by Earl Murray
Robert Colville stood up and staggered forward a few steps before falling to his knees. I dismounted and helped him to lie down. A ball had passed through him, some three inches under his right breast. The wound was bleeding profusely.
“It’s mortal,” he gasped. “I was foolish to follow him.”
“I thought you were up on the Columbia,” I said.
“Sir Edward learned of the Applegate cutoff at Fort Boise. We surprised Latour and his men, killing all but one. They fought well and killed twenty-nine of us. When we asked one of Latour’s wounded about you, he said you had taken a different route.”
Colville asked me to help him sit up. I did and he peered across at the line of Kentuckians marching toward us. I told him that their grandfathers had stopped the Redcoats at New Orleans.
“We thought we could easily stop you here,” he said. “We marched night and day to reach here. A settler in a lone cart who was begging for his life said he had passed your group, so we killed him and waited for you. There weren’t supposed to be any Kentuckians with long rifles.”
Sean and the Kentuckians reached us and circled around. I explained who Robert Colville was and how he and Garr and the others had come to be at this place, trying to stop our progress. No sooner had I finished talking than Colville expired.
We buried forty-eight dead right where they lay. There were six others mortally wounded who would die before nightfall. One soldier, shot in the hand, began running across the desert. No one fired at him and he became lost in the distance.
“What are we going to do about Edward Garr?” Sean asked.
“If he wants to try it again with what few he has left, let him come ahead,” I said. “For now, let’s get to that water.”
Gabriella’s Journal
28 SEPTEMBER 1846
Water never tasted so good. We’ve been here three days, recuperating and rejoicing for having crossed the desert. Owen and the men have killed a number of deer and we’ve been feasting. Our fortunes have definitely changed for the better.
Tonight we celebrated with a dance, much like the one I remember from Round Grove. Sean and Annie were playing, together with a number of men with fiddles, guitars, and banjos. The tunes ranged from lively to slow.
I got my blue dress out of the saddlebag and washed it. The wrinkles were so deep I thought it ruined, but Millie showed me a trick. She raised the dress on a stick above a large kettle of steaming water and brought it back to looking like new.
I danced with Owen a few times, hoping to get him going, but he was too preoccupied with the journey.
“We’re taking too long here,” he said. “We should be back on the trail.”
“For heaven’s sake,” I said, “give these poor people some time to celebrate.”
“We can celebrate in Oregon City,” he said.
“Why can’t you relax a little?” I asked. “This isn’t like the old days, when you had to get your furs to market or lose to the competition.”
“It’s still a matter of losing to the competition,” he said. “It’s late in the season. By the time we get to the mountain passes, we’ll be fighting bad weather. That’s strong competition.”
“The Applegates have made a road for us,” I said. “It’s not as if we’ll be blazing our own. You said that yourself.”
“New roads always have their problems,” he replied. “We’re pulling out at first light.”
He stopped the dancing and made the announcement. There was a lot of disappointed murmuring and some of the celebrants retired for the evening. Others decided they would make the most of their last night of relaxation, and the dancing resumed.
I followed Owen out to check the stock and make certain the guards were watching everything carefully. The Indian threat here wasn’t as severe, but should we lose any oxen or horses at this point, we would never succeed in crossing over the mountains.
“It doesn’t make sense to come this far and squander the rest of the trip,” he said.
“There’s no one who wants to reach Fort Vancouver more than I do,” I said, “but I don’t understand why you’re pushing these people so. They have every right to rejoice.”
“Have you forgotten that I’ve been on journeys like this before?” he asked. “A lot can happen. If you don’t believe me, just wait and see.”
“I believe you,” I said. “But I think you’re unsettling everyone. Besides, you said yourself that the oxen need to fatten up.”
“Some of them are past fattening up,” he said. He pointed to one with its head down, standing knee-deep in grass but not grazing. “That one is so far gone that eating the grass has killed him.”
He explained that starving animals often use up so much of their body’s reserves that once they reach food, digesting it takes so much energy, it kills them.
“The ones that will make it are never going to be the same,” he said. “Whether or not these people realize it, nothing’s going to be the same.”
“Try to look on the bright side,” I said. “We’ve gotten this far and we’re past the sagebrush and greasewood. What can be worse?”
“I don’t think you understand,” he said.
“No, I don’t think you do,” I told him. “I’ve wanted you to take this dress off me ever since Round Grove. Now’s your chance to do it.”
He didn’t hesitate. It had been a long trip across the desert and we had had only a few opportunities to be alone. It hadn’t been much fun worrying about spiders and snakes. Tonight would be different, nestled together in the soft grass under a moonlit sky, both of us so eager that we could barely contain ourselves.
Gabriella’s Journal
20 OCTOBER 1846
Owen couldn’t have been more right. We’ve been traveling through some of the most beautiful country I’ve seen yet and we can’t make but four to six miles per day. The trails are steep and the oxen so weary that they stop in their traces and heave for breath and energy. There’s little grass along the trail. It’s all been eaten by previous caravans.
