Section 1

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Section one of Across the Plains in eighteen forty four.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Across the Plains in eighteen forty
four by Catherine Saeger Pringle, Chapter one on the Plains

(00:23):
in eighteen forty four. My father was one of the
restless ones who are not content to remain in one
place long at a time. Late in the fall of
eighteen thirty eight, we emigrated from Ohio to Missouri. Our
first halting place was on Green River, but the next

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year we took a farm in Platte County. He engaged
in farming and blacksmithing and had a wide reputation for ingenuity.
Anything they needed made or mended sought his shop. In
eighteen four forty three, doctor Whitman came to Missouri. The
healthful climate induced my mother to favor moving to Oregon.

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Immigration was the theme all winter, and we decided to
start for Oregon. Late in eighteen forty three father sold
his property and moved near Saint Joseph, and in April
eighteen forty four we started across the plains. The first
encampments were a great pleasure to us children. We were

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five girls and two boys, ranging from the girl baby
to be born on the way to the oldest boy,
hardly old enough to be any help. Starting on the plains,
we waited several days at the Missouri River. Many friends
came that far to see the immigrants start on their

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long journey, and there was much sadness at the party
and a sorrowful company across the Missouri that bright spring morning.
The motion of the wagon made us all sick, and
it was weeks before we got used to the seasick motion.
Rain came down and required us to tie down the

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wagon covers and so increased our sickness by confining the
air we breathed. Our cattle recrossed in the night and
went back to their winter quarters. This caused delay in
recovering them, and a weary forced march to rejoin the train.
This was divided into companies, and we were in that

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commanded by William Shaw. Soon after starting, indians raided our
camp one night and drove off a number of cattle.
They were pursued but never recovered. Soon everything went smooth
and our train made steady headway. The weather was fine,

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and we in enjoyed the journey pleasantly. There were several
musical instruments among the immigrants, and these sounded clearly on
the evening air when camp was made, and merry talk
and laughter resounded from almost every camp fire. Incidents of
travel we had one wagon, two steady yoke of old cattle,

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and several of young and not well broken ones. Father
was no ox driver and had trouble with these until
one day he called on Captain Shaw for assistance. It
was furnished by the good Captain, pelting the refractory steers
with stones until they were glad to come to terms.

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Reaching the Buffalo country, our father would get someone to
drive his team and start on the hunt, for he
was enthusiastic in his love of such sport. He not
only killed the great bison, but often brought home on
his should under the timid antelope that had fallen at
his unerring aim, and that are not often shot by

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ordinary marksmen. Soon after crossing south Platte, the unwieldy oxen
ran on a bank and overturned the wagon greatly, injuring
our mother. She lay long insensible in the tent put
up for the occasion. August first, we nooned in a

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beautiful grove on the north side of the Platte. We
had by this time got used to climbing in and
out of the wagon when in motion. When performing this
feat that afternoon, my dress caught on an axel helve
and I was thrown under the wagon wheel, which passed
over and badly crushed my limb. Before father could stop

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the team, he picked me up and saw the extent
of the injury. When the injured limb hung dangling in
the air, the father, eyeing on the plains, in a
broken voice, he exclaimed, my dear child, your leg is
broken all to pieces. The news soon spread along the

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train and a halt was called. A surgeon was found
and the limb set. Then we pushed on the same
night to Laramie, where we arrived soon after dark. This
accident confined me to the wagon the remainder of the
long journey. After Laramie we entered the Great American Desert,

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which was hard on the teams. Sickness became common. Father
and the boys were all sick, and we were dependent
for a driver on the Dutch doctor who set my leg.
He offered his services and was employed, But though an
excellent surgeon, he knew little about driving oxen. Some of

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them often had to rise from from their sick beds
to wade streams and get the oxen safely across. One day,
four buffalo ran between our wagon and the one behind.
Though feeble father seized his gun and gave chase to them.
This imprudent act prostrated him again, and it soon became

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apparent that his days were numbered. He was fully conscious
of the fact, but could not be reconciled to the
thought of leaving his large and helpless family in such
precarious circumstances. The evening before his death, we crossed Green
River and camped on the bank. Looking where I lay helpless,

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he said, poor child, what will become of you? Captain
Shaw found him weeping bitterly. He said his last hour
had come, and his heart was filled with anguish for
his family. His wife was ill, the children small, and
one likely to be a cripple. They had no relatives near,

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and a long journey lay before them. In piteous tones,
he begged the captain to take charge of them and
see them through this. He stoutly promised. Father was buried
the next day on the banks of Green River. His
coffin was made of two troughs dug out of the

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body of a tree, but next year emigrants found his
bleaching bones, as the Indians had disinterred the remains. We
hired a young man to drive, as mother was afraid
to trust the doctor, but the kind hearted German would
not leave her and declared his intention to see her

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safe in the willamete At Fort Bridger. The stream was
full of fish, and we made nets of wagon sheets
to catch them. That evening, the new driver told mother
he hunt for game if she would let him use
the gun. He took it and we never saw him again.

