Hearts West (9 page)

Legrand, who seemed to never have gotten over losing Bethenia, wrote her constantly during this time, pleading with her to remarry him. Refusing to accept her written refusal, he showed up on the doorstep of her new home, crying and begging for a second chance. “But alas for him,” Bethenia wrote in her journal, “He found not the young, ignorant, inexperienced child-mother whom he had neglected and misused, but a full-grown, self-reliant woman who could look upon him only with pity.”

Bethenia divided her time between her son, her education, and her work. Her fine business sense enabled her to make a substantial living as a milliner and dressmaker, and with the money she earned, she was able to send her son to college and on to medical school. After acquiring a loan to further her own education, Bethenia entered a school in Philadelphia where she graduated with a degree in hydropathy medicine—a form of alternative medicine based upon the principle that water is the most basic element and also the most important aspect to good health.

After receiving further medical training at schools in Michigan and Chicago, she returned to Clatsop County in 1883 and opened her own practice. She was the first woman doctor in the state of Oregon.

In 1884, she married Colonel John Adair, but her duties as a physician took precedence over her duties as a wife, and the pair eventually divorced. Bethenia practiced medicine until she was sixty-five.

What became of Legrand Hill, Bethenia's ex mail-order spouse, is unknown. Some Jackson County, Oregon, historians speculate that after Bethenia's final rejection he returned to his parents' home and drank himself to death.

THE BENTON BRIDES
Tales of a Trip to Matrimony

I
n the mid-1860s, more than one hundred women from the small town of Ellicott City, Maryland, favorably responded to a mailed advertisement to become wives of bachelors in Oregon. Two of the adventurous ladies who agreed to make the trip kept journals of their mail-order bride travels. Their entries describe their motivation to marry, what they were willing to endure, and their zeal to bring stability to the unsettled West.

The hard, frost-covered ground cracked under Constance Ranney's fast-moving feet. She pulled a wool shawl tight around her shoulders and buried her face in her chest. The winter air blowing off the water and over the town of Ellicott City, Maryland, was frigid and sharp. But the weather was not slowing the attractive, twenty-year-old woman down. She lifted the hem of her long Gibson skirt out of the snow and walked with great purpose toward Town Hall.

Before entering the building, Constance unfolded a leaflet she had clutched tightly in her hand and reread the bold print. The words “Brides Wanted” were scrawled across the top. The advertisement, which had been mailed to every home in Ellicott City, encouraged marriageable women to consider sailing to Oregon's Willamette Valley to meet and marry the eligible bachelor of her choice. Interested ladies were asked to meet at Town Hall to learn more about the particulars of the trip.

It was December 1864 and the frontier beyond Kansas was sadly lacking in women. Drastic measures were being used by lonely pioneer men to entice single ladies from the East to relocate to the West. Women who considered making such a journey were promised security and happiness in a land rich with opportunity.

Constance refolded the leaflet and tucked it into her pocket. As she neared the meeting place, she noticed a few other women heading in the same direction. The Civil War had left an abundance of unmarried ladies in Ellicott City and the number of available males was slim. Many of these women reasoned, as Constance did, that this might be their best chance to avoid spinsterhood.

The women entered Town Hall and took a seat in the galley, speaking to one another in hushed tones, and comparing the leaflets they had received. Constance stood in the back of the room surveying the scene, debating whether or not to join the others. In a letter she wrote to her uncle after the meeting, she told him that her moment of indecision had been short-lived: “Such a challenge was being presented—to go to an uncivilized land and make it civilized. Then it struck me. If I don't do this I will spend my entire life working as a servant for the rich here.”

Constance was employed as a personal maid to the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Ellicott City. She disliked her job and the daughter in particular. According to her journal, the woman treated Constance badly. The notion of having to keep such a job was distressing to her, but alternatives in Maryland were limited. Constance sat down with the other women and waited for the meeting to start.

Archer Benton, a tall, well-built man with dark, unruly hair and a thick mustache made his way from a chair in front to a lectern. He was dressed in a brown suit, the jacket of which had obviously not been worn for some time, as the fit was a bit too snug. Even so, Constance noted that he “looked as if he possessed both brains and ambition.”

