The first delay was a late snowfall that kept his family from getting started on their journey for three days.
The second delay was a washed out bridge that cost him an extra day of travel.
When his daughter fell ill with a fever, he lost a week.
There had been some debate about whether or not to take the train to St. Louis and then travel up river by steamboat to Independence. But Amos Cummings, always thrifty, believed the family could make the initial journey west by wagon and save money on supplies. The supplies they would need, not just for the journey but once they arrived in California, would cost much more in Independence – maybe twice as much – than they would at home. So Amos decided to make the overland journey by wagon, starting from his own front door.
And then came the delays, so that when Amos Cummings and his family at last arrived in Independence, Missouri, Amos was in a panic.
He paid in advance to join a wagon train headed down the Oregon Trail. Having thoroughly planned his journey, Amos Cummings expected to arrive in Independence with more than a week to spare before the wagon train left out. Now, he was almost a week late.
His family camped east of Independence, about fifteen miles, and Amos rode on ahead to try to find Albert Huntsdale to see what could be done.
He knew that sometimes trains were delayed and didn't get off in time. He suspected that happened most of the time. He hoped this one had been delayed a week. And if not a week, at least a few days so that he might catch up to them.
Short of that, Amos Cummings had paid in advance. The contract protected Huntsdale from refunding the money, but Amos was hopeful that if the train had already left then Huntsdale would see his way fit to let the Cummings party join up with the next train.
The saloon was a reeking place, swamped by the stench of old liquor and bodily fluids. It was dark and crowded and noisy. The only thing more foul inside the saloon than the smell was the language, and every conversation seemed to be conducted from across the room at a shout. The saloon itself was long and narrow, and the bar running along one wall from front to back made the rest of the place even more cramped.
"I'm looking or Albert Huntsdale," Amos said several times as he moved through the crowd. "Albert Huntsdale. Can anyone point me in the direction of Albert Huntsdale?"
At last, near the back of the saloon, an old man with a dingy and crumpled hat, long white hair and a thick white beard raised up a hand and called out, "You've found him, mister. I'm Al Huntsdale."
Amos breathed a sigh of relief. He pushed his way past a couple of men and slid into a chair at the table where Huntsdale was drinking a whiskey and beer.
"I am Amos Cummings, Mr. Huntsdale."
The old man gave Cummings a long appraisal. Huntsdale wore a fine suit, and though it was wrinkled and had a fine layer of trail dust, a man couldn't help but see that Cummings was a professional of some sort, a man accustomed to cleanliness and tidy about his appearance. Huntsdale could not place the face, which was strange because he was usually better about face than names.
"I know that name, Amos Cummings. But you'll have to remind me how. Where have we met before?"
"We've not met before, but we have corresponded. Amos Cummings – surely you remember. I reserved a spot on the wagon train bound for California on the Oregon Trail."
The old man nodded, remembering now. "You're the one who didn't show up."
"That's right," Amos Cummings said, his thoughts a mixture of relief and renewed concern. "We were delayed in getting here. But we are here now, and ready to depart as soon as possible."
The old man had more teeth missing than present, but he had plugged the holes with sodden chewing tobacco, and Amos Cummings found the man's appearance too distasteful for conversation. Amos forced himself to look at the old man's forehead to spare himself a view of the mouth. Nevertheless, his eyes kept wandering down to the thick, white beard stained yellow and brown from tobacco juice that had drizzled from the man's mouth.
"Train's done left," Albert Huntsdale said. "Been gone almost a week now. Almost a hundred wagons headed down the trail." Albert Huntsdale closed one eye and leaned forward, giving Amos a suspicious look. "Ain't no returns on the money. That's in the contract."
Amos shook his head in confusion. "But you are still here in Independence. How did the train leave without its wagon master?"
The old man laughed, giving Amos a second glance at his mouth full of missing teeth and the black wad of chew. Amos was disgusted when he watched the old man take his whiskey and beer over and through the tobacco.
"I ain't a wagon master," Albert Huntsdale said, still laughing as if the notion were preposterous. "I ain't never been no further west than Atchison. I just arrange things, see?"
Amos was crestfallen. "Very well, then. The next train. Surely we can go with the next train."
Albert Huntsdale again greeted Amos with derisive laughter. "You can do that, and I won't charge you no extry for the inconvenience to me. But you'll be staying for a while. Next train going along the trail don't leave until next spring."
Amos shook his head in disbelief. "But that is impossible. I must be to California before the start of the new year. I have accepted a position, you understand? I have been engaged with the University of the Pacific as an instructor."
"Are you a teacher?"
"I am. A professor. Yes. I serve as both chaplain at the university chapel and a professor of moral philosophy."
Albert Huntsdale shook his head. "While I congratulate you on your teaching engagement, your first lesson will have to be on tardiness, schoolmaster. You won't be going with one of my wagon masters this late in the year. It's too late to start now. You run into any trouble, any delays, and you'll be stuck in a blizzard in the mountains."
