TIME, Wednesday afternoon, February 10. The Overland Stage, Mr.
William Glover on the box, stands before the veranda of the Salt
Lake House. The genial Nat Stein is arranging the waybill. Our
baggage (the Overland passenger is allowed twenty-five pounds) is
being put aboard, and we are shaking hands, at a rate altogether
furious, with Mormon and Gentile. Among the former are Brothers
Stenhouse, Caine, Clawson and Townsend; among the latter are Harry
Riccard, the big-hearted English mountaineer (though once he wore
white kids and swallow-tails in Regent Street, and in boyhood went
to school with Miss Edgeworth, the novelist), the daring explorer
Rood, from Wisconsin; th e Rev. James McCormick, missionary, who
distributes pasteboard tracts among the Bannock miners; and the
pleasing child of gore, Captain D. B. Stover, of the commissary
department.
We go away on wheels, but the deep snow compels us to substitute
runners twelve miles out.
There are four passengers of us. We pierce the Wahsatch mountains
by Parley's canyon.
A snowstorm overtakes us as the night thickens, and the wind
shrieks like a brigade of strong-lunged maniacs. Never mind. We
are well covered up- our cigars are good. I have on deerskin
pantaloons, a deerskin overcoat, a beaver cap and buffalo
overshoes; and so, as I tersely observed before, Never mind. Let
us laugh the winds to scorn, brave boys! But why is William
Glover, driver, lying flat on his back by the roadside; and why am
I turning a handspring in the road; and why are the horses tearing
wildly down the Wahsatch mountains? It is because William Glover
has been thrown from his seat, and the horses are running away. I
see him fall off and it occurs to me I had better get out. In
doing so, such is the velocity of the sleigh, I turn a handspring.
Far ahead I hear the runners clash with the rocks, and I see Dr.
Hingston's lantern (he always would have a lantern), bobbing about
like the binnacle light of an oyster sloop, very loose in a choppy
sea. Therefore I do not laugh the winds to scorn as much as I did,
brave boys.
William G. is not hurt, and together we trudge on after the
runaways in the hope of overtaking them, which we do some two miles
off. They are in a snowbank, and "nobody hurt".
We are soon on the road again, all serene; though I believe the
Doctor did observe that such a thing would not have occurred under
a monarchial form of government.
We reach Weber station, thirty miles from Salt Lake City and wildly
situated at the foot of the grand Echo Canyon, at 3 o'clock the
following morning. We remain over a day here with James Bromley,
agent of the Overland Stage line, and who is better known on the
plains than Shakspeare is; although Shakspeare has done a good deal
for the stage. James Bromley has seen the Overland line grow up
from its ponyicy; and as Fitz-Green Halleck happily observes, none
know him BUT TO LIKE HIS STYLE. He was intended for an agent. In
his infancy he used to lisp the refrain,
"I want to be an agent,
And with the agents stand."
I part with this kind-hearted gentleman, to whose industry and
ability the Overland line owes much of its success, with sincere
regret; and I hope he will soon get rich enough to transplant his
charming wife from the desert to the "White settlements".
Forward to Fort Bridger, in an open sleigh. Night clear, cold, and
moonlit. Driver Mr. Samuel Smart. Through Echo Canyon to Hanging
Rock Station. The snow is very deep, there is no path, and we
literally shovel our way to Robert Pollock's station, which we
achieve in the Course of Time. Mr. P. gets up and kindles a fire,
and a snowy nightcap and a pair of very bright black eyes beam upon
us from the bed. That is Mrs. Robert Pollock. The log cabin is a
comfortable one. I make coffee in my French coffee-pot, and let
loose some of the roast chickens in my basket. (Tired of fried
bacon saleratus bread--the principle bill of fare at the stations
--we had supplied ourselves with chicken, boiled ham, onions,
sausages, sea bread, canned butter, cheese, honey, &c. &c., an
example all Overland traders would do well to follow.) Mrs.
Pollock tells me where I can find cream for the coffee, and cups
and saucers for the same, and appears so kind, that I regret our
stay is so limited that we can't see more of her.
On to Yellow Creek Station. Then Needle Rock--a desolate hut on
the Desert, house and barn in one building. The station-keeper is
a miserable, toothless wretch, with shaggy yellow hair, but says
he's going to get married. I think I see him.
