OUT ON THE PLAINS.
As soon as a part of our outfits were landed on the right bank of the
river our trouble with the Indians began, not in open hostilities, but
in robbery under the guise of beggary. The word had been passed around
in our little party that not one cent's worth of provisions would we
give up to the Indians,—believing this policy was our only safeguard
from spoliation, and in that we were right. The women folks had been
taken over the river with the first wagon, and sent off a little way
to a convenient camp, so that the first show of arms came from that
side of our little community, when some of the bolder Pawnees attempted
to pilfer around the wagons. But no blood was shed, and I may say in
passing there was none shed by any of our party during the entire
trip, though there was a show of arms in several instances. One case
in particular I remember. Soon after we had left the Missouri River
we came to a small bridge over a washout across the road, evidently
constructed very recently by some train just ahead of us. The Indians
had taken possession and demanded pay for crossing. Some ahead of us
had paid, while others were hesitating, but with a few there was a
determined resolution not to pay. When our party came up it remained
for that fearless man, McAuley, in quite short order to clear the way
though the Indians were there in considerable numbers. McAuley said,
"You fellers come right on, for I'm going across that bridge if I have
to run right over that Ingen settin' there." And he did almost run over
the Indian, who at the last moment got out of the way of his team,
which was followed in such quick succession and with such a show of
arms that the Indians withdrew, and left the road unobstructed.
In another instance, I came very near getting into serious trouble
with three Indians on horseback. We had hauled off away from the road
to get water, I think, and became separated from the passing throng,
and almost, but not quite out of sight of any wagons or camps. The
Indians came up ostensibly to beg, but really to rob, and first began
to solicit, and afterwards to threaten. I started to drive on, not
thinking they would use actual violence, as there were other emigrants
certainly within a half mile, and thought they were merely trying to
frighten me into giving up at least a part of my outfit. Finally one
of the Indians whipped out his knife and cut loose the cow that I was
leading behind the wagon. I did not have to ask for my gun, as my
wife in the wagon, who had seen the act, believed, as I did, that the
time had come to fight, and handed me my trusty rifle out under the
cover, and before the savages had time to do anything further they
saw the gun. They were near enough to make it certain that one shot
would take deadly effect, but instead of shooting one, I trained the
gun in the direction so I might quickly choose between the three, and
in an instant each Indian was under cover of his horse, and speeding
away in great haste. The old story that "almost anyone will fight when
cornered" was exemplified in this incident, but I did not want any more
such experiences and consequently thereafter became more careful.
We did not, however, have much trouble with the Indians in 1852. The
facts are, the great numbers of emigrants, coupled with the superiority
of their arms, placed them on comparatively safe grounds. And it must
be remembered, also, that this was before the treaty-making period,
which has so often been followed by bloodshed and war.
But to return to the river bank. We crossed on the 17th and 18th of
May, and drove out a short way on the 19th, but not far enough to be
out of hearing of a shrill steamboat whistle that resounded over the
prairie, announcing the arrival of a steamer.
I never knew the size of that steamer, or the name, but only know that
a dozen or more wagons could be crossed at once, and that a dozen or
more trips could be made during the day, and as many more at night, and
that we were overtaken by this throng of a thousand wagons thrown upon
the road, that gave us some trouble and much discomfort.
And now that we were fairly on the way the whole atmosphere, so to
speak, seemed changed. Instead of the discordant violin and more
discordant voices, with the fantastic night open-air dances with mother
earth as a floor, there soon prevailed a more sober mein, even among
the young people, as they began to encounter the fatigue of a day's
drive and the cares of a night watch. With so many, the watchword was
to push ahead and make as big a day's drive as possible; hence it is
not to be wondered at that nearly the whole of the thousand wagons that
crossed the river after we did soon passed us.
