The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  He grinned. “No.”

  “That’s good.” It was a faraway murmur.

  He pressed his face against the back of her head. “I love you, Caroline Steed,” he whispered.

  “Hmm.” And she was gone again.

  He smiled, knowing that she would remember none of this in the morning. But it was all right. He closed his eyes and lay back. Tonight, everything was all right.

  When they were stretched out in one great line—as they were today—the Russell wagon train, with its forty-plus wagons, covered almost a full mile of trail. If you added the large herd of oxen and cattle that trailed behind, it was closer to a mile and a half from lead scouts to last cow. Not that Kathryn Ingalls could tell any of that from sight alone. Through the great curtains of dust which veiled the train she was fortunate if she could see more than two wagons ahead.

  Summer had finally come. The pleasant spring temperatures were gone, and the earth was battered relentlessly by a sun that shone out of a cloudless sky. What had once been mud was now brick-hard soil, so that those riding aboard the wagons were jolted and jarred with numbing consistency. By an almost constant repetition of wagon wheels that had passed over the ground, the hardpan was chewed into a fine powder that lay ankle deep and exploded upward with the slightest provocation.

  When the terrain allowed it, the company would spread out across the prairie horizontally, each wagon or small group of wagons choosing its own way so as to stay out of the endless dust of those before them. Often, however, the trail narrowed to a single track and the dust became unbearable.

  Kathryn Ingalls had an especially difficult time. She, like everyone else, buttoned her collars and sleeves as tightly as possible. She wore a bonnet over her hair and a scarf across her face. That alone was enough to make the heat almost intolerable. But she had no choice except to ride in the wagon. Others could get out and walk and escape the worst of the dust. Kathryn could not. Though she could tell that the exercise she was getting was strengthening her legs, there was no possibility of her walking alongside the wagons.

  She had heard stories that the Indians out here complained that the white people carried an unbearable odor about them. At first Kathryn had dismissed that as another of the unending rumors that made their way up and down the trail. Now she no longer doubted it. If the only whites the natives ever met were those traversing the trail, it was no wonder they complained. She tried to wash off as best she could each night. But privacy was limited, and she could do no more than use a cloth. Occasionally they would stop long enough to cordon off a place of privacy along the river and let the women bathe and wash their clothing. But that was rare. It was mid-June already, and they still had a thousand miles to go. Colonel Russell was not of a mind to spend a lot of time on making women comfortable.

  She did have to admit that Russell’s determination was paying off. Though it seemed as if they were barely crawling, they were three hundred miles west of Independence and making twenty or sometimes twenty-five miles per day. The people were toughened up now, and so were the teams. Kathryn marveled when Peter removed his boots and socks and she saw the bottoms of his feet. The calluses were half an inch thick and almost as tough as the leather soles of his boots. She too had toughened. She knew that, and it gave her pride. If she could just relieve the endless misery of the dust and heat . . .

  Not that the Platte was a great place to bathe. It was a broad, shallow river that meandered sluggishly eastward across the nearly flat plains. Its waters were heavily silted and ran a chocolate to a reddish brown color. Unlike the Mississippi and the Missouri Rivers, which inspired such names as “the Wide Missouri,” “the Father of Waters,” and “the Mighty Mississippi,” the Platte brought forth a host of more whimsical quips. “It’s a mile wide and an inch deep.” “It’s too thick to drink and too thin to plow.” “It’s the only water you have to chew.” But right now Kathryn would gladly take an opportunity to bathe, no matter what the river was like.

  Fighting off the gloomy mood, she lifted her head. Peter walked stolidly along at the head of the oxen. In one hand he carried the light whip, which he rarely used, even to pop over the heads of the animals. Instead he spoke constantly to the eight oxen that pulled the oversized wagon that James Reed had built for his wife and family. Peter would call softly, coaxing, praising, geeing and hawing when they needed to turn. The animals responded like children to a beloved parent, rarely giving him a moment’s problems. She smiled softly. Kathryn was proud to know that her husband was not one whit behind the other “bullwhackers” in skill and effectiveness.

