_The Conditions of Oregon in 1842. The Arrival of a Large Party
of Americans. The News They Bore. The Great Ride to Save Oregon.
The Incidents of Travel. Whitman Reaches Washington._
We now reach a critical period in Oregon history, and are to study
events crowded with exciting interest. Several new missions had been
organized by the American Board, and were manned by a scholarly,
heroic band of missionary workers. They were Christian men and women
in the best sense of the term, and were there in answer to the
savage's appeal made at St. Louis, to teach and read to them "the
Book of Heaven." But at the same time, they were intensely patriotic
American citizens. They had been given passports by the United States
authorities before leaving the States; a copy of that given Dr.
Cushing Eells is still in the possession of his son, Myron Eells, now
living in Washington. It varied, it is true, from regular passports,
but nevertheless was enough foreign to make its possessor understand
he was destined to "a foreign land," and under the direction of "the
Foreign Missionary Society."
The missionaries often met in conference, and generally at
Waiilatpui, that being central, having larger accommodations than
other posts.
Notwithstanding the courtesies and constant kindness personally
received from Dr. McLoughlin, of the Hudson Bay Company, they were
ill at ease. They had now been six years in Oregon, and realized its
grand possibilities. Their bountiful crops of grains and fruits told
them of the productive soil; the healthful climate, the great
forests, the wild grand scenery, all emphasized its value. They were
missionaries, far away from home, yet Americans, and patriots, to see
so fair a domain year by year slipping away from the Union, ground
them to the quick. In their private correspondence to friends, and
Dr. Parker, in his able book, had encouraged immigrants to brave the
dangers of the journey.
The heroic Methodist missionary, Rev. Jason Lee, made a trip across
the plains to Washington and brought back with him several Americans.
Despite all their efforts, Canadians and adherents of the Hudson Bay
Company outnumbered them three to one. The missionaries and all
others in Oregon knew that the meaning of the treaty of 1818 was
that, whichever nation settled the country would hold and own it.
They knew it had been practically in possession of England for many
years with the direct sanction of American authorities. They knew the
low esteem in which Oregon was held by many American statesmen, but
what could they do? Such were the conditions in 1842, when Elijah
White, a former Indian agent of the government, reached Whitman's
mission in the month of September. With him came one hundred and
twenty-five American immigrants. He was an intelligent man, and had
many in his company who were thoroughly posted upon American affairs.
They found Whitman an intensely interested listener and questioner.
In this company was a young lawyer, Amos L. Lovejoy, a most
intelligent man, who, in after years, filled a large and honored
place in Oregon history, and latterly shared with our hero the daring
and danger of his great work.
_What was before Congress_
These men informed the Doctor that "the Ashburton treaty," fixing the
boundary line between the United States and Canada, which had run up
against the Rocky Mountain and rested there for half a century, was
under discussion between the two governments, and would probably come
before the United States Senate for final action during the session
of 1842-1843.
Whitman was a man of few words, and quick action. He pondered deeply.
He felt that a climax was impending, and in the contest Oregon was to
be lost or won for his country. I do not stop to argue whether it was
simply the call of patriotism of the man as an American, or whether,
like the men of old, "he was called of God," but when we remember the
perils to be met, the sacrifices to be made, and none knew them
better than Whitman, I cannot believe that so clear-headed a man
would ever have entertained the idea, if he had not heard and obeyed
a call higher and more commanding than that of man!
He laid the matter before his wife, his chief counselor, that he
fondly loved and cherished. The two were as one. They had met dangers
and hardships, sacrifices and sorrows, together for seven years. This
meant separation and dangers unknown to both for a whole year, during
which not a line or a word could pass between them to tell of the
fate of the other. Words would fail to express or picture that
September conference in the wilds of Oregon if it had ever been
written. But Narcissa Whitman was the same heroic woman who years
before sacrificed the ease of civilized life and rode on horseback
across the dreary plains, climbed mountains, and swam rivers,
endured hunger at the call of duty! She was an ideal missionary, and
the patriotic wife of a missionary who, in song and prayer, had
dedicated the whole fair land to God and the Union upon that
memorable anniversary upon the Rockies in 1836, and she answered,
"Go!"
