[Illustration]
In the spring of 1839--living at the time in the western part of
Ohio--being then in my twentieth year, I conceived a desire to see the
great prairies of the West, especially those most frequently spoken of,
in Illinois, Iowa, and Missouri. Emigration from the East was tending
westward, and settlers had already begun to invade those rich fields.
Starting on foot to Cincinnati, ninety miles distant, I fortunately
got a chance to ride most of the way on a wagon loaded with farm
produce. My outfit consisted of about $75, the clothes I wore, and a
few others in a knapsack which I carried in the usual way strapped
upon my shoulders, for in those days travelers did not have valises
or trunks. Though traveling was considered dangerous, I had no weapon
more formidable than a pocket-knife. From Cincinnati I went down the
Ohio River by steamboat to the Mississippi, up the Mississippi to St.
Louis, and thence to Burlington, in what was then the Territory of
Iowa. Those were bustling days on the western rivers, which were then
the chief highways of travel. The scenes at the wood landings I recall
as particularly lively and picturesque. Many passengers would save a
little by helping to "wood the boat," _i. e._, by carrying wood down
the bank and throwing it on the boat, a special ticket being issued on
that condition.
[Illustration: A peril of the plains.]
In 1839 Burlington had perhaps not over two hundred inhabitants, though
it was the capital of Iowa Territory. After consultation with the
governor, Robert Lucas of Ohio, I concluded to go into the interior
and select a tract of land on the Iowa River. In those days one was
permitted to take up 160 acres, and where practicable it was usual to
take part timber and part prairie. After working awhile at putting up
a log house--until all the people in the neighborhood became ill with
fever and ague--I concluded to move on and strike out to the south and
southwest into Missouri. I traveled across country, sometimes by the
sun, without road or trail. There were houses and settlements, but they
were scattered; sometimes one would have to go twenty miles to find a
place to stay at night.
On my arrival, my money being all spent, I was obliged to accept the
first thing that offered, and began teaching school in the country
about five miles from the town of Weston, which was located on the
north side of the Missouri River and about four miles above Fort
Leavenworth in Kansas Territory. Possibly some may suppose it did
not take much education to teach a country school at that period in
Missouri. The rapid settlement of that new region had brought together
people of all classes and conditions, and had thrown into juxtaposition
almost every phase of intelligence as well as of illiteracy. But there
was no lack of self-reliance or native shrewdness in any class, and I
must say that I learned to have a high esteem for the people, among
whom I found warm and lifelong friends.
In November or December of 1840, while still teaching school in Platte
County, I came across a Frenchman named Roubideaux, who said he had
been to California. He had been a trader in New Mexico, and had
followed the road traveled by traders from the frontier of Missouri
to Santa Fé. He had probably gone through what is now New Mexico and
Arizona into California by the Gila River trail used by the Mexicans.
His description of California was in the superlative degree favorable,
so much so that I resolved if possible to see that wonderful land,
and with others helped to get up a meeting at Weston and invited
him to make a statement before it in regard to the country. At that
time when a man moved out West, as soon as he was fairly settled he
wanted to move again, and naturally every question imaginable was
asked in regard to this wonderful country. Roubideaux described it
as one of perennial spring and boundless fertility, and laid stress
on the countless thousands of wild horses and cattle. He told about
oranges, and hence must have been at Los Angeles, or the mission of
San Gabriel, a few miles from it. Every conceivable question that we
could ask him was answered favorably. Generally the first question
which a Missourian asked about a country was whether there was any
fever and ague. I remember his answer distinctly. He said there was but
one man in California that had ever had a chill there, and it was a
matter of so much wonderment to the people of Monterey that they went
eighteen miles into the country to see him shake. Nothing could have
been more satisfactory on the score of health. He said that the Spanish
authorities were most friendly, and that the people were the most
hospitable on the globe; that you could travel all over California and
it would cost you nothing for horses or food. Even the Indians were
friendly. His description of the country made it seem like a Paradise.
[Illustration: Westport Landing, Kansas City.
(From a print of the period.)]
The result was that we appointed a corresponding secretary, and a
committee to report a plan of organization. A pledge was drawn up
in which every signer agreed to purchase a suitable outfit, and to
rendezvous at Sapling Grove in what is now the State of Kansas, on
the 9th of the following May, armed and equipped to cross the Rocky
Mountains to California. We called ourselves the Western Emigration
Society, and as soon as the pledge was drawn up every one who agreed to
come signed his name to it, and it took like wildfire. In a short time,
I think within a month, we had about five hundred names; we also had
correspondence on the subject with people all over Missouri, and even
as far east as Illinois and Kentucky, and as far south as Arkansas. As
soon as the movement was announced in the papers we had many letters
of inquiry, and we expected people in considerable numbers to join us.
