Creuss, Auguste Vasquez, Alexis Pera, Patrick White, Baptiste Tesson,
Michel Crelis, and François and Basil Lajeunesse. Everybody hated to
have Basil go, but his family needed him.
Mr. Preuss the German, and Sergeant Zindel the Prussian artillerist,
and Jacob the colored boy, and the gallant Alexander Godey of the
black silky locks, were retained; and of course Kit Carson and Thomas
Fitzpatrick the White Head; and, hurrah, Oliver!
In the midst of cold rain and gusty wind camp was broken, and the march
was resumed: that of the one party for the South Pass, 300 miles, and
Fort Laramie, and home; that of the other party for the Columbia
River, 600 miles, and Vancouver, and――who knew?
Therefore down along the great and desolate Snake River travelled the
party of Lieutenant Frémont. Ever the wagon-wheel tracks of the 800
emigrants led on, and on.
The Frémont company found the road growing rougher, with many steep
grades up which the men must boost the carts, one by one. Nevertheless,
the heavier emigrant wagons had passed; none had yet been abandoned.
Thomas Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand again was delegated to keep the rear,
and bring along the baggage-train; the lieutenant and his lighter
column pushed to the front.
After a week of travel Snake Indians, fishing for salmon, were passed.
Fat and ruddy-faced and jolly with the oily meat were these Snakes, and
to the company traded salmon fresh and dried. “Haggai, haggai (fish,
fish)!” cried the Indians, glad to see more white wayfarers; for to
the Indians the “Bostons,” as they called the American settlers, had
brought much prosperity in shape of old trousers and battered hats and
such gear, exchanged for fish.
At the first Ford of the Snake, where the Oregon Trail crossed from the
left or the south bank to the right or the north bank, the Frémont men
almost lost their howitzer and mules in the strong current. But the
emigrants, said the Indians, had chained their wagons in a solid line,
and had crossed, and had gone on. The distance from Fort Hall was 250
miles, and Agent Grant’s prediction of wreck and litter upon the trail
had not come true. The wheel marks continued.
At the end of the second week of travel the Frémont party reached Fort
Boisé, Hudson Bay Company trading post, companion to Fort Hall, now 350
miles eastward.
Agent Payette reported that sun-browned and gaunt and tattered, with
wagons creaking and cattle limping, the Yankee emigrants’ train had
passed through.
“An amazing sight,” affirmed Agent Payette. “Men, women and children,
in they poured and out they went, piloted by your Doctor Whitman. They
are eleven days ahead of you. They have come thus far――but worse awaits
them, when they leave the Snake and strike into the hills for the Blue
Mountains. That is a trail scarcely fit for pack-mules, so thick grows
the sage.”
At Boisé the road again crossed the Snake, from right to left bank,
and the faithful rubber boat came into good play. It, and a portion
of a bullock carcass, were left at the post for the use of the Thomas
Fitzpatrick party, toiling in second division.
On the third day out of Fort Boisé, sure enough the trail veered from
the rushing Snake, and inland pointing would cross the northeastern
corner of present Oregon State.
Rougher waxed the way. There were signs that the emigrants had been
in much trouble. At one place a wagon had been overturned twice, in a
short distance.
Straight down a steep rocky slant, as sharply pitched as a peaked roof,
had plunged the emigrants, their wagon wheels scoring deeply the scant
soil. And down by the same route went the Frémont party, holding hard
on the howitzer and the spring-carriage.
Agent Payette had told the lieutenant of an Indian trail out which
would prove better than that road which the emigrants probably would
take. Following this to the Blue Mountains, the Frémont party climbed
the heavily wooded divide, where logs must be chopped and trees must be
felled to clear a way for the howitzer and the carriage. At last, from
an open spot across the summit, westward could be descried the Walla
Walla River, tributary to the Columbia, and light green patches which
must be the settlements of American missions.
On the morning of October 24 these green patches were reached. They
were the missionary station of Doctor Whitman himself. Fields had been
cultivated to potatoes and corn; and here, at Waiilatpu, among the
Waiilatpu Indians of the Cayuse nation, on the Walla Walla River near
to present Walla Walla City in southeastern Washington State, was the
Doctor Whitman house, made with adobe clay bricks.
Oliver had looked forward to seeing again this plucky Doctor Whitman,
physician, missionary and Oregon enthusiast――that wayworn traveller
with the mixed white and brown hair, the large mouth and the deep-set
blue eyes, who had arrived, so nearly exhausted, in Taos last winter on
his long trip from coast to coast. Doctor Whitman was absent down the
river to bring back Mrs. Whitman. But here were many of the emigrants,
resting and staring and eating potatoes.
