The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) (29 page)

Before the undertaking, we camped near the remnants (and filth) of numerous other encampments. The scattered heaps of cast-aside articles gave it the appearance of a Rag Fair. The point of it all is that this quicksand, which lies everywhere in greater or lesser degree, will suck down, and swallow, a wagon if it pauses for as long as a second.
Once started, it must keep moving!
In consequence,
the loads of all trains preceding have been lightened before entering the river. In a stroll about the camp, I noticed a jackscrew, boots and shoes, a tar kit, a shirt with a fine pleated bosom, a bolster filled with feathers, a broken crystal glass, a Britannia teapot squashed as flat as a scone, nineteen sides of bacon with beans in huge piles, chains, bolts and harness—enough loose iron to set up a blacksmith for life. There was a fine camp kettle, a deer-skin trunk, barrels, boxes, mounds of salt, a large crucible, and strangest of all, a split-bottom rocking chair sitting by the roadside. I had to shake off the feeling that it was occupied by a wayfarer somehow invisible, and might shortly begin rocking.

The business of lightening gave rise to a dispute that was settled by general vote. A sawmill owned jointly by several families presented such a problem that it was abandoned for the common good. Regrettably, there was born bitter ill feeling that has not yet passed away.

The crossing was begun at first dawn. The second wagon set in motion overturned to send its contents hopping down the steep. These were regathered laboriously, Coulter encouraging the process with refreshing examples of his peculiar idiom. As to our wagons, they completed the trip with smoothness, though in the struggle for footing the oxen were pushed to their last extremity, their sides sobbing with distress. We had taken the precaution to caulk both beds with calico strips and lampwick, but the water bubbled on in. By good fortune it was warm, not at all displeasing to the touch. Toward noon a hullabaloo was raised when someone pointed downstream to a sand bar where lay the body of a middle-aged man. After a head count, we agreed that he was none of our group. But only a few minutes later we observed Jaimie swimming stoutly toward the bar; hallooing brought no response. He was seen to clamber out, kneel, then make his way to the far shore. He returned with a purse carrying the identification of one Edwin Lorch, of Prairie du Rocher, Illinois, and said that the clothing was heavily freighted with sand, so that the victim must have stepped in a sink hole, only to be spewed back later.

I was strongly tempted to borrow back the ladle I presented the boy and administer a drubbing, but upon mature thought this appeared to be unethical. I may do it tomorrow. His activities throughout
the day left much to be desired. Coulter at one point rode up to inquire if I would “have the goodness to make that pestiferous muskrat leave go of the oxen.” It seemed he had been riding back and forth by means of clinging to the oxen’s tails. When I reproached him, he said it acted as a kind of rudder, and kept them on a straight course. I fear that the child has not enough to keep him occupied;
I am resolved to begin giving him daily lessons in Latin.

While completing the crossing the second day, our wagons helter-skelter on both banks and over the river, we saw a band of fifty Sioux appear to cross simultaneously. Though scattered, we were galvanized to defense, but their attitude was pacific, even aloof. These were fine-looking Indians, a vast difference existing between them and the others we have seen to date on the route. The braves were large and well formed; incongruously, they were mounted on very small horses. The squaws led pack ponies with both dogs and papooses perched on top, and other children, clad only in nature’s raiment, toddled along beside.

Except for one deputation, stately and gelid, these Sioux never by so much as a flickering glance took note of our presence. When once they had crossed the stream, the chief and two others came forward to dicker about guns. They were not begging. All Indians, it seems, prefer the flintlock to the percussion rifle. Flint is readily available, while they have often great difficulty to secure caps. The result is that they try constantly to trade. After facing their horses toward us, the chief, with what I took to be a fleeting smile (for their reputation as fighters is fierce) made the sign for “Sioux”—the edge of his hand across the throat. Contemptuously undismayed, our Mr. Coulter replied by walking his horse back and forth at right angles to the trail—the plains sign for “come to me.” Then, when they arrived, he informed them in brisk terms that we did no business with Indians, adding with unnecessary rudeness, “Vamoose.”

