through the pendent leaves of the stately poplars. But the moonlit
atmosphere was rife with strange sighings and moanings and whisperings,
as from the ghostly lake out of sight below the camp. These sounds may
have been water-fowl; William New and other trappers and voyageurs
in both parties said that they were “spirits” and “medicine”; Jacob
Dodson, the young colored man, said that they were “mighty like
ha’nts”; and the wounded dog, which now was recovering, whined and
shivered and snuggled closer upon Oliver’s buffalo robe.
In spite of the sounds real and imaginary the camp was safe and whole
at day-break. The lieutenant put everybody at work cutting timber
with which to make a horse-pen and a fort. In the midst of these
preparations Ike Chamberlain sought out Kit Carson, and addressed him
freely.
“Say, Kit, what’s the meaning o’ this hyar? Must be going to stay
awhile.”
“Going to stay till the lieutenant gets through, Ike.”
“Wall, he’s not our boss. We’re an independent consarn.”
“I reckon you are, Ike. So what’s the matter?”
“We’ve ’bout decided that staying hyar an’ living on roots an’ feathers
whilst a crazy man measures that thar lake doesn’t shine with us
fellows. Thar air no fur an’ no meat hyar, an’ snow air creeping down
the hills. We want to get out whilst we can.”
“I won’t stop you, Ike.”
“You come too.”
“Not an inch. I engaged to Lieutenant Frémont, an’ I’m going through.”
“On that ’ere lake, in that ’ere boat, Kit?”
“I shorely am, Ike, if the lieutenant asks me to.”
“Don’t you do it, Kit, don’t you do it,” implored Ike, much concerned.
“Thar’s a whirlpool that’ll swallow you, boat an’ all. If the lake
has nary river draining it off, how does it keep from overflowing,
with these rivers running in! Must drain by a whirlpool, which sucks
the water off fast as it comes in. Mebbe thar air cannibals on those
islands, to gobble ye soon as ye land. Besides, whar’s the grub for the
crowd? What you fetched down from Hall is ’bout gone already, an’ we’ll
soon be living wuss’n Root Diggers. When the snows fall lower we’ll
be shut in to starve. ’Tain’t a fit country for white man; ’tain’t,
Kit. We’re going to pull out, an’ you’d better come with us. If that
lieutenant wants to stay an’ make figgers, let him.”
“Go if you want to, Ike. I stay with Frémont,” answered Kit Carson,
evenly. “He expects me to, and I will. I can’t ask you Touse men to.
There won’t be much fun in it, for you, especially if we push on for
the coast by winter trail down the Snake.”
“What!” gasped Ike. “Jest to get figgers? No, siree. I reckon we’ll
pack back through the mountains, whar thar’s fur an’ meat, for Laramie,
Kit.”
“All right, Ike. When you get to Touse tell Josefa I’m well.” And Kit
turned away.
Oliver heard this conversation, and was aghast. Back to Taos? Never! He
hastened after Kit and appealed to him:
“Do I have to go, Kit?”
“Whar, boy?”
“Back, with Ike and the rest.”
“Reckon you’d better. Times air liable to be hard on the trail, an’
we’re bound through to Vancouver.”
“But I want to stay, Kit. I’ll feed myself――I’ll do my own foraging――I’d
just as soon eat roots, I like ’em. I want to stay, with you and
Lieutenant Frémont――and sail on the lake――and go to the coast. I’m not
afraid.”
“Not afraid to explore that ’ere lake in that rubber contraption, an’
get swallowed by a whirlpool, mebbe?”
“No,” declared Oliver, stanchly.
“Wall,” smiled Kit Carson, his clear gray-blue eyes twinkling, “if Ike
an’ the rest should happen to ride off an’ you shouldn’t be with ’em,
I s’pose we’d have to keep you, best we could. You’ve got yore dog, to
eat.”
To the wise a word is sufficient. Ike and William New and all the
Carson squad swiftly packed, to take the trail. The Frémont men cast
sidelong glance as they proceeded with their own duties, and some,
amidst the bantering, hinted that they would like to go, too. But they
were under orders: enlisted for this United States Army service. The
Taos men were free trappers, enlisted not at all.
“Ready, boy?” called William New, to Oliver.
“I want to wait and see the boat start,” answered Oliver. “Go on; I can
trail you.”
“You’d better do it in a hurry, then,” grumbled William New, as he
mounted. “We’re heading for beaver an’ buff’ler, an’ we travel fast.”
Without another word off they rode, two by two, at trapper rack or
single-foot; and following up the Weber Fork they disappeared among the
hills.
Oliver sauntered about, and at the first opportunity took a hand in
rolling logs.
