Whitman in Washington. His Conference with President Tyler and Secretary Webster and the Secretary of War. Visits New York and the American Board, Boston. His Return to the Frontier and to Oregon.

The exact date of Whitman's arrival at the national capital can be determined only from letters, but was probably on March 3, 1843, the day before the close of Congress, when, as usual, there was hurry and confusion. But it matters little for our purposes, for we have seen that the "Oregon boundary question had been up," and as usual had been ignored, and only the disputed lines upon a few thousand acres up in Maine had been adjudicated, while the Oregon boundary line was left in its old place, "up against the Rocky Mountains," as Senator Benton expressed it, "the natural, convenient, and everlasting boundary of the United States!" So Whitman had only to meet the President and his officials and individual members to press the claims of Oregon.

Washington in that day was not the beautiful city now seen, and its manners and customs were wholly different. It was before the day of enterprising newspaper work. McCullough and Halstead had not then introduced the modern methods of "the interview" in daily journals, or we should not now have to depend upon meager details and verbal messages to tell of this thrilling episode in American history. But it requires no imagination to believe that this heroic pioneer, dressed in the garb of the plains, attracted full attention. No man better knew the opinions of statesmen regarding Oregon, and we may well believe he felt, modest man as he was, appalled at the magnitude of the work before him. But with such a man we can believe there was no loitering for preparation. Fortunately the Secretary of War was an old school fellow of Whitman's and arranged for a speedy conference with the President and his Secretary of State, Webster, the latter the well-known active enemy of Oregon. Nothing is more discouraging to a writer than just such an occasion when giants meet in combat, and to be unable to report the words and acts of the actors, except from scrappy notes and verbal reports. Whitman never left any written record of that great discussion, for he never wrote a note in his life for the purpose of exalting himself in public estimation.

For the story of the great ride we are wholly dependent upon General Lovejoy's notes and utterances. And upon the return journey to Oregon, and during the long rides, the General says, "Whitman told me over and over all that was said and done," in that notable conference at Washington. Along the same lines we have the testimony of a score of his associates and co-workers in Oregon, to whom he was in duty bound to make full report, for they were parties in interest. So from such sources we glean our facts, and in their true spirit and meaning can rest upon them with much confidence, even if not so satisfactory, as if written down at the time.

The characters are before us, they had met in consultation—Marcus Whitman, the man with frosted hands and feet, dressed in furs and buckskin, who had so loved his country that he had braved the winter storms, and over unknown ways, without pay or hoped-for honors or rewards, had come four thousand five hundred miles to plead for Oregon to be placed under the flag. There was the President, the nation's chief; John Tyler, dignified, clear-eyed, honest, earnest, and as he proved, sympathetic and anxious to do his whole duty to the nation; and there was Daniel Webster, known the nation over as "the Great Orator," and "the brainy, far-seeing statesman," who was in this case all out of sympathy with Oregon. He had repeatedly marked its "worthlessness"; he was in full accord with those who had declared "it would endanger the republic," "was nearer Asia than the United States," and, we may add, that it was fully stated, he was at that very time actively negotiating the trade of Oregon for the Newfoundland fishing banks.

Such, tersely, is a vague pen-picture of three men who met and made history in the executive chamber, noonday, the 5th of March, 1843! The picture is worthy of the skilled brush of some master artist, instead of the poor words of the writer. It matters not if their work failed to be conclusive, it was but forging a link in the golden chain of the nation's grandeur, which had it been severed, no imagination can measure the calamity that would have resulted.