Amos sat back in his chair and felt the back give way. He pulled himself forward in time to avoid toppling over backwards. He shook his head in disgust. "I have to leave now," he said. "I have accepted a position. This is very important to me. It's my entire life, my entire career. Surely there is a way. Is there some guide I can hire to take just me and my party?"
"You're too late getting started," the old man said. "You'd never make it over the Sierra Nevada before the snows."
Amos Cummings nodded his head in frustration. "Yes, you've said that. But what I'm asking you is whether or not there is a guide who can take us now, even though we are starting too late."
"Ain't no guide going to take you now. It's too late in the season. If you went all the way through, no problems and no delays, you'd pass the mountains before the snows. But you have to give yourself a week or two to be ready to deal with troubles. Any kind of troubles can come up – a broken wheel, a team of mules get scared by the buffalo and skedaddle, Indians pester you for days trying to trade or steal. All of that could hold you up. And then you get caught in a blizzard and you're dead before the thaw."
"I will pay very well," Amos said. "I don't mind paying beyond the normal rates, beyond what I have already paid. It is very important to me, and I would pay you – and any wagon master you could find – very well."
"Hush, you," the old man hissed, and he looked around viciously to see if Amos had been overheard. "You want to get yourself scalped before you're ten miles past the Kansas River? They's men in here would scalp you if they thought you carried that kind of money."
"I am just trying to impress upon you the urgency of my desire," Amos Cummings said. "While I realize that we are getting a late start, I certainly do not think my request is impossible."
The old man rubbed his face vigorously with his rough, calloused hand. The request, supported by the promise of money, had clearly put him in considerable consternation.
"They's Injuns, and troubles in Kansas, and weather. You get to the Sierra Nevada and you're liable to be snowed in. You've heard stories of what happens to those what get snowed in, ain't you?"
Amos Cummings knew the man was referring to the infamous Reed Party. "I've hear
d stories," he said. "That was a very long time ago. Surely things have improved."
"Things have improved, but blizzards is blizzards and they don't get better. Kit Carson couldn't get you to California safe this time of year. You can get to the Truckee Pass just fine. But you wouldn't get there before the second week in October. So you never would get on into Californy."
Amos nodded his head again, his frustration had peaked.
"It is simply not an acceptable proposition to me that I cannot make it to California before the first of the year," Amos said, and he spoke slowly and with purpose. "I have paid you a considerable sum of money already. And I am now telling you that I understand your objections, but I am asking that the money I have already paid to you would be sufficient to purchase solutions, rather than objections."
Albert Huntsdale looked at the ceiling and stuck a finger under his hat to scratch at his hair.
"I don't know if I can find him, and I don't know if he could be persuaded, but I might have a solution for you."
"What is that solution?" Amos asked.
"It ain't a what," Albert Huntsdale said. "It's a who that's your solution. A man I know. His daddy was a missionary among the Injuns. He's walked ever mile from Mexico City to Oregon, San Francisco to St. Louis. He's Kit Carson and Dan'l Boone all rolled into one. I heard tell the other day he was planning to take the Santa Fe Trail to New Mexico Territory and that he was planning to make that trip by hisself. If it were anybody else, that would be a foolish undertaking. But this boy could do it. If you could compel him, he could get you from Independence to Santa Fe. From there, you could follow the Southern Route into Californy. That's the same trail the Butterfield Overland uses to deliver the mail. You would need to find a guide, or maybe convince this man to do it, but you could make the Southern Route and get to Californy before the end of the year. Ain't no snows that away. You might die of thirst, and there will be Apache, but you won't freeze to death in no blizzard."
"Can you find this man?" Amos Cummings asked.
"If he ain't left, I can track him down. Where will I find you?"
"I've told my party to camp on the road east of town. We have with us six wagons, a dozen cattle, oxen and horses. We should be easy enough to find," Amos said.
"You'll be the only wagon train around, that's for sure!" Albert Huntsdale laughed. "E'ry other train is already bound for Californy."
***
The six wagons were arranged along the side of the road in a flat, dry space. There were trees enough nearby, and room for foraging for the animals.
Already the boys had managed the livestock.
Amos Cummings had bought oxen and mules to haul the wagons. He had spare animals that could relieve the others in case of illness or injury, and during their trip from their Ohio home, they had alternated the animals. He also had three good saddle horses which had come useful whenever the mules wandered. There were a few head of cattle, milk cows that could become meat if necessary. He had been told not to bring more than the one cow, but he reasoned that a dozen would not be difficult to keep up with and would be useful.
But it was difficult to keep them all corralled. The boys had found the easiest way was to rig up a temporary rope fence, and that is what they'd done here. They had a few posts they used and ran a rope at the top of the posts and another midway down. The cows had, a few times, slipped through the ropes or knocked down the posts, but for the most part the rope fence kept them in one place. And when it did not, they never got too far.
The horses were harder to keep corralled. They liked to wander, and when they went to running, the rope fence did nothing for them. So they slept with the horses tethered.
