by Earl Murray
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Copyright Page
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Again, to my wonderful wife, Victoria, a lady
with true pioneer spirit.
And to all good dogs everywhere,
especially terriers, and most especially our
terriers, Katie and Pearl.
You are a pair of wonderful* little dogs.
(*Pearl is also known as No, No, Bad Dog,
but we love her anyway.)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am greatly indebted to the following for their able assistance in the completion of this work:
—Eleanor Gehres and staff, Western History Department, Denver Public Library, for assistance with Bent’s Fort information.
—John Newman and his assistant, Pat Van Deventer, Archives, Morgan Library, Colorado State University, for background information on all facets of historical Colorado.
—Rheba Massey, local history librarian, Fort Collins Public Library, for allowing me access to her great map collection.
—Doug Kemp, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis, for his assistance in researching early St. Louis.
—Nicholas Bennett, The Oregon Trail Foundation, for directions and insight into “behind the scenes” Oregon of 1846.
—Tom Doherty, my publisher and good friend, who has always had an avid interest in Oregon history.
—Stephanie Lane, my editor, whose fine direction helped me strengthen Gabriella’s character.
—And my wife, Victoria, for keeping me on track with feminine feelings and frustrations.
GABRIELLA’S JOURNEY
GABRIELLA’S JOURNEY
ST. LOUIS
Gabriella’s Journal
5 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY
This morning I watched my fiancé kill a French nobleman.
It happened on Bloody Island, a large sandbar of willows and brush in the Mississippi River across from St. Louis, a place where gentlemen settle their differences by dueling with the weapons of their choice. It had been decided that pistols would be used, at a distance of thirty feet, with each man to be allowed one shot towards his adversary.
I held my silken hat down with a gloved hand against an early morning wind, wishing that I might be any place else in the world. Nearby, my fiancé, Sir Edward Albert Waterston-Garr III, second son of the Fifth Earl of Waterston, and late of Lancashire, England, had removed his topcoat and hat and was readying himself. He had bested many men before, fourteen at last count, and appeared to show no fear.
His adversary, a French-Canadian named LaBruneue, had arrived in St. Louis only that spring. He was no stranger to violence himself and it was said he had faced eight men, killing each one.
A large crowd had congregated on the main shore to await the outcome. Many were Mr. LaBruneue’s associates but most were employed by Sir Edward, who had come to America a month earlier to plan a hunting expedition into the Rocky Mountains. I joined him from Lancashire just two weeks past, along with my aunt and uncle, Lady Avis and Sir Walter Dodge, looking for adventure on my own behalf. But in my wildest dreams I never expected to witness the scene that played itself out before me.
Those present on the island had arrived by special invitation only. Duels of this sort are illegal, but deemed necessary by the upper class of St. Louis society in lieu of fighting in the streets or in the alleys along the levee. They are conducted for the satisfaction of both parties, one or both having been insulted during an exchange of conversation.
Present on behalf of both men were three surgeons, including my fiancé’s personal physician, Dr. Noel Marking, a stout man of stern countenance who had attended to several of Sir Edward’s dueling victims. The Frenchman had brought two of his own physicians, and also a frontiersman dressed in buckskins and a wide-brimmed hat.
The frontiersman stared at me intensely with unsettling dark eyes. He was lithe of figure and movement and, I would judge, nearly six feet tall. He stood out from the others, being much cleaner in appearance, and exuded an air of supreme confidence.
Standing near the frontiersman was a large Indian with roached hair and wolf-teeth earrings. He wore a breechcloth and buckskin leggings, and a buckskin waistcoat adorned with horsehair and beadwork. I heard the frontiersman refer to him as Lamar, a name that seemed more suited to a tamer-looking man.
Overall, I found Mr. LaBruneue’s men to be generally frightening in their dress and appearance. They had all lived in the mountains for many years and had taken on the habits of wild survivalists, being uneasy around civilization in general. I wished that I had remained back at the hotel with my aunt and uncle. But I had felt obligated to come; Edward had insisted that I attend and stand by him.
As he and Mr. LaBruneue completed their preparations for the duel, I was asked by the gentleman in charge of the event, a circuit judge named Arlan Hathaway, if I didn’t wish to reconsider my decision to be present.
“I shall remain at Sir Edward’s side as long as he needs me,” I told him, displaying more confidence than I felt. “I see it as my duty.”
Also present was my fiancé’s newly acquired slave, a small, middle-aged man known simply as Bom, said to be the best servant his previous master had ever known. He is a very articulate man with a keen sense of humor, but I know little else about him, as he has yet to speak with me and Edward says little about him. I did learn, however, that the man speaks fluent English, French, Spanish, and German, as well as his own native tongue.
Perhaps he considers it respectful to remain at a distance; I cannot say. But I could see, as we stood close together on Bloody Island, that he had witnessed duels before, and from his concerned expression, that he also worried for my fiancé’s safety.