It is the pride of the whole loyal people that the humblest citizen with something important to say may have audience with the nation's chief official. President John Tyler was no exception, and when notified of Whitman's wishes by Secretary of War Porter, he arranged to give him audience without delay. The President was, every day and hour, importuned to meet men, who came to beg for office or honors or emoluments of some kind, but as he learned from Secretary Porter, this man from Oregon was not of that kind he was curiously anxious to meet him. As we have stated, we make no effort to report speeches. It is well known that "the Silent Man" when aroused was strong and eloquent. Upon that long journey, with the weight and importance of his mission pressing upon him, my readers can well believe that Whitman's words were strong and true and impressive. As he told it to his friends, he dwelt upon the marvelous fertility of the soil, and the great crops of grain and fruits his fields and gardens and orchards had produced for six years; how stock ranged the pastures, fat the year round, without protection or feed from barns. He told of the magnificent forests, not equaled in other portions of the world, of the undoubted mineral riches in mountains, of the pure water in springs, flowing rivers navigable for the greatest ships, and of the inviting, balmy, healthful climate. Who could describe better than Whitman the grandeur of the Oregon country, destined, as he hoped, "for millions of American people!" It was then that the keen Webster made the remark, but "Doctor, how can you ever make a wagon-road for American immigration to Oregon?" and received the prompt reply, "There, Mr. Secretary, you have been deceived and misinformed. There is a wagon-road to Oregon now, and I made it and took a wagon over it six years ago, and it is there to-day!" That is the triumph of the old wagon turned into a cart with its front wheels lashed to its sides. The patient, good little wife, in the years before, was sorrowing over the labors of her husband in his hard work, and mourned through many pages of her diary, as we have seen, over the folly of hauling along "the old wagon." She was not permitted to look into the future and hear how the Indian boys' "Old Click-Click-Clackety-Clackety" would strike dumb the nation's greatest orator. Nor is it at all likely that Whitman himself ever dreamed of such results. He simply obeyed a silent voice within, as was his rule of life, and old "Click," amid trials and perils never half told, rolled on, and made history.

Whitman referred also to the current rumors, of the purpose of "trading Oregon for the Newfoundland fishing banks," and said, "Mr. President, you had far better trade all New England than Oregon for the fishing banks!" This was a hard blow at the great secretary, who was as much wrapped up in New England as New England was in him. He referred to the treaty of 1818-1828, and "its understood meaning in Oregon, that whichever of the two nations settled Oregon should own and hold it"; he said, all I ask is, that you make no barter of Oregon until we can settle loyal Americans there in numbers sufficient to hold that which is their own. I hope to help lead such a band this summer, a group already gathering upon the Missouri, worthy of your consideration and protection. I do not here pretend to give the exact words of Whitman, for reasons stated, but they are truthful to the spirit, as verified by scores of men, to whom all the scenes were related, and whose veracity cannot be doubted. Dr. Spalding says:

"Whitman concluded his address by saying, 'Mr. President, all that remains for me to say is, to ask, that you will not barter any of Oregon or allow English interference, until I can lead a band of stalwart American settlers across the plains, which I hope and expect to do.' To this President Tyler, deeply impressed, promptly and positively replied, 'Dr. Whitman, your long ride and frosted limbs speak of your courage and patriotism, and your missionary credentials are good vouchers for your character,' and he unhesitatingly granted his simple requests."

Whitman then held a long conference with the Secretary of War, and agreed that he at an early a date as possible would prepare an act which could be laid before Congress, covering the important points in the territorial organization of Oregon, and also a second article upon the strategic points along the immigrant route, where forts, resting places and protection could be vouchsafed. Both these important documents were written by Whitman during the summer, and are to be found in the archives of the war department in Washington, and can be read in the Appendix to my larger work, "How Marcus Whitman Saved Oregon." He held conference with many members of Congress, and felt that his work at the national capital was ended.

