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Days on the Road: Crossing the Plains in 1865
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Reminiscences of the Plains
BY DR. HOWARD.
Editor Husbandman.--Through your kindness to Mrs. Howard, we are a reader of your excellent journal. Hence a few months ago our eyes fell upon “Reminisences of Pilgrimage Across the Plains in 1865,” by S. R. H., and at once recognized the writer as the “lady who rode the gallant bay.” And now, sir, as we were an humble member of the gallant McMahan train, frequently referred to in her interesting journal, permit me through the columns of your paper to tender her the thanks and gratitude, not only of ourselves, but every surviving member of that train, for affording us the pleasure of again traveling that eventful road without the fatigue and hardships of a long and tiresome journey. And even now, after the lapse of fifteen years, to be so pleasantly reminded of our “Gallant Bearing” and the confidence reposed in us for protection, while passing through the Indian country, we almost regret that the savages did not give us a striking opportunity of displaying our prowess. It was our pleasure to form the acquaintance of the writer, as correctly stated, on the north bank of the South Platte, near the foot of Fremont’s Orchard. The present editor of the Husbandman, then a beardless youth, had been suffering with typho-malarial fever from the time we left Nebraska City, and we visited her camp (ostensibly) begging bread, and obtained as good as was ever baked upon the plains. From this time on, at least for some hundreds of miles, it was our pleasure to meet her on the road and in camp. We were in different trains, but camped near each other every night for protection from the Indians. Very soon, somehow or other, when our trains were preparing to drive out every morning, and Miss R. was mounting Dick, we were in the act of mounting our pony Jo, and even at this day, in thinking over the matter, I am induced to believe that our ponies became somewhat attached to each other, as they would instinctively fall into each other’s company. This was the state of affairs existing at Elk Mountain, where the bouquet was gathered and presented, and where, it is frankly admitted, we became somewhat partial.
Well, we do recollect the crossing of North Platte, that turbulent stream on the Fort Halleck route. Train after train was crossing all day long. We were standing on the bank, with Captain McMahan, when the Hardinbrooke train, the one in which she was traveling, approached the crossing, and we discovered Miss Raymond on the front seat of the wagon, with lines in hand, in the attitude of driving. We remarked, “Good gracious, look yonder, is it possible Miss Raymond is going to drive that team across this terrible stream alone?”
“Now,” said Captain McMahan, “is the time to show your gallantry.”
And before we could think twice, she drove bravely in. Of course we mounted Jo and followed after her, and here on a little island in the middle of the river is where we rode up and congratulated her on her skill as a driver. As we approached the place of our destination our trains became separated. Miss R. preceded us a few days to the Golden City. It was our pleasure, however, to visit her in the little domicile mentioned in her narrative, and
Talk our troubles over, our journey through at last, And in her happy presence we forgot the gloomy past.
We sojourned in Virginia City but a short time, then crossed a tributary of the Missouri near their confluence, and wintered at Diamond City Confederate Gulch. The June following we returned to our native State.
A year after our return Captain McMahan and myself received cards announcing the nuptials of Miss Raymond and Mr. Herndon, which cards now occupy receivers on our center tables, for which we were ever thankful, and at which time, of course, the bouquet crumbled to dust. And now wishing the “lady who rode the gallant bay” and the lucky gentleman whose home she makes happy, long life and the enjoyment of a Montana home; I am,
Truly yours, W. HOWARD.
PRESS NOTICES.
“Crossing the Plains in 1865,” is the title under which a lady in the Rocky Mountain Husbandman, is publishing a series of letters. The story of every-day life on the plains is so prettily written, that these papers repay perusal. We have been charmed by the native grace of the author, and we send her our compliments whoever she may be. We crossed the plains the same year, also, six years before, and we can fully appreciate the experience of our unknown friend who writes so charmingly.--_Stock, Farm and Home Weekly._
In this issue we close our narrative of pleasure, trials, etc., of a trip across the great American plains in 1865. It has been a plain, simple story and true to life and full of interest to Montana’s oldtimers, and all who made the journey of the plains in wagons. To the editor of this paper it has been a story of particular interest, for he, a beardless boy then, crossed the plains, was a member of the McMahan train, the sick man for whom Dr. Howard often went foraging for bread.--_Rocky Mountain Husbandman._
“Crossing the Plains in 1865,” is the title of a story which was written by a well-known lady of Virginia City, for the Rocky Mountain Husbandman, and came to a conclusion in the last number of that paper.