About that time we heard of a man living in Jackson County, Missouri,
who had received a letter from a person in California named Dr. Marsh,
speaking favorably of the country, and a copy of this letter was
published.
[Illustration: A bit of rough road.]
Our ignorance of the route was complete. We knew that California lay
west, and that was the extent of our knowledge. Some of the maps
consulted, supposed of course to be correct, showed a lake in the
vicinity of where Salt Lake now is; it was represented as a long lake,
three or four hundred miles in extent; narrow and with two outlets,
both running into the Pacific Ocean, either apparently larger than the
Mississippi River. An intelligent man with whom I boarded--Elam Brown,
who till recently lived in California, dying when over ninety years
of age--possessed a map that showed these rivers to be large, and he
advised me to take tools along to make canoes, so that if we found the
country so rough that we could not get along with our wagons we could
descend one of those rivers to the Pacific. Even Frémont knew nothing
about Salt Lake until 1843, when for the first time he explored it and
mapped it correctly, his report being first printed, I think, in 1845.
At the last moment before the time to start for the rendezvous at
Sapling Grove--it seemed almost providential--along came a man named
George Henshaw, an invalid, from Illinois, I think. He was pretty well
dressed, was riding a fine black horse, and had ten or fifteen dollars.
I persuaded him to let me take his horse and trade him for a yoke of
steers to pull the wagon and a sorry-looking, one-eyed mule for him to
ride. We went _via_ Weston to lay in some supplies. One wagon and four
or five persons here joined us.
The party consisted of sixty-nine, including men, women, and children.
Our teams were of oxen, mules, and horses. We had no cows, as the later
emigrants usually had, and the lack of milk was a great deprivation to
the children. It was understood that every one should have not less
than a barrel of flour with sugar and so forth to suit; but I laid
in one hundred pounds of flour more than the usual quantity, besides
other things. This I did because we were told that when we got into the
mountains we probably would get out of bread and have to live on meat
alone, which I thought would kill me even if it did not others. My gun
was an old flintlock rifle, but a good one. Old hunters told me to have
nothing to do with cap or percussion locks, that they were unreliable,
and that if I got my caps or percussion wet I could not shoot, while if
I lost my flint I could pick up another on the plains. I doubt whether
there was one hundred dollars in money in the whole party, but all were
enthusiastic and anxious to go.
In five days after my arrival we were ready to start, but no one knew
where to go, not even the captain. Finally a man came up, one of the
last to arrive, and announced that a company of Catholic missionaries
were on their way from St. Louis to the Flathead nation of Indians with
an old Rocky Mountaineer for a guide, and that if we would wait another
day they would be up with us. At first we were independent, and thought
we could not afford to wait for a slow missionary party. But when we
found that no one knew which way to go, we sobered down and waited for
them to come up; and it was well we did, for otherwise probably not one
of us would ever have reached California, because of our inexperience.
Afterwards when we came in contact with Indians our people were so
easily excited that if we had not had with us an old mountaineer the
result would certainly have been disastrous. The name of the guide was
Captain Fitzpatrick; he had been at the head of trapping parties in
the Rocky Mountains for many years. He and the missionary party went
with us as far as Soda Springs, now in Idaho Territory, whence they
turned north to the Flathead nation. The party consisted of three Roman
Catholic priests--Father De Smet, Father Pont, Father Mengarini--and
ten or eleven French Canadians, and accompanying them were an old
mountaineer named John Gray and a young Englishman named Romaine, and
also a man named Baker. They seemed glad to have us with them, and we
certainly were glad to have their company. Father De Smet had been to
the Flathead nation before. He had gone out with a trapping party,
and on his return had traveled with only a guide by another route,
farther to the north and through hostile tribes. He was genial, of
fine presence, and one of the saintliest men I have ever known, and
I cannot wonder that the Indians were made to believe him divinely
protected. He was a man of great kindness and great affability under
all circumstances; nothing seemed to disturb his temper. The Canadians
had mules and Red River carts, instead of wagons and horses--two mules
to each cart, five or six of them--and in case of steep hills they
would hitch three or four of the animals to one cart, always working
them tandem. Sometimes a cart would go over, breaking everything in
it to pieces; and at such times Father De Smet would be just the
same--beaming with good humor.
[Illustration: A powwow with Cheyennes.]
[Illustration: Water!]