Whitman was not a man to loiter, and we next hear of him closeted with the staunch friend of Oregon, Horace Greeley of the New York Tribune. Greeley knew and admired a heroic character, and he highly complimented Whitman and his work in the Tribune. He proceeded to Boston to report to the American Board, to receive any reprimand for violation of rules and to transact minor affairs of the missions in Oregon. The enemies of Whitman have again and again gone over the old records of the American Board to find some severe rebuke to the man who "dabbled in politics." But if any rebuke was offered, it was careful to make no record of it. But it may be said the governors of the American Board evidently failed to comprehend in their anxiety to keep clear of all complications between "Church and State," that they were dealing with an inspired man, who had rendered the greatest possible service to the nation and to Protestant Christianity. They did another good act, either through pride for one of their missionaries or from generosity they sent him to a tailor shop for a complete suit of cloth clothes, which his own slim pocket-book could not afford. It took the American Board just fifty years from the date of his death to see that the man in furs and leather breeches from Oregon, who stood humbly before them upon that occasion, was one of the grandest characters, as Christian and patriot, that they ever before or since enrolled as missionary! They waked up to that fact in 1897, when the great organization assembled in annual council, called attention to the fact, that it was "the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Dr. Marcus Whitman, an eminent missionary of the Board," and appointed special services to be held in several leading cities, and a general observance of that day. It was a thoughtful, educational, Christian act, which, if the old martyr could from his eternal mansion look down and hear, would make him glad.

The good Presbyterians who were a part of the American Board at that time, and were not then at all anxious to share in any honors to Whitman, latterly saw new light in something of the character grandeur of the neglected missionary. They caused a beautiful statue of Dr. Marcus Whitman to be placed in their Witherspoon building at Philadelphia. To the boys and young men, let me say the lesson in this is, that all good things come to the good who wait! Stand true for the right. It was that which has resurrected the name and honor of Whitman, after long years of neglect, and will make his name shine, and glow with increasing luster, as the years come and go!

As Mrs. Whitman playfully wrote her father and mother, "I expect my dear husband will be so full of his great mission that he will not take time to tell you of home affairs, I will do so." That was in a measure true. He made a hurried visit to his mother in her home, to his wife's parents, and to his brother, who had moved West. But his eyes and thoughts and hopes were ever westward. He had heard from General Lovejoy, who was on the ground, of the bright prospect of a large company for Oregon. As the spring months opened in 1843, there were stirring times along the border, such as never before seen. Great wagons, with white canvas covers, drawn by long-horned oxen, sturdy mules, and horses, herds of fine cattle to stock the new farms, with from eight hundred to a thousand men, women, and children, with their household treasures, were there. They had received the same inspiration as their fathers who had peopled the great West across the Alleghanies, and the motto still was, "Westward the Star of Empire takes its way." Such were the inspiring conditions which greeted Whitman when he reached the border. He was a man of great faith, and firmly believed in success, but such an imposing body filled his soul with gratitude and thankfulness.

The company was made up mainly from the rural districts, strong, muscular men, their wives and children, and eager young people. There were many anxious mothers, who saw the responsibility of the great undertaking, and whose perils women intuitively feel more certainly than men. Who can tell the secret of that sudden gathering of pioneer heroes, on the banks of "the Great Muddy" in 1843? True, the old missionaries had written many letters. New immigrants had done the same. But Congress and the national authorities had done nothing but ridicule, and in no single case had lent a helping hand. There must have been some secret telepathetic power which had sounded a call!

True, Whitman and Lovejoy had been busy, but neither one ever made claim of inducing the great immigration of 1843. The honor was sufficient for them, as the only men acquainted with the road, to lead the great company to the promised land in safety. But the enemies of these missionaries, especially of Whitman, tried so often to make light of his eminent services, that the Rev. Dr. Myron Eells of Twana, Washington, some years ago, sat down and wrote to every living pioneer of that immigration he could locate (and he knew most of them), and asked the question, "Did Dr. Whitman induce you to immigrate to Oregon in 1843?" Two-fifths replied, "Yes."

The last weeks of April and the first of May found most of the immigrants pulled out upon the road, in companies of fifties and hundreds. They were in the Indian country on the first day of travel, and not sure how such an invasion would be received by the savages, they were warned to keep compact, and in bodies large enough for protection. The Indians, men, women, and children, swarmed about every camp, and watched every movement. They were invariably treated kindly, and responded with kindness. The warriors sat upon their horses stolidly by the trails and watched the long wagon-trains, the herds of cattle, and especially the women and children, the like of which had never before invaded their domain. The weeks of travel across the grass-grown, flower-covered prairies of Kansas and Nebraska was a picnic occasion for the immigrants. It was well that it was so. They did not have many afterward.