“Aren’t you going, boy?” demanded Lieutenant Frémont, suddenly noting
him.
“No, sir.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t they take you?”
“Yes, sir; but I’d rather stay with you and Kit.”
“Oh, I see.” And the lieutenant, out of careworn bearded face, eyed him
calculatingly.
“I’d like to sail in the boat, on the lake, if there’s room,” ventured
Oliver. “I wouldn’t be afraid.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the lieutenant. “I don’t know but what
you’d better go on up to Fort Hall with François and party. I’m sending
them, in a minute or two, so as to cut down the drain on the supplies.”
“I’d――like――to――stay,” faltered Oliver. “Kit said I could eat my
dog――but maybe I won’t have to.”
“You’re liable to eat worse than dog, if you do stay,” warned the
lieutenant, with a sudden smile lighting his countenance. And he added:
“But stay you shall. You’re a brave lad, and I like courage.”
The horse corral and the little fort, both of cottonwood or poplar
trunks, were finished; and in the latter was mounted the battered
but faithful brass howitzer. Nobody might tell yet how many Indians,
perhaps Utes, perhaps Snakes, perhaps Root Diggers, perhaps strangers
more savage, might be spying and planning attack upon these few
invaders; so precautions were taken. This being done, François
Lajeunesse and some others were told off by the lieutenant, to go back
up the Bear and on to Fort Hall, there to wait.
After François and companions left, the Carson-Frémont camp on the
Weber River consisted of the lieutenant and Kit, Basil Lajeunesse,
Baptiste Bernier, Baptiste Derosier, François Badeau, Mr. Preuss, Jacob
Dodson the young colored man, and Oliver. Sergeant Zindel had started
with the François squad, but Jacob knew how to handle the gun.
The day was spent in patching and strengthening the rubber boat, in
making scientific observations, and in exploring the country near at
hand. The sunset was beautiful, orange and green, reflected in the
waters of the great lake――a sunset so peculiar that it might have been
enchantment by a wizard, testing his spells after the frowns of the
genie had failed. However, nobody was afraid of the wizard, and the
supper of yampa roots and a fat duck which Jacob had shot tasted good.
The spells by a stout heart are much stronger than any spells by any
wizard.
It was planned that the next day a voyage should be made to the nearest
of the islands. Neither Kit Carson nor Lieutenant Frémont put much
stock in tales of whirlpool and ravenous monsters and club-bearing
giants――although, of course, who could say! But they hoped to find upon
the islands flowers and fruits and crystal streams and much game, never
before witnessed by human being.
Jacob, and François Badeau and Baptiste Derosier had been named to
garrison the little fort. After an early breakfast the lieutenant and
Kit, Mr. Preuss and Basil and Baptiste Bernier busied themselves in
packing the boat, tied to the river-bank, with blankets and scientific
instruments and three rubber bags of water and a little food.
“Wall, boy,” remarked Kit Carson, with a twinkle, eyeing Oliver, who
lingered near, “looks as though you’d better stay ashore.”
“What’s that?” queried the lieutenant, overhearing. “Oh, I guess we can
make room. By all means. He climbed the highest peak, and I think he
ought to be one to explore the enchanted islands. Come along, lad. You
can pump the bellows and keep her blown up.”
And Oliver needed no second invitation.
The sun was just appearing over the mountain ranges in the east when,
on this the eighth of September, the rubber canoe left her moorings and
started down the river, for the lake. The men paddled; Oliver was set
at work pumping air into the inflated cylinders, along gunwales and
bows, for they leaked.
It was a delightful voyage. Frequently, at warning hiss from the
paddlers before, they all floated silently, in order to get a shot at a
duck or goose; to shoot it in the head, of course, if possible. These
pauses, and the halts to pick up the game, consumed time, so that when
the river channel opened out upon the lake-shore evening was near.
At the lake-shore the river made a kind of swamp, traversed in several
places by a shallow, slow current. The boat stuck in the mud, and its
crew must get out and shove her and haul her along, in mud to their
knees. Finally, at a little point of dry land, amidst willows and
reeds, where there was plenty of drift-wood, camp was made. The supper
menu was roasted ducks and plover and geese――and the breakfast menu
was the same.
All night the hoarse voices of wild-fowl, in marsh and upon lake, kept
the air vibrant with multitudinous sound. However, upon their low beds
of willow-branches and rushes the little camp by the unknown inland sea
slept safely, until, at the first touch of pink in the eastern sky,
the cheery tone of Lieutenant Frémont aroused with “Leve, leve!”――the
trappers’ signal to arise.
