"Hardships of Journey Across Plains in '50"
Tacoma Ledger, April 17, 1904, pg. 10 (COED ID #50BOW02)
Hardships of Journey Across Plains in '50
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Interesting Address Delivered Before the Pierce County Pioneers Association.
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W. J. Bowman of Puyallup Relates Incidents of a Trip by Wagon From Peoria,
Illinois, to the Coast
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At the meeting of the Pierce County Pioneers association in the Ferry museum last Wednesday, an interesting paper descriptive of the journey across the plains over half a century ago, was read by W. J. Bowman, who as a boy of thirteen, made the trip from Peoria, Ill. to Portland in 1850. He settled with his parents on a donation land claim at the mouth of the Cowlitz river and has ever since resided in the West. Mr. Bowman and his wife, who was also a pioneer of the fifties, now live at Puyallup. The paper read by Mr. Bowman is as follows:
On Sunday afternoon, March 5, 1850, my stepfather, with his wife and four children, of whom I, a lad of 13, was one, with two good horses and a specially made wagon, pulled out of the city of Peoria, Ill. bound for Astoria "where rolls the Oregon."
Can any one of you who did not "cross the plains," as we used to call it, have the faintest idea of the heroic courage required to accomplish such a stupendous undertaking? Can anyone reared under the peaceful influence of civilization, in his wildest flights of imagination, conceive the dangers from cruel red men, savage beasts and poisonous reptiles, of the obstacles to be overcome in mountain, stream and desert, of the maddening daily grind through alkali dust and burning sands involved in a journey with a team across an unsettled wilderness, thousands of miles in extent?
I do not think he can. However, the relatives of our family must have had an inkling of the desperate nature of the enterprise, for they used every method but force to dissuade or prevent my parents from the attempt, even going so far as to take the linch pins from the wagon wheels.
Their solicitude was not altogether misplaced, for my mother was so ill she had to be carried from her room to the wagon. Health, indeed, was the real object of the move, our physician having ordered a change of climate and sea air.
Our first drive, a Sabbath day's journey, was six miles to an uncle living on a new farm on Kickapoo creek. Think of it. Deer and wild turkeys were plentiful within two hours walk of Peoria city, and the scream of the locomotive had not disturbed the quietude of those fertile prairies. Not until the building of the little portage road around the cascades of the Columbia or that around the dalles between The Dalles city and Celio somewhere in the early sixties, did I see an iron horse.
The next morning witnessed a sad farewell, for it was realized that there would be no more meetings, for the elders, at least, this side of the grave.
Our first objective point was St. Joseph, Mo., which we reached in good season and without incident excepting that I came near dumping us all into the Mississippi in driving down the bank to the ferry. The horses were on their mettle and I was awkward, which made a bad combination. We rested at St. Joseph and completed our outfit. Four horses were added to the team and provisions and necessaries to last a year were laid in. Again on the Sabbath, the first Sunday in April, just a month from leaving home, we crossed the Missouri river, then the western boundary of civilization, with a splendid outfit and set our faces to the West, that mighty impenetrable, hidden West that held for us we knew not what. Again our Sabbath day's journey was a short one, merely a start, and our first camp was to be a remembered one. I seem to see it to this day. We scarcely had time to picket the horses and drive the tent when a violent storm burst upon us as if by magic. The wind blew in circles and rain and hail came down in floods. Within five minutes only one tent, a round one, of a dozen or more in the encampment, remained standing. A few were literally blown away.
Overtaken by Rainstorms.
Everybody was drenched, and bedding soaked. The sky quickly cleared, however, and we soon had great campfires burning that helped to get things partially to rights before bedtime. The worst feature of the storm was the stampeding of the horses as they broke from their fastenings and ran with the wind. They were not recovered until the next day, and this our first lesson, taught us what might be expected at any time. Indeed, we were overtaken several times by rushing rain and hailstorms, when the team and wagon were turned tail to the wind, and we would detach the horses and hold on to them for dear life while our hands and faces would be beaten black and blue by the hailstorms.
