Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
This noble savage had not resided among the Pawnee, for the ones he saw were beggars living in low, mean huts, but he felt that this was not their fault. They had been contaminated by French traders, but he felt sure that a little farther west, among the Cheyenne, he would find the type he was seeking. He had high hopes for the Cheyenne, having been told that they were tall and straight and possessed of a superior social organization.
Levi Zendt had begun to acquire his misconception, the strangest of all, that rainy afternoon in St. Louis when he first saw the monstrous elephant of the west; it had haunted him for several nights. Tonight, after he finished helping Elly put the two orphaned children to bed, he volunteered for the early watch, and as he studied the prairie he began to see in the heavens a vast form taking shape among the clouds, and the old sense of terror and mystery took possession of him.
“Sergeant Lykes!” he called. “What’s that?”
“Just the elephant ... flicking its tail.”
And as soon as the words were spoken, Levi could see the gigantic animal consuming the heavens, and as from a distance he could hear the ghostly voice of Sergeant Lykes telling of the beast that stalked the prairie, striking terror in the hearts of emigrants: “It’s not like them elephants you see in the circus, no sir. It’s immense. Taller’n most trees, with tusks that curve back like Turkish swords. It has a trunk that switches like a hurricane and a tail that can flick a wagon off’n the trail. Its disposition is mean—my, is it mean—and when he comes at you, you best run, because he has only one thing in mind, to crush you flat.”
Seccombe, hearing voices in the dark, came up to them, and when he heard what they were talking about, contributed his lore: “There’s about forty of the real big ones between here and the mountains. There was one hiding at the Big Blue, threatening us as we tried to cross. And there’s a real monster hiding north of the Pawnee village. But it’s farther west, beyond Fort John, where they congregate.” He allowed his voice to drop, conveying apprehension.
The digging up of mastodon bones, like the ones Dr. Koch had exhibited in St. Louis, had given rise to the mythology of an enormous elephant who roamed the plains, and scores of documents of that period testified to the existence of the beast
Last night, as we prepared to make camp after a long day, a storm came up worse than any we had seen before. Water so thick you couldn’t look through it like to wash us away, and I heard Mr. Stevens say, Well, that time we caught a flick of the elephant’s tail.” And two women told him they would be quite content to complete the journey without seeing any more elephants.
When Levi came back to the fire after his guard duty, Purchas sought him out to mend the rift that had come between them over the children. As he poured a cup of coffee for Levi, he said, “You ever seen the elephant, Dutchman?”
“Yep.”
“Where?”
Levi hesitated, not wishing to share any confidences with Purchas, but in the end he said softly, “I saw him.”
“Where? Come on, where?”
“You know ...”
Purchas scratched his head, trying to decipher what Levi was saying, and something in the Dutchman’s grave manner betrayed the fact that he was thinking of the Big Blue. “Oh, you mean ...” and by tipping his right hand toward the flame, Purchas indicated a wagon upsetting in the river. He said, “Yes, by God, you really did see the elephant.”
And once again Levi felt the despair that had overtaken him at the Blue, when it looked as though Elly would be swept away, and he helpless with the oxen. At that moment he had cried, “She’s gone,” and he had known then how desperately he loved her. Other men, braver than he, had leaped into the flood to rescue her, and in the darkened sky he had seen the brooding elephant that sapped men’s courage.
He went to the Conestoga and looked inside. There Elly slept with her arms about the orphaned children; she seemed the summation of all that men love on earth, and in the darkness he bent down to kiss her, but she was so exhausted from that day’s decisions, she did not waken.
On July 14 the emigrants took upon themselves a new burden, for on this day they reached the point at which the South Platte flowed into the North. There was much argument as to where this happened, for the waterway was so studded with islands and sand bars that any clear definition of either river was impossible; all that could be said was that somewhere in the vicinity two considerable bodies of water joined.