I realized that my heart was pounding as Sir Edward and the Frenchman awaited their firearms. Each was to receive a matched flintlock pistol made by the respected English arms dealer, Joseph Manton. The frontiersman stopped staring at me long enough to load Mr. LaBruneue’s weapon, then check his own pistol and step back out of the way. He had come as Mr. LaBruneue’s second, a protector of sorts, in case Sir Edward did not follow the prescribed instructions.
Assisting my fiancé was his eighteen-year-old nephew, Barton Strand, whom I watched with despair while he fumbled anxiously with the pistol. Finally, Edward took it from him and loaded it himself. He placed a second pistol in the young man’s trembling hands.
“What is the matter with you, Barton?” he asked through pursed lips.
“I’m sorry, Uncle. This is difficult for me.”
“Are you capable of proceeding as my second?”
Barton nodded feebly.
Edward gave him a little shove and said, “Then take your position and listen to the instructions.”
I then stepped over to Edward. “
Are you certain you can’t talk Mr. LaBruneue out of this?”
“Why would I want to? It was he who insisted.” He waved his hand at me. “Get back.”
Judge Hathaway ordered the two men to exact a distance of thirty feet between them. His orders continued: “Upon my command, you may fire. If either of you takes aim or otherwise pursues to discharge his weapon before the appropriate time, you will be fired upon by the second of the opposing party. Is that understood?”
Sir Edward and Mr. LaBruneue nodded, as did the frontiersman and Barton Strand. I noticed Barton shaking uncontrollably and saw that Bom was biting his lip.
Sir Edward positioned himself sideways to the Frenchman, holding the pistol downward at his side.
“It’s not too late to call this off, my good man,” he said, “if you wish to spare your life.”
“Non, Monsieur! Never!” Mr. LaBruneue replied. “A man does not call me a liar publicly and live to boast of it.”
The judge said, “Gentlemen, cock your weapons.”
Unable to watch, I turned and stared across to where St. Louis was bathed in early sunlight. The river sparkled and birdsong filled the air, and I wished that nothing but this chorus of nature could be heard.
Then came Judge Hathaway’s gruff command:
“Fire!”
Two blasts sounded in unison. I turned to see Mr. LaBruneue fall to the ground, writhing in agony, his hand on his throat. Edward was merely frowning, inspecting a neat round hole in the fold of his shirt sleeve.
The frontiersman and the Frenchman’s physicians hurried to Mr. LaBruneue’s side and inspected his wound. One of the surgeons stood and addressed Judge Hathaway.
“He is seriously injured, Your Honor, but can be saved.”
“Very well,” the judge said. “Mr. LaBruneue, are you satisfied?”
With the help of his attendants, the Frenchman rose to his feet and stood shakily. A long, scarlet stain trailed down the front of his starched white waistcoat. He spoke in a faint voice.
“I am satisfied.”
Edward broke the crowd’s silence. “Your Honor, I am not satisfied. I demand that Mr. LaBruneue and I have our pistols reloaded and take position ten feet apart.”
There were gasps and murmurs. I heard the judge say, “You can’t be serious.”
Edward stood firm. “I am, Your Honor. This man insulted me deeply and now considers the matter closed. I do not.”
I shook my head in disbelief and looked at Bom. He was no longer chewing his lip, but stood impassively, watching Mr. LaBruneue bleed down his front.
The frontiersman then stepped forward in defense of his friend. “Your Honor, this man is in no condition to fight again today.”
The judge asked Sir Edward if he might give the Frenchman time to recover.
“That is not possible,” Edward said. “We are scheduled to depart at first light.”
“Why not consider the matter settled then?” the frontiersman asked. “Surely there can be no good cause to continue.”
“Mr. LaBruneue can continue the fight now, to my satisfaction,” Edward said, “or be forever branded a coward and scoundrel.”
The Frenchman pushed away from his physicians and ordered that the pistols be reloaded. The frontiersman stared hard at Edward and I knew that had he been able to fight in Mr. LaBruneue’s stead, he would have in a split second. But the Frenchman would not allow it, and the frontiersman couldn’t approach Sir Edward, as the rules forbade a similar challenge made by another party against one of the duelists on the same day.
Sir Edward, knowing the frontiersman’s feelings, smiled and said, “Perhaps you would like your chance soon.”
“Perhaps,” the frontiersman agreed. “But you haven’t finished this morning’s duel yet.”
A funny expression appeared on Edward’s face and I knew that he must be remembering his very first duel. According to my uncle, who had told me numerous stories about my fiancé, he had won the day only because his opponent had been too cocky. Instead of concentrating on the matter at hand, he had winked at one of his friends just as the command to fire had been given, and had taken a ball in the temple from Sir Edward.
I cannot speculate why Edward was so determined to finish the Frenchman off. Their weapons ready, he and the Frenchman faced off once again, this time so near to one another as to almost touch the outstretched barrels of their pistols. Mr. LaBruneue trembled, his eyes wide, his face lined with sweat. All of us watching could plainly see the river of blood that bubbled from the hole in his throat.