The Doctor at once sent messengers to the several missionary
stations, summoning them to an immediate council at Waiilatpui for
important business. They all responded promptly, glad to come in
contact with the many new guests from the States, and hear words from
home, as well as to learn the meaning of this sudden and unusual call
for conference. Of this meeting, and what was said and done, we have
more complete reports, from the written words of Dr. Eells, Dr.
Spalding, and other members. When assembled Dr. Whitman lost no time
in explaining his call, and that it was to obtain leave of absence
from the local conference for one year, to visit Washington and the
States! The proposition was astounding to his brethren, and caused
wide discussion. While they were, in the main, in full sympathy with
Whitman, they well knew the prejudices of the rulers of the American
Board against ministers "dabbling in politics," or concerning
themselves with questions of state. A second important question was
discussed, viz.: "If it became known to the ruling powers in Oregon,
upon which all the missions were wholly dependent, would it not
greatly embarrass if not destroy them all?" They had the kindliest
feeling for Dr. McLoughlin for his eminent services rendered, but
they well knew the Hudson Bay Company was there for business, and
that it had starved out every American trader who had intruded upon
their domain, even the wealthy John Jacob Astor was permitted only
one year in Oregon, although he came with the direct sanction of the
American government. The company owned all the ships which came and
went each year to Hawaii and London, bearing their letters and
bringing all the supplies they received from civilization. Would the
good Dr. McLoughlin under such conditions be able to shield and
protect them? (Further along it will appear that he did, and was
driven from his great office for his aid to the missionaries.)
A third reason given was the immensity of the danger of such a
journey in mid-winter--was like, as one expressed it, "Going down
into the valley and shadow of death to attempt it."
A fourth objection was that while the local board was the adviser in
regard to all local affairs of the missions, the home board at Boston
required a permit officially signed for any missionary to separate
himself from his work. All these questions were canvassed pro and
con. The men of that conference were as brothers joined in the one
great work, and the counsels given were free and earnest.
Dr. Whitman was mainly a silent listener. When the dangers of his
trip were pointed out, and he was asked to "wait until spring," his
sententious reply was, "I must go now!" In reply to the objection
that he would violate the rules of the Board, Dr. Eells says:
"Dr. Whitman was so fixed in his purpose that he declared he
would make the attempt even if he had to withdraw from the
mission, remarking, 'I am not expatriated by becoming a
missionary.'"
Continuing, says Dr. Eells:
"The idea of his withdrawal could not be entertained. Therefore,
to retain him in the mission, a vote to approve his making the
perilous journey prevailed."
There has been a contention made by persons ignorant of the facts,
that "the sole purpose of Whitman's ride was to save his mission from
being closed." It is a silly charge, and unworthy of refutation,
except to state the facts. The immigrants in Oregon were curious to
know the cause of such a journey, and the people of the Hudson Bay
Company doubtless made inquiry, but it was enough for them all to
know that "Whitman had business with the American Board," and let it
go at that. The missionaries were under no obligations to make known
facts detrimental to all their interests, and when the proper time
came, all the actors told the whole truth in regard to it. The
silence of the missionaries, which was imperative for their own
safety, doubtless misled many. Whitman's object was definite and
clear.
Dr. Spalding, explaining years after, says:
"The last words Whitman spoke to me as he mounted his horse for
the long journey, were: 'My life is of little worth if I can save
this country to the American people.'"
The time fixed for his departure by the Board was October 5th, and
all set about writing voluminous letters, for it was seldom they had
such opportunity. There was much talk and counsel as to a companion
and helper of the Doctor on his way. A score of his trusted Indians
would have been glad of the opportunity.
The Doctor pondered over the matter, and made up his mind, and
approached General Lovejoy, and explained to him the urgency of the
case that compelled him to go, and asked the blunt question, "Will
you go with me?" He was delighted with the prompt response, "Yes!"