On the way from Waiilatpu down along the Walla Walla to the mouth at
the Columbia more emigrants were passed. They all were loud in their
praises of Doctor Whitman.
Near the mouth of the Walla Walla was Fort Walla Walla, a third of the
chain of Hudson Bay Company posts along the trail. A few hundred yards
below flowed past the lordly flood of the noble Columbia River.
The next supply station in prospect was The Dalles, 150 miles below,
where the Methodist missions had headquarters.
Indians, Cayuse and Nez Percé (Pierced Nose), were met; some of them
seemed almost civilized, in their white-man clothes, and could speak
a little English. This was the influence of the Protestant and Roman
Catholic missionaries. And again, some of the Indians met seemed not
civilized at all, being very dirty, and inclined to steal horses.
However, they were not now dealing with weary and ignorant emigrants;
they were dealing with mountain-men――with Kit Carson and Oliver,
Lieutenant Frémont and the German Preuss; so they reaped no horses.
The snowy dome of mighty Mt. Hood uplifted, a beacon before, marking
the high Cascade Range where winter was in full reign. The air, at
night, was cold, below freezing――but all were accustomed to this; and
worse was to come.
On November 4, forty-three days and 700 miles from Fort Hall, 102 days
and 1925 miles from Fort St. Vrain, into the mission settlement of The
Dalles of the Lower Columbia rode, with their best bearing and at their
best pace, the tanned, weather-stained, patched and gaunt but never
beaten Frémont and Carson men.
XVI
SOUTHWARD FOR THE UNKNOWN
The Reverend H. K. Perkins was missionary in charge of the station here
at The Dalles. He and Mrs. Perkins and all their household gave the
Frémont party a hearty American welcome. It seemed good to be among
wooden houses, and ploughed fields, and gardens; and the lieutenant and
the French said that it reminded them of Missouri.
Fort Vancouver was ninety miles on, down the Columbia and beyond the
Cascade Range. Lieutenant Frémont decided to leave the party and the
animals to rest at the mission, while he went ahead, by canoe, to
finish his survey by reporting at Vancouver. This would connect the
survey with the survey made along the coast by Lieutenant Wilkes; and
besides, at Fort Vancouver resided Dr. John McLoughlin, chief of the
Hudson Bay Company in Oregon. To call upon him was a necessary courtesy
from the American Government to the British Government. Furthermore, at
Vancouver probably could be purchased supplies of a kind that could not
be found at the missionary stations.
The fifth of November being Sunday, of course this was a day of rest
for everybody at The Dalles; but on Monday the Reverend Mr. Perkins
helped the lieutenant to hire a large canoe from the Indians here,
and three Indians, who owned it, were engaged as crew. With them,
and taking Mr. Preuss, Jacob Dodson the colored youth, and Baptiste
Bernier, the lieutenant launched off for Vancouver.
He appointed Kit Carson in charge of the camp, and up the back trail he
sent a note for Thomas Fitzpatrick, instructing him to drop the carts
at Dr. Whitman’s, and to come on to The Dalles with pack-saddles. Kit
Carson also was instructed to be making pack-saddles.
All this was very interesting.
“Do you think we’ll go back by the same trail we came out, Kit?”
queried Oliver.
“Wall, I dunno,” mused Kit Carson. “But I reckon not. That’s not
Frémont way. We found the trail out hyar already made, an’ nothing
left for us to do but to follow along an’ calkilate figgers. So the
government at Washington’ll know all about the Oregon Trail an’ about
the lake, too; an’ it won’t be like Frémont to take the back track. He
prefers the new to the old. Once or twice he’s spoken of going back by
the north, around the head o’ the Missouri, an’ down. But these hyar
pack-saddles mean a new trail somewheres.”
The Reverend Mr. Perkins had suggested to the lieutenant that he could
reach Washington quickest and easiest by chartering a small brig, which
was anchored in the river below Fort Vancouver, and sailing down the
coast to the Isthmus of Panama, there to cross and charter another
vessel for the United States. Consequently, with this in prospect, and
with the return by way of the sources of the Missouri in prospect, the
future looked bright. Besides――――
“Or else,” remarked Kit, “thar’s the southern trail, to find that
Buenaventura River emptying from the desert into the ocean, and
to strike the Spanish Trail for the mountains an’ the States. The
lieutenant has been mightily interested in the Buenaventura. He’s
talked considerable about it.”
