OUT ON THE PLAINS.
When we stepped foot upon the right bank of the Missouri River we were
outside the pale of civil law. We were within the Indian country where
no organized civil government existed. Some people and some writers
have assumed that each man was "a law unto himself" and free to do his
own will, dependent, of course, upon his physical ability to enforce it.
Nothing could be further from the facts than this assumption, as
evil-doers soon found out to their discomfort. No general organization
for law and order was effected, but the American instinct for fair
play and for a hearing prevailed; so that while there was not mob
law, the law of self-preservation asserted itself, and the mandates
of the level-headed old men prevailed; "a high court from which there
was no appeal," but "a high court in the most exalted sense; a senate
composed of the ablest and most respected fathers of the emigration,
exercising both legislative and judicial power; and its laws and
decisions proved equal to any worthy of the high trust reposed in it,"
so tersely described by Applegate as to conditions when the first
great train moved out on the Plains in 1843, that I quote his words as
describing conditions in 1852. There was this difference, however, in
the emigration of 1843—all, by agreement, belonged to one or the other
of the two companies, the "cow column" or the "light brigade," while
with the emigrants of 1852 it is safe to say that more than half did
not belong to large companies, or one might say any organized company.
But this made no difference, for when an occasion called for action a
"high court" was convened, and woe-betide the man that would undertake
to defy its mandates after its deliberations were made public.
One incident, well up on the Sweetwater, will illustrate the spirit
of determination of the sturdy old men (elderly, I should say, as
no young men were allowed to sit in these councils) of the Plains,
while laboring under stress of grave personal cares and with many
personal bereavements. A murder had been committed, and it was clear
that the motive was robbery. The suspect had a large family and was
traveling along with the moving column. Men had volunteered to search
for the missing man and finally found the proof pointing to the guilt
of the suspect. A council of twelve men was called and deliberated
until the second day, meanwhile holding the murderer safely within
their grip. What were they to do? Here was a wife and four little
children depending upon this man for their lives; what would become
of his family if justice was meted out to him? Soon there came an
under-current of what might be termed public opinion—that it was
probably better to forego punishment than to endanger the lives of the
family; but the council would not be swerved from its resolution, and
at sundown of the third day the criminal was hung in the presence of
the whole camp, including the family, but not until ample provisions
had been made to insure the safety of the family by providing a driver
to finish the journey. I came so near seeing this that I did see the
ends of the wagon tongues in the air and the rope dangling therefrom,
but I have forgotten the names of the parties, and even if I had not,
would be loath to make them public.
From necessity, murder was punishable with death; but stealing, by a
tacit understanding, with whipping, which, when inflicted by one of
those long ox lashes in the hands of an expert, would bring the blood
from the victim's back at every stroke. Minor offenses, or differences
generally, took the form of arbitration, the decision of which each
party would abide by, as if emanating from a court of law.
Lawlessness was not common on the Plains, no more so than in the
communities from which the great body of the emigrants had been drawn;
in fact, not so much so, as punishment was swift and certain, and that
fact had its deterrent effect. But the great body of the emigrants were
a law-abiding people from law-abiding communities.
And now as to our mode of travel. I did not enter an organized company,
neither could I travel alone. Four wagons, with nine men, by tacit
agreement, traveled together for a thousand miles, and separated only
when our roads parted, the one to California, the other to Oregon.
And yet we were all the while in one great train, never out of sight
or hearing of others. In fact, at times, the road would be so full of
wagons that all could not travel in one track, and this fact accounts
for the double road-beds seen in so many places on the trail. One of
the party always went ahead to look out for water, grass and fuel,
three requisites for a camping place. The grass along the beaten
track was always eaten off close by the loose stock, of which there
were great numbers, and so we had frequently to take the cattle long
distances from camp. Then came the most trying part of the whole
trip—the all-night watch, which resulted in our making the cattle our
bed-fellows, back to back for warmth; for signal as well, to get up
if the ox did. It was not long, though, till we were used to it, and
slept quite a bit except when a storm struck us; well, then, to say
the least, it was not a pleasure outing. But weren't we glad when the
morning came, with, perchance, the smoke of the campfire in sight, and
maybe, as we approached, we could catch the aroma of the coffee; and
then such tender greetings and such thoughtful care that would have
touched a heart of stone, and to us seemed like a paradise. We were
supremely happy.