Mrs. Whitman was delighted that "a Christian gentleman like General
Lovejoy would bear her husband company, and he would not be left
alone to Indians and guides on the long and dreary way." All was now
hurry and preparation, and the few things the good wife could find
from her stores were gathered and packed. On the 2d of October, for a
double purpose of visiting a sick man and securing some needed
stores, the Doctor rode to the fort, and while there heard news of an
incoming colony of immigrants from Canada. As he galloped home to the
mission, he saw increasing danger, and resolved there should be no
delay.
It was a great occasion, that beautiful October morning at
Waiilatpui. A number of Indians were to go with the party to make
sure they got on the new trail to Fort Hall, much shorter and easier
than that traversed by the missionaries in 1836.
There were a large number of immigrants around Waiilatpui, and they
with many Indians, without knowing the real objects of the
expedition, were there to see. One can easily believe that it was a
great event in the wilderness country. The ever-faithful Indian
Istikus was there as leader of the Indians; as they sat mounted upon
their ponies, they added picturesqueness to the group.
The sun was just gilding the treetops along the Walla Walla as it
wended its swift and winding way like a silver thread in the
distance. The last adieu had been said, and the Doctor emerged from
his room and mounted his horse. The faithful old dog, which had run
by the side of his master in hundreds of journeys along blind trails,
was to be permitted to accompany them, barked impatiently.
They were off, an imposing little cavalcade with Whitman and General
Lovejoy in the lead, the Indians led by old Istikus following, the
pack mules in the rear, while the old dog ran barking up and down the
line as if he was responsible commander of the entire outfit.
I have many times in the years since stood upon the ground of this
historic scene, and tried to picture it in my mind, in the full
grandeur of its intentions and achievements. I have since marched
with great armies with music and banners, bright equipments, guns
gleaming in the sunlight and their pageantry was imposing, but I most
like to catch the spirit of the history they were all making, and it
has seemed as if this little band in the wilderness, made up of
Christian and savage life was, even in its simplicity, more notably
an expression of God's leadings, when I view them in the light of the
great events which followed.
Nor can the reader forget to honor the heroic little Christian
American woman, who looking through her tear-dimmed eyes, as she
waved farewells to her departing husband until the hills away toward
the Blue Mountains hid him from view.
After going to her silent and deserted room, she wrote:
"I look from my window and see the grave of our dear child,
surely God will take care of my noble husband and return him to
me!"
Love is the greatest word in the English language, and when united to
Faith, it lifts the heaviest burdens of life. Who can measure the
power of the prayers of one faithful, trusting soul, in guiding that
heroic little band over the dangers of their unknown way? Possibly
some reader may scoff at such sentiment, but unnumbered instances
have proved that there comes an emergency in every human life, when
the soul, if reason is not clouded, cries out in prayer to a Being
higher than itself.
The cavalcade is made up of rapid riders. The favorite gait of Cayuse
horses is a lope, and small as they are, carry a heavy man fifty and
sixty miles per day. But as the journey was to be a long one, they
selected the finest horses to be found, only those thoroughly broken
and tested. They knew the value of caring for their animals in the
earlier stages, and lessened their speed.
The first four hundred and fifty miles to Fort Hall was made in
eleven days. The Indians, except two to look after the animals, had
returned to Waiilatpui.
At Fort Hall their old friend, Captain Grant, was still in command,
and when he learned of the proposed journey to the States, openly
protested that "it was madness to attempt it at this season of the
year." Undoubtedly Captain Grant this time was right, even if Whitman
had proved him, to his chagrin, wrong about the wagon in 1836. "It so
happened" that a company of scouts just then reached the fort, and
confirmed all Captain Grant had said, and more. They reported that
the snow in many of the cañons was from ten to twenty feet deep, and
badly drifting. The Silent Man listened, and sat thinking. He knew
those mountains and cañons, and could readily believe the statement
of the scouts, and the old Captain, who was an admirer of Whitman,
felt certain that he would give up his dangerous expedition and
return home. But he did not yet know his man.
