodgment in his brain. He believed in a God of love, not
of vengeance; and while clinging {81} to the present for the sake of
those he loved, was resigned at any time to pass to the future life.
Douglas Craig and Benjamin Hardy had become fast friends; their
mutual trials and duties had drawn them closer together as the
journey progressed. "There isn't a lazy bone in Craig's body," the
Squire said to Kate one day, to which she responded that the same
could be said of Ben. Mulhall readily assented, saying that he had
been blessed with "two of the best boys God Almighty ever made;" and
added, "your mother thought the same, God bless her memory." Kate
made no response, but the tears that came to her eyes at the mention
of her mother's name expressed a deep and abiding sorrow.
In the morning Ben learned that it would be eight days before the
next mail to "the States," as the pioneers were accustomed to speak
of all the country east of the Missouri River; and so did not write
to Linda as planned.
"Ben, I've a notion to go with you to hunt a claim," Craig said when
he noticed the preparations Ben was making for the trip. "I don't
like the idea of parting with you just now," he continued; "besides,
maybe it's best for me to take a claim anyway, and not depend
altogether upon working at my trade."
And so the two "boys," who had come down the Columbia River and to
the southern part of the great territory, started off in search of a
home for each. Mulhall had determined to go into the northern {82}
district of the Puget Sound; so they did not expect to meet him until
such time as they learned where he had located. After many days of
searching, the spot that suited them was found, and a line agreed
upon between the two adjoining claims.
"I golly," Ben said, "why can't we build one cabin and locate it for
the line to cut through the middle? You can have your bed in one
end, on your claim, and I can have mine in the other end on my
claim;" and then he added, "if you want to work at your trade a part
of the time you would not lose your residence; and if I"--. But Ben
stopped there, for he was near to revealing his secret, if he had not
already done so by his manner and confusion.
The pact was sealed and the cabin built; and here for the present we
must leave our young friends to trace the fortunes or misfortunes of
Squire Mulhall and his three girls. In due time also we shall learn
whether or not Ben could leave his claim before the four years'
residence required by the law to secure a title; and whether Linda
remained true to him through all that time.
When Ben and Craig passed out of sight over the crest of the hill
ahead, following the trail with packs on their backs, Mulhall could
control his emotion no longer: and tears coursed down his cheeks as
he spoke in a tremulous voice to Kate of their noble character and
self sacrifices. Kate, more demonstrative than her father, gave way
without restraint to manifestation of distress in voice and weeping.
{83} Observing the unusual scene, little Sarah joined with childish
soothing words to Kate and her father; but the more she said the
deeper their distress, until all restraint was abandoned and the
three were relieved by tears and words of praise for the two "boys."
David Mulhall, even though mild-mannered and gentle, was a man with a
stout heart, and fully realized the gravity of the situation
confronting him. It was a race with famine and lingering starvation
or death. If he undertook to increase the speed of travel as some
had done, his oxen would probably fail and leave him without a team;
having noticed several such instances, he resolved to pursue the even
tenor of his way.
The first formidable barrier to be met was the Blue Mountain ranges,
which must be crossed at an altitude of about 4,200 feet; that steep
ascent could not be avoided, and many outfits were stranded along the
slope of the mountain. To lighten the load in the wagon, some
clothing was packed on the horse Ned, while the girls and the Squire
walked.
By a succession of short drives and long rests, the summit was
reached, though a long stretch of rough roads and steep hills was
still ahead. While not hazardous, the descent into the plains
extending to the west and north was tiresome and tedious; it
presented a scene of enchantment seldom equaled--the whole covered by
a carpet of luxurious grass, dotted here and there with bands of
Indian ponies and tepees of Indian villages.
{84}
Mulhall was now about twenty-five miles from the site of the Whitman
Missionary Station, where help was given to all in need until the
fateful day of the massacre, November 29, 1847. Here, at the foot of
the mountain, Mulhall left the trail of Ben and Craig, who had
followed the Columbia route down the river leading to Portland, and
joined the gathering hosts of the migration along the new trail
northward to Puget Sound.
