Jessie Read online

  It was a difficult homecoming for John. Papa Joe Nicollet had died, alone in a hotel room in Baltimore, while John was away. "He should have gone to California with us and died on the trail," John told me with tears in his eyes. "It would have been a better death."

  Senator Linn, who was such a strong supporter of expansionism and of the report of John's first expedition, was also dead, a political blow rather than the personal one that Papa Joe's death had been. But Linn's death had been a personal blow for Father; they were colleagues, often aligned against the conservatives in the Senate who would settle for the existing boundaries and let emigration cease. Senator Linn had been a man of vision, like Father and John.

  Still, our house teemed with Father's friends who shared his passions about California and Texas. John had only a passing interest in Texas, his focus on California so intent, but he listened patiently as Father explained that the annexation of Texas meant we would fight an unjust war for the benefit of slaveholders. "Mexico still sees Texas as her own," he expounded, "and they'll fight for it. And there's slavery in Texas—that was one reason they fought so hard to shed themselves of Mexico, when Mexico outlawed slavery." Father also believed that it was illegal and immoral for Texas to claim the land between the Nueces and Rio Grande rivers, never part of the original province of Texas. "Land greedy, that's what they are, taking another country's land," he declared. Soon after we returned to Washington, Father paralyzed the Senate with a three-day speech protesting Texas's acquisition of land not its own. I heard rumbles from his colleagues for months, but, my loyalty firmly fixed with my father, I refused to take this discontent seriously. It never occurred to me that Father could lose his Senate seat.

  When Father got to talking about Oregon, John's eyes brightened—I watched that happen, literally. Every visiting congressman who tried to tell John that Oregon was too far, too hard for people to reach, was met with descriptions of the rich land, the plentiful fur trade, the fishing. Some went away convinced, a few angry that John could not be converted to their way of thinking. And California—everyone who visited heard John rave about that land of eternal summer. And visit they did, day and night, each senator or congressman wanting to propose his own theory of the West and why the United States should or should not be looking toward new lands. George Bancroft was there often, and even crusty old Daniel Webster wanted to hear what John had to say about the West. We had no privacy, and we found the constant turmoil wearing.

  "Jessie," John said as he sat before his desk one morning when the house was blessedly empty of visitors, "I cannot get a thing done, because I'm waiting to hear that knock at the door. Someone—who knows who?—will come to interrupt us. We haven't had a morning to ourselves uninterrupted to work on this blasted report."

  It was true. The "blasted" report was not even begun, though we'd been in Washington a full three weeks.

  Father found the solution—a small house near C Street, with apartments upstairs and down, available for a modest rent. Father paid the rent, and we installed ourselves on the upper floor. Downstairs was Preuss, the mapmaker, who also served as palace guard—no one except Father got by him to disturb our work.

  We began each day early. I sat with my pens sharpened and my stack of foolscap ready, and John began by demanding to know where we'd left off the day before. That would spark his memory, and in no time he would be pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back, a wild mixture of scientific fact and human story pouring from his lips so fast that my fingers were hard put to keep up. I always felt that it would have slowed him down if I had asked him to wait for me, so sometimes my notes consisted of weird abbreviations and symbols known only to me. Much later, each day, when John had gone to visit with this senator or that, I rewrote my notes into English that at least I could understand.

  Chapter 7

  According to John the excitement began at Kaw's Landing.

  "There were twelve hundred or more emigrants there, Jessie, along with fur traders, trappers, and freighters headed down the Santa Fe Trail—and there were more coming in every day. It was the noisiest place you can imagine—teamsters swearing at their animals, roustabouts yelling as they worked, oxen bellowing, the clang of the blacksmith hammer.

  "We went about our business as best we could—getting animals shod, loading our carts, buying the last of our supplies. The store there does more business daily than the busiest store in Washington. But then your message came, telling me it was urgent that I leave immediately. I have such faith in you, Jessie, that I left almost instantly, but we had to camp a day or two just out of sight of the village, while riders went back to finish buying supplies and the like.

