University of Virginia Library

16. XVI.
HURRAH FOR THE ROAD!

Time, Wednesday afternoon, February 10. The
Overland Stage, Mr. William Glover on the box,
stands before the veranda of the Salt Lake House.
The genial Nat Stein is arranging the way-bill.
Our baggage (the overland passenger is only allowed
twenty-five pounds) is being put aboard, and we
are shaking hands, at a rate altogether furious, with
Mormon and Gentile. Among the former are brothers
Stenhouse, Caine, Clawson and Townsend; and
among the latter are Harry Riccard, the big-hearted
English mountaineer (though once he wore white
kids and swallow-tails in Regent street, and in his
boyhood went to school to Miss Edgeworth, the
novelist); the daring explorer Rood, from Wisconsin;
the Rev. James McCormick, missionary who
distributes pasteboard tracts among the Bannock
miners; and the pleasing child of gore, Capt. D. B.
Stover, of the Commissary department.

We go away on wheels, but the deep snow compels
us to substitute runners twelve miles out.

There are four passengers of us. We pierce the
Wahsatch mountains by Parley's canon.

A snow storm overtakes us as the might thickens,
and the wind shrieks like a brigade of strong-lunged
maniacs. Never mind. We are well covered
up—our cigars are good—I have on deerskin pantaloons,
a deerskin overcoat, a beaver cap and buffalo
overshoes; and so, as I tersely observed before,
Never mind. Let us laugh the winds to scorn, brave
boys! But why is William Glover, driver, lying
flat on his back by the roadside, and why am I turning
a handspring in the road, and why are the
horses tearing wildly down the Washatch mountains?
It is because William Glover has been
thrown from his seat, & the horses are running
away. I see him fall off, and it occurs to me that I
had better get out. In doing so, such is the velocity
of the sleigh, I turn a handspring.

Far ahead I hear the runners clash with the rocks
and I see Dr. Hingston's lantern (he always would
have a lantern) bobbing about like the binnacle

light of an oyster sloop, very loose in a chopping
sea. Therefore I do not laugh the winds to scorn
as much as I did, brave boys.

William G. is not hurt, and together we trudge
on after the runaways in the hope of overtaking
them, which we do some two miles off. They are
in a snowbank, and “nobody hurt.”

We are soon on the road again, all serene;
though I believe the doctor did observe that such a
thing could not have occurred under a monarchical
form of government.

We reach Weber station, thirty miles from Salt
Lake City, and wildly situated at the foot of the
grand Echo Canon, at 3 o'clock the following
morning. We remain over a day here with James
Bromley, agent of the Overland Stage line, and who
is better known on the plains than Shakspeare is;
although Shakspeare has done a good deal for the
stage. James Bromley has seen the Overland line
grow up from its ponyicy; and as Fitz-Green Halleck
happily observes, none know him but to like his
style. He was intended for an agent. In his infancy
he used to lisp the refrain,

I part with this kind-hearted gentleman, to whose
industry and ability the Overland line owes much
of its success, with sincere regret; and I hope he
will soon get rich enough to transplant his charming
wife from the Desert to the “White Settlements.”

Forward to Fort Bridger, in an open sleigh.
Night clear, cold, and moonlit. Driver Mr. Samuel
Smart. Through Echo Canon to Hanging Rock
Station. The snow is very deep, there is no path,
and we literally shovel our way to Robert Pollock's
station, which we achieve in the Course of Time.
Mr. P. gets up and kindles a fire, and a snowy
nightcap and a pair of very bright black eyes beam
upon us from the bed. That is Mrs. Robert Pollock.
The log cabin is a comfortable one. I make
coffee in my French coffee-pot, and let loose some
of the roast chickens in my basket. (Tired of fried
bacon and saleratus bread,—the principal bill of fare
at the stations,—we had supplied ourselves with
chicken, boiled ham, onions, sausages, sea-bread,
canned butter, cheese, honey, &c. &c., an example

all Overland traders would do well to follow.) Mrs.
Pollock tells me where I can find cream for the cof
fee, and cups and saucers for the same, and appears
so kind, that I regret our stay is so limited that we
can't see more of her.

On to Yellow Creek Station. Then Needle Rock
—a desolate hut on the Desert, house and barn in
one building. The station-keeper is a miserable,
toothless wretch with shaggy yellow hair, but says
he's going to get married. I think I see him.

To Bear River. A pleasant Mormon named
Myers keeps this station, and he gives us a first-rate
breakfast. Robert Curtis takes the reins from Mr.
Smart here, and we get on to wheels again. Begin
to see groups of trees—a new sight to us.

