Kate Mulhall A romance of the Oregon Trail
words from Linda, "I'll be true to you to the end, Ben," still rang
in his ears as if spoken but yesterday, and had followed him across
the greater part of the continent.
At the parting with Kate he had given up his secret, reluctantly but
prompted by intense loyalty to the girl of his choice. If anything
should happen to him, he wanted Linda to know from Kate of his
undying love for her to the last; and from Kate's own lips, or by
letter from her, the senseless nature of the gossip concerning them.
Another matter he wished to confide to Kate--he was going to Oregon
to secure a home for Linda and himself; and desired to make provision
that Linda should fall heir to it in the event that he should die
before they married. Ben was prompted to these serious thoughts by
the experience of being close to death's door twice on the trip--once
in the near catastrophe while crossing the Missouri, and again at the
buffalo hunt, from both of which he had emerged without serious
consequences.
He regretted to be parted from his mother for her sake and from Linda
for her sake, but took very little thought for himself. The tenets
of endless punishment after death, widely taught in his boyhood days,
never found lodgment in his brain. He believed in a God of love, not
of vengeance; and while clinging {81} to the present for the sake of
those he loved, was resigned at any time to pass to the future life.
Douglas Craig and Benjamin Hardy had become fast friends; their
mutual trials and duties had drawn them closer together as the
journey progressed. "There isn't a lazy bone in Craig's body," the
Squire said to Kate one day, to which she responded that the same
could be said of Ben. Mulhall readily assented, saying that he had
been blessed with "two of the best boys God Almighty ever made;" and
added, "your mother thought the same, God bless her memory." Kate
made no response, but the tears that came to her eyes at the mention
of her mother's name expressed a deep and abiding sorrow.
In the morning Ben learned that it would be eight days before the
next mail to "the States," as the pioneers were accustomed to speak
of all the country east of the Missouri River; and so did not write
to Linda as planned.
"Ben, I've a notion to go with you to hunt a claim," Craig said when
he noticed the preparations Ben was making for the trip. "I don't
like the idea of parting with you just now," he continued; "besides,
maybe it's best for me to take a claim anyway, and not depend
altogether upon working at my trade."
And so the two "boys," who had come down the Columbia River and to
the southern part of the great territory, started off in search of a
home for each. Mulhall had determined to go into the northern {82}
district of the Puget Sound; so they did not expect to meet him until
such time as they learned where he had located. After many days of
searching, the spot that suited them was found, and a line agreed
upon between the two adjoining claims.
"I golly," Ben said, "why can't we build one cabin and locate it for
the line to cut through the middle? You can have your bed in one
end, on your claim, and I can have mine in the other end on my
claim;" and then he added, "if you want to work at your trade a part
of the time you would not lose your residence; and if I"--. But Ben
stopped there, for he was near to revealing his secret, if he had not
already done so by his manner and confusion.
The pact was sealed and the cabin built; and here for the present we
must leave our young friends to trace the fortunes or misfortunes of
Squire Mulhall and his three girls. In due time also we shall learn
whether or not Ben could leave his claim before the four years'
residence required by the law to secure a title; and whether Linda
remained true to him through all that time.
When Ben and Craig passed out of sight over the crest of the hill
ahead, following the trail with packs on their backs, Mulhall could
control his emotion no longer: and tears coursed down his cheeks as
he spoke in a tremulous voice to Kate of their noble character and
self sacrifices. Kate, more demonstrative than her father, gave way
without restraint to manifestation of distress in voice and weeping.
{83} Observing the unusual scene, little Sarah joined with childish
soothing words to Kate and her father; but the more she said the
deeper their distress, until all restraint was abandoned and the
three were relieved by tears and words of praise for the two "boys."
David Mulhall, even though mild-mannered and gentle, was a man with a
stout heart, and fully realized the gravity of the situation
confronting him. It was a race with famine and lingering starvation
or death. If he undertook to increase the speed of travel as some
had done, his oxen would probably fail and leave him without a team;
having noticed several such instances, he resolved to pursue the even
tenor of his way.
The first formidable barrier to be met was the Blue Mountain ranges,
which must be crossed at an altitude of about 4,200 feet; that steep
ascent could not be avoided, and many outfits were stranded along the
slope of the mountain. To lighten the load in the wagon, some
clothing was packed on the horse Ned, while the girls and the Squire
walked.
By a succession of short drives and long rests, the summit was
reached, though a long stretch of rough roads and steep hills was
still ahead. While not hazardous, the descent into the plains
extending to the west and north was tiresome and tedious; it
presented a scene of enchantment seldom equaled--the whole covered by
a carpet of luxurious grass, dotted here and there with bands of
Indian ponies and tepees of Indian villages.