"Now, fellers, jist let 'em rush on, and keep cool, we'll overcatch
them afore long," said McAuley. And we did, and passed many a
broken-down team, the result of that first few days of rush. It was
this class that unloaded such piles of provisions, noted elsewhere, in
the first two hundred mile stretch, and that fell such easy prey to
the ravages of the epidemic of cholera that struck the moving column
where the throng from the south side of the Platte began crossing. As
I recollect this, it must have been near where the city of Kearney
now stands, which is about two hundred miles west of the Missouri
River. We had been in the buffalo country several days, and some of
our young men had had the keen edge of the hunting zeal worn off by a
day's ride in the heat. A number of them were sick from the effects of
overheating and indiscreet drinking of impure water. Such an experience
came vividly home to me in the case of my brother Oliver, who had
outfitted with our Hoosier friends near Indianapolis, but had crossed
the Missouri River in company with us. Being of an adventurous spirit,
he could not restrain his ardor, and gave chase to the buffaloes,
and fell sick almost unto death. This occurred just at the time when
we had encountered the cholera panic, and of course it must be the
cholera that had seized him with such an iron grip, argued some of
his companions. His old-time comrades and neighbors, all but two, and
they could not delay. I said, "It's certain death to take him along
in that condition," which they admitted was true. "Divide the outfit,
then." The Davenport boys said they would not leave my brother, and
so their portion of the outfit was put out also, which gave the three
a wagon and team. Turning to Buck, I said, "I can't ask you to stay
with me." The answer came back quick as a flash, "I am going to stay
with you without asking," and he did, too, though my brother was
almost a total stranger. We nursed the sick man for four days amidst
scenes of excitement and death I hope never to witness again, with
the result that on the fifth day we were able to go on and take the
convalescent with us and thus saved his life. It was at this point the
sixteen hundred wagons passed us as noted elsewhere in the four days'
detention, and loose stock so numerous, we made no attempt to count
them.
Of course, this incident is of no particular importance, except to
illustrate what life meant in those strenuous days. The experience of
that camp was the experience, I may say, of hundreds of others; of
friends parting; of desertion; of noble sacrifice; of the revelation
of the best and worst of the inner man. Like the shifting clouds of a
brightening summer day, the trains seemed to dissolve and disappear,
while no one, apparently, knew what had become of their component
parts, or whither they had gone.
There did seem instances that would convert the most skeptical to the
Presbyterian doctrine of total depravity, so brutal and selfish were
the actions of some men; brutal to men and women alike; to dumb brutes,
and in fact to themselves. And, yet, it is a pleasure to record that
there were numerous instances of noble self-sacrifice, of helpfulness,
of unselfishness, to the point of imperiling their own lives. It became
a common saying to know one's neighbors, they must be seen on the
Plains.
The army of loose stock that accompanied this huge caravan, a column,
we may almost say, of five hundred miles long without break, added
greatly to the discomfort of all. Of course, the number of cattle and
horses will never be known, but their number was legion compared to
those that labored under the yoke, or in the harness. A conservative
estimate would be not less than six animals to the wagon, and surely
there were three loose animals to each one in the teams. By this it
would appear that as sixteen hundred wagons passed while we tarried
four days, nearly ten thousand beasts of burden and thirty thousand
loose stock accompanied them. As to the number of persons, certainly
there were five to the wagon, perhaps more, but calling it five, eight
thousand people, men, women and children, passed on during those four
days—many to their graves not afar off.
We know by the inscribed dates found on Independence Rock and elsewhere
that there were wagons full three hundred miles ahead of us. The throng
had continued to pass the river more than a month after we had crossed,
so that it does not require a stretch of the imagination to say the
column was five hundred miles long, and like Sherman's march through
Georgia, fifty thousand strong.
Of the casualties in that mighty army I scarcely dare guess. It is
certain that history gives no record of such great numbers migrating
so long a distance as that of the Pioneers of the Plains, where, as we
have seen, the dead lay in rows of fifties and groups of seventies.
