befitted a mountain-man, suspicious pieces of fat meat already were
laid out upon the snow in anticipation of the pot.
XIX
AT THE LAST GASP
Now was it the dawn of a sharp, clear winter morning, February 2, 1844,
in the Frémont and Carson rude camp of one skin lodge and several
tents, on the upper water of the Carson River, at the Nevada-California
line. Oliver awakened early, under his buffalo-robe brought from Taos:
awakened to the crackle of camp fire, the stir of stiff figures,
and the sight of Jacob the colored youth hurrying with a tin cup of
steaming coffee for the lieutenant in the skin lodge. Jacob always
tried to do this――to get the coffee there before the lieutenant his
master was dressed. He explained that such was the custom in the south:
the members of the family had coffee served to them before they were up.
Oliver awakened to another knowledge. This was the day when the main
range of the Sierras was to be assaulted. Everywhere the fresh snow lay
deep and trackless; the eastern sky was pink, and about the white peaks
of the Sierras, high and close in the west, the clouds were breaking
into filaments.
Oliver tumbled out of his coverings. At a little distance the
half-frozen horses and mules stood hunched, tails to the breeze, or
were pawing for herbage. Kit Carson was up, Thomas Fitzpatrick was up,
the Indian guide was up. He had not escaped. A glorious figure he made,
as equipped with new moccasins and leggins, with trousers and a shirt,
with blue and scarlet cloth and a large green blanket over all, he
stood by a fire.
Lieutenant Frémont emerged in haste from the lodge, and nodded to the
Indian――whereupon the Indian pointed to the vasty white pinnacles of
the mountains, and with a grunt shook his head. The lieutenant paid no
attention to such weak spirit. His voice vivified the camp, and all was
hustle.
“Now for summer doings, boys,” encouraged Kit Carson, as after
breakfast, with packs in place and every man resolved, the procession
wended forth through the snow.
“Now for the Californy Valley an’ summer doings!” they answered.
The snow had drifted and speedily grew deeper; so that ten men, on
the strongest horses, were put in the van to break a trail. Thus work
began early. As oft as the horse of the leader was exhausted, his rider
turned out, for the rear, and the next rider took his place.
Huts entirely covered by snow, where Indians lived like field mice,
were passed: the only sign of inhabitant was the single trail from the
hole of a door to the foot of a pine tree, and back.
“Guide says the deepest snow air jest beginning,” on the third day
announced Kit, with the advance, to the lieutenant.
“There’s no use trying to bring the animals on here, to-night,”
declared the lieutenant, snow-covered and panting. Snow-covered and
panting were all. “Oliver, ride down and tell Fitzpatrick to camp at
those springs where we were last night; it’s more sheltered. We’ll camp
where we are.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Oliver.
He met Thomas Fitzpatrick, red-faced, snowy, working like a Trojan
to keep the horses and mules moving, and delivered the message. He
did not stay, for the camp by the springs in the sheltered basin. He
turned about; maybe the lieutenant and Kit and Mr. Preuss and Godey and
Bernier would need him.
The camp of the advance squad had been made, without tents, in a group
of huge pines. Against the base of one of the pines a generous fire was
blazing; and when Oliver arrived, tired and cold and glad of the fire,
another old Indian visitor was delivering an oration.
He spoke loudly, in a sing-song manner; and he spoke long.
“He says,” announced Kit, “that we an’ our critters can’t go further,
this way. We’ll perish, sure. We must turn back, an’ he’ll show us a
better way. Rock upon rock――rock upon rock; snow upon snow――snow upon
snow: that’s ahead of us. If we get over, we can’t get down on t’other
side; thar air precipices whar our hosses’ll slip, an’ off we’ll go.”
“Yes; I understood his signs, and most of his words,” remarked the
lieutenant, quietly. “But we’re white men. We’re not afraid.”
The Chinook lad from the mission, who had kept close by the lieutenant,
had understood the signs and words even better than had Kit Carson; and
now he began to wail aloud.
“I wanted to see the whites,” he lamented, brokenly. “I came away
from my own people to see the whites. I would not mind dying among
the whites, but to die here――ow-ow-ow-ow,” and shuddering he drew his
blanket over his head. From underneath it his wail resumed, muffled and
weird.
“You ought to have stayed down below, in the Fitz camp,” reminded Kit,
of Oliver. “It’ll be a cold night, hyar, I tell you.”