People, too, often brought their own ills upon themselves by their
indiscreet action, especially in the loss of their teams. The trip
had not progressed far until there came a universal outcry against
the heavy loads and unnecessary articles, and soon we began to see
abandoned property. First it might be a table or a cupboard, or
perhaps a bedstead or a heavy cast-iron cook-stove. Then began to
be seen bedding by the wayside, feather beds, blankets, quilts,
pillows—everything of the kind that mortal man might want. And so,
very soon here and there an abandoned wagon could be seen, provisions,
stacks of flour and bacon being the most abundant—all left as common
property. Help yourself if you will; no one will interfere; and, in
fact, in some places a sign was posted inviting all to take what they
wanted. Hundreds of wagons were left and hundreds of tons of goods.
People seemed to vie with each other to give away their property,
there being no chance to sell, and they disliked to destroy. Long
after the mania for getting rid of goods and lightening the load, the
abandonment of wagons continued, as the teams became weaker and the
ravages of cholera struck us. It was then that many lost their heads
and ruined their teams by furious driving, by lack of care, and by
abuse. There came a veritable stampede—a strife for possession of the
road, to see who should get ahead. Whole trains (often with bad blood)
would strive for the mastery of the road, one attempting to pass the
other, frequently with drivers on each side the team to urge the poor,
suffering brutes forward.
"What shall we do?" passed from one to another in our little family
council.
"Now, fellers," said McAuley, "don't lose your heads, but do just as
you have been doing; you gals, just make your bread as light as ever,
and we'll boil the water and take river water the same as ever, even if
it is almost as thick as mud."
We had all along refused to "dig little wells near the banks of the
Platte," as many others did, having soon learned that the water
obtained was strongly charged with alkali, while the river water was
comparatively pure, other than the fine impalpable sediment, so fine as
to seemingly be held in solution.
"Keep cool," he continued; "maybe we'll have to lay down, and maybe
not. Anyway, it's no use frettin'. What's to be will be, 'specially if
we but help things along."
This homely yet wise counsel fell upon willing ears, as most all were
already of the same mind; and we did "just as we had been doing," and
escaped unharmed.
I look back on that party of nine men and three women (and a baby),
with four wagons, with feelings almost akin to reverence.
Thomas McAuley became by natural selection the leader of the party,
although no agreement of the kind was ever made. He was, next to his
maiden sister, the oldest of the party, a most fearless man, who never
lost his head, whatever the emergency, and I have been in some pretty
tight places with him. While he was the oldest, I was the youngest of
the men folks of the party, and the only married man of the lot, and
if I do have to say it, the strongest and ablest to bear the brunt of
the work (pardon me, reader, when I add, and willing according to my
strength, for it is true), and so we got along well together until the
parting of the way came. This spirit, though, pervaded the whole camp
both with the men and women folks to the end. Thomas McAuley still
lives, at Hobart Hills, California, or did a few years ago when I last
heard from him, a respected citizen. He has long since passed the
eighty-year mark, and has not "laid down" yet.
Did space but permit I would like to tell more in detail of the members
of that little happy party (family we called ourselves) camped near the
bank of the Platte when the fury of that great epidemic—cholera—burst
upon us, but I can only make brief mention. William Buck—one of
Nature's noblemen—has long ago "laid down." Always scrupulously neat
and cleanly, always ready to cater to the wants of his companions and
as honest as the day is long, he has ever held a tender place in my
heart. It was Buck that selected our nice little outfit, complete in
every part, so that we did not throw away a pound of provisions nor
need to purchase any. The water can was in the wagon, of sufficient
capacity to supply our wants for a day, and a "sup" for the oxen and
cows besides. The milk can in the wagon always yielded its lump of
butter at night, churned by the movement of the wagon from the surplus
morning's milk. The yeast cake so thoughtfully provided by the little
wife ever brought forth sweet, light bread baked in that tin reflector
before the "chip" (buffalo) fire. That reflector and those yeast cakes
were a great factor conducive to our health. Small things, to be sure,
but great as to results. Instead of saleratus biscuit, bacon and beans,
we had the light bread and fruit, with fresh meats and rice pudding,
far out on the Plains, until our supply of eggs became exhausted.
Of the remainder of the party, brother Oliver "laid down" fifty-five
years ago, but his memory is still green in the hearts of all who knew
him. Margaret McAuley died a few years after reaching California. Like
her brother, she was resolute and resourceful, and almost like a mother
to the younger sister and the young wife and baby. And such a baby!
If one were to judge by the actions of all the members of that camp,
the conclusion would be reached there was no other baby on earth. All
seemed rejoiced to know there was a baby in camp; young (only seven
weeks old when we started) but strong and grew apace as the higher
altitude was reached.
Eliza, the younger sister, a type of the healthy, handsome American
girl, graceful and modest, became the center of attraction upon which a
romance might be written, but as the good elderly lady still lives, the
time has not yet come, and so we must draw the veil.
