My thoughts returned, as I knew they would, to those two departed men and the meat of their shoulders and arms and thighs that might support us for a few days more. Would it be so terrible? It’s odd that I debated the moral ground for it, when all I wanted was flesh, any flesh, to eat. And yet my mind persisted in examining the issue, perhaps with a clarity that only a starving man can experience. I thought it would not be so bad; the dead might even have wanted it. And yet, somehow, I was grateful when McGehee suggested we wait for our rescuers. It came to me as a vast relief, a release from my own temptation.
That was a long night, filled with strange phantasms. I thought the Utes had fallen upon us, but that was not the case. By the cold light of dawn I surveyed our number and saw that the living lived; the dead lay just apart. It was plain that we were going no farther. We would either be rescued here or perish here. Most of the men did not bother to sit up but lay in their miserable blankets, staring at the white sky.
I urged upon them the last medical advice I had, which was to drink hot water, as scalding as they could endure, for in the heat was life, and it was cold that would steal in and murder them. Some did. We had a single kettle among us, and Taplin kept it filled and close to the flames. I was worried about Cathcart, who didn’t stir, and I managed to get some hot water to him. It was all I could do to get him to sit up and swallow it, but he seemed better for it after he had downed a good hot cup.
That day was the beginning of helplessness. There we were, sensate, aware of our world, and utterly helpless. Our bodies failed us. Taplin, the strongest, tried to hunt, and he managed to walk to a copse a hundred yards distant and sit on a log, awaiting whatever game might wander. Nothing came, and he made his way back to lie down beside the fire.
Helplessness is a strange sensation. I wanted to live, to walk, to eat, to sit up, and all I could manage was to lie close to the flickering fire, turn myself occasionally to warm the front or rear parts of me, and peer half-blindly off to the south, from whence our help must come, if it were to come at all.
The others were in the same case. I was too weak to attempt my plan to fish or find anything aquatic to eat. I could not wield our camp axe enough to breach the ice. And so the helpless day passed, followed by an even more helpless day, and then another, while we slowly wasted the last of our strength.
I had reached the point where I could barely raise my head to look after my brothers. I had tried to doctor them all along, but now I stared into the whiteness until my eyes blurred and smarted, and I waited for whatever fate would bring.
Of the two dead I knew nothing. Whether any among us chose to slice aside the men’s shirts and britches and find some meat, I could not say. If it was done, it was done so furtively in the deeps of the night that I had no inkling of it. I supposed it would be someone’s deep secret and unknown to me.
Then on the third day, or perhaps it was some other day, for I had lost count in my perpetual twilight, we heard a shout. I could no longer lift my head and don’t know what it was about. But I managed to rise a little, by dint of determination, and saw men and horses approaching. Whether our relief party or Utes I did not know.
CHAPTER THIRTY
John Charles Frémont
We reached the Red River settlement late of a winter’s day, and no place looked more like heaven. Here, in an arid brown valley off the Rio del Norte, lay a northern outpost of the Mexicans, a scatter of low adobe homes surrounded by snow-ribbed grain fields and pumpkin patches. The usual adobe defense tower guarded these farming people from the sallies of the Utes and other tribes. White smoke drifted from their chimneys, but we saw no other sign of life.
We five stumbled in, guided by our Ute chief. His horses were so poor they barely moved, so it had taken us four more days from the time we encountered Williams and Breckenridge and Creutzfeldt to reach the settlement.
The Mexicans soon herded about us, warm and sympathetic, and swiftly brought us into a heated, if austere, oneroom jacal, where they hastened to feed us with a corn gruel and bread. Never did anything taste so elegant. The walls were festooned with strings of dried red peppers, a local delicacy. There, before the hearth fire that cast its thin heat into the adobe room, we found warmth and comfort. Bronzed, jet-haired neighbors wrapped in serapes crowded in, watching us silently as we wolfed our food. The children were shooed away, and perhaps for good reason. We were a shocking sight. I am adequate in their tongue, and Godey spoke it passably, and we made our needs known: we had starving men upriver. We needed men, mules, bread, blankets, and livestock feed, and fast.
The villagers simply shook their heads. There were not food stores and blankets and mules and burros enough in the whole settlement to meet our needs. A man who introduced himself as the alcalde, Juan Solis, said he could spare but three burros, five mules, and a little cornmeal, but maybe more food might be found. A goat or two might be slaughtered. He and his villagers would do all they could. They would also prepare for the next arrivals. A little goat milk would help them.
At Taos, one long day’s ride south, they told us, there would be everything a relief party would need, as well as a detachment of American soldiers who had been there since the conquest. The next dawn, well fed and greatly strengthened, I set off for Taos, along with Alexis Godey, my man Saunders, and Godey’s nephew, Theodore. The Ute chief, having delivered us, retreated after receiving what remaining gifts we could manage, which were Saunders’s and Theodore’s rifles and powder flasks and shot. The Mexicans treated the old man kindly, offering him a bowl of the cornmeal, which he ate swiftly before he left. I watched the old chief wander off with his weary nags, two powder horns dangling about his neck and his new rifles slung from his saddles. Preuss, who was unwell, stayed on at the Red River settlement, to gather strength and deal with the survivors as they straggled in.
