XXXIILETTERS FROM HOME
Oregon City, in the autumn of 1852 and for more than a decade thereafter, consisted chiefly of a single narrow street bordering the Willamette River and lying under the sheer bluffs of lichen-clad basaltic rock that overlook the Falls of the Willamette, valued at that time only as a fishing site for the wily Indian and a strenuous leaping-place for schools of salmon. But future enterprise was destined to utilize the stupendous water-power for the convenience of man in the city of Portland, a dozen miles below. In this one narrow street the Ranger company halted to read letters from the States. These letters, many of them now nearly six months old, brought to them the first tidings from the old home. The latest was dated August 1, and was from Grandfather Ranger, announcing the transition of “Grannie,” the beloved great-grandmother, whose demise was described with much detail:—
“She was in usual health up to the last day of her sojourn in the body,” he wrote, “and retained her faculties to the last. She had walked to Lijah’s and back during the day, with no companion but Rover, who deemed her his especial charge from the time he took up his abode with us. But she complained of being tired on her return, and ate less dinner than usual. While your mother and I were sitting at the table, we heard a peculiar gasp and gurgle from Grannie’s chair in the next room, andwe hastened to her side; but she never spoke again, except in whispered messages of love to us all.
“We laid her precious remains in the family lot, in the dear, peaceful, leafy burying-ground of Glen Eden, and returned to our lonely home, and put away her empty chair. On the last morning of her earth-life, as she sat at breakfast with us, she said, ‘I saw Joseph in my dreams last night. I heard him speak as plainly as if he had been in this room. He had a troubled look, but he said: “Tell mother I have written.”’ We thought little of it at the time; but to-day we had a letter from him, saying he is alive and well. He spoke of having seen you, John, but he said you had quarrelled with him, or rather at him, and had left him in a fit of anger. He did not say why you had quarrelled. But, oh, John, how could you do it? We know he must have given you cause, but you should, for our sakes, have risen above it. My old heart is heavy with sorrow. And your dear, patient mother, who has prayed so long and earnestly for this meeting between you two,—to think when her prayer is answered at last that you would add to it such a sting! No matter which one of you is the more to blame, you, my son, as the elder brother, should be the first to make concessions. I know your gentle Annie joins me in this appeal. She seems strangely near me as I write; and I can almost hear her say: ‘To err is human; to forgive divine.’ Give her and all the children our messages of love and sympathy.”
The strong man wept convulsively. No tidings of his wife’s transition had yet been despatched to the folks at home; nor could letters reach them now for a month to come. There was no overland mail, and all “through” letters sought transitviaPanama.
A long postscript was added, over which father and children shed tears in unison. It said: “The dog, Rover, returned at nightfall on the memorable day of your departure, weary, wet, and bedraggled. He would take nonotice of me, your mother, or Grannie, although we all tried to pet and console him. But he went straight to your deserted doorstep, where he lay for a long time moaning like a man in pain. Grannie regularly carried him food, but he refused to eat for many days, and his wailing and howling could be heard at all hours of the night. But finally your mother won him over, and he now makes his home with us, and seems quite happy and contented. We all thought he would want to leave us and go back to the old house when Lijah took possession of it, but he didn’t. He just clung all the closer to us old folks in the cottage; and it would have done your soul good to see the faithful watch he kept over dear old Grannie to the last day of her life. He was conspicuous among the chief mourners at the burial, and lingered alone beside the grave long after we all had returned to our homes.”
Jean, recalling her father’s words on that far-away ferry-boat, where she had last seen the faithful animal watching and wailing from the river-bank, said, as she looked up from reading her own letters: “Daddie, don’t you think now that a dog has a soul?” And her father answered huskily: “I don’t see why he hasn’t as good a right to a soul as I have.”
“Here, Mame,” said Jean, “is a letter from Cousin Annie Robinson. Listen. She says: ‘Please break it gently to Cousin Mame that herbeau idealof a man, the Reverend Thomas Rogers, took to himself a wife before she had been gone a week. And who should it have been but that detestable Agnes Winter, who used to say such spiteful things about Mame? She won’t be as happy after a while as she is now, but she’ll know a whole lot more. Who could have believed that so saintly a sinner as the Reverend Thomas would prove so fickle? I hope Mame will see him with our eyes after this. He isn’t worthy of her passing thought.’”
Mary, whose dreams for long and weary months had been of a package of letters from the preacher that nevercame at all, faced suddenly the first great crisis in her life; and stilling, with a strong effort of the will, the tumultuous beatings of her heart, she walked rapidly on, ahead of the teams, from starting-time until nightfall, fighting her first great battle with herself alone, and gaining the mastery at last without human aid or sympathy.
The immigrants, having concluded their purchases, toiled up the narrow grade to the table-land above the bluffs, and pursued their way through the stately evergreen forests and level plains of the Willamette valley to the homes of relatives, who awaited their coming with joy that was changed to mourning when they learned for the first time of the death of Mrs. Ranger.