It was, in its way, an unsavory encounter, but the fault could not be laid to our visitors. Mr. Coulter is a uniquely able man, but his own mother could scarcely deny that he has all the genteel polish of a cougar. And his detestation of Indians verges on the maniacal. He is a diverting study.

A brief medical note: Assembled, ready to move, on the opposite bank, we found many of our people ill. The influence of the alkali has affected us all. As senior physician present, I gave a lecture on health, advising a low diet and cooling aperients, stating in addition that I had decided against bleeding, and suggesting that those ill suck linen rags soaked in vinegar. Green goggles were found for a few suffering from opthalmic irritation of dust and sun, and cambric mouth veils were provided for those with coughs. I concluded with advices on bathing: Cleanliness and frequent baths, I said, are your best preventives of sickness, but I cautioned against bathing if fatigued and recommended as the best hour for this exercise around nine or ten in the morning; one is stronger then than at other times of day. My further directions were, heed not the coldness of the water if it is soft; and after leaving the water, begin an active rubbing with a coarse towel, until a reaction takes place in the skin; dress rapidly, drink a long draught of pure water, and commence a smart walk until perspiration ensues; then cool gradually and fix the mind on subjects of pleasant good cheer.

Hearing these remarks, the sufferers appeared to brighten. But I am disturbed about our prospects for harmony. The train seems in danger of being rent by factionalism. The group which abandoned the sawmill, headed by Matlock, the big farmer, clings stolidly to itself. And overshadowing all, the sandy road grows rougher, the oxen more exhausted, the loads harder to move, our supplies much depleted through lightening, and the grass worn and scant. What shall we do if our food gives out?

Traveling to California is a heavy, laborious business!

Approaching Chimney Rock
In Transit to California:
August 12, 1849

My dearest Melissa:

This is penned as the writer sits on a rocky eminence some distance up the trail ahead of the train. The day is sunny and bright, and the atmosphere clear and springlike, enabling the viewer to observe that lofty phenomenon of nature some forty miles distant called “Chimney Rock.” We are to have a wedding there.

I write from an exuberance of spirits, occasioned by the fact of everything proceeding so splendidly. The trail, while not actually improving, and even deteriorating in some trifling respects (the wheels now sinking into the sand to a distance of ten inches), still is passable. The oxen, though not refreshed to the point of rambunctiousness (some numbers of them dropping by the wayside from time to time), continue to pull the wagons with commendable zeal, considering the absence of both grass and good water. Our supplies, which seem capable of holding out for many days yet, offer a healthful, athletic diet which yet permits none of that over-nutrition, with its consequent obesity, heart strain and overburdened kidneys, that proves so disturbing to the practicing physician.
I am happy to tell you that there is not a single case of gout in camp!

As to the grass, you will rejoice with me when I say that, for all practical purposes, there is none. Indians in large numbers will never frequent this area, because of its arid desolation. So that, on
one of our most important scores, we are almost entirely free of anxiety. The finding of water has turned into a species of romp, in which both children and adults participate. From every viewpoint, including the therapeutic, it is well to have a diversion among people so closely bound together, and the seeking of aqueous potation, in this soda-encrusted stretch between the north and south branches of the Platte, serves admirably. Example: while passing, yesterday, through an area of unbelievable sterility, with high winds whipping the sands and soda dust like furiously driven snow, someone spied to our left a stream of fresh-running water. You may imagine with what whoops of delight all members ran to throw themselves full-length beside this limpid fountain. Alas, one mouthful was sufficient to produce nausea. So the game must continue. I am thinking of offering a prize to the first who makes a successful discovery. The waters of the Platte itself are drinkable in an emergency, but they exude an unpleasant, foetid odor, highly offensive, as does the atmosphere hereabouts. This has been uniformly viewed by the train as a healthy symptom, for it has spurred the enthusiasm of all to proceed as rapidly as possible to California, or to any place except here.

