USA > Washington > History of Washington; the rise and progress of an American state, Vol. II > Part 34
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This pioneer army moved to the new world it was seek- ing by various routes. Some went by overcrowded steamers
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to the Isthmus of Panama, which they crossed on foot, or by such primitive conveyances as they found there, and thence by other overcrowded vessels to San Francisco, or the Columbia River; some went by the longer route around Cape Horn in sailing ships; but the great majority crossed the 2,000 miles of treeless plains, sandy deserts and rugged mountains in their own wagons, drawn by oxen or, in rare instances, by horses. Some of these followed the trail of the old Santa Fé traders. At least one party, of which the Nat- uralist Audubon was a member, forced its way from the mouth of the Rio Grande, through northern Mexico to San Diego. But by far the greater number followed the fur trad- ers' route, along the Platte to the Sweetwater, thence over the Rocky Mountains to and across Green River, and on to Fort Hall, not far from the present thriving town of Pocatello, Idaho. Here the trains divided, the larger number, after 1849, going to California, and the smaller by way of Fort Boise down the Snake River to the Powder, where they crossed into the Grand Ronde Valley, and made their way over the Blue Mountains to the Columbia, at Fort Walla Walla, near the present site of Wallula. Here in 1853 and 1854 the trains again divided, one part going down the river to Portland; the other following the Yakima to the confluence of the Nachess, which they ascended to its source, crossing the Cascades by the Nachess Pass. This route was aban- doned after the Indian troubles began in 1855, and all the trains went down the Columbia.
These emigrants invaribly started as early in the spring as the weather would permit. Usually each family set out on its own account, with its own wagon covered with white canvas, which was often their only protection from wind and sun and rain. The wagons were loaded with provisions
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enough for a long journey of six months or more, with a few implements for farming and fewer articles of furniture, and were drawn by one or more teams of oxen. Sometimes a family would have more than one team, and some had cattle that were not yoked to their wagons, and some tried to take with them the smaller domestic animals, but these were not numerous.
No people ever risked so much in an enterprise of which they knew so little at the outset. Many if not most of those who had families started on the long journey with less than would have made them comfortable for one summer at home. Many young men started with their brides, and some took their aged parents, who could scarcely hope to live to com- plete the journey. A few courageous women successfully made the journey, assisted only by their children, the oldest of whom could scarcely be trusted to look after themselves. Mrs. William White* was one of these. Her husband left Grant County, Wisconsin, for Oregon in 1850, in search of health. He sent home an encouraging letter which she received in January 1851, and in March with five children, the oldest a girl of fourteen, she started with her own ox team to join him. In Iowa she was joined by her brother and a brother-in-law, and their families, and together they made the long trip in safety, Mr. White meeting them in October, at some point on the Snake River. Four years later he was killed at her side, by Indians, while they were returning from church .; Many others started with even
* Dec. 4, 1892. The references in this and the two following chapters, where the date only is given at the bottom of the page, are to a series of articles written by the old settlers, and published in the Tacoma Sun- day "Ledger," in the years 1892 and 1893.
1 Sept. 25, 1892.
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greater responsibilities and took greater risks. William Downey started from Kentucky in 1853 with his wife and ten children. Andrew J. Frost's* family consisted of him- self and wife and five children, the oldest only thirteen years of age. Mrs. Frost died during the journey, leaving an infant six weeks old. James Longmire; and wife had four children, the youngest a baby who learned to walk during the trip, by following the wagon tongue with his baby hands, after the oxen were unyoked in the evening, or before they were put to in the morning. A. R. Hawk's family consisted of a father and mother and six boys, the eldest not quite thir- teen years old and the youngest two. Ezra Meeker# and wife began their trip in 1852 when their first baby was only seven weeks old. William Packwood§ started with a sickly wife, who had to be helped in and out of the wagon at first, but who became a strong and rugged woman during the journey. She had three children to look after, the oldest only six years of age, and the youngest learned to walk by rolling the water keg about the camp morning and evening, while she cooked supper or breakfast.