After a few days of much-needed rest among the hospitable pioneers who had preceded them by two years and were now installed on a beautiful and valuable donation claim, the immigrant party decided to remain in each other’s vicinity, and removed for the purpose to a beautiful vista of vacant land under the friendly shadow of the Cascade Mountains, with a westward outlook across the Willamette valley to the Coast Range, which alone intervened to shut from sight the surging billows of the Pacific Ocean.
It was here that the genius and education of Scotty, who will hereafter be designated by his lawful name, proved of inestimable value. Supplied only with a rope and a carpenter’s square, he led a private surveying party through the woods and prairies, locating their claims with such accuracy that the government survey, which was made years after, fully approved his work.
“You may not be a success at driving oxen or taking care of steers at night,” said Captain Ranger, “but you are an artist with a rope and a square.”
“Didn’t I tell you he’d be worth his weight in gold when he reached a place where he could have a chance to use his brains?” asked Mrs. McAlpin, who took askindly and intelligently to her surroundings as if to the manner born.
“Women have a way of divination that I won’t attempt to analyze,” was the laughing reply.
The donation claim of each settler, the acreage of which had by this time been cut into halves by Act of Congress, was still of ample proportions, being a mile long and half a mile wide, and was so surveyed as to allow four families or claimants to settle on extreme corners of their land at points where four corners met.
“This will enable each claimant to build a cabin on his own claim, so he can reside upon and cultivate his own land, as required by the law, and at the same time have neighbors within call in case of accident or other need,” said Mr. Burns.
“What a grand and glorious prospect!” exclaimed Captain Ranger, standing on an eminence where his new house was to go up, and gazing abroad over the wide expanse of the Willamette valley, in which the winding river was gleaming through the openings in the forest; “but I can sense one drawback to your scheme, Mr. Burns.”
“What is it?”
“Some of us will be getting married before long and doubling our opportunity for holding government lands; and as each must reside upon and cultivate his claim and his wife’s, it will make it a little awkward, won’t it?”
“Not if the contracting parties exercise a little ordinary business ability and discretion, sir. They have but to locate their claims with a view to matrimony and settle their own bargains to suit themselves.”
But the Captain, who had dealt with the domestic infelicities of his neighbors too often to look upon all such bargains as imbued with old-time stability, had his doubts.
“If an engaged couple should tire of their bargain, and their change of sentiment should fail to fit the agreement,—what then?”
“It would be a blessing for them to discover their mistake in time to forestall the divorce court,” was the ready reply.
“Mr. Burns is right,” said Mrs. McAlpin. “Two-thirds of the unhappy marriages we hear about are the result of haste and lack of understanding. A couple will marry, and when it is too late to recede from the bargain they want to break it. I don’t mind telling you, Captain Ranger, that Mr. Burns and I expect to marry each other some day, and our claims were chosen accordingly; but we’ll wait until the law frees me from a bargain which I repudiated in spirit before it was consummated. And we’ll not marry then if we conclude we are making a mistake.”
“I am glad to hear you make so open and frank a statement in the presence of so competent a witness,” exclaimed Mrs. Benson, who still carried an important note in her pocket, frayed and travel-soiled, but none the less precious from being scarcely legible.
“I think it is a shame to make a commercial bargain of a matrimonial agreement,” exclaimed Mary Ranger.
“And so do I!” echoed Jean.
Nevertheless, when the boundaries of the several donation claims were established, and the different allotments were assigned to the proper claimants, it was noticed that, in addition to the Captain’s own quota of virgin acres, an extra claim was reserved adjacent to that of each of his daughters, Mary and Jean, and one next to that of Sally O’Dowd.
“Equality before the law is a fundamental idea in the government of the United States of America,” the Captain explained at the Land Office; “and I am glad to see it practically applied to the property rights of the pioneerwomen of Oregon. It is a good beginning, and none can see the end.”
“Sally O’Dowd isn’t a free woman, and she can’t get married, thank goodness!” cried Jean, as she and her sisters talked the matter over together between themselves alone.
“That’s so,” echoed Mary. “Sally has a husband living, and so there is no danger of our losing father.”
“Let’s not be too certain,” cried Jean. “If you’d kept your eyes open for the last month, as I have, you wouldn’t be surprised at anything. Sally’s case was up on appeal when she left the States, but it has doubtless gone by default. She has the custody of her children, and that was all she asked of Sam O’Dowd.”
“Then Sally is a free woman,” said Marjorie.
“No woman is free when she is married,” retorted Jean. “The laws of men do not recognize the individuality of a married woman. I, for instance, am Jean Ranger to-day, but if I should marry to-morrow, I’d be—”
“Nothing but a nonentity named Mrs. Ashton Ashleigh,” interrupted Mary. “Women delight in surrendering their names in marriage to the man they love.”