The great bulk of the emigration in 1850 was hauled by ox teams. Horses traveled faster than oxen. If we stayed behind we were continually in the dust, which distressed the horses. If we went ahead we were often without adequate protection as to numbers, for the slower teams were soon distanced. In this way our train seldom numbered as many as eight wagons and many times only three, four, or five, with no others in sight. This of course was a source of constant anxiety to my mother. Though, as her health and strength improved, she became more hopeful. We were well in advance of the travel, so we found the grass good and the buffalo chips for fuel plentiful. The first stages of the journey were made without serious accident or incident. Fort Kearney was passed, and almost before we knew it, Fort Laramie sprang from the plain, and stood like a phantom castle shimmering and glistening like burnished gold in the limped atmosphere of that strange land. The buildings ap! peared right at hand, but night fell and we seemed no nearer. Not until near nightfall the next day did we reach them.
My pioneer friends doubtless remember with what surprising distinctness under certain conditions, objects a great way off would appear to be almost within reach. It was not possible at such times to measure distance by the eye. Many a foolish shot was taken at antelope or wolf and many a futile attempt was made to visit a curious mound, or peak, or landmark that was close by, but receded as you advanced, until in disgust you gave it up. At this post we met the famous scout, Kit Carson, who visited our camp and told us many stories of the plains, and gave us many pointers for our future guidance. At this camp also we came near losing one of our horses. Half a mile away a team was going into camp and the horses were being taken from the wagon when one of them broke away and charged straight down upon us. We could not avoid him. He struck one of our horses at full gallop, knocking him completely under his mate. We thought he was killed, but he came to struggled to his feet and wondered who struck "Billy Patterson." He was able to travel next morning. Seldom was a full days halt taken, my father's theory being to go a little way every day for a change of camp and grass.
In the Buffalo Country
We were now approaching the buffalo ranges, and met hundreds of those shaggy, curious, fierce looking cattle. One evening, while passing along the bank of the Platte, we surprised a small herd cooling themselves in the water. They were scared, but they lowered their heads, charged up the bank and broke through the train. Two huge bull bison brushed the noses of the lead horses and set them wild with fright. Father had a good hold of the lines and I soon had them by the bridles and under control. The ox teams were stampeded, but with no damage excepting an overturned wagon and broken tongue of another. Several shots were sent after the buffalo but all escaped. Many incidents such as this, and scrapes with wolves, and the chase of antelope, elk and deer must be passed over. Material for an exciting narrative could be collected that would make good reading for the person fond of adventure.
Many and varied were the vehicles used in the overland journey, some showing an utter lack of judgment and common sense, such as for instance, a wheelbarrow or two and a two-wheeled push cart that we encountered several hundred miles out. One striking instance in this connection was a passenger train of thirty wagons from St. Louis. Twenty light spring wagons each drawn by four horses and carrying six people and ten heavy wagons carrying provisions, tents, baggage, etc. and drawn by six and eight mules. This ill starred company met with dire disaster before it got away from the two Plattes. They passed us in great glee and with much reckless fun before the line of forts was left behind, but we overtook them at the crossing of the South Platte and they were in the deepest distress. Their light wagons were wrecks. That dread scourge of the plains, cholera, had broken out in their camp and completely destroyed it. They had crossed the river before the destroyer attacked them. We could see those who aware well enough carrying the victims away in blankets and dumping them into shallow holes that the wolves despoiled as soon as darkness fell. In their misery they had neglected their stock, which had been run off by indians and those despicable, worse than indians, the "cultus," white men who live with them. The year 1850 should, I think, be noted in the history of Western emigration as being the most unhealthy. I will not undertake to guess how many people fell victims to hardship and disease-certainly hundreds, and it may be thousands. It seemed to me, as in the case of the St. Louis train that the angel of death hovered over some of the encampments that we passed. In some sections freshly made graves and unsightly excavations that had once held human remains lined the road and peopled the deserts.