Pass Quaking Asp Springs and Muddy to Fort
Bridger. Here are a group of white buildings,
built round a plaza, across the middle of which runs
a creek. There are a few hundred troops here under
the command of Major Gallagher, a gallant
officer and a gentleman, well worth knowing. We
stay here two days.

We are on the road again, Sunday the 14th, with

a driver of the highly floral name of Primrose. At
7 the next morning we reach Green River Station,
and enter Idaho territory. This is the Bitter Creek
division of the Overland route, of which we had
heard so many unfavorable stories. The division is
really well managed by Mr. Stewart, though the
country through which it stretches is the most
wretched I ever saw. The water is liquid alkali,
and the roads are soft sand. The snow is gone now,
and the dust is thick and blinding. So drearily,
wearily we drag onward.

We reach the summit of the Rocky Mountains
at midnight on the 17th. The climate changes suddenly,
and the cold is intense. We resume runners,
have a break-down, and are forced to walk four
miles.

I remember that one of the numerous reasons
urged in favor of General Fremont's election to
the Presidency in 1856, was his finding the path
across the Rocky Mountains. Credit is certainly
due that gallant explorer in this regard; but it occurred
to me, as I wrung my frost-bitten hands on
that dreadful night, that for me to deliberately go

over that path in mid-winter was a sufficient reason
for my election to any lunatic asylum, by an overwhelming
vote. Dr. Hingston made a similar
remark, and wondered if he should ever clink
glasses with his friend Lord Palmerston again.

Another sensation. Not comic this time. One
of our passengers, a fair-haired German boy, whose
sweet ways had quite won us all, sank on the
snow, and said—Let me sleep. We knew only too
well what that meant, and tried hard to rouse him.
It was in vain. Let me sleep, he said. And so in
the cold starlight he died. We took him up tenderly
from the snow, and bore him to the sleigh that
awaited us by the roadside, some two miles away.
The new moon was shining now, and the smile on
the sweet white face told how painlessly the poor
boy had died. No one knew him. He was from
the Bannock mines, was ill clad, had no baggage or
money, and his fare was paid to Denver. He had
said that he was going back to Germany. That
was all we knew. So at sunrise the next morning
we buried him at the foot of the grand mountains
that are snow-covered and icy all the year round,

far away from the Faderland, where, it may be,
some poor mother is crying for her darling who
will not come.

We strike the North Platte on the 18th. The
fare at the stations is daily improving, and we often
have antelope steaks now. They tell us of eggs
not far off, and we encourage (by a process not
wholly unconnected with bottles) the drivers to
keep their mules in motion.

Antelope by the thousand can be seen racing the
plains from the coach-windows.

At Elk Mountain we encounter a religious driver
named Edward Whitney, who never swears at the
mules. This has made him distinguished all over
the plains. This pious driver tried to convert the
Doctor, but I am mortified to say that his efforts were
not crowned with success. Fort Halleck is a mile
from Elk, and here are some troops of the Ohio
11th regiment, under the command of Major Thomas
L. Mackey.

On the 20th we reach Rocky Thomas's justly
celebrated station at 5 in the morning, and have

a breakfast of hashed black-tailed deer, antelope
steaks, ham, boiled bear, honey, eggs, coffee, tea,
and cream. That was the squarest meal on the
road except at Weber. Mr. Thomas is a Baltimore
“slosher,” he informed me. I don't know what
that is, but he is a good fellow, and gave us a breakfast
fit for a lord, emperor, czar, count, etc. A
better couldn't be found at Delmonico's or Parker's.
He pressed me to linger with him a few days and
shoot bears. It was with several pangs that I
declined the generous Baltimorean's invitation.

To Virginia Dale. Weather clear and bright.
Virginia Dale is a pretty spot, as it ought to be
with such a pretty name; but I treated with no
little scorn the advice of a hunter I met there, who
told me to give up “literatoor,” form a matrimonial
alliance with some squaws, and “settle down thar.”

Bannock on the brain! That is what is the
matter now. Wagon-load after wagon-load of emigrants,
bound to the new Idaho gold regions, meet
us every hour. Canvas-covered and drawn for the
most part by fine large mules, they make a pleasant
panorama, as they stretch slowly over the plains and

uplands. We strike the South Platte Sunday, the
21st, and breakfast at Latham, a station of one-horse
proportions. We are now in Colorado (“Pike's
Peak”), and we diverge from the main route here
and visit the flourishing and beautiful city of Denver.
Messrs. Langrish & Dougherty, who have so
long and so admirably catered to the amusementlovers
of the Far West, kindly withdraw their dramatic
corps for a night, and allow me to use their
pretty little theatre.

