Jessie Page 16

  "Two more Indians had joined us, and one of them began to harangue us, saying our men and horses would die. If we would go back, he said, he would show us a better pass. From signs and the few words we understood, we knew that he was telling us that even if we made it through the pass, we would not be able to get down the other side because of precipices. The feet of our horses would slip and throw them off the trail. But I would not turn back!

  "Next morning our Chinook guide had deserted—taking with him the blanket I had generously thrown about his shoulders the night before. I set most of the men to making sledges, while a few of us undertook a reconnaissance on foot. We found snow anywhere from five to twenty feet, sometimes with an icy crust so slippery that it rendered the horses helpless. But when our small party reached the crest of the range, we found a welcome sight—mountain slopes, mostly densely wooded, descended into a warm green-and-brown valley. With the telescope we could even vaguely follow the dim, dark line of the Sacramento. 'It is just as I saw it fifteen years ago,' Carson said, and I knew then that we were right to press on.

  "The glare of the snow was so bright that the men had to tie black kerchiefs over their eyes, and we despaired of ever getting the animals over the summit. The men had packed down the trail by foot, making way for them, but it was not enough until I had the trail packed with pine boughs. It was exhausting work, but no one complained.

  "On February 20 we camped at the summit, some thousand miles from the Dalles, where I had first made the decision to pursue this course. We had conquered the Sierras in midwinter—I had done it, Jessie. No one will ever be able to take that victory from me! By boiling water we calculated the elevation at 9,338 feet.

  "All that lay before us was the descent, and that pales in comparison to the rigors of the ascent. On the night of the twenty-third we saw fires below us—the Indians in the bay—and on March 6 we reached civilization in the Sacramento Valley. Ah, Jessie, it is an enchanted land, and someday I will build you a wonderful home there—lush green grass, sometimes massed with the gold of the California poppy, sometimes wooded with evergreen and white oak, and then—almost before we knew it—we came to the ranch of Captain Sutter.

  "We were a pitiful bunch when we passed the gates of Sutter's Fort—only thirty-three horses and mules left out of sixty-three, skeleton men leading skeleton horses. Captain Sutter was most generous, the best host that I have ever known, and I hope someday I can repay his many kindnesses to me.

  "Who is he? Ah, he's hard to describe, Jess—an explorer, an inventor, a prince in his fiefdom! Comes from Switzerland originally, I believe, but he was the first to see opportunity in California and to work with the Mexican government. He trains and employs Indians, Mexicans, and emigrants. And his property—stables, granaries, storehouses, kitchens, workshops. He's irrigating his fields along the American River, his herds are increasing, his wheat fields are green and lush. His latest scheme is to train young Indian girls to work in a woolen factory he plans.

  "Oh, yes, we were treated well—our bodies, our spirits, and our animals restored to health. We dined on salmon and trout, roast ham, venison, bear meat, fresh steaks, salads, many fruits and good Rhine wine—no more dog stew for my men!

  "Most important, Jessie—and I want it made clear in the report that I understood this relationship—he maintains his independence. He sides neither with the Americans, who want to throw off the Mexican domination of the territory, nor with the Mexican government, which is well aware of such scheming. Sutter walks a fine line between the factions, yet each side believes that his loyalty is to them. Properly handled, he could be an invaluable ally for the United States.

  "I learned a lot about California, Jessie, and what makes it so tempting—you can buy excellent fertile land for next to nothing, and labor is to be had for food and clothing. You don't need expensive barns and buildings and fences. Anyone could go to California and make a fortune, just as Sutter has—I could, and I will, one day. In fact, five of my men chose to stay behind when we left Sutter's Fort.

  "But it is a land of friction. The Californians—mostly descended from Mexican and Spanish men, and often native women—are the landholders, and they live an easy life, waited on by vaqueros—Mexican cowboys, Jessie—and Indian servants. But they resent the Mexicans, whom they call la otra banda. There is a great feeling that the time has come for California to throw off the reins of Mexico—I want to be part of that.

  "We were there about two weeks, and when we left on March 22, we took with us 130 horses and mules and thirty head of cattle. Sutter even sent along an Indian to manage the animals.

  "I meant to go south about five hundred miles, skirting the western base of the Sierras—there's a good pass there—and then on toward Santa Fe by way of the Spanish Trail, though I would turn off the trail before reaching that city and make for the headwaters of the Arkansas River. It's about 2000 miles, much of it desert, but it's new territory, never been explored by an American—I had to do it.

  "We reached the Spanish Trail without incident in late April. Water was scarce, as we expected, but we had Mohave Indians carrying large gourds of water, and we had killed three beeves and dried the meat. I had done my best to see that we were prepared.

  "But you can never prepare for the unexpected. On the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, two Mexicans burst into our camp—one was an old man, the other a young boy of about eleven. They were exhausted, but they managed to gasp out their story—they had been with a party traveling from Los Angeles when they were overwhelmed by Indians. These two were out guarding the horses, the only reason they escaped. They rode at top speed—it must have been for sixty miles—until their horses gave out, and then they continued on foot. They were overjoyed to find us, and we of course promised to give them aid. We took them back to the springs where they had left the horses, but of course the animals were gone—driven off by Indians. I could not divert my whole expedition, but I didn't object when Carson and another guide offered to go in pursuit. They returned the next day, leading more horses than the Mexicans had ever had and waving scalps from their guns.