Shall we say ten per cent fell by the wayside? Many will exclaim
that estimate is too low. Ten per cent would give us five thousand
sacrifices of lives laid down even in one year to aid in the peopling
of the Pacific Coast states. The roll call was never made, and we know
not how many there were. The list of mortalities is unknown, and so
we are lost in conjecture, and now we only know that the unknown and
unmarked graves have gone into oblivion.
Volumes could be written of life on the Plains and yet leave the story
not half told. In some matter before me I read, "found a family,
consisting of husband, wife and four small children, whose cattle we
supposed had given out and died. They were here all alone, and no wagon
or cattle in sight"—had been thrown out by the owner of a wagon and
left on the road to die. In a nearby page I read, "Here we met Mr. Lot
Whitcom, direct from Oregon—. Told me a great deal about Oregon. He
has provisions, but none to sell, but gives to all he finds in want,
and who are unable to buy." These stories of the good Samaritan, and
the fiendish actions of others could be multiplied indefinitely, but
I quote only extracts from these two, written on the spot, that well
illustrate the whole.
Mrs. Cecelia Emily McMillen Adams, late of Hillsboro, Oregon, crossed
the Plains in 1852, and kept a painstaking diary, and noted the graves
passed, and counted them. Her diary is published in full by the Oregon
Pioneer Association, 1904. I note the following: "June fourteenth.
Passed seven new made graves. June 15th. Sick headache, not able to sit
up. June 16th. Passed 11 new graves. June 17th. Passed six new graves.
June 18th. We have passed twenty-one new made graves today. June 19th.
Passed thirteen graves today. June 20th. Passed ten graves. June 21st.
No report. June 22nd. Passed seven graves. If we should go by all the
camping grounds, we should see five times as many graves as we do."
This report of seventy-five dead in 106 miles, and that "if we should
go by all the camping grounds we should see five times as many graves
as we do," coupled with the fact that a parallel column from which we
have no report was traveling up the Platte on the south side of the
river, and that the outbreak of the cholera had taken place originally
in this column coming from the southeast, fully confirms the estimate
of 5,000 deaths on the Plains in 1852. It is in fact rather under than
over the actual number who laid down their lives that year. I have
mislaid the authority, but at the time I read it, believed the account
to be true, of a scout that passed over the ground late that year
(1852) from the Loop Fork of the Platte to the Laramie, a distance
approximating 400 miles, that by actual count in great part and
conservative estimate of the remainder, there were six fresh graves to
the mile for the whole distance—this, it is to be remembered, on the
one side of the river in a stretch where for half the distance of a
parallel column traveling on the opposite bank, where like conditions
prevailed.
A few more instances must suffice to complete this chapter of horrors.
L. B. Rowland, now of Eugene, Oregon, recently told me the experience
of his train of twenty-three persons, between the two crossings of the
Snake River, of which we have just written. Of the twenty-three that
crossed, eleven died before they reached the lower crossing.
Mrs. M. E. Jones, now of North Yakima, states that forty people of
their train died in one day and two nights, before reaching the
crossing of the Platte. Martin Cook, of Newberg, Oregon, is my
authority for the following: A family of seven persons, the father
known as "Dad Friels," from Hartford, Warren County, Iowa, all died
of cholera, and were buried in one grave. He could not tell me the
locality nor the exact date, but it would be useless to search for
the graves, as all have long ago been leveled by the passing hoofs of
the buffalo or domestic stock, or met the fate of hundreds of shallow
graves, having been desecrated by hungry wolves.
A pathetic thought came uppermost in the minds of the emigrants as the
fact dawned upon them that all the graves were fresh made, and that
those of previous years had disappeared—either leveled by the storms of
wind or rain; by the hoofs of the passing throng of stock; or possibly
by ravages of the hungry wolf. Many believed the Indians had robbed the
graves for the clothing on the bodies. Whatever the cause, the fact
was realized that the graves of previous years were all, or nearly all
gone, and that the same fate awaited the last resting place of those
loved ones laid away in such great numbers.