Very many of these mounds of the dead I visited and a great majority of the inscriptions read "Pike County, Missouri," or Posey County, Indiana," so that if we heard of one in distress we would say he must be from Pike county or Posey county.
Crossing the River Platte.
Preparations for crossing the Platte, which at this place was a half mile wide, detained us two or three days. The water was quite shallow excepting a deep hole now and then. These places were marked by setting tent poles. Wagon boxes were caulked and used as ferryboats to carry the women, children and provisions, and were propelled to and fro by the men, wading at the sides. The river bottom was sandy and very treacherous, new holes constantly being formed when the sand was disturbed. I rode across with my father in the wagon using four horses. Darkness came before we could reach the other bank. It was a close call from drowning, and we lost the way and the team plunged into swimming water. Father held the horses steady. The leaders could see the shore, and floundering and swimming by turns, finally dragged us out, but we were an anxious as well as a wet lot. One light wagon with two old people did turn over, but no one was lost.
Our course now led us up the Loupe fork and the Sweetwater rivers and by the South pass over the Rocky mountains. What a wonderful chain they appeared, rising sheer out of the distant plain like a gigantic wall across our way. Their rugged masses have made a lasting impression upon my memory. But few Indians were met with excepting on rare occasions. A number of picturesque and gaudily dressed and painted hunting parties had crossed our path but they had treated us with indifference. Sneaks had given us a lot of trouble. Our first surprise came when we met a very large war party of Blackfeet returning from a victorious raid against the Snake tribe. They were armed with bows and arrows and spears and mounted on good ponies. Rude and saucy they were, but did not offer us any material injury. They halted the train and levied contributions of tobacco, matches and clothing, etc. to which our people grudgingly responded to, but drew the line at provisions. At this refusal they became noisy and threatening waving their lances, decorated with the scalps of their victims, in our faces, and demanding something to eat. Hastily, but reluctantly we gave them all that the train had cooked. Jabbing their spears and arrows into the loaves, biscuits and pieces of bread and meat and waving them over their heads with a bloodcurdling war hoop they dashed away across the plain. A trapper told us there were 500 warriors in the band and that they had captured a Snake village with many squaws and papooses and 800 or 900 ponies. I think this is true, for I recollect distinctly of seeing a large band of Indians and ponies passing some distance out on the plain. When they were gone fervent prayers were offered for our wonderful escape.
Indians in Ambush.
There was, really, the gravest danger when no Indians were to be seen. Then they were hiding in ambush. I will give one instance to illustrate my meaning. We were just entering a deep defile with great cliffs on either side, when near the top I noticed a peculiar stone with a hole in it. I pointed it out to the men, when instantly from the boulders all about us swarmed a horde of nearly naked savages, of the miserable, cowardly, treacherous Shoshone or Root-Digger tribe. My stone with a hole in it was an indian leaning his head on his hand. If the entire train had passed into the george before we had discovered them we could only guess what they would have done. We had been steadily and patiently, though slowly crawling up the long eastern slope toward the South pass and pitched our camp on the summit. My, but it was cold; but the scenic effect, the rugged grandeur, the splendid brilliancy of the sunset and the actual sunrise were beyond description, at least for a ! boy from an Illinois prairie. But we hurried on, and descending the western slope entered upon the real trials of the trip. The desert wastes and the badlands were before us.
A picturesque incident occurred a few days later, when we came to the "grand divide" as we called the branching off of the road to California. There were seven wagons in the train at this time. Four mule teams with men bound for the gold fields of California and three horse teams with families going to Oregon and 640 acres of land. The train was drawn up abreast in line and an earnest discussion held. The question was, "Shall all go one way?" Our company was already dangerously small. To divide appeared suicidal. but the families wanted homes, yet they would not object to gold, while the miners sneered at land, gold alone being good enough for them. If I had a painting of that scene money would hardly buy it. But the parting came. The firm clap of the hand, the fervent "God bless and protect you," the tear stealing down the cheek attest the gravity of the decision. Then each little band, with a lump in its throats, turned to the task before it. It was hours before the dust-stained wagon covers sank below the horizon, but we could see the smoke of their campfire, and that was the last.