The wagons were soon strung out over a long line. Dr. Whitman did not start with the head of the company. In a letter to a friend he wrote, "I remained behind until the last wagon was on the road." There were many who needed advice as to proper outfit, what to take, and what to leave, many who needed encouragement to start at all. When all had moved he rode rapidly to the head of the column, to overtake it before it reached the Platte, the first wide river to be crossed.

The Platte is not a dangerous river if forded properly, but it looks threatening to timid people. It is nearly one mile wide, and it is about breast deep in ordinary stages. It runs over a bed of sand, and the secret of safety is to keep on the sand bars and keep moving. A halt, even for a few minutes, allows the feet of animals, or the wagon wheels to sink into the sands, and they are not easily extricated. Upon reaching the bank of the river, horsemen upon the best horses survey the route by zigzagging up and down, finding the shallowest water upon the bars, which are constantly shifting. The train of wagons are arranged to follow each other, a dozen or more yards apart, with horsemen at each vehicle to give immediate assistance in case of break or accident. The first driver keeps his eye upon the careful guides, picking the shallowest route. Careless endeavors to pull straight across, instead of pulling two miles around to gain one, involved trouble. The murky water is surcharged with sand, which is forever blown into it as it winds through the great plains, and is the source of the Missouri River's excessive supply of sand. It proves to be pure water if allowed to stand and settle. A bucket of water standing over night in the morning will be clear, with an inch of pure sand on the bottom. If the old maxim is true, "A fellow needs sand in his craw," he easily gets it on the Platte. Our immigrant party, wisely directed, forded the river safely with all its stock. Care was taken in fording all rivers to place heavy articles not easily injured by water low in the bed of the wagon.

The Buffalo Country

Here the caravan entered the buffalo country, where they were likely to meet large bodies of armed Indians who came there from long distances, to lay in their winter stores of meat and furs and skins. Many of these tribes were jealous of each other, and of white men who intruded upon their domain on such occasions, and bloody encounters frequently occurred while upon the way. The caravan had elected a captain to direct affairs and a guide to make orders for travel. But now they found so many questions arising in this large company, that a council or superior court was organized, from which there was no appeal. It held its sessions at night and upon rest days, and many of the members of that court upon the plains, after in the territory and states of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, held the highest offices of trust and honor.

A halt to lay in a supply of buffalo meat was looked forward to with great satisfaction. But it was found impracticable for so large a company to make a permanent halt, so they kept moving.

The hunters in large numbers went out each morning, with pack horses, and came in loaded at night with spoils of the chase. The noble bison was there by the million.

When reaching the dusty alkaline plains, where both good water and grass were scarce, naturally the best tempered people often turned grumblers. One of the chief causes of complaint laid before the superior court was that which arose between the horse companies and the cattle companies. They did not agree well together. The court decided to divide the caravan into two columns, "the horse" and "the cow" column. In 1876 the Honorable Jesse Applegate, a member of that immigration, delivered an address before The Historical Society of Oregon, entitled "A Day with the Cow Column." It is one of the most precise and graphic pictures ever drawn of life as it was, in this advance column of civilization, destined for its great work in the future Pacific states. The last third of the distance of that memorable journey proves the courage of the American, and at the same time arouses our commiseration and pity. I passed over the larger portion of the same road a few years later, with goggles drawn over my eyes, and a handkerchief bound about my face, as a defense from the dust and the myriad buffalo gnats, and can the more easily sympathize with those hundred mothers, often forced to travel on foot with little and well-nigh helpless children pulling at their skirts. As I think, I can but say, "O the pity of it!"

