CROSSING THE MISSOURI.
"What on earth is that?" exclaimed Margaret McAuley, as we approached
the ferry landing a few miles below where Omaha now stands.
"It looks for all the world like a great big white flatiron," answered
Eliza, the sister, "doesn't it, Mrs. Meeker?" But, leaving the women
folks to their similes, we drivers turned our attention more to the
teams as we encountered the roads "cut all to pieces" on account of the
concentrated travel as we neared the landing and the solid phalanx of
wagons that formed the flatiron of white ground.
We here encountered a sight indeed long to be remembered. The
"flatiron of white" that Eliza had seen proved to be wagons with their
tongues pointing to the landing—a center train with other parallel
trains extending back in the rear and gradually covering a wider
range the farther back from the river one would go. Several hundred
wagons were thus closely interlocked completely blocking the approach
to the landing by new arrivals, whether in companies or single. All
around about were camps of all kinds, from those without covering
of any kind to others with comfortable tents, nearly all seemingly
intent on merrymaking, while here and there were small groups engaged
in devotional services. We soon ascertained these camps contained
the outfits, in great part, of the wagons in line in the great white
flatiron, some of whom had been there for two weeks with no apparent
probability of securing an early crossing. At the turbulent river
front the muddy waters of the Missouri had already swallowed up three
victims, one of whom I saw go under the drift of a small island as
I stood near his shrieking wife the first day we were there. Two
scows were engaged in crossing the wagons and teams. In this case the
stock had rushed to one side of the boat, submerged the gunwale, and
precipitated the whole contents into the dangerous river. One yoke of
oxen, having reached the farther shore, deliberately entered the river
with a heavy yoke on and swam to the Iowa side, and were finally saved
by the helping hands of the assembled emigrants.
"What shall we do?" was passed around, without answer. Tom McAuley was
not yet looked upon as a leader, as was the case later. The sister
Margaret, a most determined maiden lady, the oldest of the party and as
resolute and brave as the bravest, said to build a boat. But of what
should we build it? While this question was under consideration and a
search for material made, one of our party, who had gotten across the
river in search of timber, discovered a scow, almost completely buried,
on the sandpit opposite the landing, "only just a small bit of railing
and a corner of the boat visible." The report seemed too good to be
true. The next thing to do was to find the owner, which in a search of
a day we did, eleven miles down the river. "Yes, if you will stipulate
to deliver the boat safely to me after crossing your five wagons and
teams, you can have it," said the owner, and a bargain was closed right
then and there. My! but didn't we make the sand fly that night from
that boat? By morning we could begin to see the end. Then busy hands
began to cut a landing on the perpendicular sandy bank on the Iowa
side; others were preparing sweeps, and all was bustle and stir and one
might say excitement.
By this time it had become noised around that another boat would be
put on to ferry people over, and we were besieged with applications
from detained emigrants. Finally, the word coming to the ears of
the ferrymen, they were foolish enough to undertake to prevent us
from crossing ourselves. A writ of replevin or some other process
was issued, I never knew exactly what, directing the sheriff to take
possession of the boat when landed, and which he attempted to do. I
never before nor since attempted to resist an officer of the law, nor
joined to accomplish anything by force outside the pale of the law,
but when that sheriff put in an appearance, and we realized what it
meant, there wasn't a man in our party that did not run for his gun
to the nearby camp, and it is needless to add that we did not need to
use them. As if by magic a hundred guns were in sight. The sheriff
withdrew, and the crossing went peaceably on till all our wagons were
safely landed. But we had another danger to face; we learned that there
would be an attempt made to take the boat from us, not as against us,
but as against the owner, and but for the adroit management of McAuley
and my brother Oliver (who had joined us) we would have been unable to
fulfill our engagements with the owner.