Hardships of the Deserts.
The grass was falling, the water adulterated with alkali. Cattle began to die. It was pathetic to see the poor beasts struggling along in the heat and dust suffering from want of water, their tongues thrust out and their eyes bloodshot, and dragging after them wagons that were saying blank things to the drivers at every turn in the road. Our supply of fat meat was rapidly disappearing. Great demands were made on it as a remedy for alkali poisoning of stock. Our horses grew very fond of it. One of our wheel horses, a splendid big black animal, named Black Prince, our mainstay, was not feeling well one morning and he nearly bit my hand off as I administered his favorite medicine, a generous slice of fat bacon.
There was but little sickness at this time in our train. My mother, though a slight little body, had recovered her health, and with health, courage and fortitude. She had the heroism of a Trojan. She had started for Oregon and was determined to get there, and incidentally to take the rest of us with her. The health of her family and, indeed, much of that of the entire train, was due to her foresight. She would not let us drink water without first boiling and purifying it. I believe she saved more than one life by her ability as a nurse. Traversing this part of the wilderness was desperately wearisome-men got so tired that it seemed almost impossible to lift one foot ahead of the other. I felt that most of the time I was in some sort of stupor. I was dazed. Life seemed unnatural. My father and I were half dead from the fatigue and loss of sleep. The horses must be guarded constantly from the thieving Indians and to keep them from wandering away from camp. Many a time after a weary days march they had to be taken several miles off to one side to find grass for their supper. We would herd them well into the night, then take them to camp and picket them. Often we would fix on a fine grassy place to stop and find to our disgust that it was so saturated with alkali that the horses would not dare to eat it and so we must move on.
The cattleman would not help us. It was every man for himself, excepting as to the Indians. Indeed men's souls were tried to the breaking. Their cattle when unyoked would quietly graze nearby, then lie down to rest. Taken, all in all, I am inclined to think that the old "Shaw, Buck, and gee Bright" team is the most reliable for that work. Anyway, the teamsters ordinarily could rest at night. I have been so overcome with loss of sleep that on any opportunity I would tumble down in the shade of the wagon and be actually sound asleep before I struck the ground. If a rattler was there first he had to take his chances. Now, my friends, those of you who have been there know whereof I speak and know that the tale has not been well told. I have been speaking of the men.
Heroism of the Women.
Now, what shall I say of the women, those heroic, self-denying souls who, through it all, stood beside husband, father, son and brother, encouraging them in their distress, ministering to them in sickness? They were helpful to the last degree. I fail in the attempt to do them justice. I can say this, though, that wherever and whenever man has undertaken a work that has required all his powers to accomplish, dangerous or otherwise, woman has been at his side and rendered loving, unselfish and valuable assistance.
Another disquieting occurrence was at the Salmon falls of the Snake river. Here we reveled in fresh salmon, or at least we thought we were going to. I had met a young Indian just before noon with a fine fish and at once entered into negotiations for it, which resulted in mutual satisfaction. He had no shirt, nor much of anything else, but did have fish.
I had a shirt and several other things but no salmon. He wanted the shirt; I wanted the fish. The diplomacy was to the point. "How swap" settled it, and I marched proudly into camp, which had been pitched at the edge of the falls, with it.
My coat was buttoned up to my chin and as the day was tropical this caused some comment, and later a good deal of merriment. All the families had fish by this time, as a small party of Snakes were catching them. Soon every frying pan in the company was sputtering busily over the fires. Then there came visitors to the feast unbidden, you may believe, but very hungry. Indians variously armed flocked from across the river, squatted around the fires and with their knives and arrows fished the fish from the pans and hungrily ate it, savagely threatening the women because they could not or would not cook fast enough.