To Bear River. A pleasant Mormon named Myers this station, and he
gives us a first-rate breakfast, Robert Curtis takes the reins from
Mr. Smart here, and we get on to wheels again. Begin to see groups
of trees- a new sight to us.
Pass Quaking Asp Springs and Muddy to Fort Bridger. Here are a
group of white buildings, built round a plaza, across the middle of
which runs a creek. There are a few hundred troops here under the
command of Major Gallergher, a gallant officer and a gentleman,
well worth knowing. We stay here two days.
We are on the road again, Sunday the 14th, with a driver of the
highly floral name of Primrose. At 7 the next morning we reach
Green River Station, and enter Idaho Territory. This is the Bitter
Creek division of the Overland route, of which we had heard so many
unfavorable stories. The division is really well managed by Mr.
Stewart, though the country through which it stretches is the most
wretched I ever saw. The water is liquid alkali, and the roads are
soft sand. The snow is gone now, and the dust is thick and
blinding. So drearily, wearily we drag onward.
We reach the summit of the Rocky Mountains at midnight on the 17th.
The climate changes suddenly, and the cold is intense. We resume
runners, have a breakdown, and are forced to walk four miles.
I remember that one of the numerous reasons urged in favor of
General Fremont's election to the Presidency in 1856 was his
finding the path across the Rocky Mountains. I wrung my
frostbitten hands on that dreadful night, and declared that for me
to deliberately go over that path in mid-winter was a sufficient
reason for my election to any lunatic asylum, by an overwhelming
vote. Dr. Hingston made a similar remark, and wondered if he
should ever clink glasses with his friend Lord Palmerston again.
Another sensation. Not comic this time. One of our passengers, a
fair-haired German boy, whose sweet ways had quite won us all, sank
on the snow, and said--Let me sleep. We knew only too well what
that meant, and tried hard to rouse him. It was in vain. Let me
sleep, he said. And so in the cold starlight he died. We took him
up tenderly from the snow, and bore him to the sleigh that awaited
us by the roadside, some two miles away. The new moon was shining
now, and the smile on the sweet white face told how painlessly the
poor boy had died. No one knew him. He was from the Bannock
mines, was ill-clad, had no baggage or money, and his fare was paid
to Denver. He had said that he was going back to Germany. That
was all we knew. So at sunrise the next morning we buried him at
the foot of the grand mountains that are snow-covered and icy all
the year round, far away from the Faderland, where it may be, some
poor mother is crying for her darling who will not come.
. . . .
We strike the North Platte on the 18th. The fare at the stations is
daily improving, and we often have antelope steaks now. They tell
us of eggs not far off, and we encourage (by a process not wholly
unconnected with bottles) the drivers to keep their mules in
motion.
Antelopes by the thousand can be seen racing the plains from the
coach windows.
At Elk Mountain we encounter a religious driver named Edward
Whitney, who never swears at the mules. This has made him
distinguished all over the plains. This pious driver tried to
convert the Doctor, but I am mortified to say that his efforts were
not crowned with success, Fort Halleck is a mile from Elk, and
here are some troops of the Ohio 11th regiment, under the command
of Major Thomas L. Mackey.
On the 20th we reach Rocky Thomas's justly celebrated station at 5
in the morning, and have a breakfast of hashed black-tailed deer,
antelope steaks, ham, boiled bear, honey, eggs, coffee, tea, and
cream. That was the squarest meal on the road except at Weber.
Mr. Thomas is a Baltimore "slosher," he informed me. I don't know
what that is, but he is a good fellow, and gave us a breakfast fir
for a lord, emperor, czar, count, &c. A better couldn't be found
at Delmonicp's or Parker's. He pressed me to linger with him for a
few days and shoot bears. It was with several pangs that I
declined the generous Baltimorean's invitation.
To Virginia Dale. Weather clear and bright. Virginia Dale is a
pretty spot, as it ought to be with such a pretty name; but I
treated with no little scorn the advice of a hunter I met there,
who told me to give up "literatoor," form a matrimonial alliance
with some squaws, and "settle down thar."
Bannock on the brain! That is what is the matter now. Wagon-load
after wagon-load of emigrants, bound to the new Idaho gold regions,
meet us every hour. Canvas-covered and drawn for the most part by
fine large mules, they make a pleasant panorama, as they stretch
slowly over the plains and uplands. We strike the South Platte
Sunday, 21st, and breakfast at Latham, a station of one-horse
proportions. We are now in Colorado ("Pike's Peak"), and we
diverge from the main route here and visit the flourishing and
beautiful city of Denver. Messrs, Langrish & Dougherty, who have
so long and so admirably catered to the amusement lovers of the Far
West, kindly withdrew their dramatic corps for a night, and allow
me to use their pretty little theatre.