_The Old Map_
Whitman was face to face with a new problem. As he prayed and
pondered, a new inspiration came to him. We have no reason to believe
that such an idea had occurred to the missionaries, when discussing
the dangers of the journey by the route they knew. We have no
knowledge that even Whitman had ever before studied the possibilities
of a new and undiscovered way to the States.
The old trappers and scouts sat around the stove swapping stories of
bears, mountain-lions, of Indians, and wonderful escapes. Whitman,
upon looking up, discovered an old United States map hanging upon
the wall. It at once attracted his attention, and he brought it to
the light and began to study. It had the outlines of all the great
West as far as geographers of that day knew and understood. The
ranges of the mountains were nearly accurately pictured. "The great
Stony," the Sierra and Coast ranges, the Shasta, and Wind River, and
the possible passes were marked, so as to give some idea of the lay
of the land.
The thought came to him, why not strike west and south and get
between the great ranges so as to avoid the earlier snows of winter?
He found marked upon the map Fort Uintah, an old abandoned Spanish
fort, which came into possession of the United States in 1818, by the
Florida treaty. He then began inquiry among the old mountaineers and
found a man who knew the blind trail to Uintah, located in what is
now northern Utah. He learned also there was an abandoned trail from
that point southward. The old scout was ready to pilot them to
Uintah, and was at once engaged. At break of day Whitman and Lovejoy
were in their saddles en route, led by the guide, not homeward, but
upon a voyage of discovery of the unknown way. The route led south
through what is now Idaho, thence through Utah leaving Great Salt
Lake to the right. General Lovejoy gives very indistinct notes, not
sufficiently clear to accurately verify locations. He kept a record
of daily events, but Whitman never a line. Lovejoy writes:
"From Fort Hall to Uintah we met with terribly severe weather.
The deep snow caused us to lose much time. At Uintah we took a
new guide to Fort Uncompagra in old Spanish territory, which
place we safely reached. There we hired a new guide, and while
passing over a high mountain on the trail toward Grand River, we
encountered a terrible snow storm which compelled us to seek
shelter in a deep, dark cañon. We made several attempts to pass
on, but were driven back, and detained ten days. We finally got
well upon the mountain again, when we met with a violent storm of
snow and wind, which almost blinded us, maddened the animals, and
made them nearly unmanageable. Finally the guide stopped and
said, 'I am lost and can lead you no farther.' In this dire
dilemma, adds General Lovejoy, Dr. Whitman got off his horse, and
kneeling in the snow, committed his little company, his loved
wife, his work, and his Oregon to the Infinite One for guidance
and protection. The lead pack mule being left to himself by the
guide pricked up his long ears, turning them this way and that,
and began plunging through the snowdrifts. The Mexican guide
called out, 'Follow this old mule, he will find the camp if he
lives long enough to reach it.'"
And he did lead them to the still burning fire they had left in the
morning in the deep, dark cañon. The instinct of dumb animals is a
wonderful gift, superior to that of wise men. The writer has, twice
in his life, been rescued by his horse when hopelessly lost. One
instance I will recite, simply to impress a lesson of kindness upon
my young readers for dumb animal life. Two of us, in a large hunting
party in Arkansas, got separated from the rest, and found ourselves
in the back-water of the Mississippi River, which was many miles
away. My companion was an old woodsman, and pretended to know his
direction. He assured me "We will come out all right." He led on and
on for hours, the water growing constantly deeper. I finally called
to him and pointed to the water-mark on the trees as high as our
heads as we sat on our horses. I said to him: "You are lost, now I am
going to trust to my horse to lead me from danger." He insisted he
knew the way, but followed. My horse was a sleepy old fellow, and I
gave him a little cut with a whip to wake him up, then gave him a
loose rein to go as he pleased. He wound around fallen trees and
brush until he got his direction, then turning nearly at a right
angle, struck a line like a surveyor, and in two hours we were upon
dry land and in camp.