It was a daring and momentous decision. Two formidable barriers were
in the track--the mighty Columbia, the second river in length and
volume of water on the Continent, and the Cascade Range, which proved
to be the most formidable mountain obstruction of the whole trip, far
greater than that of the Rockies.
As they passed the site of the former Whitman Mission, Mulhall
tarried to view the locality which had witnessed the activities of
Dr. Marcus Whitman and his gifted wife, Narcissa Prentiss Whitman, in
their efforts to implant the Christian religion in the breasts of the
Indians, and where they had relieved the suffering of many pioneer
emigrants during eleven years of heroic struggle to maintain their
mission. The day of the supreme sacrifice came unheralded, as
recalled by the grass-grown graves of the thirteen victims, which
Mulhall viewed with bared head in the presence of the three
daughters, who had so recently witnessed the closing of the earth
over the precious remains of their mother. When {85} shown the small
grave and told the story of the drowning of the only child of the
lonesome mother, Narcissa Whitman, Sarah's grief again became
inconsolable, and only with great difficulty was she persuaded to
leave the sacred grounds.
The Columbia River, more than a mile wide and with a swift current,
was directly in their path some thirty miles away. How they were to
cross was not yet definitely known, but it was the general belief
that at the Hudson's Bay Company's fort, situated on the bank of the
river, there would be some means of getting over it.
After two more days of driving, Mulhall drew up to the camp of more
than two hundred detained emigrants. The first train to arrive,
consisting of 148 people with thirty wagons, finding no means of
crossing, undertook to build a boat large enough to carry a loaded
wagon or several oxen.
Driftwood lodged on a sand-bar above the fort furnished the material,
and a whip-saw was set to work cutting the lumber; it ran day and
night, and in eleven days the boat was launched. Then the first
crossing was made, and in four more days all were safely across,
after the loss of fifteen days of precious time.
Whether or not snow in the mountains would block the trail, weighed
heavily upon the minds of the whole company. The abundant grass in
that locality had greatly strengthened the oxen and enabled them to
make good progress, though as no wagons had {86} gone on ahead, it
was necessary at times to stop and open the way. Measured by the
current of the river they must follow, there were still about 200
miles between the crossing of the Columbia and the settlements on
Puget Sound, about 100 of the whole following mountain streams.
Evidences of that drive through the gorges had been left, sometimes
on sand-bars with rounded boulders imbedded in the sand, and then in
the shallow streams. Other marks had been made on slippery boulders,
until deep water compelled the emigrants[5] to cross the river or
open a road through the timber and underbrush--one alternative and
then another, until 62 crossings of the river were thus crudely
recorded.
Just beyond the summit, a rim of almost perpendicular rock was
encountered, so steep that it was impossible to drive the wagons down
the declivity. Three steers were killed, and their hides cut into
strips to lengthen the ropes assembled from the train; in that way
thirty wagons were let down the mountain with the loss of only one of
them. The tree used as a snubbing post was deeply encircled by the
wear of the ropes and finally killed; but it stood {87} sentinel over
the scene for another quarter of a century.
When Mulhall emerged from the deep forests of the foothills west of
the Cascade Mountain range, he was fairly dazed at the sight that
confronted him; and could scarcely believe his eyes. The evergreen
trees were so tall and dense that they obscured the light and made it
difficult to read common print at the noon hour, while the bright
shining sun spread light and warmth over the tops of the forest
giants. All through the mountains, the eyes of the pioneers had
become accustomed to a lesser light than they had encountered in the
open country.
That forest is one of the greatest and most notable on the Continent
or in the world. Giant firs grow to a height of three hundred feet;
large numbers of them measure six feet, with here and there one eight
and in rare cases even twelve feet, in diameter. A monster tree
fifteen and a half feet through at the base, and probably a thousand
years old, could be seen as one laboriously followed the trail.