This was the day for the voyage upon the salty lake. Oliver felt a
strange wonderment and exhilaration: he felt like crying “Hooray!” The
lieutenant was all energy, and even Kit Carson was more talkative than
customary, while Mr. Preuss scarcely chewed his food before swallowing
it――so excited was he. But Basil and Baptiste were unusually quiet,
even to seeming downcast.
“What’s the matter with you two boys――you and Baptiste?” demanded the
lieutenant, of Basil. “Are you afraid, so soon?”
“No, monsieur lieutenant,” responded Basil. “Only, we have had a bad
dream, Baptiste and I. It means evil. Now, if we could but postpone the
voyage until to-morrow―――― To-day is unlucky.”
“Nonsense!” reproved the lieutenant. “Did you dream, Kit?”
“Oh,” said Kit, “sometimes I have bad dreams an’ sometimes I have good
dreams; an’ sometimes after the bad dreams I have the best luck, an’
sometimes after the good dreams I have the worst luck. So I’ve come
to depend more on what I do when I’m awake than on what I do when I’m
asleep.”
“Anybody can dream, but it takes a man to do,” spoke the German, Mr.
Preuss.
“Well, I sha’n’t govern our operations by dreams, or we’re liable not
to get anywhere,” avowed the lieutenant. “When we come back from the
islands we’ll laugh at Basil and Baptiste.”
“Oh, we go too,” said both. But they did not brighten up much.
Only a short distance beyond the place of the camp the river channels
were lost in a great mud-flat covered by an inch or so of water. Now
everybody stripped to the skin, to haul the boat to the lake, beyond.
At the sight of these strange white creatures the long-legged plover
with which the flat swarmed circled and screamed. The mud was about
the texture of paint, and when stirred up smelled disgustingly, as if
composed of decaying insects. Speedily the crew were smeared with the
black liquid to the thighs. Behind them they left a long, discolored,
greasy trail.
The unpleasant mud extended for a mile, when suddenly they came to
a little ridge, hard and distinct, rising underfoot. Here the mud
stopped; beyond the little ridge, which acted as a divide, was firm
sandy bottom, and very salt water――the bottom and the water of the
great lake.
Now with a cheer they hastily dressed, clambered aboard, and launched
forth――Oliver pumping with the bellows.
The nearest island seemed to be a low one, rising to a flat-top instead
of to a regular peak. For this was the boat directed.
The frail rubber boat rode easily the swells of the light-green, clear
water. The pasted seams held well; the inflated sides and ends lifted
her high. But in a short time she looked queer indeed, as if riding a
snow-storm; for when the swells broke against her they sprayed salt
which turned white in the drying air. It covered her and her crew, and
of Lieutenant Frémont, with his full beard, it made a hoary old man.
“There’s a current setting southward; see how the foam patches all
drift one way?” said Mr. Preuss.
“Ma foi! It is the whirlpool sucking at them!” muttered Baptiste,
tremulously.
“Paddle hard,” encouraged the lieutenant.
Kit had been peering keenly ahead, at the island. He spoke sharply.
“Captain (he called the lieutenant ‘captain,’ which was according to
trapper custom), what are those yonder? Just take a look with the
glass, won’t you?”
All gazed, half alarmed, while Lieutenant Frémont levelled his long
telescope. Between the boat and the island was a peculiar fringe of
changing white.
“Oh! Those are only waves, Kit,” announced the lieutenant. “They’re
breaking to white-caps. Must be a breeze coming. Beyond still, on the
shore of the island, is a row of pelicans, I think.”
The breeze soon struck the boat. Riding high, it made yet slower
headway, but it showed no symptoms of capsizing. A good little craft
she was.
“Pump, boy,” bade Kit. “Those thar tanks leak wuss’n ever.”
And Oliver plied the bellows.
The breeze, fierce and constant as if the wizard or the genie was
blowing with the breath to defeat the rash intruders, swept directly
from the island, until, shut off by the rocks, it apparently ceased,
and the water was smooth. The row of pelicans proved to be only rocks
whitened by salt.
Now in a few minutes the rubber canoe was gliding through transparent
shallows, and was about to land at the shelving, level shore.
“We’ll have to carry her up before she touches, boys,” spoke the
lieutenant, leaping overboard, to his waist. “These sharp rocks will
punch a hole in her.”
Overboard sprang all, and hustling the baggage ashore carried the
fragile craft after it.
No giants opposed their landing; no huge figures rushed from the high
sage, and flourished clubs, to clear the beach. The stretch of shore
exhibited no foot-print, of human, or inhuman, or even of beast. Save
the wash of the waves and the whisk of the wind not a sound arose. By
all evidence, the island was a desert island, uninhabited.