The aim of all, at the start, was to reach and cross the Missouri River as soon as the grass could be depended on to supply their stock. Those who came from States like Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee, or farther east or south, were obliged to begin their journey while the weather was still wintry and inclement, while those from points further west might wait a week or two later. In that season roads were deep with mud, in many places almost impassable.
* A. J. Frost, July 17, 1892.
t August 21, 1892.
# Pioneer Reminiscences of Puget Sound.
§ Esther Chambers, May 29, 1892.
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There were few bridges across the smaller streams, and none over the larger ones, all of which had to be forded. In the early forties the trains assembled at Independence, Mis- souri, where the old Santa Fé trail branched from that of the fur traders, which followed the north fork of the Platte. Many of the pioneers took passage with their wagons on the steamboats from St. Louis to this point. Later, when the trains became more numerous, St. Joseph, Missouri, and Council Bluffs, Iowa, at first known as Kanesville, were made points of rendezvous, and ferries were established there. Often teams would be delayed for two or three weeks at these ferries before they could get over, and in some instances, ferries were improvised by the bolder emigrants, who con- structed rafts and entrusted themselves, their families and their property to the rapid current of the Missouri, relying only on their own strong arms to get them safely over. Some of these rafts were upset by snags, in the strong current, or by the lack of skill of those who managed them, throwing the occupants and their property into the turbid waters of the river. Some lost their lives in this way, and some much of their property, but nearly all got across in safety.
After crossing the river, parties were made up of those who were to make the long journey together. Being strangers to each other, these arrangements were not made without some difficulty, and all required more or less time. Parkman has thus described the scene at Independence, as he observed it in the spring of 1846, while these arrange- ments were making, and when the great migration was only beginning. "The emigrants were encamped on the prairie about eight or ten miles distant, to the number of a thousand or more, and new parties were constantly passing out from Independence to join them. They were in great confusion,
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holding meetings, passing resolutions, and drawing up regu- lations, but unable to unite in the choice of leaders to conduct them across the prairie. Being at leisure one day, I rode over to Independence. The town was crowded. A multi- tude of shops had sprung up to furnish the emigrants and Santa Fé traders with necessaries for their journey, and there was an incessant hammering and banging from a dozen black- smiths' shops, where the heavy wagons were being repaired, and the horses and oxen shod. The streets were thronged with men, horses, and mules. While I was in the town, a train of emigrant wagons from Illinois passed through to join the camp on the prairie, and stopped in the principal street. A multitude of healthy children's faces were peeping out from under the covers of the wagons. Here and there a buxom damsel was seated on horseback, holding over her sunburnt face an old unbrella or parasol, once gaudy enough, but now miserably faded. The men, very sober-looking countrymen, stood about their oxen; and as I passed I noticed three old fellows, who, with their long whips in their hands, were zealously discussing the doctrine of regeneration. The emigrants, however, were not all of this stamp. Among them were some of the vilest outcasts in the country. I have often perplexed myself to divine the various motives that gave impulse to this migration; but whatever they may be, whether an insane hope of a better condition in life, or a desire to shake off restraints of law and society, or mere restlessness, certain it is, that multitudes bitterly repent the journey, and, after they have reached the land of promise, are happy enough to escape from it."*
Having chosen their officers and completed their organi- zation, these parties moved away, one after another, on their
* The Oregon Trail.
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long journey to encounter the dangers they knew nothing of, and the trials they could not have foreseen, or they would never have dared to face them. They were now beyond the remotest pale of civilization. For the remainder of their way they would see no human habitation, except that of Indians. It would be impossible to purchase supplies in case of famine, or procure medicine in case of sickness, or the means of decent burial in case of death, and death was to overtake them frequently. They must rely upon themselves, and themselves alone, to complete their journey in safety.