The mind of the Squire was affected in just about the same way as if
he had suddenly emerged from a dark room into bright sunlight, with
his eyes dimmed by the glare; it required time to recover and grasp
the change. He had arrived at what is locally known as "Elk Plains"
on the eastern margin of the famed Nisqually Plains, a wide extent of
prairie country extending to the Nisqually River, twenty miles away
to the south and nearly that distance to Puget Sound {88} on the
west. The whole intervening space was interspersed with numerous
small, clear lakes with pebbly bottoms into which the creeks emptied
their limpid waters.
Occasionally a creek would issue from a lake fed by springs in the
bottom; in other cases there was no inlet or outlet, and yet the
water was as pure and sparkling as that running in the creeks. Here
and there were small groves of evergreen timber surrounded by the
prairies to lend enchantment to the landscape, a veritable fairy-land
in the eyes of the wearied pioneers. Unexpectedly, off to the east,
a large number of sheep were seen quietly grazing on the stunted
grass that covered the soil.
Starting to drive toward one of the lakes, Mulhall suddenly came upon
a herd of cattle that fled at the sight of his wagon and took refuge
in a near-by grove. Kate was sure she saw three deer fleeing with
the cattle--the latter now as wild as any creature that roamed the
plains. At about the same time, a band of Indian ponies was suddenly
encountered, as the outfit rounded a point of timber; the wild scene
was then re-enacted as the ponies, with heads and tails in the air,
snorted and ran.
The sight of the deer fired Kate's imagination; she thought of the
rifle in the wagon, but could not stop to try her hand on the game of
that region. She thought of Ben, who had saved her life--and Pelton
too. No flowers could grow in the deep forests; but here on the
prairies and margins of the lakes and {89} creeks many species, the
wild rose predominating, grew to perfection. The little sisters
eagerly picked some of the first flowers they had found for many
weeks, and brought them to Kate as they had formerly done to their
mother.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Photograph from Washington Historical Society, Tacoma
[Illustration: MONUMENT TO BE SEEN ALONG THE CLOVER CREEK HIGHWAY,
ABOUT TEN MILES SOUTH OF TACOMA, WASHINGTON]
Here, in Mr. Meeker's story, Kate Mulhall unyoked her oxen for the
last time: see page 89. The inscription on the monument will be
found on the reverse of this leaf.
[Over]
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Fac-simile of inscription upon the monument shown on the reverse
of this leaf:
OCTOBER
1853 1913
COMMEMORATING
THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY
OF THE ARRIVAL OF THE
FIRST EMIGRANT TRAIN
COMING DIRECT TO THE
PUGET SOUND VIA THE
NATCHESS PASS. THEY
MADE THEIR LAST CAMP
OCT. 8TH 1853 ON THE
BANK OF CLOVER CREEK
THREE FOURTHS OF
A MILE SOUTH OF THIS
MONUMENT
ERECTED BY
WASHINGTON STATE HIST-
ORICAL SOCIETY--PIERCE COUNTY
PIONEER SOCIETY MEMBERS--DE-
SCENDANTS AND FRIENDS OF
THE NATCHESS EMIGRANT TRAIN
[Over]
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The Squire soon came to the camp[6] on the margin of a creek, where
he found more than half of the pioneers who had gone on ahead; and
here, about twelve miles from Puget Sound, Kate unyoked her oxen for
the last time. A fine carcass of beef had been sent there for them
by the Chief Factor of the Hudson's Bay Company with the message,
"divide this among yourselves;" and a near-by farmer brought a
wagon-load of vegetables to give out "free for everybody." Just then
a team arrived from the fort with sugar, salt and other provisions,
of which they were greatly in need, and told the pioneers to help
themselves.
All day and well into the night stragglers came in, some with teams
and others with packs on their backs--all tired and hungry. Fearing
that their teams might be unable to climb the hill out of the valley,
a few had stopped at the last river crossing, and early next morning
an expedition was sent to assist them.
As evening fell, all were safely camped together, with the
consolation that not one life had been lost in the struggle over the
mountain range. All of the {90} 148 attended a prayer-meeting held
by the light of the camp-fires; the pent-up feelings of emotion were
usually accompanied by silent tears of joy, though some gave way to
boisterous manifestations of thankfulness for deliverance from the
hazards of the trail.