  "Finally we left—the best-equipped expedition ever to head west. We had thirty-nine men, including Basil Lajeunesse and Preuss, the cartographer, and we carried the best scientific equipment—a refracting telescope, two pocket chronometers, two sextants, a reflecting circle, barometers, half-a-dozen thermometers and compasses. For provisions we took flour, rice, and sugar. My thought was that we would depend on game for meat.

  "At first, from Kaw's Landing, we followed the Santa Fe Trail with the emigrants. I was more aware than ever, Jessie, of the scope and importance of the westward movement in this country, and of the need for someone to step forward and take charge. It's as if all these people are drifting west without knowing where they're going, what they're doing. We need maps, roads, railroads, and most of all, leadership.

  "The third or fourth night out we visited with Dr. Marcus Whitman, the missionary. He was... ah... slightly boring—don't put that in the report, Jess.

  "We soon left the trail and followed the northernmost fork of the Kansas River westward. I was determined to find a southern pass over the mountains, one that would make an easier crossing for emigrants and would also provide a railroad crossing in the future. But we were soon in a country so barren that one wonders that it could support any life. The river was wide but only a few inches deep, and we were desperate for water—sometimes we had no choice but to drink the muddy water from buffalo wallows.

  "As we pushed on, the land became more broken, and I knew that we were gradually climbing. On July I we caught a glimpse of mountains—just a blue mass against the distant sky, but I was inspired by the sight. I stood, Jessie, and watched the sun set behind those far-off mountains, and I felt as though some higher power had put a hand on my shoulder and led me westward. What we were about to do was more important than most men dare to dream.

  "On July 4 we were at St. Vrain's Fort, where they celebrated Independence Day in fine fashion, and then we went on to Fort Lancaster, which looks like a farm—hogs, cattle, chickens, turkeys, all foraging on the prairie, and even a large vegetable garden. We kept moving southwest, paralleling the mountains, and on July 9 we caught our first sight of Pike's Peak.

  "In this country, as I expected, I met Kit Carson, who gave us the bad news that Mexican decree forbade trading. We were in desperate need of supplies and fresh pack animals but had no way to get them. Carson advised that we return to St. Vrain's while he would go to Bent's Fort for supplies. He was successful, and we started westward again. I separated the party into two groups, sending most of the men and all the heavy baggage toward the usual ford of the Green River. Carson, Preuss, and I, and a few others, determined to cut through the mountains, following the valley of the Cache la Poudre River.

  "We found ourselves in the wildest and most beautiful part of the Rockies—towering mountains rose all around us. Sometimes the sides were dark with pine forests; others consisted of no more than sheer precipices, cut over centuries by rivers. On the river bottom we rode through a wilderness of plants, tall spikes waving over our heads.

  "The road became increasingly difficult, though we were lucky enough to kill several buffalo. We stopped a couple of days to dry the meat and then pushed on through dense sagebrush sometimes six feet high. By August 7 it was apparent that our light carriages would not make it through. One afternoon I stoo
d on an outcropping and saw to the north the peaks of the Sweetwater Valley Range. Then and there I determined to abandon my effort to find the South Pass and move on with the expedition.

  "No, no, Jessie, it was not a defeat. Perhaps a setback, but not a defeat. I could not risk the entire expedition for one wild search. I had my men and my responsibilities to think of, and I believe I lived up to my duties as a leader. In two days we were on the Oregon Trail, like being on a public road after the rocks and shrubs we'd been struggling through.

  "Not that there wasn't evidence of the hardship of the emigrant experience—we passed two fresh graves in two days, one of them a child's. It would have broken your heart, Jessie. On a lighter side, we also ran into a wandering ox, headed east, as though it wanted to return to the safety of its home.

  "But we came upon a large camp of emigrants in the valley of a tributary of the Bear River, and you've never seen such a tranquil scene. It almost made me wish I was a poet so that I could capture the beauty of that scene—the landscape dotted with the white canvas covers of the wagons, campfires smoking at each small group of wagons, women cooking, children playing, cattle grazing. It was as settled and safe as Missouri, and it's the way the West is going to be.

  "We passed three more large camps, and they each gave me a rousing cheer, Jessie. They know that America is on the march, and I'm the leader.