Those who crossed the Missouri at Independence, or St. Joseph, encountered their first great danger at the crossing of the Platte, whose treacherous quicksands often threatened to engulf them. The Platte is a peculiar stream. For the last three or four hundred miles of its course, it averages more than half a mile in width. Viewed from its banks its waters seem to be shallow, and are so throughout most of its breadth, though there are channels where its current is deep and rapid. But there is much more water than is seen from its banks. The river's bed is filled with loose sand to a depth of many feet, and through this sand a large volume of water is slowly forcing its way unseen toward the Missouri. In places it can be crossed with comparative safety, but the early emigrants found that after proceeding for a distance through its shallow waters, their teams and wagons suddenly began to sink, and were more than half buried before any- thing could be done to save them. The sands seemed to draw them irresistably under. From this hidden danger, many escaped with the greatest difficulty, and some were lost. Often it was necessary to unhitch the teams and drag both wagons and animals out of the miry depth into which they had fallen, by rawhide ropes, stretched to the farther
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bank. Those who view this treacherous stream today, knowing its hidden dangers, will wonder how the emigrant ever dared to venture into it.
For the first few hundred miles after crossing the Missouri, their way lay over rolling prairies, whose billowing hills rose about them like the waves of an ocean. They shut them in on every side. Every eminence seemed higher than the one on which they stood. Their wagons rolled over them hour after hour and day after day with no change in the pros- pect. They seemed to be wandering in a labyrinth of hills to which there was no end, and from which there was no escape.
Those who have had opportunity to observe this part of Nebraska at leisure must have been impressed with the sense of loneliness that the emigrants encountered there. Even at the present day, when these hills are covered with culti- vated fields, with well made roads lying plainly through them, bordered with comfortable farmhouses and fruitful orchards, the traveler easily feels a sense of being lost. If he thinks of the emigrants at all, as he almost invariably will, he will wonder at the courage which sustained them in this part of their journey, particularly in the earlier years. These had absolutely nothing to guide them, except possibly such trails as had been made by the Indians and trappers. They could take their direction only by the sun and the stars. Even those who came later and found a broad trail, plainly marked by the wheels of the many wagons that had gone before them, must have been oppressed by the unending swell of the treeless hills, their profound silence and general desolation, and to have doubted at times whether the way, so plainly marked before them, would really lead them out of their perplexity.
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Here they frequently encountered storms far more violent in character than any to which they were accustomed, and for which they found themselves but poorly prepared. These came on suddenly, often with scarcely an hour's warning. The rain descended in sheets, sometimes accompanied by hail, which the wind drove in their faces so violently that they were scarcely able to withstand it. The teams turned about in the trail, in spite of all the drivers could do to pre- vent them, frequently upsetting the wagons and causing the greatest confusion. Sometimes the wind was so violent as to overturn the wagons, strip off their canvas covers and scatter their loads over the prairie. The unyoked stock, that was not fastened to the wagons, stampeded, running before the storm, sometimes for many miles, and were col- lected again with great difficulty, and after much delay. These storms were accompanied by vivid and incessant flashes of lightning, and tremendous peals of thunder. "This thunder," says Parkman, "is not like the tame thunder of the Atlantic Coast. Bursting with a terrific crash directly over our heads, it roared over the boundless waste of prairie, seeming to roll around the whole circle of the firmament with a peculiar and awful reverberation." To the struggling travelers on the plains, during these trying years, it must have seemed like a protest from Nature against their invasion of her solitudes.
These storms filled the beds of the rivers with boiling torrents, which often overflowed their banks, making a watery waste several miles in width. Mrs. White says that when she crossed the Elkhorn, the water covered a strip of ground six miles wide, with the exception of an island, on which her party landed and pitched their tents for the night, thinking it was high enough for their protection.
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But the rain continued all night with such violence that the men had to hold the tent stakes, in order to keep them from being blown down. The water rose so far that everything inside the tents was afloat. Even the heavy ox yokes would have floated away, if chains had not been thrown over them to hold them down. The party was rescued from this island the following day, by boats. E. A. Light's party* encoun- tered a similar storm at this place, by which their cattle were drowned in the river. One family which had camped in a ravine before the storm came up, lost everything, even their wagons were washed away. After the storm subsided the party crossed the river in dugouts, which they hewed out of the cottonwood trees found in the neighborhood. These were not large enough to contain a wagon, so two of them were placed side by side, fastened together, and the wagons loaded into them, each two wheels on either side being in a separate canoe. After the wagons were taken across in this manner, the stock was driven into the stream and forced to swim to the opposite bank. Many streams on the long journey were crossed in this way.