Kate's spirits had risen; but not so with her father, who had made
the perilous trip to secure a home and a farm. This charming region
was suitable only for grazing, and besides was in possession of a
foreign corporation. He was now in a strange land, without shelter
for his family of girls or ready money, and so far as he knew without
credit; with winter approaching, he could not stay in camp very long,
and as he said afterwards, "I was stumped to know what to do."
A large majority of those who crossed the mountains with him were in
the same state of perplexity. "I do not believe in that old saying,
'misery loves company.' To be sure, I did love that company of noble
men and women, but not because they faced the trials that confronted
me," was spoken many years later in a reminiscent mood. Mulhall
could not help being relieved at the happiness of the girls,
especially the twins or "little buds," as he fondly called them.
Sarah had recovered from the shock that so depressed her upon the
death of her mother, and would often refer to her with tears of
affection. Not being old enough to enter deeply into or think
seriously of the cares of life, the girls often joyfully roamed the
{91} byways of the trail in search of flowers or anything new.
"Mamma, what kind of a bird is this?" both asked at once. They had
now become accustomed to calling Kate "mamma," and she had not
discouraged them in doing so.
"That's a young robin," Kate answered, as she held the little bird in
the palm of her hand; "where did you get it?" "Mayn't we keep it as
a pet?" Sarah anxiously inquired.
"Yes," Kate answered, "but not as a prisoner;" and added, "it would
be better off with its mother, don't you think?"
"But its mother wasn't there; we found it on the grass and it
couldn't fly," both again spoke at once.
"Yes, but I am sure the mother was taking watchful care of her little
one," said Kate. The girls had set their hearts on having a pet, but
agreed that it was not right to take the young bird away, and
cheerfully returned it to the spot where they found it; after
watching awhile they saw the mother bird come and feed the little one.
The same evening the girls fairly raced to see who should first tell
the story of an apron full of nuts they had found, and now exhibited
them to "mam-ma." "Where did you find them, girls?" Kate asked. "In
a hollow tree, the cutest little place you ever saw," Bess answered.
"But that was the winter store of a squirrel; would it be right to
rob the treasure of the squirrel, which {92} might starve before
winter ended?" The girls hadn't thought of it in that light; next
morning without any further word from "mamma," they returned the nuts
to the "cute squirrel's nest," and then started off for new
adventures and discoveries. All of them were greatly benefited by
the vigorous outdoor life; the father was delighted to see the rosy
cheeks of the little girls and the returned sparkle in Kate's eyes.
"I have in my pocket a document that would be worth thousands of
dollars back in Missouri; but here, where there are no banks, it is
not worth the paper it is written on. What is the good of it if one
can't get the money the writing calls for? No more than a pile of
gold two thousand miles away from anything to eat," he said ruefully
to Kate.
He was not going to be idle; but the more Mulhall looked over the
near-by country, the less he liked it. Passing nearby the Hudson's
Bay Company's fort he decided to go in and thank the Chief Factor for
the beef sent to the pioneers; and to his surprise found a large
stock of well assorted merchandise on the shelves of the store and
numerous customers, principally Indians, buying or bartering furs for
goods.
Asked if he wanted to purchase anything, he answered that he had no
money, whereupon the clerk, Edward Huggins, surmising that he had
something to barter, suggested that he see the Chief Factor. The
Squire hadn't the least thought of buying anything when he went into
the fort; but he did want to see {93} the head official and thank him
for the beef. He met Dr. William F. Tolmie, a slightly corpulent man
with flowing locks and an almost florid complexion, who spoke with a
Scotch brogue and had the bearing of a kindly gentleman.
"Oh, that's nothing at all," he said in response to Mulhall's
expression of thanks; "you could have had much more than that if you
needed it." As the thought of the paper in his pocket and the
possibility of using it to establish a credit flashed through his
mind, he produced the precious document and handed it to the Factor.