And it was. The lieutenant said that the thermometer was ten above; but
a wind set in, sifting through the tree trunks, blowing aside the heat,
and penetrating blankets and buckskins. The trees creaked and sighed;
the Chinook wailed; more biting waxed the air; and nobody slept much.
When Oliver turned out early, to do his share in looking after the
shrunken horses and mules, the Indian guide was pressing to the fire,
to be warmer; under all his unaccustomed clothing of shirt and trousers
and red and blue cloth and green blanket he was shivering violently.
Chancing to glance back, Oliver saw Lieutenant Frémont throw his own
army blanket over the Indian’s shoulders already once blanketed;
and when Oliver returned, within fifteen or twenty minutes, from
the horses, he found the camp much indignant. The Indian guide had
disappeared, blankets and all!
The day was spent in bringing up the animals, and in making snow-shoes
and sledges. The next morning the lieutenant, with Thomas Fitzpatrick
and Kit and others, snow-shoed ahead, to reconnoitre along the pass
which the guide had pointed out before he had deserted. They came back,
in the darkness, scarcely able to drag their feet, but they brought
good news. They had looked over into a large valley, distant but
snowless. Kit had recognized the valley as the Valley of the Sacramento.
“I know it!” he declaimed, still much delighted. “I know it by a little
round mountain. Fifteen years ago I marked that little mountain, when
I war in the valley; an’ I remember it jest as plain as if it war only
yesterday.”
“How far? How far?” demanded all, eagerly.
“Thirty miles, isn’t it, Kit?” answered the lieutenant.
“I should say that――an’ more,” mused Kit, thoughtfully.
“So should I,” agreed Fitzpatrick. “We aren’t there, yet, boys; over
the ridge and down means some long marches, through the snow. The
snow’s likely to be heavier, on the west side. But now we know where
we’re travelling.”
“From the ridge we could make out, through the glass, prairies and the
line of a river bordered with timber,” explained the lieutenant. “But
as Fitz says, there are some hard marches ahead.”
So there were. By sledges and snow-shoes the trail was resumed, every
heart aglow with pictures of the Valley of the Sacramento; but on the
level the snow was five feet deep, and in drifts was twenty feet deep.
The animals failed, and must be left at each pasture, while with wooden
mauls and shovels the men flattened a road, and with pine boughs paved
it.
The puppy Tlamath must be added to the larder, so that for the advance
there was a strange dinner, one night, of dog (cooked by Alexander
Godey Indian-fashion, in pieces hide on), mule, and dried-pea soup!
Now was it the close of two weeks since from the preparatory camp had
the start been made. The crest of the pass had just been reached, for
on February 16, returning from a scout ahead, the lieutenant and Jacob
reported that they had come upon a creek flowing west, toward the
Pacific!
As they descended, seeking to travel while yet the night’s crust was
unmelted, more plentiful waxed the snow, more difficult the trail,
intersected by drifts and ridges. However, the lieutenant was convinced
that the little stream discovered by himself and Jacob was the river
upon which, lower, would be found the ranch of Captain Sutter the
Swiss-American settler. The welcome sound of a thunder-storm in the
valley, distant, drifted up to the company’s rejoicing ears; and when
the storm had cleared, the sunset revealed a shining spot, as if
denoting a bay, and a shining line, as if of a river, connecting with
it.
The Valley of the Sacramento, and the Bay of San Francisco!
That night, to the yearning, keen-eyed wanderers so high above this
spring-land, appeared in the valley numerous fires, as if in answer to
the fires of the camp. Thereafter, by day and by night these fires were
visible; but the Frémont and Carson men learned, later, that they were
simply the fires of Indians in the swamps of the bay shore.
Ice and snow continued. Moccasin soles froze with slush, they would not
cling to the snow or the smooth rocks, and their wearers must crawl.
Once the lieutenant, reconnoitring with Kit, slipped into the stream,
now almost a river, and without hesitating an instant Kit plunged into
the icy water after him. The lieutenant thought that he had lost his
gun, in the fall; but it was found, after they had made a fire, under
the bank.
Nevertheless, the trail was perceptibly lower. The stream had swelled
to a torrent; the ground was soft; green grass, birds, and oaks
appeared, and a mild breeze swirled the dry oak leaves covering the
ground. This was glorious; but the worn-out animals were being killed,
for food.
Lieutenant Frémont announced that they had descended from an elevation
of 9338 feet to one of 3864 feet. He said that in the morning he and a
squad would push on, by forced marches, for the ranch of Captain Sutter
which could not be very far; and that, having obtained provisions, they
would hasten back to meet the main party.