  "We were nearing the Great Salt Lake, and I pushed on, anxious to see that phenomenon that no one has recorded scientifically. The best report on it is the old story about Jim Bridger kneeling to drink, spitting out the water, and yelling, 'Hell, we are on the shores of the Pacific!' I recorded some curiosities—hot springs, red-and-white hills, an extinct volcano—and they are in my notes—but it was the lake that drew me. I suppose I half believed the romantic stories that ran among the men—how a subterranean whirlpool connects the lake to the Pacific, and the like. But I was determined to be accurate and scientific about my exploration.

  "My first sight of the lake was breathtaking—it stretched far beyond our vision, with several rocky islands rising out of the waves. I felt as Balboa must have when he discovered the Western Ocean from the heights of the Andes.

  "We spent a week there. One day Carson and I paddled out to one of the islands in our india-rubber boat. It was exciting to paddle over that clear, calm water, so blue-green in color, but unfortunately our boat leaked badly and almost wrecked us in the middle of the lake. We spent the night on that island, about two hundred feet above the water, and I did a careful chemical analysis of the water. My notes report on it, along with notes on the botany and animal life.

  "We set out northward on September 12, riding steadily and reaching Fort Hall on the Snake River on the eighteenth. We were low on provisions, and the men were terribly hungry. Carson shot some seagulls one day, but they were poor fare, and finally, reluctantly, I gave the men permission to kill a fat young horse that we had gotten from some Snake Indians.

  "No, no, Jessie, I could not eat a bite of it. I felt as though a crime had been committed. But the meat did restore the spirits of the men, and though I regret the decision, I believe it was right—my responsibility to my men, you know. Later we bought an antelope from an Indian, and I was able to enjoy a little meat—it did make me feel better.

  "At Fort Hall we met up with Fitzpatrick and the rest of our party, and we were able to buy five fat oxen, along with several poor horses. The weather warned us that winter was coming—on September 19 it snowed all day, and on the twenty-first standing water froze hard. After a great deal of thought, I called the men together and released any who were not ready to face a midwinter exploration. I did not minimize the hardships but told them supplies would be short, the weather severe. Eleven men decided to return east; the rest of us left Fort Hall on the twenty-third, moving through the Snake Valley toward the Pacific. But as I left, facing a chill drizzle with the wind driving the rain into our faces, I made up my mind that there should be military settlements at Fort Hall and north of the Great Salt Lake for the protection of settlers and the further settlement of those areas. We must stress that in the report, Jessie—these lands must be settled by Americans. Today, when emigrants finally make it over thirteen hundred miles from Missouri, all they have is the slim protection of a British fort.

  "It took a long, hard fortnight to reach the Columbia, but that magnificent river was worth every step of the trek. When we crested the bluff at the edge of the lower Columbia, we could see Mount Hood majestically standing guard over the land. I could scarcely realize that it was almost two hundred miles away. We visited Dr. Whitman's missionary establishment, and I must say that I was slightly relieved that the good doctor was away—don't write that, Jessie!

  "We followed the Columbia, which narrows enough as it goes between the great cliffs to make travel difficult. Finally we camped at the Dalles, and I took a side trip to Fort Vancouver, while the others prepared for our trip home. What? Oh, it was then early November. We secured a three-month supply of tallow, flour, and peas, along with cattle to slaughter and enough horses and mules to bring the number of pack animals up to 104. We abandoned the flimsy carts we had worried with thus far.

  "Ah, yes, Jessie, I know at this point I could have retraced my steps and returned home, and I would have completed the mission of my expedition. I would also have been home months and months ago. But what kind of explorer would that make me? I knew all along—and shared with your father and Senator Linn—that I would sweep southward to explore the Great Basin between the Rockies and the Sierras. Jedediah Smith crossed it from east to west, but no one has gone from north to south. I had to do it—you understand that, don't you?