Mr. Applegate remarks:

"There was no time to pause and recruit the hungry stock, or to hunt for the withered herbage, for a marauding enemy hung upon the rear, and hovered on our flanks, and skulked in ambuscade in front. The road was strewn with dead cattle, abandoned wagons, and every article of household goods, even the sacred keepsakes. The failing strength of teams, required shorter couplings so as to save a few pounds. An ox or a horse would fall. Men would remove the yoke or harness, and secure a substitute from the almost equally tired animals in the corral."

Oh, it is well for the sons and daughters of these states of the Pacific, as well as the tourist in his parlor car, as they look upon flower-decked meadows, waving wheat-fields, orchards, and homes of comfort, with beauty everywhere, to remember the heroic deeds of heroic men and women who won for them this grand inheritance.

When the immigrants reached Fort Hall they met Captain Grant, who made the old appeal: "Leave your wagons, impossible to take them, no wagon-road to Oregon." He showed them the many wagons already left as proof of his statement. But here comes Whitman, who says, "Men, you have with incredible hardship brought your wagons thus far, they are a necessity for your wives' and children's comfort, even their lives. They will be invaluable to you when the end of the journey is reached. I took a wagon, made into a cart, to Fort Boise six years ago." And thus "Old Click," on its last round, gave out its best blessing, which it conferred upon tired mothers and little children. The company took Whitman's advice, and the wagons rolled on. His watch-word was, "Travel, travel, travel, nothing else will bring rest and the end of the journey."

Upon reaching Snake River, the doctor devised an ingenious and safe method for the weaker teams to cross. There were still remaining about one hundred wagons, which Whitman arranged in one long line, placing the strong teams in front. The wagons rear and front were then roped together and the procession started with fifty men on horseback, pulling upon a long rope in front, while others attended the various teams to keep every one in line and moving.

It was a daring venture, but so well managed that the deep and dangerous river, the worst upon the route, was passed without accident. Many years ago the author, while making a talk in the opera house at Walla Walla, where many of the old pioneers and their descendants were gathered, recited the incident of the crossing of the Snake. After the close of the meeting a venerable old gentleman came to me and taking my hand said:

"Yes, that story of the crossing of the Snake is true, I was there. But I had four yoke of as good steers as ever pulled in yokes, and I was determined they should not be tied up in that long string of wagons to drown. I stood upon the bank and waited until the whole line was fully one-third across when I whipped in. I got about a quarter of a mile from shore, when I struck deep water, and felt my wagon floating, and soon oxen and wagon were facing squarely up stream, and the oxen barely getting foothold. I saw it only a question of time when we would drift into the deep water below and be lost. Just then I heard a shout, 'hold them steady,' 'hold them steady,' and I looked and saw a man rushing through the water, and as he came in reach he deftly dropped a rope over the horns of the lead ox, and beginning to pull gently said, 'Now whip up.' The noble animals responded, and taking a wide circuit, the water grew shallower, and we reached the shore in safety! And that man was Marcus Whitman!"

At the Snake the doctor met his faithful old Indian Istikus, and a pack-train loaded with flour sent to them by Dr. Spalding. Never was a generous gift so fraught with blessing. He also received letters telling him of the dangerous illness of Mrs. Spalding and urging him to leave all and ride with speed to the Spalding Mission. So the rest of the journey was made under the guidance of Istikus, who knew every foot of the way, and could give excellent advice.

The doctor, mounted upon a fresh horse sent by Dr. Spalding, was soon galloping on his way, and his wonderful ride ended when he reached home a few days later. Less than three weeks after that one hundred wagons, with their precious loads of wearied humanity, rolled down the sides of the Blue Mountains into the grassy, flower-decked meadows of the Walla Walla Valley, and American history made one of its grandest records. Old Glory went up, never to be hauled down while patriots live! The entire land between the oceans was ours. While perhaps one distinctive personage stands conspicuously in the front, there were honors enough to crown the whole band of heroes and heroines which, in 1843, at a critical period, marked plainly the great highway across the continent.