“Preuss, Talbot, Jacob, Kit, Derosier, Townes, Proue,” named the
lieutenant, calling off the detail; and Oliver settled down,
disappointed, for he had hoped to go.
He made no remark, and tried to appear unconcerned; but the lieutenant
must have read his thoughts.
“Is the boy strong enough? We should take only the strongest men and
the best of the horses,” spoke the officer, aside, to Kit.
“Wall,” drawled Kit, reflectively, eyeing Oliver, “you know it’s pretty
hard to tucker out a boy. He’ll stand more’n a man.”
“And Oliver,” detailed the lieutenant, as if concluding his list.
Oliver grinned, with cracked lips but glad heart.
The morning was that of February 25. The first ride was one of twelve
miles, down the river valley to some old Indian huts. Here, by a field
of juicy grass, camp was located; the animals were turned out, and from
that moment until daybreak they never ceased their steady grazing.
Throughout the afternoon and the night could be heard the constant
champing of their jaws. The lieutenant seemed to take much pleasure in
sitting, as long as daylight lasted, and watching them eat.
The next camp was different. Rain forced the march from the river trail
to the higher ground, until nightfall; and then camp was made without
good grass――which, combined with the rain, appeared to plunge the poor
animals into the depths of gloom.
“This won’t do,” declared Kit. “This won’t do, captain. These critters
air jest on the narrow edge ’twixt life an’ death, an’ they’ve got to
have forage an’ rest every night, to carry ’em through the next day.
It’s dangerous, missing grass.”
That was true. Now Proveau the buffalo-runner could not keep up, and
dropped behind. Jacob was left by the lieutenant to bring him along
slowly, while the squad went on, seeking a camping place. Lunch was a
boiled mule-head. It furnished a soup.
Jacob arrived without Proveau; but he brought Charles Townes, who worn
down by the long privations was becoming crazed. Just at nightfall,
when all were well-nigh despairing for the lives of the few horses and
mules remaining, the inspiring call of Kit Carson, on before, in the
dark ravine, echoed back.
“This way!” he cried. And as they drove the staggering animals for him:
“Life yet! Life yet, boys! Here’s a hill-side sprinkled with grass
enough for the night!”
Hurrah for Kit――tireless, hard-working, never-say-die Kit!
Proveau the buffalo-runner, Charles Townes’ fine young horse from the
Columbia River supply, and another Indian horse packed with the cooking
utensils failed to join the herd; so that the next day some of the men
were sent back after them or any others that had strayed. Baptiste
Derosier appointed himself to bring in Proveau.
Oliver remained at camp, in the gorge, to guard the herd. The
lieutenant and Kit Carson climbed as high as they could, for a view;
and reported that beyond the timber the valley seemed to be as far as
ever!
Baptiste and Proveau did not get in, that night; and Baptiste did not
overtake the march, the day following. It was feared that he had become
lost. Charles Townes was still crazy, and insisted upon swimming in the
icy river; he imagined that this was summer-time. At evening Baptiste
trudged weakly in. He sat down by the camp fire and began to tell of
several days’ wanderings――as if he had been gone a long while.
The country was improving, with much grass, and flowers and butterflies,
and acorns to eat; and Mr. Preuss walked on ahead of the squad, to
sketch the route. That night he did not return to camp. The next day
they found his trail, and they shouted and fired guns; but the only
response they received was from an Indian, who in the mutual
astonishment ran away.
The march must be continued; but although search right and left and on
the back trail was made for Mr. Preuss, no sign of him was discovered.
The lieutenant and Kit grew worried; Mr. Preuss had been unarmed, and
no one could tell what the Indians might have done to him.
Not until the evening of the third day did Mr. Preuss turn up. While
in a beautiful camp among live-oaks of the river valley they all heard
a faint shout from the hills behind――and Kit, sharp-eyed, cried,
instantly:
“There he is! I see him!”
It was Mr. Preuss, with wavering strides descending for the camp.
They had little to offer him, except some roasted acorns bought from
Indians. He, on his part, had a story to tell. He had eaten roots, and
ants, and raw little frogs, and had tried to smoke live-oak leaves; and
one night, in the timber, he had sought out two wolves, thinking that
they were Indian dogs. At last he had met several Indians, who seemed
afraid of him but had given him roasted acorns. Soon after, he had
struck the trail of the squad, and now here he was.