Here was the third route.
The lieutenant returned on the afternoon of the eighteenth. At once
was it known that he had decided for the southern trail, into the
unexplored, where awaited the fabled Buenaventura.
According to the lieutenant, and to Kit Carson, and all, this was a
country well-nigh unexplored, this country south, lying between the
Wasatch Range of the Great Salty Lake on the east and the Sierra Nevada
Range bordering California on the west. All accounts agreed that it was
a great basin, of sandy, salty, sagy bare-rock desert broken by sudden
peaks and ridges. In it Lieutenant Frémont anticipated finding strange
peoples and wild valleys and curious waters.
First to be encountered, upon the march down from the Columbia of the
north, was a lake called Tlamath or Klamet or Klamath Lake, which in
the spring was a real lake, but which in the summer and the fall was
only a green meadow. This lake was at the head of the Rivière des
Chutes or Falls River, which from it flowed north for the Columbia.
From the neighborhood of the lake the Sacramento River of California
flowed south, and the Tlamath River flowed west to the ocean. Moreover,
the Tlamath Indians, living at the lake, were said to be treacherous
and hard fighting.
Next to be encountered, as the lieutenant hoped, was a flat desert lake
called Mary’s Lake, down in the Great Basin.
Next should come the fabled Buenaventura, or Good Fortune River,
flowing across from the vicinity of the Great Salt Lake clear to the
Pacific, and emptying into the Bay of San Francisco!
With the Buenaventura located, as a water-way from the Rocky Mountains
to the Pacific, then the Frémont party might head eastward more, for
the Rockies themselves, and the Arkansas River, and Bent’s Fort below.
Now everybody was enthusiastic. No one objected to starting out at
once, in the beginning of winter, after hard travel already of 2000
miles, for the unknown. The talk was of hidden lakes and rivers and
boiling springs, and of marvels of man, beast and plant such as the
Great Salty Lake had failed to produce.
“Hooray for the new country!” was the cry.
The lieutenant had brought back from Fort Vancouver provisions of
flour, dried peas and tallow, for three months. The tallow was to be
used in frying, etc. Enough horses had been engaged from the Indians
about the mission to recruit the number of animals, saddle and pack,
to 104. The Reverend Mr. Perkins prevailed upon two of his Indians to
be guides as far as the Tlamath Lake. One of these Indians had fought
the Tlamaths there, and had been wounded, so he was not likely to
forget the route. The pack-saddles were finished rapidly, and other
preparations responded, as fast, to the enthusiasm.
On the twenty-first Thomas Fitzpatrick and his party, including Mr.
Talbot the tenderfoot (soon to be a veteran), Alexander Godey of the
handsome hair, Sergeant Zindel the Prussian artillerist, arrived. When
they had heard, they also were eager for the trip. Mr. Gilpin must
proceed on, to Vancouver; Mr. Dwight already had gone.
Upon the twenty-fourth all arrangements were completed. At the last the
Reverend Mr. Perkins brought to the camp a Chinook Indian boy, aged
nineteen, who wished “to see the whites” and learn how the whites lived
in their homes of the east. He had been in the Perkins household and
could speak a little English. Him the lieutenant enrolled, promising to
return him to his relatives and friends, after the journey.
This night of November 24 the camp was so excited over the new trail
and the homeward way, that nobody slept well, and all rose before
daylight, to breakfast and pack by the cold star-shine.
Twenty-two or three whites there were――American, French, German,
Canadian――to take the trail for the Buenaventura: twenty-two or three
whites, Jacob the young negro, the Chinook stripling, 104 horses
and mules, a number of cattle, the howitzer, and Oliver’s dog from
the River of Weeds. The trusty spring wagon was left behind, as a
gift to the mission. Its glass lamps had been broken, and one of its
front panels had been kicked in by a horse; otherwise it was of good
condition. The mission was pleased to have it.
In a long line, about noon of this November 25 (Thanksgiving season!)
of 1843, amidst flurries of snow, the expedition set forth from the
Dalles of the Columbia. The Reverend Mr. Perkins rode out with them for
a few miles, to wish them God-speed. Finally he must stop.
“Good-by, good-by, and God bless you,” he said, beginning with the
lieutenant, and shaking hands all down the line. “Good-by and good
fortune.”
“Good-by,” they responded; and “Au revoir, monsieur.”
The course was south, up the long valley of the Rivière des Chutes,
with the white Cascade Mountains on the right, and many an icy stream
to ford.