A look of surprise followed the examination, for it represented a
large sum for that time and place. "Do you want the money on this?"
the head official quietly asked, to which Mulhall--fairly stunned and
for once off his guard--replied, "Not all of it now, but I do
urgently need some immediate supplies." "You can have either
supplies or cash as may best suit your convenience--all of it, or
part as you may wish, though we would be perfectly willing that you
take all of it."
After a dinner with the Factor while dressed in his well-worn
plainsman's garb, which the host appeared not to notice, the business
was consummated; and Mulhall received from the great Company a
certificate of deposit payable on demand. A cart was loaded with
supplies and dispatched to his camp, and a servant was directed to
take him to it. Mulhall arrived there first, and found Kate a little
dejected, as {94} the flour was all gone and only vegetables were in
sight for the coming meal.
She was surprised when the Squire leaned over her and imparted a kiss
of joy at having rescued his little family from want, while the girls
stood near-by in silent wonder. The pressing situation had been
carefully concealed from the children, who were now accustomed to
being limited in the variety of food; and when told that they could
not have bread for supper, thought nothing of it. They were always
associated with the memory of the cherished wife and mother now
peacefully sleeping in the sands of the Sweetwater Valley near the
summit of the Rocky Mountains; and "let them be happy" ran in the
minds of both their father and Kate.
Within two years after Mulhall had completed this to him important
arrangement, a very different scene was enacted a few miles distant.
The American Government at that time began dealing with the Indians
in the country west of the Cascade Mountains as tribes by making a
treaty[7] with them; and a sorry mess was made of it by adopting the
policy of driving the hardest possible bargains regardless of the
future welfare of the Indian or the white race. Before another year
elapsed a small war followed, with massacres of whites and Indians
alike, a situation in which Mulhall became deeply involved.
The great Hudson's Bay Company that so long ruled the Oregon Country
was an English corporation, {95} with headquarters in London; it was
incorporated May 2, 1670, for the purpose of trading with the Indians
of North America. Owing its origin and growth primarily to the fur
business, it did not undertake to develop the agricultural
possibilities of the country, a policy which had a far-reaching
effect upon the history of that region.
Had the Company encouraged settlement, as the Americans did when they
arrived from the eastern and central western States, the final
solution of the question as to which Government would come into final
ownership of the Pacific Northwest might, and probably would, have
been different. It is generally believed that the firm hold of the
American home builders influenced the minds of the English statesmen
to yield in the final negotiations; they could not very well displace
the large numbers of Americans who came to stay and build up the
country.
Wishing to avoid legal complications in the region where Mulhall and
his comrades had landed, the management of the Company had organized
a subsidiary under the name of the Puget Sound Agricultural Company;
and thus thinly disguised, occupied the Nisqually Plains with their
sheep, cattle and horses, plowed the fields and erected cabins, but
for occupancy by employes instead of independent home builders. The
Factors (managers) of the Corporation were cultured gentlemen, known
for their fair dealings alike with Indians and white people,
following the policy of the parent organization; and it was {96} with
the head official in that district that the Squire had dealt.
After the arrival of the cart loaded with supplies from the fort,
Kate sent part of them to several pioneer families that yet remained
in camp, and then revised the plan for their own dinner. Most of the
big company had scattered, some to the timber camps, others to the
shores of the Sound where shell fish abounded and a few to claims,
already chosen, upon which they proposed to make their future homes.
The first and most urgent problem was that of shelter for so many new
arrivals. In one notable instance a large hollow cedar stump served
as "home" for a family of six until the husband and father was killed
by the Indians. The pathos of that story, with many a parallel in
American history, is mentioned here to illustrate the difficulties
and dangers encountered by the emigration of which the Squire and his
family were a part.
After dinner Mulhall and Kate took counsel far into the night, while
the little girls were sleeping on their beds of boughs as peacefully
as in a palace. The faint yelping of a pack of coyotes in the
distance could be heard; and the cougar (closely allied to the
American panther) that infested the country, was abroad seeking his
prey. But Kate and her father paid no heed except to the all
important subject as to their future; and it was midnight before a
final conclusion was reached.