  She stuck her fingers inside her collar and rubbed at the grit that was there. “Peter?”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “I don’t care what it takes. I want you to find me a place where I can bathe tonight.”

  He looked surprised, then nodded. “I’ll talk to Mr. Reed.”

  As it turned out, they camped on a small stream that was almost three miles from the river. Not even Mr. Reed, as considerate as he was, would consent to a six-mile round-trip for a bath. So once again Kathryn settled for her cloth and basin of water.

  Now, with the children finally asleep, Kathryn came out of the wagon and saw that a group had gathered around the campfire. By the firelight she recognized George and Jacob Donner; Mr. Reed; Hiram Miller, one of the Donners’ teamsters; and Edwin Bryant, from the Russell camp. Mrs. Reed sat quietly beside her husband, so Kathryn moved over and sat down beside Peter. He smiled briefly at her. Then he turned back to listen carefully as Edwin Bryant was speaking. She smiled at that. Mr. Bryant was a newspaper editor from Louisville, Kentucky. He was going to California with the specific intent to return the following year and write a book concerning his travels. Anything associated with newspapers and newspapermen was of interest to Peter, and the two of them had quickly struck up a warm bond.

  “So,” George Donner suddenly asked of no one of them in particular, “how is Colonel Russell?”

  Bryant shook his head. “Still very sick. He told me tonight he’s thinking of resigning as wagon captain.”

  “No!” Reed exclaimed. “Is he really that ill?”

  “It’s dysentery,” Bryant replied. “He’s also tired of all the squabbling and problems.”

  That came as no surprise to Kathryn. The train was made up of parties going to both Oregon and California, and while they traveled together for protection, there was considerable contention between the two different groups. It had finally gotten so bitter that they split into two parties—the Oregon group and the California group. They were only a day apart from each other and often passed one another on the trail.

  “I think you’ll see them elect Boggs as captain if Russell withdraws,” Jacob Donner said.

  “Boggs!” Peter blurted. Then instantly he realized his mistake and blushed deeply.

  “Boggs is a natural choice,” George Donner said. “After all, he’s been a governor twice, once in Kentucky and once in Missouri.”

  Peter glanced at Kathryn, who looked stricken. When they had first heard that Lilburn W. Boggs was among their traveling companions they had almost withdrawn. It was Boggs who had issued the infamous extermination order against the Mormons in Missouri. He made no secret of his hatred for Mormons and still was a potentially dangerous enemy.

  Reed was looking at the two of them closely, suddenly understanding. “Boggs is highly respected by many in the train, though I find him to be more bluster and blow than substance.”

  Bryant had seen their reaction too and now was openly curious. “Where did you say you were from, Mr. Ingalls?”

  “Most recently from Springfield, Illinois.” Peter was suddenly wary.

  “And before that?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. He and Kathryn had talked about this possibility when they first decided to try to hire on with the Donner-Reed group. They had concluded that they would not flaunt their religious affiliation to anyone, but neither were they going to try to hide the f
act that they were Latter-day Saints. “Originally I’m from England.” He paused. “But before Springfield, we lived upriver at Nauvoo.”

  Bryant nodded slowly, not surprised. “You Mormons?”

  Peter’s head bobbed once. He glanced sideways at George Donner. He was sure Mr. Reed knew of their Church membership, but he wasn’t sure if the Donner brothers did. But George Donner merely looked bored.

  “Is it true that your people are heading for the Rocky Mountains?” Bryant asked.

  “Yes. With the ‘encouragement’ of the state of Illinois.” Peter pronounced the one word with soft mockery. “We are being driven out.”

  “That’s what I understand. Shameful business.”

  “We haven’t heard any word since we left Springfield, but we know they’re out here ahead of us somewhere. My wife and I both have family with them. We hope to catch them before we reach Fort Laramie.”

  “And are they armed with rifles and bowie knives, and do they march with ten brass fieldpieces?”