There were about 100 of them. A war chief headed the party. He was a very imposing personage, feathers in his scalp lock, beaded leggings and moccasins and a rich beaver-fur robe reaching nearly to the ground, the bottom fringed with the tail of some small animal. The Indians became bolder and more insolent, the smallness of our company inviting any kind of insult.
Father was out with the horses. Mother had retreated to the wagon. The savages now began to search for firearms and powder, but our men nine in number had secured their rifles and pistols and were anxiously awaiting the course of events. The Indians began throwing the contents of the wagons to the ground. Mother attempted to bar the entrance to ours, but they bundled her out too. Father came in, and serious trouble was beginning, when in the nick of time the United States express with a cavalry escort from Fort Dalles appeared on the crest of a hill a mile away and bore down on us. The Indians hurriedly slunk away. The soldiers remained with us until we were well on our way again, and so ended the feast of fishes without loaves, and minus the fish, too.
The Bad Lands is a distinctly desolate and uncanny country, inhabited by evil genii and "cultus," Root-Digger Indians, horned toads, lizards and rattlesnakes. The ground rumbles and give out hollow and mysterious sounds as you pass over it, is of volcanic structure and is traversed by fissures and crevasses that seem to be fathomless. One I tested by standing astride it and dropping down a stone. The pebble bounded from side to side until it went out of hearing. The stock was wrought up to a high tension, so that the report of a gun or the sudden barking of a dog would startle the cattle and the poor brutes would throw up their heads and run like buffalo. I will cite an instance. One hot afternoon we overtook an ox train of a dozen wagons. We turned out to one side to pass it, when one of their dogs dashed at the horses, barking furiously. Instantly the oxen started on the run, and that team scared the next one and so on. The entire train was soon running. The! half dead cattle were simply transformed into wild beasts. It was indeed desperate. We even had to watch the water. One day I was walking a little way behind the wagon, when someone called out that ahead there was a stream to cross. I hurried to catch up. A pretty spring bubbled out of the ground by the roadside and I plunged my face into it, but I sprang up in surprise. The water was almost scalding hot and I was ready exclaim with the poor German: "Drive on, shon; hell is not a mile from dis place."
Nearer Journey's End
Every day, however, brought us a little nearer the end of our journey, and we went into camp in the Grande Ronde valley, at the foot of the Blue mountains, near a village of the Cayuse tribe, the finest, friendliest Indians we had met. But our intercourse was doomed to be as unfortunate as with others. An old warrior with two daughters rode up to the wagon. Father pointed to one of the young squaws and then at mother and remarked, "How swap." Mr. Indian, I don't know his other name, took him up instanter and father had to call on the company man to prevent the old fellow from trading anyhow. However, father traded one of his jaded team horses for one of the famous Cayuse ponies.
Our ample supply of provisions had by this time disappeared. My father had given so much of his store to the unfortunates that my mother told him one morning that our provisions would not last until we reached Fort Dalles. Indeed, the flour was all gone. Sugar, rice, salt, a little hardtack and a small side of bacon was all that was left. The distress among the emigrants was so great that messengers had been sent ahead to the fort and news came that a government supply train would meet us at the western foot of the Blue mountains with free provisions. In the meantime some vegetables had been obtained from the Indians. After a heroic struggle in crossing these mountains we found the supply train as reported. But as to being free, father paid $50 for fifty pounds of flour and $1 a pound for everything else we had to have. The destitute were given food free, but this was not all. A very serious misfortune befell us. Our Black Prince fell dead lame with a gravel in his foot and his mate, Jim, was stolen. The gravel was found and taken out, but we never found Jim. Prince soon got well enough to travel. The wagon though had to be left behind. That is, father left it. One of our fellow travelers left his and took ours. For hundreds of miles the road was strewn with all sorts of plunder.
