I nodded, not liking that story and all that was missing from it. “Would you?” I asked.
“An army detail will come here with rations and a few slaughter colts in a day or so. They’re dropping men off at each camp.”
“Who’s below? Who lives, who died?”
Godey tolled the names of the dead.
“With Manuel I count eleven,” I said. “A third of us. You spared the rest of us.”
“The Colonel did. He sent me.”
I wondered why I hated that statement so much.
Godey saw to our comfort, left a muleteer to tend camp along with more tole, and headed across open country, going clear to the edge of the San Juan Mountains, another day’s travel. I watched him and his remaining Mexican men vanish into the fog and was overwhelmed with an odd sadness I could not explain. That was January 25, a month after our Christmas camp, when we all still lived and enjoyed health.
Alexis Godey was everything a man should be; more man than I could ever be. He was carrying the world on his shoulders.
The army failed to come that day. I was beginning to see the scope of this rescue. It would be several days before any of us could gather the strength to leave. We were the living dead, and nothing anyone could do for us would spring us back to life in one or two days. There we were: hairy, gaunt and ragged, our faces so sunk down and fire blackened that Godey could not recognize us. Cathcart was the worst off, I thought. He was so reduced that he could barely swallow his cornmeal, and we had to break his bread into small pieces he would nibble and drop. Relief had come, but I wondered if Cathcart would yet perish.
I collected Edward and Richard to me. They looked better. Ned was stronger, and Richard had some color in his face at last.
“Colonel Frémont’s busy outfitting. Are we going?”
“Not with him,” Richard said. “I will not travel with that man. I will not be a part of any company he assembles. I bear him no ill will; I just don’t trust his judgment. None of this needed to happen, and that is the hard rock lying in my bosom.”
My younger brother spoke for the three of us.
A pair of soldiers hallooed the camp that evening, driving four bony horses. They looked colder than we were, in thin army coats that plainly didn’t provide much warmth.
“Corporal Hochshuth here, and this is Private Grubb,” one said.
Captain Taplin managed to get to his feet. “You sure are a welcome sight,” he said. He introduced himself, leaving his rank unspoken, and then the rest of us.
“We’re going to slaughter a colt and use the others to carry you out when you’re fit for it,” the corporal said. He eyed Cathcart dubiously. “Mister Godey, he’s gone ahead?”
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s the last, up there.”
“Alright then,” the corporal said. The pair saw to their camp, got firewood, saw to our comfort, and settled in.
“You have any news about the men below? And the colonel? Frémont?” I asked.
Grubb replied. “Played out, sah. We got there in the nick. The explorer, he’s in Taos looking after his affairs.”
I wondered what those might be.
“Has the colonel said anything about this?”
“I wouldn’t know, sah. Well, yes, I know a bit. He’s saying it’s the guide, Williams, that let him down. I don’t suppose I should be repeating it.”
“I’m glad for any news I can get, Mister Grubb.”
“Most things, they’re nobody’s fault, sah.”
“Sometimes, the wrong man takes the blame,” I replied.
The men doled out army rations, hardtack and salt pork. My teeth were loose in their sockets, but I didn’t let that stop me from gnawing that food. I got it all down and was ready for more, and so were the rest. I wondered whether this would stop my bowels, but I did not suffer trouble.
I ached for simple comfort: a room, a roof, a fire, but that was still a long ways off. In truth, I didn’t see how the army could get us down to the settlements. We were all too weak to walk, and most of us too weak to ride a horse. But somehow, we were going to get there.
Alexis Godey and two muleteers returned the next day, and with them was the California Indian boy, Manuel, clinging to a mule.
“Alive, alive?” I cried. “Let me look at him.”
They gently pulled Manuel off his mule, laid him on a tarpaulin, and covered him with blankets. Gingerly I drew back the blankets and stared at those ruined feet and ankles. At least they weren’t bleeding. There was dead flesh peppered over those feet, flesh that would slough off in time. I could do nothing at all, lacking my powders and kit, but the several days spent in the warmth of his cave had wrought some improvement.