It was an itch in me to send relief at once, but these things take time, and I could only hope that my men could endure a few days more. The horror of it had descended on me, and I could scarcely look northward without feeling the lances of tragedy stab at me. We four, mounted bareback on borrowed mules now, made our way to Taos in a long day and reached town as an azure twilight, the heavens transparent as stained glass, settled over the village. Snow topped the tawny adobe homes, while the incense of piñon smoke hung over the place, delighting my senses. Off to the east the forbidding Sangre de Cristos caught the red light of the dying sun and threw it back on the settlement like some last benediction from the Creator. It was a hushed moment, all sound blotted up by the lavender heaps of snow.
But at last we rode into the old town, past low adobes with tight-closed shutters, toward the small plaza and merchant buildings hemming it. Taos stood on a plain at a great altitude, and the winter had not treated it kindly. There were dimpled drifts about and footpaths through them. Still, this was the place of our succor.
We were a sorry lot, wild and savage looking, and starved down to nothing, and we wrought a great malaise among the staring villagers who saw us make our way to the heart of town. A black-clad older woman could not bear the sight of us and turned away. I wanted to find Carson at once and sought a certain cantina where he might be at an early evening hour.
“Godey,” I said, “begin the relief, and make haste. Take whatever you can find. You and Theodore. I’ll be at La Tristeza, if not Carson’s house.”
He nodded, smiling. Thus commanded, he set off at once, looking for the soldiers stationed there. I had done all I could and now looked forward to a needed rest. I wandered into the cantina just off the plaza, adjusted my snow-ruined eyes to the flickering firelight, and spotted Carson, along with Dick Owens and Lucien Maxwell, old stalwarts and friends, gathered at a hewn trestle table beside a beehive fireplace, enjoying the crackle of piñon logs and some aguardiente. So far was I removed from the man I had been that they didn’t recognize me at first.
As I approached, they surveyed me, noting my unkempt manner and hollow cheeks. Then they turned away.
“Kit,” I said, tentatively.
He stared a long moment. “Is that you, Captain? You?”
“It is.”
Lucien Maxwell sprang up. “My God, man.”
“I took bad counsel,” I said. “And now I have starving men scattered clear to the San Juans.”
“They want relief?”
“Yes. Godey’s with me. He’ll do it.”
“How much time is there?”
“We’ve lost the first. Frostbite, starvation. There’s no time. My topographer, Preuss, is at the Red River settlement organizing them.”
“Are you going back with relief?” Owens asked.
“I’ll leave that to Alexis.”
“Then you’ll stay with me,” Carson said.
“Major Beall can help. He’s commanding here,” Owens said.
“Godey’s looking for him.”
“They’ve got some men and rations and mules,” Maxwell said.
“What needs doing now?” Owens asked.
“It’s up to Godey. He plans to leave in the morning with relief.”
“Who else is here?” Maxwell asked.
“My man Saunders and Alex’s nephew.”
“Are they all right?”
“A little sleep and a feast or two will make them new. They’re with Godey.”
“What happened, Captain?” Carson asked.
“I listened to Old Bill Williams, that’s the whole of it. He got lost, bumbled into the wrong drainages, and led us into snowy traps. I kept asking him about his course, but he just ignored me. I think the man’s addled. He had no idea where he was.”
“What about your mules?” Carson asked.
“Lost every one.”
“Didn’t you eat them?”
“Buried under drifts almost before we knew they were gone.”
“Who’s lost?” Owens asked.
“Raphael Proue, for one. Henry King. You know him from the conquest.”
“Not King! Proue! I knew him, too.”
“These men—some of them weren’t made of the same stuff as my battalion. It was a mistake, you know. Men without heart. With more heart, we’d now be over those mountains and on our way to California.”
“What is their condition now?” Carson asked.
“I don’t know. I put Vincenthaler in charge. Remember him? From California? He’s charged with caching my equipment and getting the men down to Rabbit River. He’ll do his duty. Wait for the relief there. That’s what I directed. But I’ve men in that company who don’t heed me, so there’s no telling where they are. I imagine Godey will deal with them.”
“The San Juans, Colonel, can be tough. Especially with a winter like this,” Owens said.
“If I had better men, they would not have yielded,” I retorted. I was feeling testy. The company had thwarted my design, mostly from the lack of manhood, and now I had been forced to retreat. I knew one thing: I’d be off to California in a day or two, and I would take none of the malingerers with me. The Kern brothers would remain here, and so would Old Bill Williams, and maybe some more.
I told them my story, even as the stout proprietress plied me with sugar cakes. But ere long the pleasant heat from those piñon logs wore away my resolve. I knew that in moments, I would tumble to the earthen floor. The warmth and comfort were engulfing me.
“You come with me, Captain. It’s not a hundred yards, you know. Josefa will help get you settled.”
I knew that. Carson’s rambling home, built around a courtyard, lay just to the east.
“You’d better plan on a couple of days in bed,” Carson said.
“I’m not going to dawdle here—off to California in a day or two.”