We skirted Goose Lake and the south end of Tule Lake, and then the lower Klamath. We’re into the Siskiyou and have already seen a number of abandoned wagons, many missing the wheels and tongues, saved for use, no doubt, as extra parts. We’ve passed continuous lines of belongings that the owners decided must be left behind if their journey was to be successful. Among the most common objects are dressers and beds and stoves, and a lot of farming equipment.
There was even a piano beside the trail, resting slanted against a tree. Pearl McCord pounded on the keys and it made an awful sound, nearly as bad as Rufus howling to the off-key music. How they managed to get it across the desert I’ll never know. Owen commented that items of that sort were the reason so many oxen fell by the wayside.
The deeper we get into the mountains, the more difficult the trail is to negotiate. I’ve never seen so much rock and timber, almost obliterating the sky in places. And the rain has started, a steady drizzle that soaks me through to the skin.
The trail has become very steep and the rain makes the footing treacherous. The tired oxen would struggle under dry conditions but must now endure slippery rocks and loose soil, draining precious energy.
One hill proved particularly difficult. The wagons had to be pulled up one at a time, using as many as twenty-three teams of oxen. Still the poor animals could barely make the summit and had to be rested for the rest of the day while other teams were hitched to more wagons. It took three days to complete that climb.
Yesterday we were forced to stop for downed timber across a creek. Owen believes that the rain has contributed to unstable ground conditions and the soil is shifting. He showed me where piles of trees and rock had slid down from the hill above the streambed, blocking our passage.
I passed the time with Millie and Annie and Guynema Rowe. We drank tea mixed with coffee to break the boredom of taking one or the other straight. Millie had stories of old Ireland and Guynema told of the Missouri country a
nd the life she misses so badly. She stated that she should have burned the wagon at Fort Hall. Had she the chance, she would have turned back around for her old home at that point.
I find Mrs. Rowe to be most hospitable when the conditions are the worst. She was hard to tolerate when we were recovering at the edge of the desert, complaining about all the laughter and gaiety. But both under the hot sun of that wretched desert and now on this narrow trail in the heavy mist, she seems to be doing just fine.
My theory is that she believes life should be all suffering and no pleasure. No doubt she had been forced to marry the reverend, and now that she’s free of him, her concern is over not getting enough turmoil in.
She prides herself on her ability with her rifle. Even the Kentuckians respect her eye. She comes and goes as she pleases, searching the surrounding hills for anything and everything. The steepness of the terrain doesn’t seem to bother her. I’ve never seen anyone who could walk equally as fast up a hill as across a level plain, and over such long distances.
While the men worked to clear the trail, Mrs. Rowe left our group and arrived back a couple of hours later with three large marmots, which everyone calls woodchucks.
“I guess these will do where there’s no deer or elk,” she said. “They’ll sizzle in the pan.”
No one will pass up food of any kind. Once again the rations are thin and everyone goes to bed hungry—except the McCords. Their terriers are forever in the rocks, yipping and digging for rodents. They catch chiefly ground squirrels, with an occasional marmot, and stop their hunting only to sleep at night.
Our slow travel was brought to a standstill this morning. We were traveling a treacherous grade around the side of a steep mountain when Owen discovered the trail ahead blocked by rock and timber. There was a lot of complaining. Many of the wagons were barely able to maintain balance on the steep and narrow trail, putting severe strain on the oxen. Everyone worked to place rocks and timber branches behind the wheels to steady them. Sean Malone had the most trouble, as his wagon was very close to the edge.
Annie took the baby from the back of the wagon to feed her. Sean had left to cut tree branches and would soon return to place them behind the wheels.
The rain began falling harder and I suggested to the women that we find some dense pines for shelter. We had just got settled when someone yelled that the Malone wagon was rolling.
The oxen bellowed in their traces as they worked against the pull of the wagon. One of the wheels had slipped off the trail and the cargo weight began pulling everything over the side.
Sean Malone dropped his load of branches and ran, yelling, to the wagon. Two men were cutting the terrified oxen loose and the wagon was just going over the edge when Sean jumped inside.
Annie screamed. She handed Millie the baby and ran downhill towards the rampaging wagon. I followed, calling out for her to stay back.
The wagon rolled and bounced down the steep hillside. Everyone yelled for Sean to jump, but he stayed inside.
At the bottom, the wagon slammed backwards into an embankment. Sean let out a yell. Annie and I climbed into the front of the wagon and found him pinned under a load of household goods.
Upon impact, the dining-room table had tipped up on edge and come to rest with the legs sticking out the back, embedded in the bank. Sean was sitting upright with his back against the table’s top. The cargo had gone flying into him, including the windowpane for their living room. My stomach felt empty clear down through my soul.
The glass had sliced into him at a perfect right angle to his body, cutting him in half at the waist. He sat trapped, his back against the table. The window, intact, protruded from his abdomen and lay resting atop his knees.
Blood seeped everywhere and there was no way to stop it. Once the window was removed, Sean would die almost instantly.
He looked at us, dazed but coherent.
“Where’s little Mary?” he said.
“I took her out of the wagon, Sean. I already took her out,” Annie said.
“I wish I’d have known.”
Annie cleared the way to him. She seemed to want to embrace him, but was afraid to.