In general our route lay from near Westport, where Kansas City now
is, northwesterly over the prairie, crossing several streams, till we
struck the Platte River. Then we followed along the south side of the
Platte to and a day's journey or so along the South Fork. Here the
features of the country became more bold and interesting. Then crossing
the South Fork of the Platte, and following up the north side for a day
or so, we went over to the North Fork and camped at Ash Hollow; thence
up the north side of that fork, passing those noted landmarks known
as the Court House Rocks, Chimney Rock, Scott's Bluffs, etc., till we
came to Fort Laramie, a trading post of the American Fur Company, near
which was Lupton's Fort, belonging, as I understood, to some rival
company. Thence after several days we came to another noted landmark
called Independence Rock, on a branch of the North Platte called the
Sweetwater, which we followed up to the head, soon after striking the
Little Sandy, and then the Big Sandy, which empties into Green River.
Next we crossed Green River to Black Fork, which we followed up till
we came to Ham's Fork, at the head of which we crossed the divide
between Green and Bear Rivers. Then we followed Bear River down to Soda
Springs. The waters of Bear Lake discharged through that river, which
we continued to follow down on the west side till we came to Salt Lake.
Then we went around the north end of the lake and struck out to the
west and southwest.
For a time, until we reached the Platte River, one day was much like
another. We set forth every morning and camped every night, detailing
men to stand guard. Captain Fitzpatrick and the missionary party would
generally take the lead and we would follow. Fitzpatrick knew all
about the Indian tribes, and when there was any danger we kept in a
more compact body, to protect one another. At other times we would be
scattered along, sometimes for half a mile or more. We were generally
together, because there was often work to be done to avoid delay. We
had to make the road, frequently digging down steep banks, filling
gulches, removing stones, etc. In such cases everybody would take a
spade or do something to help make the road passable. When we camped
at night we usually drew the wagons and carts together in a hollow
square and picketed our animals inside in the corral. The wagons were
common ones and of no special pattern, and some of them were covered.
The tongue of one would be fastened to the back of another. To lessen
the danger from Indians, we usually had no fires at night and did our
cooking in the daytime.
The first incident was a scare that we had from a party of Cheyenne
Indians just before we reached the Platte River, about two weeks after
we set out. One of our men who chanced to be out hunting, some distance
from the company and behind us, suddenly appeared without mule, gun
or pistol, and lacking most of his clothes, and in great excitement
reported that he had been surrounded by thousands of Indians. The
company, too, became excited, and Captain Fitzpatrick tried, but with
little effect, to control and pacify them. Every man started his team
into a run, till the oxen, like the mules and horses, were in a full
gallop. Captain Fitzpatrick went ahead and directed them to follow,
and as fast as they came to the bank of the river he put the wagons in
the form of a hollow square and had all the animals securely picketed
within. After a while the Indians came in sight. There were only forty
of them, but they were well mounted on horses, and were evidently a war
party, for they had no women except one, a medicine woman. They came up
and camped within a hundred yards of us on the river below. Fitzpatrick
told us that they would not have come in that way if they were
hostile. Our hunter in his excitement said that there were thousands
of them, and that they had robbed him of his gun, mule and pistol.
When the Indians had put up their lodges Fitzpatrick and John Gray,
the old hunter mentioned, went out to them and by signs were made to
understand that the Indians did not intend to hurt the man or to take
his mule or gun, but that he was so excited when he saw them that they
had to disarm him to keep him from shooting them; they did not know
what had become of his pistol or of his clothes, which he said they had
torn off. They surrendered the mule and the gun, thus showing that they
were friendly. They proved to be Cheyenne Indians. Ever afterwards that
man went by the name of Cheyenne Dawson.
On the Platte River, on the afternoon of one of the hottest days we
experienced on the plains, we had a taste of a cyclone: first came
a terrific shower, followed by a fall of hail to the depth of four
inches, some of the stones being as large as turkeys' eggs; and the
next day a waterspout--an angry, huge, whirling cloud column, which
seemed to draw its water from the Platte River--passed within a quarter
of a mile behind us. We stopped and braced ourselves against our wagons
to keep them from being overturned. Had it struck us it doubtless would
have demolished us.
Guided by Fitzpatrick, we crossed the Rockies at or near the South
Pass, where the mountains were apparently low. Some years before a
man named William Subletts, an Indian fur trader, went to the Rocky
Mountains with goods in wagons, and those were the only wagons that
had ever been there before us; sometimes we came across the tracks,
but generally they were obliterated, and thus were of no service.