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He made for the train in advance, where he had
a sweetheart. We found the gun waiting our arrival at Whitman's.
Then we got along as best we could with the
doctor's help. Mother planned to get to Whitman's and winter there,
but she was rapidly failing under her sorrows. The nights

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and mornings were very cold, and she took cold from
the exposure, unavoidably with camp fever and a sore mouth.
She fought bravely against fate for the sake of her children.
But she was taken delirious soon after reaching Fort Bridger
and was bedfast. Traveling in this condition over a road

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cloud with dust, she suffered intensely. She talked of her husband,
addressing him as though present, beseeching him in piteous tones
to relieve her sufferings, until at last she became unconscious.
Her babe was cared for by the women of the train.

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Those kind hearted women would also come in at night
and wash the dust from the mother's face and otherwise
make her comfortable. We traveled a rough road the day
she died, and she moaned fearfully all the time. At night,
one of the women came in as usual, but she
made no reply to questions. So she thought her asleep

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and washed her face. Then took her hand and discovered
the pulse was nearly gone. She lived but a few moments,
and her last words were, Oh, Henry, if you only
knew how we have suffered. The tent was set up,

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the corpse laid out, and next morning we took the
last look at our mother's face. The grave was near
the road. Willow brush was laid in the bottom and
covered the body. The earth filled in. Then the train
moved on. Her name was cut on a head board,

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and that was all that could be done. So in
twenty six days we became orphans. Seven children of us,
the oldest fourteen, and the youngest a babe. A few
days before her death, finding herself in possession of her
faculties and fully aware of the coming end, she had

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taken an affectionate farewell of her children and charged the
doctor to take care of us. She made the same
request of Captain Shaw. The baby was taken by a
woman in the train, and all were literally adopted by
the company. No one there but was ready to do
us any possible favor. This was especially true of Captain

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Shaw and his wife. Their kindness will ever be cherished
in grateful remembrance by us. All our parents could not
have been more solicitous or careful. When our flower gave out,
they gave us bread as long as they had any,
actually dividing their last loaf. To this day, Uncle Billy

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and Aunt Sally, as we call them, regard us with
the affection of parents blessings on his hoary head. At
Snake River they lay by to make our wagon into
a cart, as our team was wearing out into this
was loaded what was necessary, Some things were sold, and

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some left out on the plane. The last of September
we arrived at Grand Ronde, where one of my sister's
clothes caught fire, and she would have burned to death,
only that the German doctor, at the cost of burning
his hands, saved her. One night, the captain heard a
child crying and found my little sister had got out

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of the wagon and was perishing in the freezing air.
For the nights were very cold. We had been out
of flower and living on meat alone. So a few
were sent in advance to get supplies from Doctor Whitman,
and returned to us. Having so light a load, we
could travel faster than the other teams, and went on

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with Captain Shaw and the advance through the Blue Mountains.
Cattle were giving out and left lying on the road.
We made but a few miles a day. We were
in the country of Doctor Whitman's Indians, as called themselves.
They were returning from buffalo hunting and frequented our camps.

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They were loud in praise of the missionaries and anxious
to assist us. Often they would drive up some beast
that had been left behind as given out and return
it to its owner. One day, when we were making
a fire of wet wood, Francis thought to help the
matter by holding his powder horn over a small blaze.

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Of course, the powder horn exploded, and the wonder was
he was left alive. He ran to a creek nearby
and bathed his hands and face, and came back destitute
of winkers and eyebrows, and his face was blackened beyond recognition.

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Such were the incidents and dangerous and humorous features of
the journey. We reached Umatilla October fifteenth and lay by
while Captain Shaw went on to Whitman's station to see
if the doctor would take care of us, if only
until he could become located in the Willamette. We purchased

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of the Indians the first potatoes we had eaten since
we started on our long and sad journey. October seventeenth,
we started for our destination, leaving the baby very sick,
with doubts of its recovery. Missus Shaw took an affectionate
leave of us all and stood looking after us as

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long as we were in sight. Speaking of it in
later years, she said she never saw a more pitiful
sight than that cartful of orphans going to find a
home among strangers. We reached the station in the forenoon.
For weeks this place had been a subject for our
talk by day and formed our dreams at night. We