“You’re right,” cried Jean, her eyes blazing. “I’d surrender to-morrow if Ashton would come to claim his own. But it would be a partnership, and not a one-sided agreement.”
“That’s what every woman thinks when she puts her neck in the noose,” laughed Marjorie; “but when the man comes along who is able to capture her heart, she is ready to make the venture.”
“That’s because the fundamental principle of matrimony is correct,” retorted Jean.
“Dat’s so, honey,” said Susannah. “Women is jist like pigs. When one of ’em burns his nose in a trough o’ hot mash, dey’ll all hurry to ’vestigate an’ git de same sperience.”
“Of course you’ll get some land,” said Jean.
“I’ve done axed de Cap’n ’bout it, an’ he’s looked up de law. He says I can’t take up no lan’ ’cos I’m nothin’ but a niggah. De laws o’ Oregon are ag’in it; so are de laws o’ de gen’ral gov’ment. A free country’s a great blessin’ to women an’ niggahs! It’s a great blessin’ to be bawn in a free country; ain’t it, Geo’die Wah?”
The coon, who had grown and flourished under his six months’ regimen of flapjacks and bacon, shook his bright brown curls and grinned, displaying an even set of polished ivories.
“I couldn’t git married if I wanted to,” added the negress, “’cos the law is sot ag’in mixed matches; but da’hs no law nowhar ag’in coons”; and she ended hers harangue with a characteristic “Yah! yah! yah!”
“Then, if you can’t marry, you can always work for wages, Susannah; and you’ll be better off than Mrs. McAlpin,”—she was coming to join the group,—“who is going to be married soon, if I can read the stars correctly,” laughed Marjorie.
“No, Marjorie; I cannot even talk of marriage with the man whom God created for me, and me only. I am not even a grass widow. I cannot legally file upon a claim because I am the victim of a marriage I cannot honor. And the law cannot set me free because the party of the second part objects.”
“What’s that you were saying to the Ranger girls, Daphne?” asked Mrs. Benson, who had been engaged in assisting Captain Ranger and Mr. Burns to plan the two sets of log houses that were to be erected a mile apart, and to be so arranged as to form separate abodes for four families.
“Nothing, mamma, only I was bewailing my fate.”
“Come with me, Daphne; I have something to show you,” said Mrs. Benson, in a low tone.
“Listen to this letter,” said the mother, as soon as theywere seated among the trees. “The time has come for you to know its contents:—
“My dear Mrs. Benson,—You have been a brave, devoted mother to an unhappily environed daughter. I have long known that you and I were made for each other. We became mismatched through adherence to false customs. Daphne does not love me, and has never willingly accepted our union, as you have painful reason to know. You love me! Pardon this abrupt announcement. You have never told me so, but I have known the truth for years. To have this opportunity to tell you that I reciprocate, is at present my only joy.“I will meet you in the wilds of Oregon. Daphne’s latest erratic movements to escape me have all along been known. To follow you I became a wanderer in these Western wilds. I will take measures to set your beautiful daughter free. A couple whom God hathnotjoined together it is man’s duty to put asunder. Keep your own counsel till such time as you are strong enough to take your life and destiny into your own hands, and declare yourself accountable primarily to yourself and God for your own actions.“I will be in Portland, Oregon, by November first. We shall surely meet again.“Faithfully, through time and for eternity, your devoted but never yet accredited counterpart,“Donald McPherson.”
“My dear Mrs. Benson,—You have been a brave, devoted mother to an unhappily environed daughter. I have long known that you and I were made for each other. We became mismatched through adherence to false customs. Daphne does not love me, and has never willingly accepted our union, as you have painful reason to know. You love me! Pardon this abrupt announcement. You have never told me so, but I have known the truth for years. To have this opportunity to tell you that I reciprocate, is at present my only joy.
“I will meet you in the wilds of Oregon. Daphne’s latest erratic movements to escape me have all along been known. To follow you I became a wanderer in these Western wilds. I will take measures to set your beautiful daughter free. A couple whom God hathnotjoined together it is man’s duty to put asunder. Keep your own counsel till such time as you are strong enough to take your life and destiny into your own hands, and declare yourself accountable primarily to yourself and God for your own actions.
“I will be in Portland, Oregon, by November first. We shall surely meet again.
“Faithfully, through time and for eternity, your devoted but never yet accredited counterpart,
“Donald McPherson.”
The daughter clasped her mother’s hand and fervently exclaimed, “Thank God!”
Mrs. Benson wept.
“It will never do for you and me to meet again after this revelation,” said the daughter, after a long silence. “I will take up my permanent abode in this new country, and you can rejoin Donald in New York or Philadelphia,viathe city of Panama. But you must go to Portland now. We will not set idle tongues to wagging here. It is fortunate indeed that Donald took his mother’s name as a part of his last inheritance.”