Approaching Green River in the Rocky Mountains, it was found that some
of the wagons, including Captain Bartleson's, had alcohol on board,
and that the owners wanted to find trappers in the Rocky Mountains to
whom they might sell it. This was a surprise to many of us, as there
had been no drinking on the way. John Gray was sent ahead to see if he
could find a trapping party, and he was instructed, if successful, to
have them come to a certain place on Green River. He struck a trail,
and overtook a party on their way to the buffalo region to lay in
provisions, _i. e._, buffalo meat, and they returned, and came and
camped on Green River very soon after our arrival, buying the greater
part, if not all, of the alcohol, it first having been diluted so as
to make what they called whisky--three or four gallons of water to a
gallon of alcohol. Years afterwards we heard of the fate of that party:
they were attacked by Indians the very first night after they left
us and several of them killed, including the captain of the trapping
party, whose name was Frapp. The whisky was probably the cause.
[Illustration]
As I have said, at Soda Springs--at the northernmost bend of Bear
River--our party separated.
We were now thrown entirely upon our own resources. All the country
beyond was to us a veritable _terra incognita_, and we only knew that
California lay to the west. Captain Fitzpatrick was not much better
informed, but he had heard that parties had penetrated the country to
the southwest and west of Salt Lake to trap for beaver; and by his
advice four of our men went with the parties to Fort Hall to consult
Captain Grant, who was in charge there, and to gain information.
Meanwhile our depleted party slowly made its way down the west side of
Bear River.
One morning, just as we were packing up, a party of about ninety
Indians, on horseback, a regular war party, were descried coming up.
Some of us begged the captain to send men out to prevent them from
coming to us while we were in the confusion of packing. But he said,
"Boys, you must not show any sign of hostility; if you go out there
with guns the Indians will think us hostile, and may get mad and hurt
us." However, five or six of us took our guns and went out, and by
signs made them halt. They did not prove to be hostile, but they had
carbines, and if we had been careless and had let them come near they
might, and probably would, have killed us. At last we got packed up
and started, and the Indians traveled along three or four hundred
yards one side or the other of us or behind us all day. They appeared
anxious to trade, and offered a buckskin, well dressed, worth two or
three dollars, for three or four charges of powder and three or four
balls. This showed that they were in want of ammunition. The carbines
indicated that they had had communication with some trading-post
belonging to the Hudson's Bay Company. They had buffalo-robes also,
which showed that they were a roving hunting party, as there were no
buffaloes within three or four hundred miles. At this time I had spoken
my mind pretty freely concerning Captain Bartleson's lack of judgment,
as one could scarcely help doing under the circumstances.
We now got into a country where there was no grass nor water, and then
we began to catechize the men who had gone to Fort Hall. They repeated,
"If you go too far south you will get into a desert country and your
animals will perish; there will be no water nor grass."
Our course was first westward and then southward, following a river
for many days, till we came to its Sink, near which we saw a solitary
horse, an indication that trappers had sometime been in that vicinity.
We tried to catch him but failed; he had been there long enough to
become very wild. We saw many Indians on the Humboldt, especially
towards the Sink. There were many tule marshes. The tule is a rush,
large, but here not very tall. It was generally completely covered with
honeydew, and this in turn was wholly covered with a pediculous-looking
insect which fed upon it. The Indians gathered quantities of the honey
and pressed it into balls about the size of one's fist, having the
appearance of wet bran. At first we greatly relished this Indian food,
but when we saw what it was made of--that the insects pressed into the
mass were the main ingredient--we lost our appetites and bought no more
of it.
From the time we left our wagons many had to walk, and more and more
as we advanced. Going down the Humboldt at least half were on foot.
Provisions had given out; except a little coarse green grass among the
willows along the river the country was dry, bare, and desolate; we
saw no game except antelope, and they were scarce and hard to kill;
and walking was very fatiguing. Tobacco lovers would surrender their
animals for any one to ride who would furnish them with an ounce or two
to chew during the day. One day one of these devotees lost his tobacco
and went back for it, but failed to find it. An Indian in a friendly
manner overtook us, bringing the piece of tobacco, which he had found
on our trail or at our latest camp, and surrendered it. The owner,
instead of being thankful, accused the Indian of having stolen it--an
impossibility, as we had seen no Indians or Indian signs for some days.
Perhaps the Indian did not know what it was, else he might have kept
it for smoking. But I think otherwise, for, patting his breast, he
said, "Shoshone, Shoshone," which was the Indian way of showing he was
friendly. The Shoshones were known as always friendly to the whites,
and it is not difficult to see how other and distant tribes might claim
to be Shoshones as a passport to favor.