  "Yes, yes, I agree—it is a horrible practice, and you know full well I would never have countenanced it. Might not even have let Carson go if I'd anticipated... but I had no way of knowing. Carson will boast of that adventure for years—seems the two of them attacked an entire Indian camp. But that's another story.

  "We continued northeastward across the desert, traveling at night and resting as best we could during the day, when the glare of the sun was merciless. The land was hot, rocky, and brown—nothing grows except prickly cactus, sagebrush, and yucca. Once we had to stop completely because of a gale that blew sand in our faces so violently we could not continue.

  "Finally, though, we reached the camping ground where the Mexicans had been beset—it was ominous, Jessie. We found the corpses of the two men of the party, badly mutilated, but no sign of the women—they had been carried off into captivity and the Lord knows what kind of fate. The tiny dog belonging to the young boy had sat faithfully by the corpses and was delighted to have his master back—the boy's name was Pablo. But Pablo was frantic with grief and continually cried, "Mi madre, mi padre!" until I could scarce stand it for the hurt. It made me feel much better about what Carson had done.

  "By May 3 we had reached a marshy area where there were fresh springs, but our horses were dropping in their tracks for want of grass and from the flinty rocks, which cut their hooves to pieces. When we had to abandon a horse, the men cut off the tail and mane to make saddle girths, but I hated the waste of a good animal.

  "The next day was the hardest day since leaving the Sierras—fifty or sixty miles without water. Horse skeletons along the way testified that others had found it hard before us. The sun was like a great demon in the sky, and the yellow sand only sent the light shining back up into our faces, while waves of heat rolled and shimmered in the bright light. We survived on the pulp of a certain cactus—bisnaga, b-i-s-n-a-g-a—but
it was acid and unpleasant. Even after dark we kept on, always hoping to find water with the next step, even though by then each step was an agony. But just around midnight the wild mules kicked up their heels and began to run, so I knew that we were close to water.

  "I decreed that we would take a day's rest, but we had no sooner made camp than we were surrounded by Indians—it was, to me, as though the Lord were testing us every way he could think of! I had the camp ringed with guards, kept the men under arms, had the pasture horses driven up close, and tried to ignore the Indians, who were jabbering close to camp—their tongue was Ute, I believe—and insulting us every way they knew how. It was a standoff, until one old Indian forced his way into camp and began to count our numbers with great glee, pointing to the surrounding hills where there were many more of his kind. Finally Carson could stand no more and yelled at the man in a warning tone. The old chief left, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  "We continued up the Rio Virgen, always trailed by the Indians—a disgusting lot they were. If a tired horse stopped, it was hair and bones within minutes.

  "This next is hard for me to tell, Jess. On May 9—the day is marked in my brain—we camped and I lay down for a rest. I was near the end of my strength, though I would never have let my men know how desperately tired I was. Without my knowledge—or, I should add, my permission—one of my favorite men, a fellow named Tabeau, went back for a lame mule....We found the mule's carcass, but we never found Tabeau, only signs that he had fought for his life, and then a trail indicating he had been pitched into the river—living or dead, I shall never know. The men would have avenged the death—and I was tempted—but our animals could not survive a battle, and we moved on. But we never saw the Indians again...

  "That tragic event marked the end of our hardship. We began to notice the land changing, becoming less formidable, and on May 11 we actually went through a shower of rain. I felt as if we were returning to God's earth as we knew it. On May 12 we reached Las Vegas de Santa Clara, and within days we came in sight of the Wasatch Range. From then on I could not get home swiftly enough. We crossed the Continental Divide at Muddy Pass and were in Bent's Fort by July I and Kaw's Landing by July 28. We had come full circle, after fourteen months.

  "I put the animals to pasture, to be fattened and readied for the next expedition. I could not bear, Jessie, after all they'd been through to sell them so that they could begin to toil again without any rest. And I won't have to gather as many animals for the next expedition.

  "That's it, Jessie. That's the story of my second expedition west."

  Chapter 8

  I was exhausted when John finished dictating. It seemed to me that I had held my breath in suspense each day as he described snow-blocked passes, raging thirst, hostile Indians. It pained me that I could not share that part of his life, and yet I could not even begin to imagine the hardships he had borne.

  His mention of putting the pack animals out to pasture kindled a fire of anxiety that was banked in my mind. That winter was the happiest time I had yet known, because John and I worked together as an inseparable team, and yet always there was that edge of sadness. The closer we moved to completing the report, the closer we also moved to John's departure on his next expedition. His comment forced me to face that fact. I who had spent so much time awaiting his homecoming could hardly relax and enjoy his company, because I was already in dreadful anticipation of his next departure.

  But I remembered that dream of California, where we would live as a family and John would travel no more. Maybe on this next trip he would find his dream place, and we could begin to plan our lives there. Almost as soon as the idea passed through my brain, I chided my silly self for believing in fantasies.