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expected to see log houses occupied by Indians and such
people as we had seen about the forts. Instead we
saw a large white house surrounded with palisades. A short
distance from the doctor's dwelling was another large adobe house,
built by mister Gray, but now used by immigrants in

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the winter and for a granary in the summer. It
was situated near the mill pond, and the gristmill was
not far from it. Between the two houses were the
blacksmith shop and the corral, enclosed with slabs set up endways.
The garden lay between the mill and the house, and

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a large field was on the opposite side. A good
sized ditch passed in front of the house, connecting with
the mill pond, intersecting other ditches all around the farm.
For the purpose of irrigating the land. We drove up
and halted near this ditch. Captain Shaw was in the
house con with Missus Whitman. Glancing through the window, he

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saw us and turning to her, said your children have come,
Will you go out and see them? He then came
out and told the boys to help the girls out
and get their bonnets. Alas it was easy to talk
of bonnets, but not to find them, but one or
two were finally discovered by the time Missus Whitman had

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come out. Here was a scene for an artist to describe.
Foremost stood the little cart with the tired oxen that
had been unyoked lying near it. Sitting in the front
end of the cart was John, weeping bitterly. On the
opposite side stood Francis, his arms on the wheel and

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his head resting on his arms, sobbing aloud. On the
nearer side, the little girls were huddled together, bareheaded and barefooted,
looking at the boys and then at the house. Dressed
we knew not what by the oxen stood the good
German doctor, with his whip in his hand, regarding the

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scene with suppressed emotion. Thus Missus Whitman found us. She
was a large, well formed woman, fair complexioned, with beautiful
auburn hair, nose, rather large and large gray eyes. She
had on a dark calico dress and Gingham's sunbonnet. We

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thought as we shyly looked at her that she was
the prettiest woman we had ever seen. She spoke kindly
to us as she came up, but like frightened things,
we ran behind the cart, peeping shyly around at her.
She then addressed the boys, asking why they wept, adding,

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poor boys, no wonder you weep. She then began to
arrange things as we threw them out, at the same
time conversing with an Indian woman sitting on the ground
near by. A little girl about seven years old soon
came and stood regarding us with a timid look. This
was little Helen mar Meek, and though a half breed,

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she looked very pretty to us in her green dress
and white apron and neat sunbonnet. Having arranged everything in
compact form, Missus Whitman directed the doctor and the boys
where to carry them, and told Helen to show the
little girls the way to the house. Seeing my lameness,
she kindly took me by the hand and my little

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sister by the other hand, and thus led us in.
As we reached the steps, Captain Shaw asked if she
had any children of her own, pointing to a grave
at the foot of the hill. Not far off, she said,
all the child I ever had sleeps yonder. She added
that it was a great pleasure to her that she

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could see the grave from the door. The doctor and boys,
having deposited the things as directed, went over to the mansion.
As we entered the house, we saw a girl about
nine years old washing dishes. Missus Whitman spoke cheerfully to
her and said, well, Mary Anne, how do you think

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you will like all these sisters? Seated in her armchair,
she placed the youngest on her lap, and, calling us
around her, asked our names, about our parents and the baby,
often exclaiming, as we told our artless story, poor children.
Doctor Whitman came in from the mill and stood in

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the door, looking as though surprised at the large addition
so suddenly made to the family. We were a sight
calculated to excite surprise, dirty and sun burned, until we
looked more like Indians than white children. Added to this,
John had cropped our hair so that it hung in

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uneven locks, and added to our uncouth appearance. Seeing her
husband standing there, Missus Whitman said, with a laugh, come in,
doctor and see your children. He sat down and tried
to take little Louisa in his arms, but she ran
screaming to me, much to the discomfiture of the doctor

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and amusement of his wife. She then related to him
what we had told her in reference to the baby,
and expressed her fears lest it should die, saying it
was the baby she wanted most of all. Our mother
had asked that we might not be separated. So Captain
Shaw now urged the doctor to take charge of us all.

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He feared the board might object, as he was sent
a missionary to the Indians. The Captain argued that a
missionary's duty was to do good, and we certainly were
objects worthy of missionary charity. He was finally persuaded to
keep us all until spring. His wife did not readily consent,

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but he told her he wanted boys as well as
the girls. Finding the boys willing to stay, he made
a written agreement with Captain Shaw that he would take
charge of them. Before Captain Shaw reached the valley, doctor
Whitman overtook him and told him he was pleased with
the children and he need give himself no further care

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concerning them. The baby was brought over in a few days.
It was very sick, but under Missus Whitman's judicious care
was soon restored to health. Our faithful friend, the German doctor,
left us at last safe in the motherly care of
Missus Whitman. Well had he kept his promise to our

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dying mother and of section one