{84}
Mulhall was now about twenty-five miles from the site of the Whitman
Missionary Station, where help was given to all in need until the
fateful day of the massacre, November 29, 1847. Here, at the foot of
the mountain, Mulhall left the trail of Ben and Craig, who had
followed the Columbia route down the river leading to Portland, and
joined the gathering hosts of the migration along the new trail
northward to Puget Sound.
It was a daring and momentous decision. Two formidable barriers were
in the track--the mighty Columbia, the second river in length and
volume of water on the Continent, and the Cascade Range, which proved
to be the most formidable mountain obstruction of the whole trip, far
greater than that of the Rockies.
As they passed the site of the former Whitman Mission, Mulhall
tarried to view the locality which had witnessed the activities of
Dr. Marcus Whitman and his gifted wife, Narcissa Prentiss Whitman, in
their efforts to implant the Christian religion in the breasts of the
Indians, and where they had relieved the suffering of many pioneer
emigrants during eleven years of heroic struggle to maintain their
mission. The day of the supreme sacrifice came unheralded, as
recalled by the grass-grown graves of the thirteen victims, which
Mulhall viewed with bared head in the presence of the three
daughters, who had so recently witnessed the closing of the earth
over the precious remains of their mother. When {85} shown the small
grave and told the story of the drowning of the only child of the
lonesome mother, Narcissa Whitman, Sarah's grief again became
inconsolable, and only with great difficulty was she persuaded to
leave the sacred grounds.
The Columbia River, more than a mile wide and with a swift current,
was directly in their path some thirty miles away. How they were to
cross was not yet definitely known, but it was the general belief
that at the Hudson's Bay Company's fort, situated on the bank of the
river, there would be some means of getting over it.
After two more days of driving, Mulhall drew up to the camp of more
than two hundred detained emigrants. The first train to arrive,
consisting of 148 people with thirty wagons, finding no means of
crossing, undertook to build a boat large enough to carry a loaded
wagon or several oxen.
Driftwood lodged on a sand-bar above the fort furnished the material,
and a whip-saw was set to work cutting the lumber; it ran day and
night, and in eleven days the boat was launched. Then the first
crossing was made, and in four more days all were safely across,
after the loss of fifteen days of precious time.
Whether or not snow in the mountains would block the trail, weighed
heavily upon the minds of the whole company. The abundant grass in
that locality had greatly strengthened the oxen and enabled them to
make good progress, though as no wagons had {86} gone on ahead, it
was necessary at times to stop and open the way. Measured by the
current of the river they must follow, there were still about 200
miles between the crossing of the Columbia and the settlements on
Puget Sound, about 100 of the whole following mountain streams.
Evidences of that drive through the gorges had been left, sometimes
on sand-bars with rounded boulders imbedded in the sand, and then in
the shallow streams. Other marks had been made on slippery boulders,
until deep water compelled the emigrants[5] to cross the river or
open a road through the timber and underbrush--one alternative and
then another, until 62 crossings of the river were thus crudely
recorded.
Just beyond the summit, a rim of almost perpendicular rock was
encountered, so steep that it was impossible to drive the wagons down
the declivity. Three steers were killed, and their hides cut into
strips to lengthen the ropes assembled from the train; in that way
thirty wagons were let down the mountain with the loss of only one of
them. The tree used as a snubbing post was deeply encircled by the
wear of the ropes and finally killed; but it stood {87} sentinel over
the scene for another quarter of a century.
When Mulhall emerged from the deep forests of the foothills west of
the Cascade Mountain range, he was fairly dazed at the sight that
confronted him; and could scarcely believe his eyes. The evergreen
trees were so tall and dense that they obscured the light and made it
difficult to read common print at the noon hour, while the bright
shining sun spread light and warmth over the tops of the forest
giants. All through the mountains, the eyes of the pioneers had
become accustomed to a lesser light than they had encountered in the
open country.
That forest is one of the greatest and most notable on the Continent
or in the world. Giant firs grow to a height of three hundred feet;
large numbers of them measure six feet, with here and there one eight
and in rare cases even twelve feet, in diameter. A monster tree
fifteen and a half feet through at the base, and probably a thousand
years old, could be seen as one laboriously followed the trail.
The mind of the Squire was affected in just about the same way as if
he had suddenly emerged from a dark room into bright sunlight, with
his eyes dimmed by the glare; it required time to recover and grasp
the change. He had arrived at what is locally known as "Elk Plains"
on the eastern margin of the famed Nisqually Plains, a wide extent of
prairie country extending to the Nisqually River, twenty miles away
to the south and nearly that distance to Puget Sound {88} on the
west. The whole intervening space was interspersed with numerous
small, clear lakes with pebbly bottoms into which the creeks emptied
their limpid waters.
Occasionally a creek would issue from a lake fed by springs in the
bottom; in other cases there was no inlet or outlet, and yet the
water was as pure and sparkling as that running in the creeks. Here
and there were small groves of evergreen timber surrounded by the
prairies to lend enchantment to the landscape, a veritable fairy-land