[Illustration: LOST IN THE ROCKIES.]
But to our story. They were safely in camp, by a roaring log fire,
the deep cañon protecting them from the raging winds. As they
discussed with thankful hearts the perils of the day, from which they
had been rescued, they made plans for to-morrow, but here the guide
spoke up and said, "I go back, I cannot take you over this mountain."
General Lovejoy says, "Whitman talked and plead with the guide until
a late hour, but could not change his mind. To any except such a
character as Whitman, the situation would have been indeed hopeless;
but before he slept his plans were made. He said to General Lovejoy:
"You stay here in the cañon and recuperate the stock, and I will
return to the fort and get a new guide." At the first streak of dawn
the men were mounted and on their way. It was a cheerless wait for
Lovejoy, but he had the companionship of his dog, and he busied
himself in cutting bunch grass and tender twigs for the animals and
bringing in logs for his fire. The General says, "Whitman was gone
just one week, when the old dog heard his distant halloo and answered
it with a rejoicing bark." He and his new guide, hungry and tired,
were soon enjoying the bright log fire, always the crowning comfort
of camp-life.
I trust that my readers may all live to have a camp-fire experience.
Permit me to tell you of one great camp-fire, near the summit of the
Sierras, which lives in the memory after nearly fifty years of busy
life. Our pack-train had been toiling up the mountain, hoping for a
resting-place, when our scouts came and reported. Following them
along winding paths which grizzlies and Indians had made, around the
rugged rocks, we reached a beautiful little valley covered with
luxuriant grass. We picketed our tired animals in the meadow, built
a great fire of cedar logs against a marble wall straight up for a
thousand feet, sang songs, sounded the bugle, and listened to the
scores of echoes from the mountain peaks. But we were young and ready
to enjoy nature's grand scenes.--Nowhere are they grander than in our
own Western mountains.
But our heroic snow-bound travelers were burdened with far too much
anxiety to enjoy nature in her magnificent winter adornment. Their
eyes were not upon the lofty mountain peaks, but far along unknown
trails towards the nation's capital. After they had succeeded in
passing the well-nigh impassable mountains, they struck a more level
country with sheltered valleys having a bountiful supply of wood and
good water. I have often asked myself, when pondering over these
events, was it a simple accident that the old scouts reached Fort
Hall that October night and turned Whitman and Lovejoy a thousand
miles off their direct route? That year the snow lay unusually deep
all over the great plains. Had they started and been able to have
crossed the Rockies, they would have met snow-covered, treeless
plains, and for weeks at a time would have had to go without fires,
having to depend upon the _Bois de vache_ for fuel, which, covered
deep with the snow, would have been impossible to find. This, with
the lack of grass for the animals, would have made the route, not
only impracticable, but nearly impossible. The scout and the old map
seemed insignificant events, but yet how often they and their kind
loom up in grand proportions. They may be marked by the thoughtless
as mere happenings, but it is not a tax upon reason to believe that
the soul attuned to listen and receive ever has a guidance higher
than the wisdom of men.
This detention in the cañon and along other parts of the route caused
the scant supplies to run lower. The bears were holed up in their
winter quarters, they could have found deer and elk, had they stopped
and hunted; but Whitman's maxim was forever, "travel, travel." He led
upon the trail from morning until night, with eyes ever to the front.
General Lovejoy tells us they finally reached a great emergency, and
the first animal sacrificed to keep them from starving was the
faithful old dog. I doubt not, that some of my young readers will
stop to criticize so noble a man as Whitman for having any part in
such an act, and the writer would sympathize with the sentiment. The
dog is man's closest friend, that clings to him when all others
forsake him. Seventy-four years ago, when the author's parents came
to the Western wilderness across the Alleghanies, we had a great dog
named Watch. He kept guard over us children as we rambled through
the woods and along the way, as if he were wholly responsible for our
safety. He grew old and nearly helpless. A conference was held among
the older members, and it was thought merciful to put him out of his
obvious misery, and an old friend of the family was selected for the
task. I believe that after all three-quarters of a century of years
the children, who loved the old dog, never quite forgave his
executioner.