At the headwaters of the River of the Falls a pine forest was entered,
December 8; a pine forest cloaking magnificently a yellowish-white soil
of pulverized pumice-stone whereon grew not a blade of grass. The
Indian guides pointed out, as great curiosities, pine cones a foot and
a half long.
Now the trail was good, the weather pleasant, if crisp, but the horses
and mules and cattle fared badly for lack of grass. Then, on December
10, from the pines the cavalcade emerged upon a wide green meadow――a
lake of grass; and――
“Tlamath Lake! Tlamath Lake! Lac du Tlamath!” welled the glad cheer.
This must be it. Thus the two Indian guides declared it, and by its
meadow character it answered to descriptions. The horses and mules and
cattle eyed wistfully the green expanse extending to their feet; and
they fell greedily to cropping.
Surrounded by timbered slopes was the lake-meadow. It looked peaceful.
But according to trapper theories, “Whar thar ain’t any Injuns to be
seen, then thar air the most of ’em!” and here in the Tlamath country
no chances should be taken needlessly. Moreover, out in the middle of
the lake-meadow smokes were rising, and beyond, along the shore, were
other smokes.
“Better speak to ’em with the big gun, to tell ’em who we air, hadn’t
we, captain?” suggested Kit Carson.
“That’s a good idea,” seconded Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand.
“Yes; throw a shell across the lake, sergeant; but don’t hurt
anybody,” said the lieutenant to Sergeant Zindel.
Nothing loath was Sergeant Zindel. He and his cannoneers sprang to
the brass howitzer, unlimbered it and swung it about, pointing it
diagonally over the lake-meadow. Under the short guttural orders of the
sergeant a charge was rammed home, and was followed by a shell. The
three Indians――the two guides and the young Chinook――gazed with much
wonderment, and even the Frémont men were expectant.
The cannoneers sprang aside; Sergeant Zindel applied the fuse to
the primed vent. The loud “Boom!” of the howitzer rolled to the
mountain-slopes around about, but before any echoes had answered, there
a quarter of a mile away, over the lake-meadow against the timber
back-ground burst with white explosion the shell!
“Bravo! Hooray!” cheered the company, now listening to the echoes.
“Wah! The gun that speaks twice!” murmured the three Indians, awed by
the shot.
“Those fellows know something’s happened, all right,” remarked Mr.
Talbot.
For instantly every smoke had been quenched, as the frightened Tlamaths
would conceal their villages and themselves from the astounding
“medicine people” who had appeared.
Camp was pitched upon a piny point, before which the animals could
graze under guard.
The Indian guides were of the opinion that the dreaded Tlamaths were
“very little” before the white men and the gun-that-speaks-twice.
Lieutenant Frémont determined to keep up the first impression made;
therefore, as this afternoon and the next morning no Tlamaths had come
near, he resolved to visit _them_. Arrayed for peace or war, out into
the lake-meadow boldly rode the company.
The smoke place was distant and obscure, until when within half a mile
of it a collection of low round huts could be distinguished, with
Indians perched atop, watching.
“These hyar guides want us to form line, trapper fashion, an’ ride down
in style,” explained Kit Carson.
To humor the guides, who were proud of their company, the Frémont men
ranged themselves in a long front, and proceeded at a pace, while the
guides galloped ahead to meet two Indians now approaching from the
village.
They were the village chief and his wife; and they had come out, on
behalf of their alarmed people, to live or die at the mercy of the
mysterious strangers.
The Tlamath chief, handsome of face and soft of voice, thankful that
his life was spared, conducted the powerful strangers to his village.
This was composed of a few large woven-grass huts, entered by doors in
the rounded tops. Grass were the huts; grass the shoes and the caps of
the inmates, and grass were the mats and baskets of the furnishings.
Fish was the food. Therefore well did the Klamath――whom Lieutenant
Frémont styles Tlamath――call themselves “People of the Lake,” for by
rushes and fish the lake supplied them with their necessities of life.
Sharp-nosed, prick-eared, woolly, wolfish dogs were sitting, with their
masters and mistresses, upon the roofs of the huts; and as companion to
Oliver’s dog the men purchased a puppy, whom they named “Tlamath.”
Now the two guides from the mission at the Dalles concluded that they
had come as far as was required of them; they would turn homeward.
Lieutenant Frémont asked the Tlamath chief for Tlamath guides onward;
but the handsome, soft-spoken Tlamath chief shook his head, and by
signs indicated that he had no horses, the snow on the mountains was
deep, and his family were sick. He could not go, and it seemed that he
had none of his young men to send, either.