It was a plain, unvarnished recital of the experiences of the journey across the plains when ox-trains were the favorite conveyances, and the voyagers were subjected to many vicissitudes unknown to travelers of the present day. Though quite unpretentious as to literary merit, it has been interesting in recalling to the minds of the pioneers, who have read it, the eventful scenes of their own pilgrimage, and to them, it has been pleasant reading.--_Madisonian._
“I have felt a deep interest in S. R. H.’s, ‘Crossing the Plains in 1865,’ all through these long series of letters, and many a familiar spot has been brought back to me that had long been forgotten. And as some of the actors in the play live in Challis, I will say to S. R. H., that Mrs. Hardinbrooke is still loved by a large circle of friends, and that little Annie is now a blooming young lady, and ever worthy the good-bye kiss; that the Captain has never disgraced the title bestowed in 1865.
“I am, Mr. Editor, respectfully yours,
“O. E. PENWELL.”
“Why are we here? Why have we left home, friends, relatives, associates, and loved ones, who have made so large a part of our lives and added so much to our happiness?”
“Echo answers ‘Why?’”
“The chief aim in life is the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness.” Are we not taking great risks, in thus venturing into the wilderness? When devoted men and women leave home, friends and the enjoyments of life to go to some far heathen land, obeying the command: “Go, preach my Gospel, to every creature,” we look on and applaud and desire to emulate them. There is something so sublime, so noble in the act that elevates the missionary above the common order of human beings that we are not surprised that they make the sacrifice, and we silently wish that we, too, had been called to do missionary work.
But when people who are comfortably and pleasantly situated pull up stakes and leave all, or nearly all, that makes life worth the living, start on a long, tedious, and perhaps dangerous journey, to seek a home in a strange land among strangers, with no other motive than that of bettering their circumstances, by gaining wealth, and heaping together riches, that perish with the using, it does seem strange that so many people do it.
The motive does not seem to justify the inconvenience, the anxiety, the suspense that must be endured. Yet how would the great West be peopled were it not so? God knows best. It is, without doubt, this spirit of restlessness, and unsatisfied longing, or ambition--if you please--which is implanted in our nature by an all-wise Creator that has peopled the whole earth.
This has been a glorious May-day. The sky most beautifully blue, the atmosphere delightfully pure, the birds twittering joyously, the earth seems filled with joy and gladness. God has given us this auspicious day to inspire our hearts with hope and joyful anticipation, this our first day’s journey on the road across the plains and mountains.
It was hard to say good-bye to our loved and loving friends, knowing that we were not at all likely to meet again in this life. I felt very much like indulging in a good cry, but refrained, and Dick and I were soon speeding over the beautiful prairie, overtaking Cash, who had lingered behind the others, waiting for me.
“A penny for your thoughts, Cash?”
“I was wondering if we will ever tread Missouri soil again?”
“Quite likely we shall, we are young in years, with a long life before us, no doubt we will come on a visit to Missouri when we get rich.”
We were passing a very comfortable looking farmhouse, men, women, and children were in the yard, gazing after us, as we cantered past.
“Don’t you believe they envy us and wish they were going, too?”
“No, why should they?”
“Oh, because it is so jolly to be going across the continent; it is like a picnic every day for months; I was always sorry picnic days were so short, and now it will be an all Summer picnic.”
“I wish I felt that way; aren’t you sorry to leave your friends?”
“Of course I am, but then I shall write long letters to them, and they will write to me, and I will make new friends wherever I go, and somehow I am glad I am going.”
After we came within sight of our caravan we walked our ponies, and talked of many things, past, present, and future. When within a mile or two of Memphis our first camp was made. Our six wagons, with their snow-white covers, and Mr. Kerfoot’s big tent, make a very respectable looking camp.
OUR FIRST CAMP.
As we were provided with fresh bread, cake, cold chicken, boiled ham, pickles, preserves, etc., supper was quickly prepared for our small family of four, and we enjoyed it immensely. Then comes my time to write, as I have promised friends that I will keep a journal on this trip. Mr. Kerfoot thinks the Government is going to smash and green-backs will not be worth one cent on the dollar, so he has turned all his money into gold coin, and stowed it into a small leather satchel--it seems quite heavy to lift or carry.
As Mrs. Kerfoot was sitting on a camp-chair near our wagons, Mr. Kerfoot came toward her, saying, “Here, mother, I want you to take care of this satchel, it is all we will ask you to do, the girls will cook and wash dishes, the boys take care of the stock, and I will oversee things generally, and we will do nicely.” She accepted the responsibility without a word, and as he walked away she turned to me, and said, “I wish it was in some good bank, I expect nothing else but that it will be stolen, and then what will become of us?”
While I have been writing Neelie (Cornelia) and Sittie (Henrietta) have been getting supper for a family of twelve, no small undertaking for them, as they have been used to servants and know very little about cooking.
When everything was ready, Neelie came to her mother exclaiming, “Come, mamma, to supper, the first ever prepared by your own little girl, but not the last I hope, see how nicely the table looks, Emma and Delia picked those wild flowers for you, how brightly the new tinware shines, let us imagine it is silver and it will answer the same purpose as if it were.”
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