The opening of a farm under the varied and often {97} trying
conditions prevailing in that region was very different from what
they had been accustomed to in Missouri; and Mulhall was past the
meridian of life. Why should he undergo a long period of toil to
secure a competence, when he was possessed of sufficient means to
live without the sacrifices incident to pioneer life on a new
homestead?
Kate said, "Let's go to the county town where the girls can attend
school and there are neighbors;" her father was of the same mind and
that question was speedily settled. Then they thought of Ben Hardy,
to whom Mulhall had promised one of the teams upon their arrival in
Oregon as extra compensation for his services in crossing over the
trail. Not a word had passed between them about that understanding
at the parting of the Snake River, after which the Squire was reduced
to one team, and it was doubtful whether or not he could complete the
long journey with the one that was left.
"If I only knew where to reach him, I would send him enough money to
buy a team," said Mulhall. Ben had gone into southern Oregon while
the Squire had moved into the northern part, several hundred miles
away; they might be five hundred or even a thousand miles apart, for
Oregon was a big country without roads or the means of speedy
communication. Where Ben had settled, or whither he had gone, was a
problem difficult to solve.
Kate said, "I hear there is a newspaper in Oregon; let's advertise."
Mulhall thought a better plan {98} would be to secure a list of post
offices and address a letter for Ben to all of them; "Anyway," the
Squire said, "we must not leave a stone unturned till we find the
boy." Both retired to sleep and forgot their fortunes or
misfortunes, but with a firm resolution to find Ben if they could.
Following the decision to remove to the county town, Mulhall soon
purchased a nearly finished house at the county seat. The thriving
village, built upon a slope facing west and fronting on a wide bay of
Puget Sound, presented a charming view of the distant range of
mountains bordering on the sea with perpetual snow-mantled peaks; the
landscape of dark evergreen forest covered the islands and mainland
in the nearer view.
The wide bay was dotted with Indian canoes floating on the tide twice
each day; and at intervals a ship would pass or drop anchor in front
of the village to discharge freight or barter for a cargo of timber.
The fort, a group of log cabins situated a short distance back from
the water-front and out of sight of it, commanded a splendid view of
the landscape.
In the farther background, west of the Cascade Range, was Mount
Rainier, completely encircled with a wonderland of timber and
flowers--once seen never forgotten, and always cherished as the sight
of a life-time. That majestic mountain of the American Continent,
"kingly and alone," a great dome separated from the mountain range,
standing nearly three miles high and covered with perpetual snow, is
the father {99} of seven rivers and twenty-eight glaciers, and has a
base of several hundred square miles. The alpine flower beds are
simply wonderful to contemplate; according to John Muir, there are
two hundred square miles between the timber and the summer snow-line
circling the dome, with literally several thousand varieties of
flowers, some of which force themselves up through the receding snow.
Kate at once took up the task of searching for Ben. Writing the
first two words, "Dear Ben," she stopped to ask herself might he not
think she penned them with a deeper meaning than merely a friendly
beginning of a letter? However, Ben was dear to her; he had saved
her life, had been loyal to her father, was always kind to all,
industrious and truthful.
Before she had time to fully analyze what was passing in her mind,
Kate began to realize that she was thinking of Ben more than as a
brother. Her pen hovered over the paper; but she finally laid it
down with nothing more than the two words already written. That
evening at supper Kate asked her father if it would not be best for
him to write to Ben.
"Oh, no! You know I scarcely ever write a letter; besides I am very
busy on the house," replied Mulhall. "You write, Kate, it's just as
well." The Squire did not have the least suspicion of why she should
want him to write to Ben instead of doing so herself. If he had, the
more he would have preferred {100} that Kate write, for he sincerely
wished that she should marry the "dear boy," as he always thought of
him.
Kate did not undertake to write to Ben that night, and the paper with
the two words on it remained on her table untouched. The idea that
Ben might interpret them in a different way from what she intended
would not down, while she half realized that they meant more to her
than she was willing to acknowledge. Not for mountains of gold would
she betray the secret Ben had confided to her, and stand between his
love for her very dear friend, Linda Shaeffer.