  “What?”

  There was a twinkle in Bryant’s eyes. “That’s the story going around Independence. Supposedly five thousand Mormons crossed the Kansas River, armed to the teeth. They intend to catch and murder every emigrant they find and expropriate property for their own use.”

  Peter snorted in disgust. “Ha!” was all he said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Bryant said. Then he grinned. “But I’ll tell you this, that story sure has His Excellency, Lilburn W. Boggs, looking over his shoulder. I’m told he sleeps with a brace of pistols beneath his pillows every night.”

  “Well, first of all, we don’t believe in taking revenge,” Peter said, relieved to see that Bryant gave the tale no credence. “Second, the last we heard, our people were going by way of Iowa Territory. That’s a long way from the Kansas River.”

  “Sure is,” Bryant agreed. “By the way, did you know there are some other Mormons traveling with the party?”

  Peter was startled. The widow Levinah Murphy, who with her family had joined the Russell train about three weeks ago, was a Latter-day Saint, but she had specifically told Peter that her fellow travelers didn’t know about her religious faith and she wasn’t going to say anything to anyone about it. He decided to temporize. “Really? And who might that be?”

  “Thomas Rhoads and his family. Ironically they’re with the Missourians.” Bryant chuckled. “I asked Rhoads if the governor knows about his religion and he just laughed. He said if he did, there wouldn’t be enough room under his pillows for more pistols.”

  “Oregon or California?” Peter asked.

  “California. But they’re already talking about going on ahead with some of the faster groups.”

  Bryant clearly felt bad that he had gotten Peter’s ire up a little. “Let me tell you the other story I heard while I was in Independence, and then you’ll know how much stock I put in those rumors.” His smile broadened and he began to chuckle again. “I swear this is just the way it was told to me.”

  “Another story about the Mormons?” Reed said, feeling a little protective of Peter and Kathryn.

  “No, this one is about California. But it’s worth the telling.”

  “Like what?” Hiram Miller and Margret Reed asked at the same moment.

  “Well, according to the story, which is supposed to come from an impeccable source—” He stopped and grinned sardonically. “Pardon me if I seem a little skeptical as I share it with you.” He was still smiling as he went on. “Seems that there was this man who had lived his whole life in California. The climate there, which we have all heard about, was so life-giving and youth-preserving, that after two hundred and fifty years of life, he was still in the perfect enjoyment of his health and every faculty of mind and body he had ever possessed.”

  “Two hundred and fifty years?” Reed cried.

  “Exactly,” Bryant drawled. “But after having lived so long in a turbulent and unquiet world, he anxiously desired some new state of existence, unencumbered with its cares and unruffled by its passions and its strifes. In other words, he decided he wanted to die. But notwithstanding all his efforts to produce the results for which he so much wished and prayed, health and vigor and life still clung to him.”

  Bryant leaned back now, fully into his story and showing the gifts that made him a successful journalist. “He sometimes contemplated suicide, but the holy padres, to whom he confessed his thoughts, admonished him that down such a path lay sure damnation. Being a devout Christian, he would not disobey their injunctions.

  “Then a friend of the old gentleman”—he smiled wryly— “an heir, no doubt, made a suggestion for how the man could obtain the desired results. He should make a will and complete his other final arrangements and travel into a far country.”

  Reed laughed aloud, seeing at least in part what was coming.

  Bryant nodded, chuckling openly. “This suggestion was pleasing to our venerable California patriarch, and as soon as things were in order he departed. Sure enough, not long after he left California he took sick and died, much to his great relief.”

  “So that did it?” Kathryn asked, smiling. She was enjoying this.

  “Well, not exactly,” Bryant replied. “Seems that the old man in his will had insisted that his heir prepare his body and return it to California for burial on pain of disinheritance if his wishes were not carried out. The fellow did so, but what a disappointment that proved to be. No sooner was the old man interred in California soil, with the health-breathing California zephyrs rustling over his grave, than the energies of life were immediately restored to the inanimate corpse.”