[Illustration]
On the Humboldt we had a further division of our ranks. In going down
the river we went sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, but
mostly on the north side, till we were nearing what are now known as
the Humboldt Mountains. We were getting tired, and some were in favor
of leaving the oxen, of which we then had only about seven or eight,
and rushing on into California. They said there was plenty of beef in
California. But some of us said: "No; our oxen are now our only supply
of food. We are doing well, making eighteen or twenty miles a day."
Leaving the Sink of the Humboldt, we crossed a considerable stream
which must have been Carson River, and came to another stream which
must have been Walker River, and followed it up to where it came out of
the mountains, which proved to be the Sierra Nevada. We did not know
the name of the mountains. Neither had these rivers then been named;
nor had they been seen by Kit Carson or Joe Walker, for whom they were
named, nor were they seen until 1845 by Frémont, who named them.
We were now in what is at present Nevada, and probably within forty
miles of the present boundary of California.
[Illustration: Wagon train near the junction of the forks of the
Platte.]
We went on, traveling west as near as we could. When we killed our
last ox we shot and ate crows or anything we could kill, and one man
shot a wild-cat. We could eat anything. One day in the morning I went
ahead, on foot of course, to see if I could kill something, it being
understood that the company would keep on as near west as possible
and find a practicable road. I followed an Indian trail down into the
cañon, meeting many Indians on the way up. They did not molest me,
but I did not quite like their looks. I went about ten miles down the
cañon, and then began to think it time to strike north to intersect the
trail on the company going west. A most difficult time I had scaling
the precipice. Once I threw my gun up ahead of me, being unable to hold
it and climb, and then was in despair lest I could not get up where it
was, but finally I did barely manage to do so, and made my way north.
As the darkness came on I was obliged to look down and feel with my
feet lest I should pass over the trail of the party without seeing it.
Just at dark I came to an enormous fallen tree and tried to go around
the top, but the place was too brushy, so I went around the butt, which
seemed to me to be about twenty or twenty-five feet above my head. This
I suppose to have been one of the fallen trees in the Calaveras Grove
of _Sequoia gigantea_ or mammoth trees, as I have since been there, and
to my own satisfaction identified the lay of the land and the tree.
Hence I concluded that I must have been the first white man who ever
saw the _Sequoia gigantea_, of which I told Frémont when he came to
California in 1844. Of course sleep was impossible, for I had neither
blanket nor coat, and burned or froze alternately as I turned from
one side to the other before the small fire which I had built, until
morning, when I started eastward to intersect the trail, thinking the
company had turned north. But I traveled until noon and found no trail;
then striking south, I came to the camp which I had left the previous
morning. The party had gone, but not where they had said they would go;
for they had taken the same trail I had followed, into the cañon, and
had gone up the south side, which they had found so steep that many of
the poor animals could not climb it and had to be left. When I arrived
the Indians were there cutting the horses to pieces and carrying off
the meat. My situation, alone among strange Indians killing our poor
horses, was by no means comfortable. Afterward we found that these
Indians were always at war with the Californians. They were known
as the Horse Thief Indians, and lived chiefly on horse flesh; they
had been in the habit of raiding the ranches even to the very coast,
driving away horses by the hundreds into the mountains to eat. That
night after dark I overtook the party in camp.
We were now on the edge of the San Joaquin Valley, but we did not even
know that we were in California.
As soon as we came in sight of the bottom land of the stream we saw
an abundance of antelopes and sandhill cranes. We killed two of each
the first evening. Wild grapes also abounded. The next day we killed
thirteen deer and antelopes, jerked the meat and got ready to go on,
all except the captain's mess of seven or eight, who decided to stay
there and lay in meat enough to last them into California! We were
really almost down to tidewater, but did not know it.
The next day, judging by the timber we saw, we concluded there was a
river to the west. So two men went ahead to see if they could find a
trail or a crossing. The timber seen proved to be along what it now
known as the San Joaquin River. We sent two men on ahead to spy out
the country. At night one of them returned saying they had come across
an Indian on horseback without a saddle who wore a cloth jacket but
no other clothing. From what they could understand the Indian knew
Dr. Marsh and had offered to guide them to his place. He plainly said
"Marsh," and of course we supposed it was the Dr. Marsh before referred
to who had written the letter to a friend in Jackson County, Missouri,
and so it proved. One man went with the Indian to Marsh's ranch and
the other came back to tell us what he had done, with the suggestion
that we should go on and cross the river (San Joaquin) at the place to
which the trail was leading. In that way we found ourselves two days
later at Dr. Marsh's ranch, and there we learned that we were really
in California and our journey at an end. After six months we had now
arrived at the first settlement in California, November 4, 1841.