All eyes were on Archer as he smiled at the crowd before him. After introducing himself—and his brothers Thadeus and Samuel, who were also present—he proceeded to explain to the eager audience his plan to take all interested parties to Oregon. The Bentons were owners of a sawmill in Albany, Oregon, and had been commissioned by the many eligible bachelors there to solicit brides.

Archer promised the ladies a peaceful, tree-filled terrain, endless blue skies, and a husband for every widow and spinster. At the conclusion of his talk, several hopeful ladies hurried to sign a contract agreeing to make the trip. Constance Ranney was among them.

Constance wrote her uncle that many of the girls at the meeting were from good families, “the kind of families that would never have me in their parlors because I'm a servant.” She went on to explain, “In Oregon, we will all be the same, just women looking for husbands. None of us any better than the other.”

Less than a week after the idea of such a trip had been presented, Constance and the one hundred-plus other women who agreed to accompany the Benton Brothers back to Oregon were packed and waiting at the dock. Women like Josephine Ann Gibney would make the journey with her parents' blessing. Constance's parents forbade her to go, but she went anyway.

On the morning of January 16, 1865, the Benton Brothers' bevy of mail-order brides boarded a schooner called the
Osceolo.
The accommodations aboard were primitive, but the excited women were too preoccupied—with the anticipation of what the future would bring—to mind. The hopeful brides exchanged tearful goodbyes with loved ones. Some of the women continued waving to their family members until the coastline faded from site.

It wasn't long after the ship set sail that the majority of passengers went below deck and saw for the first time the vessel's disorderly state. The boat was generally used to transport mules, and the ladies' quarters were nothing more than stalls. Some of the women were so appalled at the unsanitary conditions and the smell that they demanded the Bentons turn the ship around and take them home. Josephine Ann Gibney was one of a handful of ladies who tried to bring order to the offended women.

After much complaining and discussion about how the rugged West might be comparable and we'd be required to make the best of things there, we decided to press on. We tidied up the areas where we would be sleeping that night and determined to thoroughly clean our temporary home the next day.

J. A. Gibney—January 16, 1865

After several days of scrubbing and scouring, the women had transformed the mule scowl into a pristine, fresh-smelling freighter. Dispositions further improved when the ladies took over the kitchen. Once the galley had been fully cleaned, the ship's crew was relieved of all cooking duties.

I think everyone is happier now that things have been set to order and we've begun doing some cooking. I was able to help out quite a bit in this area, as I used to be a cook on my grandfather's ship. I set about to help organize the tasks and shifts as I understand how to cook for a large group of people at once.

J. A. Gibney—January 27, 1865

The spirits of the sailors working aboard the
Osceolo
were lifted by the changes made to the ship, in particular the quality of meals the women served. Some of the men commented that it was the “finest food offered up on the vessel since it was first set in the ocean.”

The “brides,” as the ship's crew referred to them, were not satisfied with simply improving the freighter cosmetically but sought to clean things up socially as well. They prohibited the crew from drinking alcohol, and demanded that they bathe regularly and observe the Sabbath along with them. At Archer Benton's strong urging, the sailors reluctantly agreed.

The ship's captain presided over the first Sunday service. He delivered a message about Moses leading the Israelites to the Promised Land. Although rough waters and seasickness kept many women away from the worship time, the sermon ended with a few ladies singing a traditional hymn.

For two weeks the schooner was violently tossed about by relentless waves, and more brides fell ill. Cold winter winds that whipped across the boughs kept them all below deck. Constance Ranney was one of the ladies who longed to relieve her suffering with a walk across the ship's deck.

Oh, to feel a breeze across my face, but I can barely raise my head to write this now. The uneasiness in my stomach makes it impossible to keep down any nourishment. There is a girl on the ship who is trying to help, but it appears all she can do is give out cold compresses for our heads and encourage us that this also will pass.

Constance Ranney—January 30, 1865

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The choppy waters upset Josephine Ann Gibney as well, but not because it made her nauseated. She had lost her grandfather and uncle when their fishing vessel capsized during a storm.

Not doing as well as yesterday. All this reminds me much too much of events from my past. I find that my hands are shaking and my breathing is quick. I hope this does not last much more, as I am not sure how long I'll be able to take feeling this frightened.

J. A. Gibney—January 30, 1865