But Linda was more than two thousand miles away, with what Kate
thought an insuperable barrier between them. The paper with the
words "Dear Ben," was kept for several days without another word
being added to it; and in fact the letter was never written. Kate
hesitated to trust herself.
Hadn't she now abandoned all hope for the fruition of her first love,
with a pang of regret and bitterness as she thought of Pelton? She
would resolve never to marry, but hereafter devote her life to
altruistic work for young girls. Kate had no knowledge of Isaac's
resolution, while at that very moment he, with the one absorbing
purpose in his mind, was feverishly carrying out plans to make the
trip to Oregon and win her for his wife.
A few days later an advertisement appeared in the two Oregon
newspapers asking Benjamin Hardy to communicate with David Mulhall at
a certain post {101} office, and learn something of interest to him.
As weeks passed without response, the Squire and Kate were greatly
worried, and wondered if some accident had befallen him. She then
began writing to postmasters with no better results.
Kate was almost in despair. Might it not be possible that he had
found a good location, taken up a claim and then started back to
Missouri for Linda? More weeks passed, then months; and yet not a
word came. There was ever a warm corner in her heart for the
playmate and companion of bygone school days; and she would never
relax her efforts to unravel the mystery of his strange disappearance.
Ben was hard at work, in ignorance of the search for him; but often
wondered what had befallen father Mulhall, as he always thought of
the Squire, Kate and the little girls after their separation on the
Snake River. He had written to Linda, but months elapsed and no
answer had come. Though often alone in his cabin with only one
neighbor in sight, he was too busy to be lonesome; Craig was off
working at his trade most of the time while Ben was making
improvements on both of their claims.
Once a month Craig would bring supplies to the cabin, stay over
Sunday and then be off again. They sorely needed a team; and Craig
was gradually saving so that they might be able to buy one by
planting time in the spring. Ben gave no thought to the
understanding by which he was to get a team from Mulhall; he would
have rejoiced to hear of the safe {102} arrival and good fortune of
the kind-hearted family which had treated him so tenderly in his
sickness and, as he believed, saved his life.
Ben had written a second letter to Linda, receiving no reply; but
attributed the delay to the slow and uncertain mail service. He was
now in vigorous health, gaining in weight to surprise even himself;
the pale spare face disappeared and a ruddy complexion took its
place. Pure Oregon air, simple diet and steady work had developed
him so that an old-time acquaintance would hardly have known him.
At last a letter written in a spirit of gloomy forebodings, came from
Linda. She had heard of the misfortunes of the Mulhalls, and could
not see how she could ever reach Oregon; but remembered her vow to be
ever loyal and true to Ben no matter what happened.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: REDUCED TO A HAND CART]
A considerable number of Mormons traveled to Salt Lake City as shown
in this illustration; described on pages 48-49.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] While somewhat unusual to insert a quotation in a work of this
character, no better description of the difficulties and dangers of
crossing the Platte in pioneer times has been, or is ever likely to
be written. E.M.
[2] Edward J. Allen and Ezra Meeker, the author of this historical
narrative.--Editor.
[3] It is estimated that fully 5,000 died that year on the Oregon
Trail.
[4] The author knew the lad who made the remark and of his
experience; he was afterward a successful merchant in Tacoma,
Washington.
[5] The author personally knew a large majority of the people in that
train, several of whom became prominent in the affairs of the
Territory just founded, among them the actual personalities
represented in this story by David Mulhall and his daughter Kate. Of
the 148 comprising it, not one of the adults is now left, and only
two or three of the younger members who vividly remember these
events; their generation has nearly passed, but the memories of their
deeds fortunately remain. E.M.
[6] A granite monument, suitably inscribed, erected by the State of
Washington to perpetuate the memory and location of this camp,
attests the importance of the event. See illustration and
inscription inserted here. E.M.
[7] The Medicine Creek Treaty, December 26, 1854.
{103}