Finally the swell of the hills began to grow longer, as the waves increase in width and diminish in height after a storm, and the trains emerged upon a vast, level, treeless, and apparently boundless prairie. The sky alone seemed to shut it in on every side. In it there was seldom a landmark of any sort by which they could mark their progress. Day after day they journeyed on without seeming to advance. The sun rose out of what seemed a measureless waste, "where length, breadth, and height, and time, and place are lost," each morning, and sank below it again at night, and from above the stars looked down upon them in their
* June 19, 1892.
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weariness, as if they alone, of all familiar objects, remained to remind them of a world they had left forever, and which now only existed in memory. "Wert thou ever abroad in the desert at night?" asked the Sheik Ilderim of Ben Hur. "Then thou canst not know how much we Arabs depend upon the stars. We borrow their names in gratitude, and give them in love." Possibly the pioneers may have looked to the stars, from out this prairie desert, with much the same feelings.
At old Fort Laramie, on the Platte, nearly a hundred miles northeast of the present city of Cheyenne, they found the first break in the monotony of their journey. Those who crossed previous to 1849 found this fort simply a trad- ing post of the American Fur Company, for the government had done nothing, down to that time, for the protection of the emigrants. In 1846 Congress authorized the enlistment of a mounted rifle regiment to be posted along the trail, but as soon as it was raised it was sent to the Mexican war, and after the war was over it had to be again recruited. It was not, therefore, until 1849 that it was sent to the service for which it was originally designed. Then two companies were stationed at Fort Laramie, and one at Loring's Canton- ment. The other companies went on to Washington and Oregon. At such widely separated points as Laramie and Loring, these small detachments of troops could render the settlers little service. But they made a show of strength, and the Indians in their neighborhood soon became aware that they had better arms than they, and that their cannon was something with which they could not cope. Undoubt- edly they supposed, for a long time, that the settlers were equally well armed and quite as good fighters as the soldiers themselves. This had a wholesome effect in protecting the
FORT LARAMIE.
The first resting place reached by the immigrants after leaving the Missouri. It was situated on the upper waters of the Platte, north or a little northeast of the present city of Cheyenne in Wyoming. It was not a military post, but a trading station established by the American Fur Company. Its walls were about fifteen feet high, built of sun-dried bricks, and sur- mounted by a light palisade, and it had bastions at two of its corners.
THE RISE AND PROGRESS
.HIMALAI THOT
now only rexisfff A Memorydo to ff feny Ayer abroad in the diesdaitd sucomoihate'grilske the Jing kvitbdenim tof Ben Hur. . md bs depend -TU2 bris axorid berib-nul fo fhud digid fost nosffff upontheostas bort Of HerIstBailey Hier va banglatitude, and give them in love." Possibly the piano eti 19 ohave looked to the stars, from out this prairie desert, with much the same feelings.
At old Fort Laramie, on the Platte, nearly a hundred miles northeast of the present city of Cheyenne, they found the first break in the monotony of their journey. Those who crossed prevmur to 1849 found this fort simply a trad- ing post of the American Fur Company, for the government had done nothing, down to that time, for the protection of the emigrants. In 1846 Congress authorized the enlistment of & mounted rifle regiment to be posted along the trail, hur as soon as it was raised it was sent to the Mexican war, >w after the war was over it had to be again recruited. It was wut, therefore, until 1849 that it was sent to the service La which it was originally designed, Then two companies Mit ationed at Fort Laramie, and one at Loring's Canton- The other companies went on to Washington and
Lyon Acmuch widely separated points as Izramie and Te chieve amwall detachments of troops could render the unlis bale wevice, But they made . whow of strength, Todas in their neighborhood soon became aware that e o Mmer arms than they, and that their cannon - wos which they could not cope. Undoubt- willr ther www wed, for a long time, that the settlers were equally well asod and quite as good fighters as the soldiers themselves Thir had a wholesome effect in protecting the
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trains from their depredations, especially in the region of the Rocky Mountains.