One of the incidents that made a profound impression upon the minds of
all; the meeting of eleven wagons returning and not a man left in the
entire train;—all had died, and had been buried on the way, and the
women were returning alone from a point well up on the Platte below
Fort Laramie. The difficulties of a return trip were multiplied on
account of the passing throng moving westward. How they succeeded, or
what became of them I never knew, but we did know a terrible task lay
before them.
As the column passed up the Platte, there came some relief for awhile
from the dust and a visible thinning out of the throng; some had pushed
on and gotten out of the way of the congested district, while others
had lagged behind; and then it was patent that the missing dead left
not only a void in the hearts of their comrades, but also a visible
space upon the road, while their absence cast a gloom over many an
aching heart.
As we gradually ascended the Sweetwater, the nights became cooler, and
finally, the summit reached, life became more tolerable and suffering
less acute. The summit of the Rocky Mountains, through the South Pass
presents a wide, open undulating country that extends for a long
distance at a very high altitude—probably 6,000 feet above sea level,
until Bear River is reached, a distance of over 150 miles. This is a
region of scant herbage and almost destitute of water, except at river
crossings, for on this stretch of the Trail, the way leads across the
water courses, and not with them.
The most attractive natural phenomena encountered on the whole trip are
the soda springs near the Bear River, and in fact right in the bed of
the river. One of these, the Steamboat spring, was spouting at regular
intervals as we passed. These have, however, ceased to overflow as in
1852, as I learned on my recent trip.
When the Snake River was reached and in fact before, the heat again
became oppressive, the dust stifling, and thirst at times almost
maddening. In some places we could see the water of the Snake, but
could not reach it as the river ran in the inaccessible depths of
the canyon. Sickness again became prevalent, and another outbreak of
cholera claimed many victims.
There were but few ferries and none in many places where crossings were
to be made, and where here and there a ferry was found the charges
were high—or perhaps the word should be, exorbitant—and out of reach
of a large majority of the emigrants. In my own case, all my funds had
been absorbed in procuring my outfit at Eddyville, Iowa, not dreaming
there would be use for money "on the Plains" where there were neither
supplies nor people. We soon found out our mistake, however, and sought
to mend matters when opportunity offered. The crossing of the Snake
River, though late in the trip, gave the opportunity.
About thirty miles below Salmon Falls the dilemma confronted us to
either cross the river or starve our teams on the trip down the river
on the south bank.
Some emigrants had calked three wagon-beds and lashed them together,
and were crossing, but would not help others across for less than
three to five dollars a wagon, the party swimming their own stock. If
others could cross in wagon-beds, why could I not do likewise? and
without much ado all the old clothing that could possibly be spared was
marshaled, tar buckets ransacked, old chisels and broken knives hunted
up, and a veritable boat repairing and calking campaign inaugurated,
and shortly the wagon-box rode placidly, even if not gracefully on the
turbid waters of the formidable river. It had been my fortune to be the
strongest physically of any of our little party of four men, though I
would cheerfully accept a second place mentally.
My boyhood pranks of playing with logs or old leaky skiffs in the
waters of White River now served me well, for I could row a boat even
if I had never taken lessons as an athlete. My first venture across the
Snake River was with the wagon gear run over the wagon box, the whole
being gradually worked out into deep water. The load was so heavy
that a very small margin was left to prevent the water from breaking
over the sides, and some actually did, as light ripples on the surface
struck the "Mary Jane," as we had christened (without wine) the "craft"
as she was launched. However, I got over safely, but after that took
lighter loads and really enjoyed the novelty of the work and the change
from the intolerable dust to the atmosphere of the water.
Some were so infatuated with the idea of floating on the water as to
be easily persuaded by an unprincipled trader at the lower crossing to
dispose of their teams for a song, and embark in their wagon beds for
a voyage down the river. It is needless to say that these persons (of
whom there were a goodly number) lost everything they had and some,
their lives, the survivors, after incredible hardships, reaching the
road again to become objects of charity while separated entirely from
friends. I knew one survivor, who yet lives in our state, who was
out seven days without food other than a scant supply of berries and
vegetable growth, and "a few crickets, but not many," as it was too
laborious to catch them.