From its high point, where its rocks rose to about 800 feet, the party
surveyed its whole surface. Salt and a gigantic species of greasewood
(the only “giant” thing); another, whitish shrub, some prickly pear,
etc., were the only inhabitants of the island; salt was deposited in
every crevice and pool; two birds flew from the mainland, on brief
visit; that was all. And because of the disillusion where they had
hoped to find fruits and flowers and game and sparkling streams, they
christened the island Disappointment Island. Into a rock of the peak
the lieutenant chiselled with his knife a cross; and by the rock he
accidentally left the brass cap of his telescope.
That night each man (including Oliver) made himself a little
shelter-lodge out of the abundant drift-wood on the shore, and with
feet to the large fires lay down for slumber. There was no need of any
sentry, nor of hand upon gun. The island was perfectly safe. To be
enabled to sleep without a fear was novel experience, and was worth the
trip.
During the night the wind increased again; and once Lieutenant Frémont
said that the waves sounded like the surf of the ocean.
In the morning the waves were running high; the warders of the great
lonely lake had still not given up the fight. Now the wind was from
the opposite direction, or off shore, trying to keep the boat to the
island! So again must the crew paddle hard, while Oliver pumped with
the bellows; the lake was rougher than on the day before; the rubber
strained and the ribs creaked, and Basil and Baptiste croaked dire “I
told you so.” Nevertheless, at noon the shore was reached, before the
promontory butte, and with a glad shout of exultation and relief they
all leaped into the shallows, to carry baggage and craft high and dry.
But the efforts of the angered lake-guardians were not spent. While
harder blew the gale, it shifted, and presently it was rolling the lake
itself farther and farther upon the shore! The temporary camp had been
placed about a quarter of a mile from the edge; but across the mud flat
came creeping the water. When Mr. Preuss arrived with horses from the
main camp up the river there was just time to pack and mount and ride,
before the tide had covered the spot. When they looked back, the lake
was busy wiping out all traces of their intrusion upon its shores.
However, upon the island in its midst was the chiselled cross, and the
brass cap of the telescope. Another army man, Captain Howard Stansbury,
also of the Topographical Corps, in 1849 found the cross, but not the
brass cap; the Mormon settlers of the lake shore had called the island
Castle Island; he named it Frémont Island.
Across a low, sandy, salty plain the late crew of the rubber boat
rode for the log fort. The foiled wizard or genie who seemed to dwell
in those mountains across the water pursued them with a thunder-storm,
but they outstripped it, and welcomed gladly by the salute of Jacob’s
howitzer they entered the friendly grove.
XV
ON TO THE COLUMBIA
“You say that the emigrants were going on, wagons and all, Kit?”
queried the lieutenant.
“That war the plan. Whitman said he’d get ’em through, an’ they’d need
their goods an’ cattle at t’other end.”
The little company were on the back trail for Fort Hall. As Ike
Chamberlain had warned, already winter was creeping down the
mountain-sides, with his banners of white ever investing closer the
lowlands. Even while the explorers had been encamped near the lake, the
snows seemed to have increased upon the crests of the Wasatch Range,
overhead. It was a thousand long miles to the end of the trail at
Vancouver upon the lower Columbia; therefore Lieutenant Frémont and Kit
Carson agreed that to put in more time hereabouts was hazardous.
In the afternoon of the second day following the voyage to Disappointment
Island the march was begun, up the Bear and the River of Weeds, for Fort
Hall, six days’ travel with the baggage.
Once more the talk drifted to the amazing pilgrimage of Oregon
emigrants, and the great concourse of them at Fort Hall, before Kit had
left.
“The Hudson Bay people’s policy would be to discourage settlers,
anyway,” mused the lieutenant. “With settlers in there tilling the
ground and showing the Indians and the Canadians that farming paid
better than fur-hunting, the Company’s business would suffer.”
“Yes,” drawled Kit; “an’ this hyar emigration, if it goes through, will
put more Americans than thar air British in the Oregon country; an’ if
thar’s anything in settlement of a country it’ll mean a big help to the
United States.”
“It surely will,” affirmed the lieutenant. “Success in life and in
battle means getting there first, and sticking.”
The route to Fort Hall followed up the Roseaux or River of Weeds from
its juncture with the Bear to its sources. Here galloped into camp a
horseman from the north――Baptiste Tabeau, of the Thomas Fitzpatrick
party. Baptiste, shaking hands right and left, brought the news that
the White Head, with all well, was but a short distance across country,
encamped at Hall. Baptiste had been despatched southward, to meet the
lieutenant.