All this time the march of the squad had been following down the
course of the south or main fork of the American River of Northern
California, as it rushes from the high western slope of the Sierras
for the Sacramento. Almost at the spot where Mr. Preuss rejoined his
anxious comrades was discovered, in scant four years, or on January 24,
1848, the placer gold of California, and quickly as spread the tidings
down poured, from the Sierras, by the Frémont and Carson trail, the
eager Forty-niners.
Mr. Preuss had rejoined the squad on March 5. Only about half the
necessary saddle animals were left, but these were strong enough, now,
to carry riders; and four and five at a time the squad rode, each
division for an hour. Deer were seen, near at hand; the order was, not
to pause for them, or for anything, but to press on, press on, for
Sutter’s ranch, and rescue.
Gold was plentiful, but it was the gold of the California poppy
covering the sward. The land was gay with flowers, and dignified with
stately oaks. Tracks of horses and cattle were followed, to an Indian
village, some of whose inmates wore cloth shirts; yet no information
was gained. Next, was expectantly visited an adobe house with glass
windows. Only Indians, apparently ignorant, inhabited it. Next, in a
broad and grassy valley through which swept gently the noble river, was
entered a larger Indian village. Its people were clean and wore cotton
shirts and other factory clothing. One of the villagers spoke a little
poor Spanish; but he said that there were no whites in that country.
“What!” exclaimed the lieutenant, while the hearts of the squad sank.
At this moment came riding another Indian, wearing a broad-brimmed,
peaked straw hat; a ragged blanket through a slit in which his head
had been thrust; light-blue cotton trousers; and upon his bare heels
tremendous, jingling spurs. He sat in a cumbersome, high-pommelled,
high-cantled saddle, with huge block stirrups hollowed out of solid
wood. Upon his arm dangled a rawhide riata, or lasso.
“A su disposición, señors,” he greeted, in common Spanish. “At your
service, gentlemen.”
“Is this the Sacramento River?” asked Lieutenant Frémont, in the
Spanish.
“No, señor. It is the Rio de los Americanos――the River of the
Americans. It joins the Sacramento about ten miles below.”
“River of the Americans”! That sounded good; for to American travellers
in foreign land the word “American” is sweet.
“Where, then, is the ranch of Captain Sutter?”
“Yonder, señor. I am a vaquero (cowboy) in the employ of Captain
Sutter. The people of this village work for him. His house is just
over the hill. If you will wait but a moment, señors, I myself will
guide you thither. He is a very rich man, and he is always glad to see
Americans.”
XX
DOWN THROUGH CALIFORNIA
The vaquero, or cowboy, had spoken truly. Beyond the hill was disclosed
to view a large trading post――larger than either Bent’s Fort or Fort
Laramie; built of adobe, like them, and like them fashioned with
blockhouse corners, it had location more attractive, for it stood
amidst wheat-fields and natural verdure, beside the sparkling American
River.
“El Capitan Sutter comes, señors,” announced the vaquero, pointing.
A man had galloped from the post and its fringe of out-buildings, and
was rapidly approaching the squad. A short, stout, German-featured
man he was, when he arrived: with rosy complexion, blue eyes, crisp
moustache, high forehead, bald pate, and a soldiery way about him.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, saluting. “Welcome to New Helvetia. I am
Captain Sutter.”
“I am Lieutenant John C. Frémont, of the United States Army, on a
government survey of Oregon and the Great Basin,” explained the
lieutenant, shaking hands. “We’ve been forced across the mountains.
I’ve left most of the company behind, while with a squad I rode in
advance, for supplies. Can we get them?”
“Most assuredly. All you want,” answered Captain Sutter, promptly.
“Come with me.”
It was late to start back, to-day, with rescue for the Fitzpatrick
party; but much refreshed by the abundant food and the night’s lodging
at the hospitable post of New Helvetia they took the back trail, early
in the morning, with horses and provisions. On the second day out, just
before reaching the Forks of the American, they sighted the Fitzpatrick
party straggling along――and a sorry party that was. All the men were
afoot, tottering as they led tottering horse or mule. Oliver thought
that he never had seen such skeletons living; and then it occurred to
him that no doubt his own party were just about as bad, and that he was
accustomed to them.
The Fitzpatrick party were too weak to cheer; they almost were too weak
to eat; but the gaunt wan faces essayed a smile, and one or two hands
were languidly waved. Camp was at once made, and the good rich beef and
bread and salmon from Sutter’s Fort were distributed――cautiously, that
the greedy Fitzpatrick men should not over-eat.