We had no trouble to cross the cattle, although the river was wide.
Dandy would do almost anything I asked of him, so, leading him to the
water's edge, with a little coaxing I got him into swimming water and
guided him across with the wagon bed, while the others all followed,
having been driven into the deep water following the leader. It seems
almost incredible how passively obedient cattle will become after long
training on such a trip, in crossing streams.
We had not finished crossing when tempting offers came from others
to cross them, but all our party said "No, we must travel." The rule
had been adopted to travel some every day possible. "Travel, travel,
travel," was the watchword, and nothing could divert us from that
resolution, and so on the third day we were ready to pull out from the
river with the cattle rested from the enforced detention.
But what about the lower crossing? Those who had crossed over the river
must somehow get back. It was less than 150 miles to where we were
again to cross to the south side (left bank) of the river. I could
walk that in three days, while it would take our teams ten. Could I
go on ahead, procure a wagon box and start a ferry of my own? The
thought prompted an affirmative answer at once; so with a little food
and a small blanket the trip to the lower crossing was made. It may be
ludicrous, but is true, that the most I remember about that trip is the
jackrabbits—such swarms of them I had never seen before as I traveled
down the Boise Valley, and never expect to see again.
The trip was made in safety, but conditions were different. At the
lower crossing, as I have already said, some were disposing of their
teams and starting to float down the river; some were fording, a
perilous undertaking, but most of them succeeded who tried, and besides
a trader whose name I have forgotten had an established ferry near the
old fort (Boise). I soon obtained a wagon-bed, and was at work during
all the daylight hours (no eight-hour-a-day there) crossing people
till the teams came up, (and for several days after), and left the
river with $110 in my pocket, all of which was gone before I arrived in
Portland, save $2.75.
I did not look upon that work then other than as a part of the trip, to
do the best we could. None of us thought we were doing a heroic act in
crossing the plains and meeting emergencies as they arose. In fact, we
did not think at all of that phase of the question. Many have, however,
in later life looked upon their achievement with pardonable pride, and
some in a vainglorious mood of mind.
A very pleasant incident recently occurred in reviving memories of
this episode of my life, while visiting my old time friend Edward J.
Allen,[2] mentioned elsewhere in this work. It was my good fortune
to be able to spend several day; with that grand "Old Timer" at his
residence in Pittsburg, Pa. We had not met for fifty years. The reader
may readily believe there had been great changes with both of us as
well as in the world at large in that half century of our lives. My
friend had crossed the plains the same year I did, and although a
single man and young at that, had kept a diary all the way. Poring over
this venerable manuscript one day while I was with him, Mr. Allen ran
across this sentence, "The Meeker brothers sold out their interest in
the ferry today for $185.00, and left for Portland." Both had forgotten
the partnership though each remembered their experience of the ferrying
in wagon-boxes.
From the lower crossing of the Snake River, at Old Fort Boise to The
Dalles is approximately 350 miles. It became a serious question with
many whether there would be enough provisions left to keep starvation
from the door, or whether the teams could muster strength to take the
wagons in. Many wagons were left by the wayside. Everything possible
shared the same fate; provisions and provisions only were religiously
cared for—in fact, starvation stared many in the face. Added to
the weakened condition of both man and beast small wonder if some
thoughtless persons would take to the river in their wagon-beds, many
to their death, and the remaining to greater hardships.
I can not give an adequate description of the dust, which seemed to
get deeper and more impalpable every day. I might liken the wading
in the dust, to wading in water as to resistance. Often times the
dust would lie in the road full six inches deep, and so fine that one
wading through it would scarcely leave a track. And such clouds, when
disturbed—no words can describe it.
The appearance of the people is described in the chapter following.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Recently died at the age of 89.