Of the two Davenport brothers, Jacob, the youngest, became ill at Soda
Springs, was confined to the wagon for more than seven hundred miles
down Snake River in that intolerable dust, and finally died soon after
we arrived in Portland.
John, the elder brother, always fretful, but willing to do his part,
has passed out of my knowledge. Both came of respected parents on an
adjoining farm to that of my own home near Indianapolis, but I have
lost all trace of them.
Perhaps the general reader may not take even a passing interest in this
little party (family) here described. I can only say that this was
typical of many on the Trail of '52. The McAuleys or Buck and others of
our party could be duplicated in larger or smaller parties all along
the line. There were hundreds of noble men trudging up the Platte at
that time in an army over five hundred miles long, many of whom "laid
down," a sacrifice to their duty, or maybe to inherent weakness of
their system. While it is true such an experience brings out the worst
features of individual characters, yet it is also true that the shining
virtues come to the front likewise; like pure gold, they are found
where least expected.
Of the fortitude of the women one cannot say too much. Embarrassed
at the start by the follies of fashion (and long dresses which were
quickly discarded and the bloomer donned), they soon rose to the
occasion and cast false modesty aside. Could we but have had the camera
(of course not then in existence) trained on one of those typical
camps, what a picture there would be. Elderly matrons dressed almost
like the little sprite miss of tender years of today. The younger women
were rather shy of accepting the inevitable, but finally fell into the
procession, and we had a community of women wearing bloomers without
invidious comment, or, in fact, any comment at all. Some of them went
barefoot, partly from choice and in some cases from necessity. The
same could be said of the men, as shoe leather began to grind out from
the sand and dry heat. Of all the fantastic costumes it is safe to say
the like was never seen before. The scene beggars description. Patches
became visible upon the clothing of preachers as well as laymen;
the situations brooked no respecter of persons. The grandmother's
cap was soon displaced by a handkerchief or perhaps a bit of cloth.
Grandfather's high crowned hat disappeared as if by magic. Hatless and
bootless men became a common sight. Bonnetless women were to be seen on
all sides. They wore what they had left or could get, without question
as to the fitness of things. Rich dresses were worn by some ladies
because they had no others; the gentlemen drew upon their wardrobes
until scarcely a fine unsoiled suit was left.
The dust has been spoken of as intolerable. The word hardly expresses
the situation; in fact, the English language contains no words to
properly express it. Here was a moving mass of humanity and dumb
brutes, at times mixed in inextricable confusion, a hundred feet wide
or more. Sometimes two columns of wagons traveling on parallel lines
and near each other would serve as a barrier to prevent loose stock
from crossing; but usually there would be a confused mass of cows,
young cattle, horses, and footmen moving along the outskirts. Here and
there would be the drivers of loose stock, some on foot and some on
horseback;—a young girl, maybe, riding astride, with a younger child
behind, going here and there after an intractable cow, while the mother
could be seen in the confusion lending a helping hand. As in a thronged
city street, no one seemed to look to the right or to the left, or to
pay much, if any, attention to others, but bent alone on accomplishing
the task in hand. Over all, in calm weather at times, the dust would
settle so thick that the lead team of oxen could not be seen from the
wagon—like a London fog, so thick one might almost cut it.[1] Then,
again, that steady flow of wind up to and through the South Pass would
hurl the dust and sand in one's face sometimes with force enough to
sting from the impact upon the face and hands.
Then we had storms that were not of sand and wind alone;—storms that
only a Platte Valley in summer or a Puget Sound winter might turn
out;—storms that would wet one to the skin in less time that it takes
to write this sentence. One such I remember being caught in while out
on watch. The cattle traveled so fast it was difficult to keep up with
them. I could do nothing else than follow, as it would have been as
impossible to turn them as it would to change the direction of the
wind. I have always thought of this as a cloudburst. Anyway, there was
not a dry thread left on me in an incredibly short time. My boots were
as full of water as if I had been wading over boot-top deep, and the
water ran through my hat as though it was a sieve, almost blinding me
in the fury of wind and water. Many tents were leveled, and, in fact,
such occurrences as fallen tents were not uncommon.
One of our neighboring trains suffered no inconsiderable loss by the
sheets of water on the ground, floating their camp equipage, ox yokes,
and all loose articles away; and they only narrowly escaped having a
wagon engulfed in the raging torrent that came so unexpectedly upon
them. Such were some of the discomforts on the Plains in '52.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] The author spent four winters in London on the world's hop market,
and perhaps has a more vivid recollection of what is meant by a London
fog than would be understood by the general reader. I have seen the fog
and smoke there so black that one could not see his hand held at arm's
length, and it reminded me of some scenes in the dust on the Plains.