“I’m glad to see you, boy,” I said.
He nodded. He understood enough English to get along with us. Frémont had brought him east with the California Battalion.
“You’re going to get well,” I said, and I felt sure of it, so long as Godey and the army could get him to the settlements.
“We fed him some,” Godey said. “He came right along, with some of that cornmeal and bread in his belly.”
“This makes me very glad,” I said. “We’d given him up for lost when he turned back.”
“He had a regular nest, doctor. He got him into an open-sided cave and got warm, lots of wood, and stayed warm, and waited.”
The arrival of Manuel lifted the spirits of the whole camp, and for the first time in many days, I saw men smile.
“There’s not much I can do with him. I don’t think binding that frostbitten flesh would be a good idea.” I turned to Manuel. “You eat up, and stay warm, and keep those feet clean if you can.”
“Sí,” he said.
I stood slowly. It made me dizzy. “What’s the count, Alex?”
“Of the lost? Ten. Until I found Manuel, I was counting eleven.”
“It would have been all of us, but for you, sir.”
Godey turned away, hiding his face from me.
He and the muleteers and soldiers spent the next day burying our dead. They hacked the two bodies free from the blood-caked snow and ice while we watched in utter silence. The soldiers moved those two lost men to a bushy area, heaped brush over the bodies, and added deadwood to weigh it down and protect the remains from animals.
Which animals? I thought. I suppose the rest of us were thinking the same thing. We had not seen so much as a coyote track. We broke camp the next day, working toward the settlements in easy stages. For most of us it was a grim trip, as desperate and painful as any of the rest of it. There weren’t enough horses and mules to carry us all, so the stronger rotated, but some, like Captain Cathcart, clung desperately to manes and saddles all the way and barely lived to reach the settlements, even on horseback.
It took days, and we were well into February when we reached Red River and were greeted by Preuss, who rejoiced to see us and accompanied us the rest of the way. It took more days for us to stumble south to Taos, but eventually we collected in that earthen outpost, the sorriest lot of men imaginable. Godey shepherded us the whole way, gentle and yet insistent that we come along, keeping us fed and warm and comfortable.
Taos, rude and humble, billeted us. Godey saw to it. There we were, bedded under roofs by smiling Mexican people, fed and warmed, in comfort. We did not see Frémont at first but heard he was busy assembling the gear and livestock for the California trip. I wondered about it, why he did not show his face, but in time he did collect us together. I marveled because he looked quite the same as always, his lithe body no worse for wear, his beard trimmed, his gaze benign and secret. I detected in him no great interest in us or our condition and heard no words of comfort.
“We’ll be leaving in two days,” he said. “Those of you who wish to join me, please make your wishes known to me, and I will take them under advisement. Those who are unable will find good company in Mister Carson and other of our friends. I’ll be taking us over the Gila River route, first to Santa Fe and Albuquerque
, and thence to the point where we will abandon the Rio del Norte and strike west to the Gila drainage, which will take us to the Gulf of California and across. It ought to be a mild trip. I’m provisioned, we have stock, and nothing impedes us.”
He paused.
“Perhaps you’ve heard. Gold has been found in California. In great quantities. Even now, people are rushing there. I have heard that some has been found near my own Las Mariposas, which I acquired during the last expedition.”
Gold. I had heard something of it while we were being settled in Taos, but now the colonel confirmed it.
I consulted with my brothers and Captain Cathcart. “Are we going with him?” I asked.
“Not for all the gold in the world,” Captain Cathcart replied, and my brothers seconded the sentiment.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
John Charles Frémont
It was imperative that I set the record straight. I contemplated what I would put into a letter to Jessie about the troubles I had encountered in the San Juan Mountains and knew what I wanted to say. Only by prompt communication might I head off public criticism drawn from sensational accounts. Jessie had probably departed for California via the isthmus, but I intended to write her at Saint Louis anyway. Maybe I could still catch her. The mail in that direction was fairly prompt, and communication was assured by both army and civil post. I would soon see her in California and could tell her privately the things that I thought should not be put in a letter.