Carson remained uncommonly quiet. We pushed through the gated wall into his yard, and soon he and Josefa steered me into a tiny bedroom and laid a bright fire in the adobe fireplace. In my weariness I scarcely had a look at Josefa, Carson’s young bride. She seemed more a servant-girl to me, though I did notice she was heavy with child.
I fell into a luxurious sleep, well deserved after my ordeal, confined in a warm room with ample blankets above me and a corn-shuck mattress beneath. I was confident that Saunders and Theodore and Alexis Godey all found a suitable loft.
Well into the morning I was finally awakened by a stirring and realized Josefa was peeking in. She was a pretty young thing. When she saw me stir, she smiled, and brought me a tray bearing a pottery mug of hot chocolate. I had not expected such a delicacy in Taos, but there it was, warming my body with its medicinal powers and making me whole again. I thanked her and sipped while she watched anxiously.
“Bueno,” I said.
She fled at once.
I was not yet up when I received a caller, who proved to be Major Beall, commandant of the detachment there. I received him whilst I sipped. He wore his blue winter issue and eyed me with some curiosity.
“Colonel, I’m pleasured to meet you,” he said.
“And likewise, Major. Do have a seat.”
“I’ll get right to it, sir. Your man Godey reached me at supper last eve with news of your distress, and I hastened to supply from my stores whatever is needed. He left at dawn with several mules and muleteers, and my men will follow with more supplies. I’ve sent along rations and blankets. He’s taking several dozen good round loaves of bread, some blankets, and some maize to feed his mules and horses. I’m sending a squad behind him with more food, salt pork and hardtack; some horses we can dispose of; and some manpower to assist.”
“Most gracious of you, Major. I will make a point of repaying the army as soon as I reorganize.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Frémont. Your reputation as an explorer precedes you, and I take a delight in placing myself at your service, sir.”
I nodded, taking the measure of the man. “Even a man in my circumstance?”
He nodded, amiably. “By all accounts, you were caught by conflicting orders, sir.”
I was satisfied. “Major, this railroad exploration has come to grief because I didn’t have well-trained regular army men with me. Even at that, this guide I was forced to hire against my better judgment turned out to be worthless. Keep it in mind.”
“I’ve heard similar about him.”
“I don’t mean to be unkind, but I do wish to warn away the army. Use Carson if you need anyone.”
“So I’ve heard, sir. But what’s happening up there?”
I told him that my men were giving out and that I had directed them to reach Rabbit River, where they could find shelter and expect relief. But I suspected some were still higher up. Hadn’t the first relief party dawdled its way south for twenty-two days now, and had not yet reached the Red River settlements?
Beall nodded, as I briefly apprised him of the ruinous decisions of our guide and the lethargic response of some of our summer soldiers, as I thought to call any who had not hardened themselves, and thought the trip to California would be a lark.
“But of this, say nothing, sir. I wish to deal with the matter privately,” I added. “I’ll be in touch with Senator Benton, with a full report, and I want it to be the true and accurate account of my travails, so he can deal with the repercussions. I’m afraid that some of those men, who were plainly chafing at my direction, might say things of no substance and thus cast aspersions on the honor of my good veterans and my company.”
I ended the interview there, having already grown weary of politics, and begged leave of the major.
Carson saw him out and a moment later joined me.
“What’s the word, Kit?” I asked, still abed.
“Godey left at dawn with four muleteers and about ten mules. He said to tell you he’ll hurry on ahead, getting bread and blankets to all who are still alive, and he hopes that will include most everyone.”
“I could not ask for a better man than Godey,” I replied.
“He’ll pick up more provisions and mules and blankets at the Red River colony and should be intercepting
your men within a day or two,” Carson said. “Beall’s men will be a day behind with some slaughter colts and will do some camp tending, getting the survivors up to a trip here.”
“Tell me candidly, Kit; what do you think of Old Bill Williams?”
Carson pondered it a while. “Well, I’ve heard it said that in starving times, you’d best not let Old Bill walk behind you,” Carson said.
“I think I’ll tell that to Jessie,” I said. “Have you a pen and ink and paper?”
“Never had much use for those,” he replied. “But Lucien Maxwell ought to.”
“I want to set down the facts,” I replied. “Before anyone else attempts to.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Alexis Godey
I labored ceaselessly to put a relief mission on the trail. The great-hearted Mexicans were ready and willing to help. I found muleteers willing to travel through the perilous winter. They offered their services with a shrug and a smile. For payment they would soon have gaudy stories to tell their families. Families donated blankets woven from unbleached wool. Others volunteered their mules and horses and saddles. I loaded golden cornmeal into sacks, collected the coarse round loaves of bread that would sustain lives, found some multicolored maize with which to feed our livestock in those snowy wastes, and soon had enough collected for temporary relief.
Major Beall’s soldiers would follow with some rank condemned horses, hardtack and other rations, and the manpower to tend fires and feed the desperate until they could be recruited to travel again.
“But are you going back, sir, after your own ordeal?” he asked me.
“I am. My friends are in great peril. I will not stop.”
“But look at you. You’re worn.”
“I’ve had bowls of cornmeal mush. They call it tole here, and it revives me. If I can eat, I will be alright.”
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