Beyond Laramie the arid plain continued for many miles. It was usually two weeks or more after leaving that outpost before the eyes of the travelers were gladdened with a dis- tant view of the snow-clad mountains. To most of them this was a novel spectacle. In the clear atmosphere of that region, the range seemed close at hand, although it was still several days distant. They wondered why they were so long in reaching it. Some of the younger and more impatient members of every train ran, or rode forward on horseback if they had horses, for a nearer view, but at night- fall returned to the camp, reporting that they had seemingly approached no nearer than when they started.
When at last they reached the foothills they rejoiced that the long monotony of rolling prairies and level, sun-baked plain was ended. The pure mountain air invigorated and the clear water of the streams refreshed them, giving them new life and hope. But here new arrangements were necessary. Up to this point, their long trains, in some cases composed of hundreds of teams and wagons, had proceeded in two or three parallel columns. At times smaller parties had separated from the main train, traveling far to one side or the other to escape the dust, with which so many wheels and trampling feet filled the air, and in search of better graz- ing for their stock. Now it was necessary to proceed, for the most part, in a single line. The trail wound about through the foothills, sometimes along the beds of creeks now dry or nearly so, but which at other seasons were mountain torrents. Sometimes it ran through narrow gorges, at others along the edge of some rugged precipice, over which they might at any moment fall and be dashed to pieces. At
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times the ascent would be so steep that their struggling teams could hardly drag their loads after them, and it was only by literally putting their own shoulders to the wheels, that the drivers finally reached the summit, and made ready for a descent that was almost as difficult and full of peril. For days together they struggled on through gorge and chasm, on or around the swelling ridges that compose "the back- bone of the continent," crossing and recrossing streams and torrents, breasting always the fierce west wind that swept through the openings in the range, driving the dust and sharp fragments of the rocks which their wheels ground to pieces, in their eyes and faces, and often making their days of toil days of torture as well, until the last crowning ridge of the range was reached. The great tributary of the greater "Father of Waters," which they had followed so far, had dwindled to a rill. An almost imperceptible dis- tance separated the waters that flowed toward the east from those that flowed toward the west. A few steps onward and they had left the great valley of the Mississippi, and were entering upon the Pacific slope, in some still remote part of which were the homes they had come so far to seek.
The difficulties which now lay before them were new in kind, and not less dangerous than those they had surmounted. After descending the mountains they were to cross deserts of sagebrush and burning sand, where the scant supply of water was bitter with alkali, and almost poisonous to the taste; to thread their way through rock-strewn plains where the Titans seemed to have spent their fiercest fury; to travel for hours beside vast ledges of barren rock that earthquake forces had raised high above the surrounding plain in ages past, as if to mark the time when "Eldest Night and Chaos, Ancestors of Nature," had ruled there in wildest anarchy;
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then to follow the Snake River for weary weeks, crossing and recrossing it many times to find pasturage for their stock, or to escape from threatening Indians.
Of all of their perils and trials, those encountered along this river were the most dangerous, those of the desert most painful. The long trains, moving over the fine volcanic ash, stirred up thick clouds of dust that often hid the teams from their drivers. For weary miles there was no water that could be used. Such ponds and stagnant pools as were scattered here and there at wide intervals were covered with a thick scum, and bitter with alkali, and yet the famished teams could only be kept from drinking at them by the great- est effort. The burning sun beat down upon them with merciless fury. The exhausted cattle often fell dead under the burdens which they could drag no farther. The burn- ing sands cracked their hoofs or destroyed them altogether. When at last they reached some stream like the Green River, whose waters were wholesome, the animals, scenting it from afar, became almost unmanageable in their wild anxiety to reach it, and when near it, gathering all of their exhausted energy, they would rush into it in the utmost confusion, and sometimes to the great danger of upsetting the wagons and drowning their occupants.
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