The junction was like no other in North America; for nearly forty miles of two rivers ran side by side, with only a shallow peninsula separating them. After the travelers had marveled at the phenomenon they became aware that in following the South Platte, they were heading in a southwesterly direction, which took them well away from Oregon.
“We’re off course,” Sergeant Lykes finally protested.
“It’s the South Platte,” Purchas agreed. “Heads south to the mountains.”
“We better cross over,” Lykes said. “Follow the North Platte.”
“You pick the spot, sonny,” Purchas suggested, but wherever the emigrants looked for a possible spot to ford the South Platte, they found only steep banks and quicksand.
“What shall we do?” Captain Mercy asked.
“We’ll wander off our course for some days,” Purchas said, “and pray that we find a good place to ford.”
So now as they drove the oxen, the men kept one eye on the Platte. It was a mean, surly river, offering no invitation to cross, and it was luring them farther and farther from their destination.
On July 15 they met strangers who had seen the elephant. No Oregon for them. They were turnarounds, emigrants who had persevered as far west as their courage would allow, but the elephant had flicked its tail, and they were scurrying back to St. Joseph and civilization-six wagonloads, with only nine oxen surviving.
Levi, the member of Captain Mercy’s group who could best appreciate their terror, took one look at the stricken women and said, “I’ll give you my two spare oxen.”
“You’ll hell!” Purchas cried, and he enlisted Captain Mercy’s support to forestall such stupidity. “We’ll need our oxen,” he warned. “Mebbe for food.”
“They’ll perish,” Levi argued, as the defeated ones listened to the debate which might mean their lives.
“Then they’ll perish,” Purchas said coldly. “They have no right to come into this prairie unprovisioned.”
“I’m giving them two oxen,” Levi said, and there was such firmness in his voice that Purchas withdrew, but in a moment he was back with a sensible proposal: “If they’re headed back, let ’em take the two kids.”
Everyone but Elly agreed that this should be done, and preparations were made to transfer the children. But she began to cry and protest, and would not listen to their arguments.
In the end the decision was made by Captain Mercy. “They should go back,” he said, trying to console Elly while Levi carried the two youngsters to the turnarounds.
He delivered them to the apparent leader, then dug into his pants and came up with fifty dollars. Thrusting the money into the hands of the gaunt and weary man, he said, “This money is for the kids. When they get to St. Joe. And if you abuse them in any way, may God strike your pitiful soul.”
“It’ll be for the children,” the man said, and they drove eastward without even thanking Levi for the oxen.
When he returned to the Conestoga, Purchas said, “Did you give them thieves money, too?” Levi nodded, and Sam said, “You know they’ll kill the kids and make off with it.”
“Don’t you trust anybody?” Levi asked.
“Nobody,” Purchas said, “especially not no turnarounds. No character. The kids’ll be dead by nightfall.” Elly heard these words and that night she wrote:
July 15, Monday ... I feel as if my own children had been stolen from me. For as long as my eyes could see I watched the sorrowful wagon
s plodding eastward, taking my son and daughter with them, and when they passed over the final hill and were gone forever I looked about me, and in each direction to the horizon miles away there was nothing, not even a tree or a tall rock, only the road winding to the west, and I felt as if God had deserted me and that I had no friends, no hope, and I think Levi suspected how I felt over the loss of the children, and he was ashamed that he had not sided with me in the argument, and he came to comfort me but I pushed him away, and when night came I felt ashamed, for I remembered how he had given the lost ones his oxen and his money and only because he is such an honorable man, and I went out in the night to find him, but he was wandering somewhere alone, so I came in to write these lines and the gray spots are my tears.
Early on the morning of July 16 Captain Mercy and Sam Purchas rode ahead, determined to locate a likely spot for crossing the South Platte. There was a sense of urgency about their mission, for already the party was much delayed in schedule. According to the wisdom of the prairie, by this date they should have been crossing the Continental Divide, and here they were plodding along, thirteen days short of Fort John, nineteen to reach the Divide. It was frightening, and Purchas, who had seen parties perish in snow, insisted that on this day they had to make their fording.