A place was found for mother and a couple of the little ones in friendly wagons. The most necessary things were packed on the horses and the rest of us trudged along on foot, riding when opportunity offered. This was a sorry time. Arriving at The Dalles about the 15th of September we sold our horses at the garrison. Black Prince going to the commandant for $60. In a few months he brought his owner $360. A large flatboat built by our people and filled with travel stained emigrants, took us to the Cascade falls. There the Nez Perces and Cayuse were holding a great council. Their antics as they danced about the huge bonfires at night with their warlike costumes and savage faces filled us with wonder and surprise with a little fear mixed with it.
Down the Columbia.
A couple of runaway sailors with a stolen ship's boat took us to Portland, then an insignificant village. We went ashore after dark, leaving our plunder at the waters edge, excepting the bedding. Here we were first introduced to the tides, for in a couple of hours I went down to get some utensils and was astonished to find everything covered with water.
How thankful and happy we were to see once more a civilized community , and even this one would have to be taken with a liberal allowance if compared with the present. We did not try to go to Astoria. A couple of men from the Cowlitz valley, Wm. Carroll and Orlando George by name, happened to be at Portland. My mother had known Mr. Carroll "back in the states" and this was a happy surprise. If we would go to the Cowlitz to settle they would take us free of charge, they said. They had a large scow and so had plenty of room. And so with another family named Ward we were landed at the mouth of the Cowlitz river on the 24th day of October six and one half months from Peoria city. We found our donation land claim of 640 acres, to which we added later on. How we lived through that early period, the scarcity of provisions at times (boiled wheat, potatoes, and salmon); felled the forest and built our log cabins and outbuildings, exterminated the bear and cougar, held back the red man and laid the foundations of this great commonwealth would take another chapter to tell. In conclusion, I will say that a little way above the mouth of the Cowlitz river from our camp, had come the year before a family by the name of Stone. Mr. Nathaniel Stone (You will see his name in the chronicles of the early pioneers.) had a patch of potatoes, and the first back ache I acquired in this glorious wilderness was in digging them out. Mr. Stone, however, had another possession that interested me much more than potatoes, a little daughter. I will not say how old she was because that might be abusing a confidence, but she can speak for herself. She is here today under an assumed name, I may say. But the name she assumed, part of it anyway, is much like my own, and she has faithfully stood by me more than a third of a century and knows how to build a state.
Transcribed by Dennis Larsen, Olympia, Wa. March 13, 2005
Warren's family that crossed the plains in 1850:
- Taylor L. Rue [1810-1880] was Warren's step father.
- Mary Ann Bowman Rue [b. Peoria, Ill ? -d.12/25/1852] was Warren's mother. She married Taylor L. Rue 5/9/1841.
- Warren J. Bowman [b. in Peoria, Illinois 11/25/1837, d.at Puyallup, Wa. 03/05/1917, buried in the Sumner, Wa.] He married Olive S. Stone [12/15/1845 to 10/23/1925] in Jan 1874 in Cowlitz Co., Wa. In 1850 Olive was not yet five years old when thirteen year old Warren dug those potatoes.
- Edward Bowman [b.1840-?] was Warren's brother. He was 10 years old when the family crossed the plains.
- Taylor C. Rue [b. in Peoria, Illinois 06/05/1844, d. in Menlo, Wa. 02/25/1895, buried in Menlo,Wa.] was Warren's half brother. He had his sixth birthday while crossing the plains. He married Ellen [Nellie] J. Wallace on July 3, 1873 in Cowlitz Co. Wa.
- Annie Rue [b. in Peoria, Illinois 4/2/1846, d. in Newaukum, Wa. 9/2/1927, buried in Claquato, Wa.] was Warren's half sister. She was 4 years old when the family crossed the plains. She married Hiram C. Shorey on December 23, 1875 in Cowlitz Co. Wa..
A partial history of Warren and his family may be found in the Shorey papers, copies of which are in both the Lewis County Historical Museum in Chehalis, Wa. and in the Shorey Family History center in Litchfield, Maine.
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Submitted by: Dennis Larsen on 27 Mar 2005.