Therefore, the next morning, the Frémont and Carson company started
out, to make their own trail. Snow was falling, the sky was dark, and
for a mile and a half they crossed the narrow end of the lake-meadow,
where amidst the frozen grass were ponds of ice upon which the pack
animals slipped and floundered.
The travel was east, pointed for another “large water” which the
Indians said would be found in that direction, after a few days’
journey. Thus, from the lake-meadow, which was not really Klamath Lake
of Southern Oregon, but was only Klamath Marsh, north of the lake
proper, the company again entered the great pine forest. Here some of
the trees were five and six feet through, at the base.
That night the thermometer dropped to zero. Among fallen timber and in
snow sometimes a foot deep the morning march was made, the overworked
mules tugging at the heavy howitzer. Then was heard the sound of
galloping hoofs, behind. Everybody turned, to welcome or to fight,
whichever might be demanded. It was the good-hearted Tlamath chief
and a few other men, coming on, along the trail, through the myriad
stately, snow-weighted pines, to guide the strangers.
Always amidst pines, and snow, over a broad mountain eastward led
the Indians, until on the next day they explained that the snow was
growing too deep for them, and the cold too severe, and that they must
turn back. Lieutenant Frémont gave them presents of scarlet cloth,
moccasins, etc.; and spreading the Flag before them he explained its
use.
“This is the symbol of the great nation to which we belong,” he said,
by signs. “Whenever it comes to you, you must treat it well, for it is
friendly to you. You and it are friends.”
Whereupon the Tlamaths nodded wisely. As if in remembrance, they ever
have been at peace with the white race; although their cousins, the
Modocs, badly treated by the white immigrants, finally fought a great
fight, among their lava beds, in 1873.
The Tlamaths, or Klamaths, left for their snug grass huts in the
lake-meadow. Travelling now by compass into the unknown, down from the
bleak mountain and across a level valley and up another bleak mountain,
eastward toiled the company. Ever the course lay through constant,
silent pines, where the snow sifted thickly, with no breeze bearing it,
or where, three feet deep and crusted, it cut the legs of the animals.
Thus, in long single file of men and of animals, exhausted and
apparently lost, the cattle laboring heavily, the Frémont expedition
to the Buenaventura traversed the gloomy stretch of high, unceasing,
snow-enshrouded but gloomy forest, where apparently man had never been
before. Suddenly the lieutenant, leading, spoke to Kit Carson, just
behind.
“Aren’t the trees thinning, in front, there, Kit?”
Hope was in his voice.
“Yes, sir. I believe they air, captain.”
“Come on, boys,” called the lieutenant, cheerily. “We’re getting out.”
And he spurred forward his horse. Spurred forward all.
Sure enough, ahead the atmosphere was distinctly lighter. The
lieutenant was first to reach the spot; he reined in his horse, Proveau
the buffalo-runner, and craned as if gazing down. He uttered a loud
shout, and waved his hat; shouted and waved Kit Carson, the next to
arrive. Mr. Preuss the German joined in the excitement; joined Godey
and Jacob and even the Chinook, and when it came Oliver’s turn he also
joined. For they all were ranged upon a rim of a great wall――a great
wall of sheer rock, piled with snow and bitten by icy wind, while
below, a thousand feet, was an enchanted summer-land!
Here was a lovely blue lake, in the midst of a lush green prairie
enveloped by warm sunshine; while up above, on the top of the
precipice, reigned snow and ice and stormy sky. Scarce could they
believe their eyes.
“Don’t see any trees, to speak of, down there,” mused Lieutenant
Frémont, as shivering they gazed, admiring the scene. “That looks to me
like the Great Basin, at last. We must be on the edge of it. It extends
on east to the Salt Lake.”
“Ain’t we gwine down to summah, lieutenant?” queried Jacob the colored
youth, anxiously, his teeth chattering. “I’se stone stiff.”
“So am I, Jacob,” answered the lieutenant, laughing. “Of course we’re
going down. Who’s for Summer Lake?”
“I’m for getting off this hyar Winter Ridge,” said Kit Carson.
“That’s it――Summer Lake and Winter Ridge!” cried the lieutenant. “Three
cheers, boys! Good-by to Winter Ridge, and on to Summer Lake!”
They cheered; and turning the poor horses and mules and cattle who had
dully been nosing the snow or pricking their ears at the glimpse of
green below, they sought for a trail down.
XVII
SCANT CHRISTMAS COMFORT