We go to the mountains from Denver, visiting the celebrated
gold-mining towns of Black Hawk and Central City. I leave this
queen of all the territories, quite firmly believing that its
future is to be no less brilliant than its past has been.
I had almost forgotten to mention that on the way from Latham to
Denver Dr. Hingston and Dr. Seaton (late a highly admired physician
and surgeon in Kentucky, and now a prosperous gold miner) had a
learned discussion as to the formation of the membranes of the
human stomach, in which they used words that were over a foot long
by actual measurement. I have never heard such splendid words in
my life; but such were their grandiloquent profundity, and their
far-reaching lucidity, that I understood rather less about it when
they had finished than I did when they commenced.
. . . .
Back to Latham again over a marshy road, and on to Nebraska by the
main stage-line.
I meet Col. Chivington, commander of the district of Colorado, at
Latham.
Col. Chivington is a Methodist clergyman, and was once a presiding
elder. A thoughtful, earnest man, an eloquent preacher, a sincere
believer in the war, he, of course brings to his new position a
great deal of enthusiasm. This, with his natural military tact,
makes him an officer of rare ability; and on more occasions than
one he has led his troops against the enemy with resistless skill
and gallantry. I take the liberty of calling the President's
attention to the fact that this brave man ought to have long ago
been a brigadier-general.
Col. Chivington vanquished the rebels with his brave Colorado
troops, in New Mexico last year, as most people know. At the
commencement of the action, which was hotly contested, a shell from
the enemy exploded near him, tearing up the ground, and causing
Captain Rogers to swear in an awful manner.
"Captain Rogers," said the Colonel, " gentlemen do not swear on a
solemn occasion like this. We may fall, but falling in a glorious
cause, let us die as Christians, not as rowdies, with oaths upon
our lips. Captain Rogers, let us -"
Another shell, a sprightlier one than its predecessor, tears the
earth fearfully in the immediate vicinity of Col. Chivington,
filling his eyes with dirt and knocking off his hat.
"Why, G- d- Their souls to h- ," he roared, "they've put
my eyes out- AS CAPTAIN ROGERS WOULD SAY!"
But the Colonel's eyes were not seriously damaged, and he went in.
Went in, and came out victorious.
. . . .
We reach Julesberg, Colorado, the 1st of March. We are in the
country of the Sioux Indians now, and encounter them by the
hundred. A Chief offers to sell me his daughter (a fair young
Indian maiden) for six dollars and two quarts of whisky. I decline
to trade.
Meals which have hitherto been 1 dol. Are now 75 cents. Eggs
appear on the table occasionally, and we hear of chickens farther
on. Nine miles from here we enter Nebraska territory. Here is an
occasionally fenced farm, and the ranches have bar-rooms. Buffalo
skins and buffalo tongues are on sale at most of the stations. We
reach South Platte on the 2d, and Fort Kearney on the 3d. The 7th
Iowa Calvary are here, under the command of Captain Wood. At
Cottonwood, a days ride back, we had taken aboard Major O'Brien,
commanding the troops there, and a jovial warrior he is, too.
Meals are now down to 50 cents, and a good deal better than when
they were 1 dol.
KANSAS, 105 miles from Atchison. Atchison! No traveller by sea
ever longed to set his foot on shore as we longed to reach the end
of our dreary coach-ride over the wildest part of the whole
continent. How we talked Atchison, and dreamed Atchison, for the
next fifty hours! Atchison, I shall always love you. You were
evidently mistaken, Atchison, when you told me that in case I
"lectured" there, immense crowds would throng to the hall; but you
are very dear to me. Let me kiss you for your maternal parent!
We are passing through the reservation of the Otoe Indians, who
long ago washed the war-paint from their faces, buried the
tomahawk, and settled down into quiet, prosperous farmers.
. . . .
We rattle leisurely into Atchison on a Sunday evening. Lights
gleam in the windows of milk-white churches, and they tell us, far
better than anything else could, that we are back to civilization
again.
An overland journey in winter is a better thing to have done than
to do. In the spring, however, when the grass is green on the
great prairies, I fancy one might make the journey a pleasant one,
with his own outfit and a few choice friends.