At the command, Sir Edward fired. The ball tore into the Frenchman’s right eye, splattering gore and bone fragments everywhere. The crowd gasped and he fell dead without even having lifted his pistol.
Edward flicked at small specks of blood and brain tissue on his waistcoat, then dabbed at them with a kerchief and allowed Bom to help him with his topcoat.
I stared at the fallen Frenchman and realized there had been no honor on Bloody Island. I could see no good reason for one man to kill another over mere words, a senseless conversation that had taken place the previous day in the Planters’ Hotel, where we were all staying. During drinks before dinner Mr. LaBruneue had said to Edward that he suspected him to be more than just a hunter on holiday, and that maybe he should stay out of American affairs. Sir Edward had replied, “You are like a small dog whining. You should find a bitch to suckle.”
Edward has never made a secret of his dissatisfaction with the flood of American emigrants into Oregon, depriving the established Hudson’s Bay Company of trade territory. The region had been under joint ownership for some time and the settlers would soon be the majority of the population.
An argument with Mr. LaBruneue regarding the matter had ensued, resulting in Edward’s defaming remark. The Frenchman had immediately called for restitution of his character and my fiancé had eagerly denied it, resulting in the Frenchman’s challenge.
I had to ponder Edward’s lack of judgment. We are, after all, in a foreign country and not well liked by much of the populace. St. Louis has become a mecca for travelers, and English tourists have become the norm, but local authorities here are tiring of the settlement of differences by the old standards. I knew then and certainly know now that nothing good can possibly come of this.
But it had been done and the frontiersman, along with the Indian and the two surgeons, lifted Mr. LaBruneue from the ground and carried him to a boat. The judge followed closely behind. Across the way, I could see two women on the shore, now in tears, leaning against escorts who tried in vain to comfort them.
Before leaving, the frontiersman took one last, long look at me. Sir Edward hurried me ahead of him and asked me why I was dallying.
“Who is that man staring at me?” I asked him.
“Why does it matter?”
In the boat, I pressed the issue. “I want to know who the frontiersman is.”
“Why must you concern yourself with him?” he snapped. “He’s a mountain man named Quincannon, who was affiliated with LaBruneue. As you can readily see, he should have picked better company.”
Gabriella’s Journal
5 APRIL 1846, 2ND ENTRY
I know Sir Edward to be a man up for a challenge, and somewhat secretive in his manner. He carries two pistols under his belt at all times, along with a large dirk, which he keeps honed to a razor’s edge. I realize that he’s a hunter and sportsman, but he has a great many weapons at his disposal at all times, whether or not he’s in the field.
I worried as we neared the levee from the island. Edward had pulled both pistols and was shouting for his men to take position facing Mr. LaBruneue’s men, who were assembling and readying their arms. Bom and Barton Strand rowed and as our boat neared the landing, Edward’s riflemen formed a semicircle, effectively keeping the mob from us. I awaited certain conflict, but then the frontiersman began to motion for the Frenchman’s followers to disperse—and they soon did.
Barton Strand, looking sick with fear
, said, “It could have been very bad, Uncle.”
“But it wasn’t, Barton, so get yourself together.”
“Why are you so inconsiderate of our feelings?” I asked angrily.
“We have no time for feelings, Ella,” he said to me. “When will you understand that?”
I turned my attention to the intense activity taking place not far away, on Laclede’s Landing, where numerous steamboats and other rivercraft awaited the loading of goods and passengers. Among the craft was a large steamboat named the White Bull, newly built to Sir Edward’s specifications for our journey upriver into the West. Burly men in head bandanas and soiled cottons loaded provisions as fast as they could, but not fast enough for me. I have never wanted to leave anywhere so badly.
It saddened me to feel that way, as the city offered many beautiful sites and had certainly held my interest. Upon my arrival downriver in New Orleans with my aunt and uncle, a month previous, I had never before witnessed so much activity. My life in Lancashire seemingly never changed, but since coming to America, nothing had remained the same. The steamboat trip upriver to St. Louis had been filled with fascinations and I learned much about America and its mix of cultures. But our stay had turned from a few days into a few weeks, as the White Bull had taken much longer than expected to build.
Edward had commissioned construction three months earlier, but there had been several delays in the delivery of materials, causing problems with the workers. Had the boat been completed on time, perhaps this unfortunate duel would never have taken place.
Edward had insisted I accompany him on his hunt, as he wished me to paint portraits of him beside the big game he brought down. I decided that I would also endeavor to paint the native peoples who live on the plains and in the mountains. I had become familiar with George Catlin’s works and his writings of life among the American Indians, arousing my curiosity. I had also looked into the work of other artists and was fortunate enough to accompany Sir Edward and a group of his friends to Murthly Castle in Scotland, as invited guests of Captain William Drumond Stewert, an adventurer who had accompanied fur traders into the wilds of the Rocky Mountains.