  "By now I had twenty-five men, it was the dead of winter, and I had no maps of the areas I proposed to explore to find Lake Klamath, Mars Lake, and the Buenaventura River. All I knew were tales of disappearing rivers, scorching deserts, high mountains, and wild savages. But not one of my men blanched at the prospect... and that is what makes an explorer, Jess, the willingness to take risks, to explore the unknown. If I had returned then, I would be less than the man you married.

  "We found Lake Klamath easily—nothing more than a twenty-mile-wide marsh, really, and the area populated by the treacherous Klamath Indians—and then we pushed east. Even though the sun shone brightly, the cold was intense and the snow sometimes four to twelve inches deep. On December 14 we killed a cow—forage was getting thinner and thinner—and on the sixteenth the snow was so crusted that the pack animals constantly cut their legs breaking through it.

  "Finally we came out on a ridge overlooking one of the valleys of the Great Basin. More than 1,000 feet below we looked into a green prairie country, with a beautiful large lake. There we were in a raging storm, but below us there was no sign of ice, no snow—it was all like summer or spring. We called the place Winter Ridge and Summer Lake.

  "Christmas Day found us on the Warner Lake in lower Oregon. We celebrated by discharging the howitzer and some smaller arms and by serving a ration of brandy, sugar, and coffee.

  "As we pushed on through the lakes and streams that drain the Sierra Range, I began to be considerably worried that the men were tiring and the equipment failing. We had lost fifteen pack animals—dead, abandoned, or stolen by Indians—and on January 10 we killed the last of the cattle. Finally, on January 13, we reached a large lake filled with salmon trout, and did we have a feast, Jess! We named it Pyramid Lake, and the river feeding it, Truckee.

  "Within days, though, the men were hungry and desperate again, the animals footsore, and the country barren, rocky, and difficult. I had to do something, Jessie—we simply could not press on and on, not knowing where we were going. And ever since Missouri I'd... well, this thought had been racing through my mind... and I determined we would cross the Sierras into California. It was my responsibility to my men....I had to see that they were safe.

  "No, no, it wasn't practical to go back to the Truckee Valley, and no, my decision had nothing to do
with politics. I was not on a mission to uncover routes of invasion to California nor to determine how Californians felt about the United States. Of course, I did hope to find the Buenaventura, which would lead us to San Francisco Bay.

  "Once my mind was made up, I determined that we should go immediately, and we plunged into the foothills of the Sierras. On January 24 we met an old Washoe Indian who offered to lead us to a good pass in the mountains. As we approached the main chain of the Sierras, the road grew rougher and rougher—finally, on January 29, we were forced to abandon the howitzer. You know how much I regretted that, Jessie, yet I had no choice.

  "The Indian began to advise us against continuing. We could not understand his language, so we communicated by signs. But over and over we heard tahve, the word for snow. The snow now was three and four feet deep in some places, and the temperature below zero at night. But I assured the Indian my horses were strong.

  "I had to work hard to keep the spirits of the men up. Sometimes I gave them an extra ration of brandy, and Carson and I frequently described to them the beautiful valley of the Sacramento, with its rich pastures and abundant game. Less than a hundred miles away, I told them over and over, is a land of summer. My instruments showed that we were seventy miles due east of Captain Sutter's great ranch—what, I ask you, can seventy miles be? Well, Jessie, I learned the answer to that.

  "We started up on February 2, and there was an air of foreboding about the whole troop. The old Indian told us that from that point, in summer, the crossing took six or seven days. We had no tallow, no grease, and worst of all, no salt. We had been so long without meat that when one of the men asked, I gave permission to kill a fat dog. No, I could not eat that, any more than I could have eaten the horse earlier.

  "As the snow deepened, we began a system of breaking paths, taking turns on the strongest horses until both horse and man were exhausted. On the first day we traveled sixteen miles and reached a height of 6,760 feet—I confess that I was falsely encouraged. The next day we made only seven miles, and the next, we were brought to a stop. When we tried to force the horses ahead, they plunged two or three hundred yards and then fell, exhausted, refusing to go farther. We left behind us a trail of abandoned baggage and equipment, and finally we had to camp where we were—on a wooded mountainside, without shelter, in a freezing wind. We built fires, covered the snow with boughs, and made ourselves as comfortable as possible.