“How about here?” Mercy said.
“Let’s go in and test the bottom,” Purchas said.
They slipped off their shoes and stockings and waded gingerly into the river, but wherever they stepped the bottom gave way: water eddied under their toes and the gravel washed out. Within moments the water rose from their knees to their waists.
“Whole damned river’s in motion,” Purchas said, and they tested two other spots, with equal results. “Better drive one more day,” Mercy suggested, but Purchas would not hear of it. “Today we go. Time’s wastin’.”
So they compromised on a spot which was not ideal; the crossing was much too wide, at least half a mile, but it did have a fairly solid bottom. “The wagons’ll sink in,” Purchas said, “but if we keep them movin’, we can make it.”
“You satisfied?” Mercy asked.
“Not exactly, but ...”
This was not good enough for the captain and he abruptly left the guide and spurred his horse farther west along the riverbank. It was good that he did so, for at a ford which had been used before, he came upon seven wagons backed up, trying to muster courage to try the crossing. He fired his pistol and Purchas came galloping up.
“Good to see you!” the mountain man cried with unaccustomed warmth to the waiting emigrants. “Trouble?” When they explained that they had already tried to ford once, only to find the bottom giving out beneath them, he was surprisingly congenial. “Wait here. We’ll have our wagons with you before night, and we’ll all get across real easy.”
Alone with Mercy, he explained, “We need them a lot more than they need us,” and the two men galloped back to speed their wagons.
In organizing the crossing Purchas was invaluable, for only he was familiar with the one system that had any chance of working: “You ten men, swim to the other bank with them ropes. Two of you stay in the water about twenty feet from shore, and when a wagon reaches you, lash the ropes to it, and you other eight pull like hell and get the wheels up the slope. You men, harness sixteen oxen to that first wagon. You two fellows, can you swim? Good. You swim with the heads of the lead oxen and keep them movin’ forward. All the rest, back here with me. Now! Shove her into the water. No matter what happens, keep shovin’.”
With appalling suddenness, the wheels sank up to the hubs, but Sam was ready. Lashing the oxen and shouting to the two swimmers, “Keep ’em movin’,” he gathered a group of husky men to grab the spokes of the wheel. “Keep ’em turnin’,” he roared, and with a mighty effort the combined strength of ox and man broke the wagon free of the clutching gravel and got it started across the river.
Oxen bellowed; men cursed; a woman inside the wagon screamed as water rose about her feet; but Sam Purchas kept the wagon moving until the rope men on the other shore could pull it up the steep and muddy bank. The first emigrants were across.
Allowing no one a moment’s rest, for the trick was to keep the oxen working as long as possible, he led the beasts and the men back across the river to the next wagon. Six more times he engineered the passage, until the backed-up wagons were safely across.
“Now ours,” he said. Marshaling all the men, he tried to harness the oxen to the Fisher wagon, but the big beasts had had enough. Without losing patience with them, he told a boy from one of the other wagons, “Let them graze on this side and we’ll save them for the Conestoga.” He summoned Sergeant Lykes and told him, “We’ve got to use your mules.”
“That ain’t easy,” Lykes said.
“Get a turn on the nose of that big black one,” Purchas suggested, and when Lykes had such a grip with his tourniquet as might have wrenched the mule’s head off, he led him into the water and the others followed, dragging the Fisher wagon behind them.
“Can we work it again?” Purchas asked.
“Not with that mule,” Lykes said, “but maybe that other big one.”
This mule proved a lot more difficult, and the men struggled with the Frazier wagon for more than an hour before they could get the mules hitched to it. The mule, which had had its upper lip practically twisted off, was especially mean, and at one point Purchas asked in desperation, “Shall I shoot him!” but Lykes said, “He’s only bein’ a mule.”