So while I waited for news of Godey’s relief operations, I penned a letter to Jessie.
“I have an almost invincible repugnance to going back among scenes where I have endured much suffering,” I wrote to introduce her to the worst, “and for all the incidents and circumstances of which I feel a strong aversion. But as clear information is absolutely necessary to you, and to your father more particularly still, I will give you the story now instead of waiting to tell it to you in California.”
There was but one thing to convey, and that was the utter incompetence and stupidity of the guide, Old Bill Williams, who took us into country he obviously didn’t know, got lost, and gravely endangered my party. He took us into snow-packed defiles, cost us our mules, and cost the life of Raphael Proue, who froze in his tracks. All this I conveyed to Jessie at length, along with my plans to depart for California at the beginning of February. I also planned to write my father-in-law, Senator Benton, a briefer letter that might set the public straight. There was no need to impart any details, but I wished to make it known that the army detachments posted hereabouts had been most cordial to me and had helped with the relief. I thought it might gain some ground for us in the Senate. But I deferred writing that one until such time as I heard from the relief.
There was ample to occupy me in Taos. The stark reality was that I had lost nearly everything save for some instruments and lacked funds to outfit myself. Thanks to Carson and Maxwell, I discovered an old Saint Louis friend, F. X. Aubry, was in town. He had business interests in New Mexico. I welcomed him heartily, and soon we were recollecting good times at the Benton household. I borrowed funds from him against the surety of my cached saddles and tack and other equipment up in the San Juan Mountains and used the thousand dollars of credit to purchase fresh livestock. It was my hope that Godey might return with the materiel, and if so that would spare me much grief.
I obtained further aid from my old friend and California companion Major Beall, who opened army stores to me, offering livestock and rations. I had the distinct pleasure of working with officers who possessed none of the jealousy or animosity that had been poured out on me by those higher in command. For these able men, I was simply one of their own.
I spent a most amiable time in Taos among old friends and new acquaintances but was never far from uneasiness about the relief. Day after day slipped by with no word from Godey or those upriver. I wanted only to put the whole business behind me; it was something to bury and get past, but the delay gnawed at me, until I thought I should saddle up and discover what had become of my party. I was certain that the hardened veterans of my California Battalion would fare better than the easterners who had joined up, thinking the trip would be a lark. I could trust my old soldiers to endure through the worst.
Early on, I had discovered that the Kerns and their friends were slackers, a drag on the whole expedition. What was Richard Kern doing while my veterans sweated? Playing his flute. If they had pulled their weight, we would have topped the San Juans and continued on our way, despite Bill Williams’s bungling. The men of my old command were able to deal with the snow, while the newcomers slowed us day by day. More and more, as I waited for news from upriver, I determined to settle the blame for the calamity on the Kerns. I had imagined that an artist like Richard would provide valuable sketches that would augment the railroad survey, and a doctor like Benjamin would serve the injured, but little did I know these pampered Pennsylvanians would slow the entire company to such a degree that precious days were lost high up in the mountains, when haste was our salvation.
In time, the survivors did drift in, by twos and threes, assisted by muleteers and the army. They were a horror to see, still snow-blind, starved to nothing, weakened by their ordeal. I wished they had stayed in the Red River settlements longer, cleansing themselves, trimming beards, repairing their attire, so they would not be a spectacle to the citizens of Taos. Indeed, some did linger there, unable to travel the last lap. From Vincenthaler I finally received the bad news. Ten had perished: Proue, King, Wise, Carver, Hubbard, Beadle, Tabeau, Morin, Rohrer, and Andrews. Godey was bringing the last and weakest along and would report to me in a few days. I was impatient to be off and waited restlessly for the remaining men to drift in. I thought of leaving without them, knowing they would be weakest, but I stayed on out of a sense of duty.
It was clear that in my absence there had been no effective leadership. I had held them together, and on my departure, their discipline had vanished and they had fallen into small fragments, no one of these wandering groups helping any other. Yet I could not regret leaving them. But for the relief I sent to them, all would have perished. I saved their lives. One thing puzzled me: of the dead, all but two were veterans of my California Battalion. Only Rohrer and Andrews were not with me in California. It made little sense to me that softer men, like the Kerns and Cathcart, had survived while my resourceful veterans had died. I had intended to make a point of it with Jessie and Senator Benton and thought better of it.
We gathered at last on the sunny plaza in Taos, on a particularly pleasant February afternoon, with little sign of the grave winter we had endured. Banks of rotting snow persisted, but the earthen town was shaking loose from the worst. I looked them over, not liking what I saw. Some of them were too diminished to stand while I addressed them. Curious villagers, including heavy-boned women in black shawls, and urchins had collected and watched me quietly in the amiable sunlight. I doubted that any could understand English, for which I was grateful.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “tomorrow at dawn we leave for California. It’s clear to me that some of you are not able to travel and will stay here to heal. I’m adding several new people to my company. Now, I regret not being able to take all of you with me, but my first choice rests with those seasoned men who were with me during the third expedition and others, old friends and veterans of past campaigns. Those who I’ve decided should, for their own sake, remain here until they are better able to travel include the Kern brothers, all three; Captain Taplin, Captain Cathcart, and Mister Stepperfeldt. As for Mister Williams, I no longer require his services. I wish to thank all members of this company for engaging in this enterprise and offer my heartiest best wishes to those I will be leaving behind here.”
That wrought silence, at first, and then smiles. These doughty veterans would actually gather strength with regular meals, warm weather, and horseback travel. We would enjoy a mild climate the rest of the trip. Altogether, it seemed a good choice. I saw no one objecting. Those
whom I had excluded gazed silently from within a little knot.
But Doctor Kern did speak up.
“Colonel, have you notified the families of the departed?”
The question caught me utterly off guard. This wasn’t an army command, and it really wasn’t my duty to do anything of the sort. But I understood his sentiment.
“Why, Doctor, I shall attempt to do so when we reach California,” I said. “This is neither the time nor place, and I have no information about them.”
“I’m sure you will look after it,” Ben Kern said.
Was there something in his tone that offended me?
That was an oddly disturbing moment, as if Kern wanted to revive memories of what we had all just been through, instead of burying them and getting on with life.
“I will,” Taplin said.
“That would be most appreciated, Captain,” I replied.
Everyone seemed well satisfied with that.
I caught Ben Kern and Charles Taplin afterward, and privately offered them a mission. “I’ve a great deal of equipment cached up in the mountains. It’s worth several thousands. If you gentlemen could quietly retrieve it when the weather is more favorable and turn it over to my creditor here, Mister Aubry, you would do me a great service and one I would reward. I fear the cache will be plundered by the Utes if no one gets to it soon. You’ll need to employ some men with mules here to haul it all to Taos.”
“I’ll make the effort when I am able,” Kern said.
“I know I can count on you.”
I spent the evening at Carson’s house, absorbing what I could of the southern route from charts and from his recollections. He had been over it several times. At an hour before dawn, February 13, I collected my men on the south edge of town, in gloomy moonlight near a big adobe church, and by first light we were off. I had with me Kit’s brother Lindsay Carson, who would serve as guide, as well as Tom Boggs, the former Missouri governor’s son. I even had Charles Preuss with me. My topographer had recovered his health in the Red River settlement and arrived just in time to join us—tough little fellow, and I had forgiven him his derelictions. We were in fine fettle and glad to put our trials behind us. Just as I had hoped, the trip down the Rio Grande was easy, and the weather remained perfect for traveling. The nightmare of the mountains swiftly vanished from all our minds.
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