General Lovejoy tells us none of the particulars, but it is
reasonable to suppose that Whitman was not consulted at all in the
matter, and likely knew nothing of it until long after. The second
animal used for food was one of the pack mules. They knew if they
could live until they reached Taos, in New Mexico, they could secure
supplies, and trade their broken-down stock for fresh animals. So
they made forced marches.
I have indulged in only enough description of locality as to keep in
touch with the travelers, and to note historic events. To-day the
same scenes they viewed are the wonderlands of thousands of tourists
each year.
_They Reach Grand River_
A little incident at Grand River reveals Marcus Whitman's indomitable
spirit. It is a deep, dangerous, treacherous river, and many an
immigrant has lost his life in the Grand or the Green river. The
water is icy cold, even in mid-summer.
When the bold group of travelers stood on the bank they found a
stream six hundred feet wide, two hundred feet on each side ice, and
two hundred in the middle rolled the rapid torrent. The guide shook
his head and said, "It is impossible! We cannot cross." Whitman
replied, "We must cross, and now." He got down from his horse, cut a
strong cottonwood pole about eight feet long. Mounting his horse, he
put the pole upon his shoulder, and said, "Now push us in." The guide
and the General skated them to the brink, and "horse and rider," says
the General, "entirely disappeared, coming to the surface some
distance below." The horse soon found footing and made for the shore,
where Whitman broke the ice with his pole, and helped his horse to
the firm ice. He soon had a rousing fire from the logs and driftwood.
Those conversant with animal habits know that when the lead animal
has passed any point, however dangerous, the rest are eager to
follow. The General and guide broke the ice for a roadway to the
water, and each seizing a tail, were towed safely to the farther
shore.
_They Reach Santa Fé_
Upon reaching Santa Fé, in New Mexico, they felt quite in touch with
civilization. They would no longer have to grope in the dark, along
doubtful and unknown trails, but it all the more made Whitman anxious
to push forward. They paused only long enough to inquire for news
from the States, and to purchase a few needed supplies. It was still
a long journey, and as it proved, more perilous to life than any
portion they had already passed. Their next point was Bent's Fort on
the head waters of the Arkansas River, now in Colorado. It was a
cheerless, dreary plains journey, with none of the magnificent
scenery of the mountain route to keep them company. Water was often
scarce, as well as wood, except along the small streams. The
intensely cold winter and deep snows had made the big gray wolves a
menace to life of men and beasts. One very cold night they reached a
little river which had no wood on the side they camped, but was
plentiful on the opposite bank. Whitman seized his ax, but found the
ice would break under his feet. He then lay flat upon the ice, wormed
himself across, skated a bountiful supply across the glossy surface,
and then returned in safety as he had gone.
Unfortunately, one of his heavy blows split his ax-handle. When he
returned to his tent, he took a piece of rawhide, wrapped the spliced
pieces carefully, and threw it down at the door of the tent. In the
morning it was discovered that some thieving wolf attracted by the
rawhide had stolen the implement, and they never saw it again. Had
this occurred two months before, it would have been regarded as an
irreparable disaster.
Four days before reaching Bent's Fort they met Colonel Bent's son
with a pack-train en route to El Paso. He informed them that in two
days a company of fifty packers would leave the fort for St. Louis,
and that there would not be another until towards spring.
He told them that it would be impossible for them with pack animals
to reach the fort before the departure of the company. Whitman was at
once aroused by the information. He proposed that he should take his
blankets and two days' provision, make a forced march, and catch the
convoy, while General Lovejoy and the guide could bring on the pack
animals and remain at the fort, recuperate the stock, and meet him on
the Missouri border in the spring. This was agreed to, and Whitman
started on his lonely ride to Bent's. General Lovejoy and the guide
moved on leisurely, reaching Bent's Fort four days later. They were
astonished and alarmed when told that the Doctor had not arrived.