We go to the Mountains from Denver, visiting
the celebrated gold-mining towns of Black Hawk
and Central City. I leave this queen of all the
territories, quite firmly believing that its future is to
be no less brilliant than its past has been.

I had almost forgotten to mention that on the
way from Latham to Denver Dr. Hingston and Dr.
Seaton (late a highly admired physician and surgeon
in Kentucky, and now a prosperous gold-miner)
had a learned discussion as to the formation of the
membranes of the human stomach, in which they
used words that were over a foot long by actual
measurement. I never heard such splendid words

in my life; but such was their grandiloquent profundity,
and their far-reaching lucidity, that I understood
rather less about it when they had finished
than I did when they commenced.

Back to Latham again over a marshy road, and
on to Nebraska by the main stage-line.

I met Col. Chivington, commander of the District
of Colorado, at Latham.

Col. Chivington is a Methodist clergyman, and
was once a Presiding Elder. A thoroughly earnest
man, an eloquent preacher, a sincere believer in the
war, he of course brings to his new position a
great deal of enthusiasm. This, with his natural
military tact, makes him an officer of rare ability;
and on more occasions than one, he has led his
troops against the enemy with resistless skill and
gallantry. I take the liberty of calling the President's
attention to the fact that this brave man
ought to have long ago been a Brigadier-general.

There is, however, a little story about Col. Chivington
that I must tell. It involves the use of a
little blank profanity, but the story world be

spoiled without it; and, as in this case, “nothing
was meant by it,” no great harm can be done. I
rarely stain my pages with even mild profanity. It
is wicked in the first place, and not funny in the
second. I ask the boon of being occasionally stupid;
but I could never see the fun of being impious.

Col. Chivington vanquished the rebels, with his
brave Colorado troops, in New Mexico last year, as
most people know. At the commencement of the
action, which was hotly contested, a shell from the
enemy exploded near him, tearing up the ground,
and causing Capt. Rogers to swear in an awful
manner.

“Captain Rogers,” said the Colonel, “gentlemen
do not swear on a solemn occasion like this. We
may fall, but, falling in a glorious cause, let us die
as Christians, not as rowdies, with oaths upon our
lips. Captain Rogers, let us——”

Another shell, a springhtler one than its predecessor,
tears the earth fearfully in the immediate
vicinity of Col. Chivington, filling his eyes with
dirt, and knocking off his hat.

“Why, G—— d—— their souls to h——,” he

roared, “they've put my eyes out—as Captain
Rogers would say!”

But the Colonel's eyes were not seriously
damaged, and he went in. Went in, only to come
out victorious.

We reach Julesberg, Colorado, the 1st of March.
We are in the country of the Sioux Indians now,
and encounter them by the hundred. A Chief
offers to sell me his daughter (a fair young Indian
maiden) for six dollars and two quarts of whiskey.
I decline to trade.

Meals which have hitherto been $1.00 each, are
now 75 cents. Eggs appear on the table occasionally,
and we hear of chickens further on. Nine
miles from here we enter Nebraska territory. Here
is occasionally a fenced farm, and the ranches have
bar-rooms. Buffalo skins and buffalo tongues are
for sale at most of the stations. We reach South
Platte on the 2d, and Fort Kearney on the 3d.
The 7th Iowa Cavalry are here, under the command
of Major Wood. At Cottonwood, a day's ride
back, we had taken aboard Major O'Brien, commanding

the troops there, and a very jovial warrior
he is, too.

Meals are now down to 50 cents, and a great deal
better than when they were $1.00.

Kansas, 105 miles from Atchison. Atchison!
No traveller by sea ever longed to set his foot on
shore as we longed to reach the end of our dreary
coach-ride over the wildest part of the whole continent.
How we talked Atchison, and dreamed
Atchison for the next fifty hours! Atchison, I shall
always love you. You were evidently mistaken,
Atchison, when you told me that in case I “lectured”
there, immense crowds would throng to the
hall; but you are very dear to me. Let me kiss
you for your maternal parent!

We are passing through the reservation of the
Otoe Indians, who long ago washed the war-paint
from their faces, buried the tomahawk, and settled
down into quiet, prosperous farmers.

We rattle leisurely into Atchison on a Sunday
evening. Lights gleam in the windows of milk-white
churches, and they tell us, far better than

anything else could, that we are back to civilization
again.

An overland journey in winter is a better thing
to have done than to do. In the spring, however,
when the grass is green on the great prairies, I
fancy one might make the journey a pleasant one,
with his own outfit and a few choice friends.