Beyond his own family – his wife, three sons, and daughter – Amos Cummings' small party consisted also of his assistant, a young man and former student Graham Devalt. Graham chose to make the journey so that he could continue studying under Amos and hoped to get a teaching job at the University of the Pacific as well. Stuart Bancroft, Amos' brother-in-law, was also coming west with his family, two sons, a daughter, and his wife.
Stuart, who was also an academic, intended to take up farming in the fertile California valley. He had studied and taught agricultural methods his entire adult life, but he had never put them into practice. When Amos received the engagement with the California university, Stuart viewed it as an opportunity to join his brother-in-law in California and make a try at farming.
Between them, they occupied six wagons loaded with supplies for the westward journey.
Martha Cummings saw her husband on the road and walked out to meet him on the edge of the camp. The look on his face told her what she needed to know.
"We've missed the wagon train," he said.
"Oh, Amos. I am sorry," Martha offered. It was not much. The days that their daughter, Rachel, was sick with a fever had been hard days. They knew as each day passed that their chance of making the wagon train diminished. But she was so weak with the fever. The couple had lost a daughter three years before. Their youngest child. And so when the doctor said she needed rest and could not endure the journey, they stayed put. That was in a town in Illinois. Even after the fever broke, the doctor insisted Rachel was too weak to move.
And so they waited. More days. More delay.
"What are we going to do?" Martha asked.
Amos climbed down from the saddle. "There is a small chance. Huntsdale said he knows of a guide who is planning to go down the Santa Fe Trail. He might be enticed into taking us."
"I will pray that the Lord's will be done in this, and I will hope that His will matches with our will," Martha said, and she gave her husband a small smile.
"That is all that can be done," he said.
"When will we know?"
"Huntsdale said he would try to find this guide if he has not already left, and he said he would come and find us here."
"There is still some hope, then," Martha said.
Amos nodded agreement, whether he believed it or not. Martha Cummings could see that her husband felt dejected, and she wanted to find some way to cheer him up. If they were still at home, she might have suggested a lecture or a concert or maybe a stroll through a park. Here, though, on the edge of the frontier, it seemed that the only diversions were drink and bawdy dance halls.
Their youngest son, Paul, now fifteen years old, was toting buckets of water up from a creek and pouring the water into a trough for the animals to drink.
The middle son, seventeen year old Matthew, was rounding up firewood.
Twenty year old Jeremiah, Amos Cummings' oldest son, was just finishing tying off the rope corral.
These three boys were the real reason the family was coming west. The professorship at the University of the Pacific was the destination, but the boys were the reason.
Amos had followed the news of events in Kansas very closely. He kept up with the debates in Washington D.C.
Amos Cummings had foreseen trouble on the horizon for several months now. Most men could at least guess that it was coming. But Amos' intuition told him that the trouble would escalate to full scale war and that it would not be a simple, short-lived thing as some predicted. Instead, he believed that the war would rip the nation from the Mississippi to the Atlantic, and carry away its youth. He envisioned invading armies of free-staters going South and invading armies of pro-slavery Southerners coming North. And Amos believed their home across the Ohio River would be swept away with the ebb and flow of the armies.
Further, he believed his sons would follow their friends and join the army to fight. His family, for generations now, was an abolitionist family. Amos himself had helped people who helped runaway slaves. His family was also a peaceable family. Amos Cummings had raised his sons to abhor violence, but he knew that the pressure from peers and society to join the army would be tremendous. If they did not, peaceful principles would be shamed and they would be called cowards. But Amos Cummings was unwilling to sacrifice his sons on the altar of freedom, even
freedom for the Negro – a cause that he held dear but believed it should be made real without violence. And so he sought safety for his sons in the farthest away place he could take them. In California, he believed, his sons would be untouched by a war.
So while he was desperate to get to his new professorship in California because it would provide the wages that would sustain his family, Amos' true urgency was in putting as many miles as possible between him and the conflict that he believed was coming to the east. The forthcoming election, he knew, could be the spark that ignited the powder keg.
Martha's younger brother, Stuart Bancroft, also believed war was coming. His children were younger and not in imminent danger of being recruited or conscripted into the army, but Stuart also lived across the Ohio River from Kentucky, and all indications convinced both men that Kentucky would side with the south. They knew what had happened in Lawrence when pro-slavery border ruffians from Missouri had come into Kansas, and they feared a similar fate would befall them.
So when Amos announced to his young brother-in-law that he was heading west, it did not take much to convince Stuart that his family should come along as well.
And likewise Graham Devalt, who had to fear conscription himself. As his assistant, Graham was privy to Amos Cummings' thoughts about the eventual conflict, and Graham had been easily convinced to come west.
But now Amos Cummings had to wonder what he had brought these people to. Would they be stuck for the winter in Independence, Missouri, on the border with Kansas, in the very place where the fighting had already begun? Amos had to wonder if there could be a worse place in the entire country to have to be when the election came.
"Stuart, Graham," Amos called to the other men. "Let's have a word."
They walked away from the camp, out of earshot of the women and children, and Amos told them what he had learned when he rode ahead into Independence.
"So our only hope of going farther rests with this guide who may have already left?" Stuart summarized.
A Trail Too Far Page 2