“I can’t feel my legs,” he said.
Owen pushed everyone aside and climbed into the wagon. He took one look and held his breath.
“Do you know what’s happened, Sean?” he asked.
“Looks like I’ve got a window through me,” he said.
His eyes began to glaze over with shock.
“Can I hold the baby?” he asked.
Little Mary settled into his arms and he told her how beautiful she was and what a wonderful woman she would become in this fair new land.
“You’ll play fiddle and mandolin and banjo. Everything,” he said.
Annie sobbed into my breast. Sean handed the child back to her and held out his arms.
“We can hug,” he said. “It won’t do no harm.”
Owen and I left the wagon. We could hear them talking and crying together. Then Annie stuck her head out and asked that we join them.
Inside, Sean extended his hand to Owen.
“I want to thank you for all you’ve done for Annie and me,” he said. “This is a helluva way to end things.”
Millie joined us in the wagon. She held her rosary tightly, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“The Good Lord has seen fit to take you along with Martin,” she said. “Pray for us when you get up there.”
Sean looked at everyone and shook his head. “There’s so many things I wanted to do.” He took Annie’s face in his shaking hands. “Had I known, I’d have spent more time with you.”
Annie was holding up well. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Sean Malone.”
“I ain’t good at saying it, Annie, but I love you.”
“I love you too, Sean. God be with you.”
Sean Malone died peacefully with his head on Annie’s shoulder, touching their baby. Owen and some of the men wrapped him in a tarp and laid him on a door. We buried him in the rain while the oxen breathed clouds of vapor and the wagons stood stark on the steep trail in the Oregon twilight.
ROGUE RIVER
Gabriella’s Journal
7 NOVEMBER 1846
It is near dark and the rain has broken for a time. I have too much sense to believe it will stop even for a day. Each morning dawns gray and dismal. Clouds hover over the mountains and the thick and endless timber is layered with dripping water. Our breath forms heavy clouds and numb hands work to recover circulation. The only reason anyone sleeps is from exhaustion.
The farther we go, the more dreadful the trail becomes. Oxen are dying at an alarming rate. The pull is too much for them and there is little grass to be found among the rocks and timber.
As a result, many belongings are being dumped beside the trail. Books and reading chairs long cherished are thrown aside. All manner of kitchen furniture and equipment are tossed. They keep just the bare essentials.
Silas McCord wrestled a mahogany trunk to a clearing above the trail and dug a hole. Pearl and Katie stood by with their dogs, sobbing uncontrollably. Everything their mother had thought dear was in that trunk, including the family Bible on her mother’s side.
Owen helped Mr. McCord wrap the trunk in canvas and secure it with ropes. They lowered the trunk into the hole and covered it over.
Silas hugged each of his girls. “We’ll be back for it soon,” he promised.
I stood with Annie Malone on the trail and remarked how hard it must be to leave something so dear in a hole on a wilderness mountainside. She only shrugged and rocked her baby.
She had left their family wagon and all its contents at the bottom of the hill where Sean died, and had never looked back. All she had taken were clothes and blankets for the baby. She had even left her precious fiddle behind. Owen had wrapped it carefully and packed it on one of our mules.
“When we get through this,” he said, “she’ll wish she had it.”
She is still qu
iet and drawn into herself. She holds her baby tightly and periodically breaks into tears. Millie McConnell is perpetually saying the rosary. The beads are no longer black, but worn slick to the brown wood underneath.
It is a somber journey, yet alive with the firm belief that trail’s end will bring comfort and the expected gratification of a bountiful land. Owen assures me that the rains will eventually end and that an early spring comes to this region. A number of settlers are talking about planting apple and cherry trees. The harvest in a climate such as this should be extraordinary.
That is all, literally, that keeps some of the emigrants alive. The elderly have become sick and many of them cannot function without help. The Kentuckians carry them to and from carts that Owen and the men have constructed from broken-down wagons. They encounter each day with the conviction it will be their last.
We passed a lady from a previous caravan who had got lost in the rain and was standing beside the trail. Her rain-soaked gray hair was matted against her leathery face, and her clothes were worn and tattered over her skeletal frame. Her vacant blue eyes were red from weeping. She said that she was searching for her lost husband.
Owen asked her name and we remembered having passed a splintered wooden grave marker early yesterday that read: ARTHUR COLLINS, A GOOD MAN, REST IN PEACE.
“Are you Mrs. Collins?” Owen asked.
“Yes, Lizzie Collins,” she said. “Do you know where Arthur is?” She clutched Owen with her bird-thin fingers. “Please, do you know where he is?”
Owen said he would look and hoisted her into the wagon with Millie and Annie. She sat on the edge of the seat and looked in all directions, calling her husband’s name. That evening, as we made camp, she laid down beside a tree and died.
Owen wrapped her in a tarp and tied her across a mule. He wished to find a more suitable way to transport her but time would not permit it. He found a piece of door beside the trail and chopped a marker from it and handed it to me. I’m not as good with a knife as I am with a brush but I managed to carve: LIZZIE COLLINS, DEVOTED WIFE, REST IN PEACE.