Excited by promise of flour and rice and dried meat and butter, the
Frémont camp slept little this night, and early in the morning, which
was September 16, started onward. In the afternoon of September 18,
emerging from the hills, with a cheer they greeted the sight of a
green valley set amidst a sombre sage plain, and beside the sparkling
Portneuf River which watered it, the white walls of a trading post.
This was the British Hudson Bay Company post of Fort Hall, on the
Portneuf, a mile above the Snake itself, in the Plains of the Snake.
Thomas Fitzpatrick, his boyish ruddy face glowing from its frame of
oddly white hair, came to meet them.
“How are supplies?” asked the lieutenant, at once.
“I’ve saved all I could. We’ve been on short rations. But the post is
’bout as poor as when Kit left it. Emigrants cleaned it out. Beef and
butter is what you’ll get; that’s all.”
“Where are the emigrants? Don’t see any.”
“Gone; wagons, cattle, women, children and all. Left a few steers and
oxen, in trade; but they took most of their stuff right along.”
“Do you think they can get through, with their wagons, Fitzpatrick?”
queried the lieutenant.
“If anybody but that missionary doctor was leading them, I would say
not,” replied the Broken Hand. “Why, even the Fort Hall people don’t
try to fetch in their goods on wheels; they canoe it from Vancouver,
for two hundred miles, then they use pack animals for the land trail,
up along the Snake to the post. I agree with Captain Grant that
no wagons can go over that pack trail. But as I understand, this
missionary doctor came riding in hot haste, from down the Snake, found
the emigrants discouraged by Grant and other post people, called
them together, made a speech, told ’em he’d been over the trail and
he _knew_ and that they were foolish to abandon their wagons and
implements and try to take their goods and families in by saddle, that
they’d need their States animals to plough with, and that he guarantee
to _get ’em through_!”
“Will he?”
“Well,” answered Thomas Fitzpatrick, slowly, rubbing his chin; “they
left, wagons and all, August thirtieth, and now it’s September
eighteenth and none of ’em has come back; and there aren’t any wagons
lying ’longside the trail, far as we’ve seen.”
Now the two parties united camped beside the walls of Fort Hall. Agent
Grant himself stepped out to give welcome and meet the lieutenant.
“You Americans are a wonderful people,” declared Agent Grant. “Why,
this emigration that just went through is four or five times as large
as that of last year, and it’s taking wagons in! Heavy farm wagons,
heaped with goods!”
“Will they succeed?”
“No, sir. I and every other man of experience know that the trail
is impossible for wagons. At least――――” and Agent Grant hesitated,
“impossible except perchance for this Doctor Whitman. I never heard
or talked with such an obstinate, determined man. He has a tremendous
responsibility on his hands, though. I’ll wager that before you get two
hundred miles from the post you’ll find the trail fairly littered with
cast-off wagons. But if not, lieutenant――if _not_, then it will be a
blow to British rule in Oregon. I have heard Dr. McLoughlin, our chief
agent, at Vancouver, say that Oregon is safe, because it never can be
reached by Yankee families except around Cape Horn; but what he’ll say
when he sees the Yankees coming down from the mountains, with wagons,
all the way from the States, I don’t know. And such a number! Last year
Dr. White took in a few, afoot or by saddle and pack――but this year,
eight hundred, with wagons――my stars! If they get through, then I shall
expect to hear of them continuing right on down to the ocean and under
it to Japan!”
The lieutenant laughed.
“You British in Oregon don’t know the American,” he said. “When the
Yankee once starts for a new country, nothing can stop him.”
“But some of them didn’t know they were in Oregon yet!” expostulated
Captain Grant. “They asked me: ‘Say, stranger, how far to Oregon?’”
“They asked us the same, back on the Bear.”
“And still they were pressing on!” gasped Captain Grant. “Well, well!”
“How are you fixed for supplies?”
“Cleaned out, lieutenant. But I have some Yankee oxen.”
“Good.”
Agent Grant was a kindly man, helping Americans and British alike.
The emigrants had been supplied by him with whatever he had that they
wished. The lieutenant was enabled to buy of him several horses, and
five fat oxen.
Now indeed winter set in with an all-day snow. Suddenly the country
looked bleak and drear. By travel up and down to the end of the trail
at Vancouver was some 900 miles. Lieutenant Frémont called his company
together and made a short address.
“I am under instructions to go on to Vancouver,” he said. “It is not
a pleasant nor an easy trail, at the best, and as winter is at hand
there are some of you whom I will discharge. It is impossible for me to
continue with so large a company, and several men are in no condition
to take the trip, anyway. Those whom I discharge I discharge with
honor; they will be entitled to transportation and to pay until they
reach the frontier again.”