  “No!” Reed slapped his leg and chortled in delight.

  “Yes,” Bryant said, straight-faced now. “Herculean strength was imparted to his frame, and bursting the prison walls of death, he appeared before his crestfallen heir reinvested with all the vigor and beauty of early manhood. Resigned now to his fate, he determined to live out his appointed time.”

  Peter was shaking his head. “Surely they didn’t believe such a wild story.”

  “But that is what is so delightful,” Bryant responded. “The man who told it to me swore that every word was true. And he was highly incensed when I seemed doubtful.”

  “I’ve heard similar things,” James Reed answered, “not that wild, but they sound pretty exaggerated. The climate is supposed to be delightfully pleasant year round. You never have to light a fire except to cook food. Cabbages grow too large to fit in a cart. Lumber wagons are needed to carry half a dozen carrots or so.”

  Bryant nodded, then turned to Peter. “So anyway, you can see that I have some question about five thousand Mormons bearing down on us with murder in their eyes.”

  “I think we’re safe,” Reed added.

  They fell silent for a few moments, still savoring the yarn that the journalist had shared with them. Then Reed turned to Bryant. “How many buffalo did the hunters see across the river today?”

  He shrugged. “Eight or nine, maybe. Two big bulls, a few cows, and a couple of calves.”

  Reed grunted. “I think I’ll go hunting tomorrow.”

  George Donner looked a little surprised. “We have hunters, James. And good ones.”

  “The ‘stars,’ you mean?” Reed asked with mild disdain.

  Edwin Bryant said nothing but was watching the interchange with interest. Peter smiled. Two men in the train had been given the specific assignment of bringing in meat. Colonel Russell and others bragged that they were the two best buffalo hunters west of the Missouri, real stars. But in a hunt the day before, they had killed only two. James Reed, bored with the tedium of the long days, had recently taken up hunting. Three days before, he bagged a beautiful two-year-old elk. The meat had been tender and sweet, a welcome addition to their regular stores. When the two hunters announced they had shot only two buffalo from the large herd which had been visible from the train, Peter’s employer started referring to them as the “perfect stars.” His tone left n
o doubt about whether or not it was meant as a compliment.

  “Now, James,” George said patiently. “They’re doing fine. They’re going out again in the morning. If you’re of a mind to hunt, why don’t you go with them?”

  Reed considered that, then shook his head. He turned to Peter. “How would you like to go hunting tomorrow?”

  Peter was startled. “Me?” Kathryn too was surprised and stared at her husband.

  “Why not? You’ve become a good horseman now, Peter. Hiram and I are going to try our hand at this. With Glaucus, I think I can show them perfect stars a thing or two.”

  “Glaucus?” Bryant broke in with surprise. “I thought your horse was a mare.”

  Reed grinned. “She is.”

  “But Glaucus is a masculine name in Latin,” Bryant replied.

  “That horse is so fast,” Reed said proudly, “she needed a name that was worthy of her, and somehow Claudia just didn’t do it. You’re welcome to come too, Edwin.”

  Bryant raised his hands. “Not me, thank you anyway.”

  “Well, what do you say?” Reed said, turning back to Peter.

  Peter hesitated, then nodded. This would be an exciting change of pace. “Why not?”

  Chapter Notes

  Edwin Bryant, a journalist and coeditor of a paper in Louisville, Kentucky, went to California in 1846. Though eventually he grew impatient and went on ahead with a pack train of mules, for a time he traveled in the same train with the Donner-Reed group and became a close friend to James Reed. He returned to the States the following year and wrote what became a highly popular book and one of the “trail bibles” for other emigrants, especially the California Forty-niners. The rumors and wild tales circulating in Independence at this time, including much of the actual wording of the story about the California patriarch, come from Bryant’s book. (See What I Saw,pp. 15–17.) In the novel Bryant is depicted as visiting with the Reeds on the night of 14 June. Actually, he had gone ahead to help another company that night but was with the Russell train on both 13 and 15 June.