_Whitman is Lost_
General Lovejoy stated the whole case to Colonel Bent, who was at
once aroused to action. He started runners after the company,
ordering them to go into camp on the Cottonwood, and await further
commands.
"He sent out his best scouts in the search. Myself, guide, and
one of the scouts passed up the banks of the Arkansas for one
hundred miles, knowing if Whitman was alive he would make for the
river. Every night our camp would be surrounded by hungry, gaunt,
gray wolves, which as they were shot down would be torn in pieces
and devoured by their fellows."
This gave them great uneasiness about Whitman, alone and without a
shelter. They encountered some Indians who told them they had met a
white man two days before who was hunting for Bent's Fort, and they
had pointed out the way to him. They, in all haste, retraced their
steps, along the way the Indians directed, and in an hour after they
reached the fort Whitman came in greatly fatigued, and well-nigh
despairing. But wearied as he was, he was deeply touched with Colonel
Bent's kindness and thoughtfulness, and was buoyed up with new heart
and hope that after all the hardships of the long journey he was yet
able to prosecute it to the end. In the early morning he was in the
saddle upon a fresh horse, with a good guide, and ready to ride forty
miles before night to the camp on the Cottonwood, with credentials
which would give them safe convoy to St. Louis. General Lovejoy, the
guide, and all the stock remained until the next convoy was sent out
in the spring, and found Whitman upon the Missouri border. In that
early day the route from Bent's Fort to St. Louis was invested by
bands of outlaws, as well as savage wild beasts, so that an escort of
well-armed men was a necessity for all travelers. Thus a good
Providence seemed from the outset to have guided the little band
through all its perils in safety.
_They Reach St. Louis_
Dr. Barrows, in his interesting book, "Oregon, the Struggle for
Possession," says:
"Upon the arrival of Whitman in St. Louis, it was my good fortune
that he should be quartered as a guest under the same roof, and
at the same table. Trappers and traders all eagerly asked
questions, and he answered all courteously. He in turn asked
about Congress; whether the Ashburton treaty had been passed by
the Senate; and whether it covered the Northwestern Territory? He
then learned, for the first time, that the Ashburton treaty had
been signed, even before he left Oregon, and was confirmed by the
Senate about the time he was lost and floundering in the snow
upon the mountains."
He was eager to learn whether the Oregon question was still pending,
and greatly relieved when told that the treaty only covered a little
strip of twelve thousand acres, up in Maine, and that Oregon was left
untouched in its boundaries. Dr. Barrows continues:
"Marcus Whitman once seen, and in one's family circle, telling of
his business, for he apparently had but one, was a man not to be
forgotten by the writer. He was of medium height, more compact
than spare, a stout shoulder, and a large head covered with
iron-gray hair. He carried himself awkwardly. He seemed built as
a man for whom more stock had been furnished than used
systematically and gracefully. He was not quick in motion or
speech, and no trace of a fanatic, but he was a profound
enthusiast. He wore coarse, fur garments, with buckskin breeches.
He had a buffalo overcoat with a head hood for emergencies, with
fur leggins and foot moccasins. If my memory is not at fault, his
entire dress when on the street did not show an inch of woven
fabric."
We copy thus fully Dr. Barrows's description of Whitman and his
dress, and it agrees with other descriptions less complete, as we
trace him to Cincinnati, and again to the door of his old cherished
friend, Dr. Parker, and have the testimony of his son, Professor
Parker, who opened the door of his father's home to admit the guest
in strange costume. Whitman had little confidence in his own power of
oratory, and was even timid, while brave. He knew the persuasive
eloquence of his old associate, and his enthusiasm for Oregon, and he
had hoped and expected to have his help to plead for Oregon in
Washington. But the Doctor was confined to his room by ill health,
and it was impossible for him to undertake the journey. Glad again to
meet his old friend, and sorrowing that he was not to have his aid in
this critical time, he resumed his way, and reaching Washington,
ended one of the most memorable trans-continental journeys ever
recorded.