  Promptly every day at one, after our morning of writing, Mathilde brought Lily and a lunch of cold pressed chicken, biscuits, and fruit. We ate together as a family, though John found it uncomfortable.

  "It breaks my concentration," he said. "Why can't we just see the child at night when she is in her nursery?"

  "She needs to see more of us, to know we love her," I said, echoing the words Mathilde had much earlier scolded me with. John felt no such scolding, though he did try to enliven our little mealtimes.

  "Lily, did I tell you about the steer we met on the trail? Headed the wrong way he was, right back to the Missouri River. Guess he just gave up and wanted to come home."

  Lily regarded him with a long but expressionless look, and John gave up his attempt at jollity.

  "I don't understand children," he said to me plaintively one day as we took our usual walk after mealtime. Mathilde had taken Lily back to the house for a nap, and this was the hour reserved to us, for the late afternoon and evening at Father's house would be filled with company, as always.

  "You have not spent enough time with her," I said patiently.

  He was almost petulant as he said, "She prefers her grandfather."

  I smiled to myself. "She knows her grandfather better," I said. "You may not give up with that excuse."

  And so John tried to cajole his daughter with stories of Indians—peaceable, of course—and wildflowers, honey bears in California, and beavers in Oregon. None of it much impressed her, though she did gradually warm to him and, finally, one day took his hand in hers.

  "It's time to go home," she announced. "Will you walk with me?"

  John bowed low and told her he would be delighted. I stood with my heart beating in joy as I watched the two of them walk solemnly away from me.

  "See, Miss Jessie?" Mathilde said. "All it takes is time... we grown people got to give those little ones time."

  Usually our afternoon walk was a private and wonderful time. We talked of California often, and John built many a castle in the sky for me, so that some nights that land of plenty raced through my dreams. Other days we talked with great seriousness of the prospects for statehood for California, Oregon, and even Texas.

  Some days as we approached the Potomac, we were interrupted by well-wishers. One day stands forever emblazoned in my memory. It was misting rain—damp but not enough to discourage us from our habit. My arm was woven through John's, and my head was bent against the wet so that I did not see the person approaching us until I heard that gushing, "Lieutenant Frémont! What a pleasure to meet you here!"

  "Thank you, ah... madam," John stammered. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me."

  I looked directly at the woman then. She had far the advantage of me in the arena of looks, with blond hair piled on her head in curls, rather after the manner of Harriet Bodisco, and with cheeks rouged ever so gently—not enough to be obvious but just sufficient to give her high color. If I'd told John she was a rouged woman, he'd have denied it and accused me of jealousy.

  "You don't know me," she said, her voice still pitched almost an octave too high, "but I know a great deal about you. I've read all the articles, and I think your explorations are so... well, so amazing...."

  While I watched in disbelief, John's chest actually swelled a bit, and he, who always stood straight anyway, straightened a bit more. "I am in your debt," he said in a courtly manner, and I feared for a moment that he would bow over her hand. "You are most kind to take notice of my efforts."

  I wanted to scream in frustration. Instead I said, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure....I'm Jessie Frémont. Mrs. John Frémont."

  Her eyes rested briefly on me. "Yes," she said, "I thought that was who you were. You certainly are fortunate to be married to such a brave man." And then her attention was full back on John. I might as well have been a moth in the air.

  Even John was now becoming uncomfortable. "Well, uh... miss... it's certainly good of you to be so interested in my work...."

  "Oh," she trilled, "I am, I really am. I hope sometime you can tell me about it at length. You know, of course, where to reach me." And with that she was gone, sashaying—there is no other word for it—down the park pathway.

  "Who is she?" I demanded, my tone less gentle than I
would have wished.

  "I'll be damned if I know," John said, honest perplexity in his eyes. "Isn't that the strangest thing you've ever encountered?"

  I took his arm again and propelled us into a walk. "No," I said, "it's not really strange. I think, John, you have to be prepared for women fawning over you."

  "Why ever?" he asked incredulously. "Don't they know that I am married to you... and madly in love with you, Jessie?"

  How, I wondered, could any one man be so incredibly contradictory? He wanted monumental public attention over his expedition, and yet he didn't understand the results of that fame, or notoriety.

  "I believe I shall let her know about that, if necessary," I said with a smile, and we continued our walk.

  But I was leery ever after.

  The second report, three times as long as the first, was completed and presented to the War Department on March I, 1845. Two days later it was presented to the Senate, which called for an extra 5,000 copies. My old friend James Buchanan, now secretary of state, gave a stirring speech in which he testified to his long interest in John's career and his steadfast commitment to westward expansion. "I call for 10,000 copies," he said, and his measure was soundly voted into effect.

  A new phrase—"manifest destiny"—began to creep first into the language of the press and then into the everyday speech of Washington. It was said to have been coined by the editor of the Democratic Review but he never got public credit, for it quickly became the rallying cry of the expansionists. Father adopted it with abandon. While we had worked on the second report, James Polk was elected and inaugurated as President. He was an expansionist, and both Father and John were elated. They saw the future wide and open before them.