In the broader sense (as stated) we are thriving bountifully. After crossing the south fork, we descended into the valley of the north fork through a pass known as Ash Hollow, being a dry ravine with a few stunted ash trees, the entrance signalized by a log cabin of historic import. Erected by trappers caught here by winter snows, it has been converted into a general post office, and its walls inside and out are covered over with manuscript, advertisements for lost cattle, directions and suggestions, messages for oncoming trains, and a variety of advices. Inside, we found a rich cache of letters, with pleas to parties traveling in both directions to assist in conveying them to the nearest Government post office.

We had here an altercation which only highlighted our underlying harmony. The train paused for some time at the cabin, to profit from the pointers and, needless to say, to reject out of hand the several recommendations that we retreat before we perish. Mr. Coulter (who will be associated in your mind with my unshakable admiration from the start) was hailed while reading a bill near the front door, by our bellicose Illinois farmer, Ed Matlock. It was the
contention of the latter, a very large and lank man, with a bony face rather longer than life-size, unkempt yellow hair, and small, gimlet eyes, that we should hold a meeting to consider the notion of “packing.” That is, abandoning the heavy wagons and loading our supplies on the backs of either oxen or, if possible, mules, for which we should trade at the first opportunity (such advices were plentiful at the “post office”).

I should say that Matlock has harbored a grudge since the Platte crossing, when Coulter insisted that he and his cousins, a numerous and shaggy lot, no credit to the general appearance of the train, leave behind a sawmill that others agreed was too cumbersome to transport across the river without risk to human life, oxen and wagons.

“We’re still rolling,” said Coulter, without taking his eyes from the bill. “Motion rejected.”

A good many of our people—myself, Brice, Jenny, Coe and others—were nearby when this occurred, and we gave a gasp of dismay when Matlock seized Coulter roughly by the shoulder and spun him half around.

“Look here, I’m sick of your bulldozing,” cried the farmer. “Me and my cousins’ll do what we dum well please.”

“Speaking for the train as a whole,” said Coulter pleasantly, “we’ll continue for a while with the wagons.”

Knowing Coulter, we thought this a moderate and unobjectionable reply, but the farmer, quite apparently smoldering with resentment (partly dating from that painful day when Coulter conducted his notorious “deer hunt”) now chose to become personal.

“How come you know so much?” he cried, walking forward till his sun-blistered nose was thrust almost into Coulter’s face. “I’ll own up we joined the train late, so I didn’t git to make inquiries. If I had, we’d a joined another. Where’d you spring from, Big Mouth?”

“I was hired by popular vote.”

During this uncomfortable discourse, Coulter simply stood easy and relaxed in his loose slouch, wearing a half-smile. But his face went white as chalk at the farmer’s next remark.

“I’ve heard a few stories—we haven’t got no hankering to trail after a man that’s murdered his own kin.”

Coulter looked as if he’d been struck. He stepped back a pace, then, the words hardly audible, said, “All right, you’ve chose yourself a fight.”

At this, a number of the cooler heads intervened, but Coulter threw them off. “Not this time,” he said, peeling out of his buckskin shirt. “Doctor, I’ll thank you and Kissel to go forward and make the arrangements. That rise up yonder’ll be handy ground enough.”

You may imagine that I tried to dissuade him, but he was as firm as flint. Matlock having appointed two of his cousins—rough, bearded men nearly as big as he—to act as seconds, we conferred briefly. I must confess that the formalities of such a rough-and-tumble were entirely foreign to me, but Kissel, to my amazement, stepped out of taciturnity and said, “Heel and toe, no gouging, no butting, stand up fair till one hollers enough.”

The larger of the cousins, as uncouth a man as ever I’ve seen in my life, with bacon grease spattered down the front of his filthy denim shirt, spat tobacco juice contemptuously and said, “You prefer the body planted here or pinted home in a box?”

Kissel regarded him with his baby-blue eyes, then uttered the first unfriendly statement I’d ever heard pass his lips. For some reason I can’t explain, this burly cousin had offended his dignified concept of farming as an occupation.

He said, “Mister, you talk a good fight.”

“How tall be you, Fatty?”

“Six feet six, give or take.”

“I didn’t know they piled dung that high,” said the cousin, and I leaped in between as fast as I could move. For a moment, I thought we had a
second
battle on our hands.