Thomas Fitzpatrick, his ruddy face drawn and gray with exhaustion, his
white hair ragged, related that because of the melting snows and the
rains a number of the pack animals had fallen from slippery precipices
and had been killed, their packs lost. All told, out of the 104
horses and mules with which the expedition had left the Dalles of the
Columbia only thirty-three arrived in the Valley of the Sacramento;
thus reckoned up Lieutenant Frémont, when, on the next day, camp of
the whole company was established where the American emptied into the
Sacramento, two miles below New Helvetia.
This New Switzerland, or New Helvetia, as Captain Sutter had named
his settlement, and which was known also as Sutter’s Fort, was a most
interesting place. The post walls were eighteen feet high, enclosing
a rectangle 150 by 500 feet; they mounted twelve cannon and were
garrisoned by forty Indians whom Captain Sutter (who had been a soldier
in France) had uniformed and drilled. Lieutenant Frémont did not think
much of the condition of the cannon, nor very highly of the smartness
of the Indian soldiery; but all in all, the fort was rather imposing,
here in the depth of California.
The jovial captain lived like a Highland chief. Kit Carson called him
a king. Nobody interfered with him; he had been pronounced a Mexican
citizen, by the governor of Alta California――but, anyway, citizen or
not, he was too strong to be driven out. Besides the forty California
Indians he employed thirty white men――mechanics, trappers, farmers,
etc.; and all the American trappers and settlers in this part of
California were free to make his settlement headquarters. His land
extended over thirty-three square miles; it was being grazed and
farmed; he possessed 4200 cattle, 2000 horses, 1900 sheep, and sent
out many beaver-skins and much wheat. His house, inside the fort, was
furnished with regular chairs and beds and tables, of heavy, clumsy
manufacture, having been hand-made, from laurel, at the former Russian
trading post of Ross, on the sea-shore westward. He sent vessels down
the Sacramento and up to Vancouver. He operated a flour-mill and was
teaching the Indians to weave hats and blankets and to farm. Yes,
powerful and rich and independent was Captain Johann Augustus Sutter,
of New Helvetia, above the mouth of the Rio de los Americanos, Upper
California. ’Twas at his saw-mill, fifty miles above his fort, that
was discovered, in the winter of 1848–49, gold; and speedily his New
Helvetia became Sacramento City.
The two weeks’ camp of the Frémont and Carson company, at the mouth of
the American, was by no means an idle camp, devoted to sight-seeing
or sitting in the Captain Sutter laurel chairs. Horses and mules
and cattle were to be inspected and bought; new pack-saddles to be
put together; bridles repaired, saddles repaired, ropes repaired or
purchased, clothing repaired or purchased; Samuel Neal the blacksmith
worked constantly at the post forge, shaping horse-shoes, bridle-bits,
nails, etc.; and the Sutter flour-mill, grinding by horse-power, was in
motion night and day producing flour.
A short council at which Captain Sutter was present determined upon the
route home.
“It would be folly to recross the Sierras, here,” stated the lieutenant.
“I suppose the snow lies on them away into the summer.”
“Yes, sir,” assured the captain.
“I was thinking, then,” continued the lieutenant, “of travelling south,
down the Valley of the Sacramento and up the Valley of the San Joachin,
that Kit has talked so much about, for the Joe Walker Pass at the lower
end of the ranges. And then to strike the Spanish Trail that runs from
the Pueblo of Los Angeles to Santa Fé.”
“Very good,” approved the captain. “It’s a fine, well-watered country,
with plenty of game, all the way to the southern passes.”
“We’re not liable to be interfered with, by the authorities, are we?”
queried the lieutenant. “This is Mexican territory, and we came in
without leave.”
“Not so far back from the coast,” answered Captain Sutter. “But you’ll
have to watch sharp, or the Indians, particularly the mansitos, or
tamed Indians, as we call the Indians educated by the missions, who
have returned to wild life, will steal your animals. They are very bold
and clever. They even come down and try to steal our horses at New
Helvetia.”
“We’ll watch,” promised the lieutenant.
“No white settlements, captain?” asked Kit.
“None inland, any more than when you travelled through fifteen years
ago, sir,” said Captain Sutter. “The whole country back from the line
of missions, and the few settlements, along the coast, is a paradise
unused except as the haunt of the Indians. It is a fair land going to
waste. Some Anglo-Saxon race should have it, and cultivate it. That
race will be either England or America; mark my words.”
“Let us hope, America,” responded the lieutenant.