At last they got the wagon across, and then they came back bone-weary, both animals and men exhausted, to try the Conestoga. “I think we can get one more trip out of the oxen,” Purchas said, and Captain Mercy, dripping and muddy, asked Elly, “Would you prefer to cross with a horse?” and she said, “Oh, no. This is my wagon,” and she sat inside, guarding the equipment lest it fall overboard.
The oxen, those great and patient animals, moved wearily into position for the last effort. Seccombe and a man from the strangers’ wagons swam from the other shore with extra ropes, then swam back. They looked exhausted, but when they reached land they organized the teams for pulling and stayed in the forefront during the next difficult minutes.
Slowly the huge wagon was let down into the water, where its heavy wheels disappeared in gravel. “Now!” Purchas bellowed, and every man exerted maximum strength while Levi urged the oxen forward. For a moment it looked as if the wagon might stick, irretrievably, but the combined force of the pullers and pushers got it moving, and just as the sun sank, the Conestoga was pulled onto the northern shore. Of this crossing Elly wrote:
July 16, Tuesday ... It was dusk when we finished, and the men, wet and muddy, went to their several wagons and collapsed. Some slept on the ground just as they fell, too exhausted to care for themselves. One of the strangers who swam the river so many times with the ropes vomited for the better part of half an hour with nothing coming up and then fainted. Levi, who swam the oxen across the river sixteen times and the mules four, had nothing to say nor could he eat, but about midnight he did a strange thing. He asked me to put on an old dress and take off my shoes and he led me down to the river and made me go in and duck my head under water and I could hear the river moving sand and gravel and even large rocks along the bottom, and Levi said, “It’s alive and it mighty near trapped us.”
There could be no prolonged rest for the travelers, because the next day they had to hurry across the peninsula between the two rivers and let their wagons down the steep slope at Ash Hollow. When they first saw the hill to be negotiated they felt they had not the strength to accomplish this, but in the end they did.
Once more they handled the strangers’ wagons first, then used those men to help lower the Fisher and Frazier wagons. Finally they got to the Conestoga, but in easing it down, the ropes broke, the wagon rushed ahead and the left rear wheel collapsed. It was completely shattered, and the ten wagons had to lay over a day, with all the men trying to improvise a substitute. In the end the Conestoga wa
s able to limp along.
It was now July 18, and although the Mercy party was two and a half weeks behind schedule, they did have before them a hundred and fifty miles of the finest part of the road. It was level, well packed, free of any obstacles or difficult crossings, and passed through some of the finest scenery in all of North America. To travel this section in midsummer, with the days hot, and the nights bracingly cool, was a spiritual adventure; on some days the exhilarated travelers would do twenty miles, looking in amazement from side to side as new wonders unfolded. Now buffalo were plentiful and steaks chopped out of the hump were more tasty than beef, while a roasted tongue was a delicacy that the women travelers relished. Levi Zendt, thrifty butcher that he was, thought it shameful to kill a two-thousand-pound buffalo and then eat only six pounds of it, casting aside the rest of the carcass as useless, but as Sam Purchas pointed out, “Hell, you could kill five thousand of them critters and not leave a dent. They ain’t like cattle. They’re more like ants, and who cares if he steps on a passel of ants?”
On July 23 the column came in sight of the first great monument of the trail, a pile of whitish rock, standing in such a way as to resemble some dignified building of antiquity. Court House Rock the formation was called, and from a distance it did resemble the massive courthouse of some important city, but each traveler saw in it such comparison as his education permitted. In later years, after the gold rush, it would be fashionable to depict all emigrants as defeated persons, or as people who could not get along back east, or as the scum of our industrial cities, cast out by a society they could not understand and with which they could not cooperate. It may be instructive, therefore, to lift from the diaries of those who passed Court House Rock in summer of 1844 brief passages to show what this particular group of emigrants thought when they saw the impressive monument: