A spoopy pasta

The following is an extract from the diaries of Anna Lane Boggs who, in May of 1852, began the trek westward to claim the two plots, one in her name and another in her husband’s, to which they were entitled under the 1850 Donation Act. The Boggs party, consisting of Anna Lane, her husband William Boggs, their two children Mary and Thomas, as well as a one Dr. Browne and two family friends, mentioned only as Mr. Henry and Mrs. Lidell, crossed the St. Louis on May 6th. The extract as well as the rest of the diary, which curiously never again mentions the experiences to which the party was subjected, are to be found in the Martin E. Boggs collection, donated to the Americana archive of the Bancroft Library, UCLA Berkley. The company reached Salem, Oregon, October 22nd, 1852.

May 6: We crossed the mighty St. Louis after mid-day and found the view beyond, we all agree, the handsomest we had ever seen, and continued into the vast plains wherein no one lives but the red man. We passed the little village of St. Joseph, and its farewell reminded us that we leave all civilized life behind for now. Not five miles off the river, sun gave way to torrent, and against our good blankets and intent otherwise, we got a mite wet. The rain hindered us, but we made good time on the first day.

May 7: Awoke today with a terrible headache and chills from yesterday’s rain. Dr. Browne says those we passed this morning were stopped on account of the whole party taking ill with the fever after the rain. I felt better by mid-day, and by afternoon we came upon the toll crossing kept by the Indians. The Indians, who brandished spears and guns, asked six bits for our whole party, which wasn’t terrible considering, but more of them came calling that evening. Some were ornamented in Indian style, with dots painted on their faces, striped feathers in their hair, beads about their necks and brass rings on their fingers and arms, while others wore simple shirts or no shirts at all. We fed them some and they left us, but I fear they were really after liquor, which I told them, if it’s that’s what they’re after, they’ll not find it with honest Christians such as ourselves. They seemed right low spirited after that.

May 8: We made 12 miles today before being obliged to stop and camp in open prairie, without the benefit of any wood. Mary and I fetched grasses and weeds and bundled them for firelights with which we cooked a little meat, our last eggs and with that, hard bread and water, we made our supper. In the day the land is mighty handsome, and serene as the tabernacle, and at night the sheet of stars is tremendous. Mr. Henry says that the locusts plague these lands like Egypt. It is truly like a biblical mission that which we have undertook. Spirits high.

May 9: Passed the grave of an Ohio man this morning. Met a young Frenchman taking the trail back. Said he had buried his wife on account of the measles, and his daughter from dysentery. We made ten miles and camped at a creek called Vermillion with wood and water a plenty. There must be half a hundred wagons on this creek, and a thousand head of cattle. It’s like a town, what with all the tents and wagons and singing and dancing. We traded some. Doc Browne says he found some fine medicine, but it cost him dear. The mosquitoes are making their presence known, to the misery of us all. William says ought to stop writing and go to bed, lest I not want to get up and make breakfast. How like a child he treats me. He was furious when I told him I intend to keep my share in my own name.

May 10: I got up and fixed breakfast and we had eat and been on our way before daylight, aside William’s prophecies to the contrary. The children do not take well to the rocking. Thomas has made mess more than once, but Doc says he’s just travel sick.

May 11: We awoke to a great fog this morning and under it none of our men are in good shape. Doc is best of them all, and William put him ahead of the team that he might lie down in the wagon with the children. We passed another grave, fresh by the looks of it. The board said the man was from Indiana, dead of the cholera. We passed more men taking the backtrack to the states. Homesick I suppose. William is a mite better by afternoon. We camped on the Nimehaw river, on the most beautiful country I have yet seen. As far as the eye can reach in all directions, nothing but rolling plains and not a tree or stone for miles until the vally of the river that is level as the kitchen floor. Flowers and gasses to the horizon. All told, we traveled 12 miles today.

May 12: No one is any better.

May 13: William is no better, but Doc and Mr. Henry are about again. We ran across the strangest Dutchman. He wheels his belongings in a wheelbarrow with no mules or anything of the sort. He eats raw meat and bread for his supper and sleeps under his wheelbarrow when fatigue overtakes him. Says he’s walking all the way to California, and wears every manner of superstitious charm to ward off the evil of the heathen country, he says. I think he will get tired wheeling through the world.

May 14: Passed four packers digging a grave. They said their friend had taken sick yesterday at noon and died in the night. They called it cholera morbus. Passed three more graves before night.

May 15: William is strong again, but I got not a wink. I gave the children a mighty tongue wag this morning over breakfast about their leaving the wagon at night. How their father could sleep with their giggling underneath up and spooking the team is beyond me. Thomas buttoned himself up of guilt I think, but Mary says he weren’t anywhere but sleeping. Lord preserve mothers.

May 16: …

May 17: William and I have taken sick, and we have moved but six miles for it. I am trying my hardest to keep up and write my memorandum.

May 18: Feeling better today, William and I both. We made good time and crossed the dry sandy creek before noon. By the sight of our men, you wouldn’t know that they were negros or white men so dark has the fine dust wind made them. It is bothersome, and irritates the throat. Thomas has a cough of it.

May 19-29: …

May 30: I caught the children this time, bumping about under the wagon. Their father gave them a whooping before breakfast. Thomas again was silent, but Mary invents tales. She says they had heard other children laughing and the horses spooking and went to find the provenance of it all. She has grown obstinate and I feel I am to blame. I never loved William, it pains me to say, and I do not wish to be poor and dependent upon a man my whole life. Let this claim put me on a good footing that at least my children may have some education. I was not made for a mother.

May 31: …

June 1: The wagons are here as thick as trout in season. The weather has been unceasingly warm, and it brings up the sickness. Every morning we pass new graves and one can tell tomorrow’s dead by sight.

June 2: Our warmest day yet. Our road is treacherous and slow, sandy with the sand six inches deep in some places. The heat is almost intolerable.

June 3: Cool, excellent day for traveling, but the road is still some sandy. Passed four graves of those that night yesterday, all out of one train, and another company preparing to bury their dead.

June 4: We have taken in with a larger company, and Mr. Henry is ecstatic. William does not like it. They are slow, and men die each day. Doc Browne is a bit ill.

June 5: One of the men belonging to the company is quite sick. He is worse tonight. We don’t suspect he will live.

June 6: A sprinkle of rain has tamped the dust down graciously. A deaf and dumb man died in our company last night, none knew he was ill. The ill man from before, Mr. Barrow, is not any better. We found a man lying near death on the side of the trail that no one had ever seen, and we could get neither a name nor place from him as he was too weak. Dr. Browne did all he could but he was too far gone. He died this evening.

Travelling with the company is quicker, I dare say. 14 miles today.

June 7: Uncomfortably cold riding. Passed three people their company said were dying, as well as fresh graves. We left the company behind, along with the dying man, who is joined by six others. William says we would have parted ways on any account, as they were going to California. Dr. Browne is ill again, but he says it’s just the travel sickness. Camped on the Platte.

12 miles.

June 8: The sudden cold was an unpleasant surprise. This morning our whole party aches from shivering, and sleep was restless at best. The lack of rest has made my head fuzzy, for I heard laughter last night, yet Thomas and Mary were wrapped up shivering like the rest.

June 9-10: …

June 11: We met up again with the party we had left behind. They had overtaken us the night after we left them, which I suppose explains the noise and the horses spooking in the night.

The sick man, Mr. Barrow, died that night.

June 12: Passed graves today, as well as a party whose men were dying. This sickness is quite mortal.

June 13: Passed more graves. Cholera.

June 14: …

June 15: We traveled 3 miles today and camped on account of our sick ones. Dr. Browne, Mrs. Lidell, Mr. Henry and William are all sick, and Thomas has complained of headaches. Mr. Henry is the worst, who can hardly move, but I fear for Thomas.

June 16: Did not move today for our sick are not well enough to be moved. Went over to another company to help with their sick children. They are digging graves and say this sickness on the road almost always proves fatal.

God help Thomas.

June 17: Stayed camped. William says he can move, but I shudder to look at how pale and weak he is. Went over to another train. Decimation. A young lady died in the night, and William and I helped an old man bury her. He said that, in the last fortnight, he had buried his wife, two sons, two daughters, a son-in-law, and a grandchild. He was all that was left of his company, and he could scarsely walk now. God preserve us. That night Thomas took to lying and groaning like the others in their worst fits of illness. I hardly slept. I sat up praying.

June 18: Dr. Browne is better today, and Thomas can move and eat. I thank God. Mr. Henry and Mrs. Lidell are better, but not well enough to move.

We met with poor Mr. Barrow’s party again, and they had stopped for the same reason. It seems fate we should travel together.

June 19: Our sick men are very much improved, theirs have not, though some can take broth.

June 20: Traveled 5 miles but were obliged to stop with our sick. The Girtmans are worse today, and the unmarried man cannot get well.

June 21: Both Mr. Girtmans, father and son, died in the night, and Mr. Baker, who no one suspected, died this morning. What is left of their party is now worse. Thomas is better, but Mrs. Lidell and Mr. Henry are worse. I do not know when we will travel again. Spirits low.

June 22: I find that the young Mr. Girtman leaves a wife and two daughters, but that the brother-in-law owns a mercantile and will provide well for them. Death in the states is a tragedy, but it is not to be compared with death on the plains.

Traveled 15 miles.

June 23-July 3: …

July 4: The day of our nation’s jubilee. Crossed the Sweetwater after noon and camped for the day to celebrate independence. Made gooseberry sauce. Mr. Henry killed and antelope.

Jul 5: Came to independence rock about ten in the morning. There must be a thousand names wrote on the rock. William showed me where he had writ his in ’49. I saw the Devil’s Gate and it were a wonder of a like I had never seen in all my life. The Sweetwater cuts a channel, or gate if you like, through the Rocky Mountains, and in places soar up and overhang the height of 200 feet. Traveled 15 miles. Encamped on the Sweetwater. Good wood.

July 6-13: …

July 14: Awoke very early and could not get back to sleep. I heard the laughter of children yet found my own abed, and thinking it were the children of others who had stole up and encamped close in the night, went out and found nothing but the rush of the Sweetwater. Hearing the noise again, I followed it to the water and a shape dashed off the land into the river, giggling all the way. I have heard of mountain cats crying like babes, but never like the laughter of a child. I fear we are in the devil’s country. I did not tell William what I heard nor saw. He would not believe me. He would find me silly like he always does.

July 15: Snake Indians came calling on our camp this afternoon. I swapped hard bread with them for good berries.

My dreams are dark of late, and I hope we leave this country as soon as we can.

July 16-17: …

July 18: Traveled 15 miles today, up the highest hills I ever rode over. Mary and I got out to prospect and found some nice strawberries.

July 19-22: …

July 23: Mr. Henry is taken cold their morning. Very sick. Set out but encamped again at noon.

There is an Indian camp not far from us, and the Indian have come calling, wondering when we will be gone. I do not want to stay in this country if it can be helped.

July 24: Mr. Henry is no better. Very ill. Doc Browne has gone in search of medicine from other companies. Went prospecting, found gooseberries, but when I returned William had allowed one of the Indian headmen to see to Mr. Henry. I made a fuss and shout and they departed. They made it known that they had been insulted and that this was especially bad ground to be without wise men. I swear William hasn’t a Christian bone in his body sometimes.

July 25: Mr. Henry is a bit better today. We shall not move him. We have all the speckled trout we can fish out of this river. Traded an apron to the Indians for a pair of their moccasins.

July 26: Mr. Henry better today. Traveled with him ten miles and camped on a fork of Bear River.

July 27-August 1: …

August 2: We found our packs had been rummaged through last night, but neither the mules nor anything that we could see was stolen. I did not tell William that I heard it again last night. And something else. I’m certain I am not mad.

The country grows drier and more desolate. Little good wood. Mrs. Lidell says she has been having queer dreams.12 miles.

August 3-7: …

August 8: Mr. Henry said something very queer this morning. He was in a cloudy mood all morning, and then, at breakfast, poking at the oats in his cup, he cleared his throat and said he didn’t appreciate the kids rattling at his tent in the night. I know that Thomas’s silence is not guilt. Poor Mary protested a moment and he froze her with a look that was not to be argued with. Later, I pulled him aside and told him that the children were with us in the wagon and no more. I did not tell him of the sounds, nor what I saw. He apologized but I could see the question on his face all day. I feel he wants to leave this place as sorely as I do now.

August 9-13: …

August 14: Bought a salmon fish off an Indian weighing seven or eight pounds for a shirt, some bread and an old sewing needle. For the past week we have been moving through the most desolate country I have yet dreamed could be on the earth. Only the Digger Indians could live here.

August 15-September 1: …

September 2: Mr. Henry went shooting his mouth off to very company he can find and now has Dr. Browne flustered and feeling feverish again. Leave it to him to seek the silliest answers from the silliest people. He even went out among the Indians and says they know precisely what’s ailing us at nights. I told him I want nothing of what they have to say. He thinks the old witch doctor done cured him of the fever, so now he thinks he owes them something.

I sleep with my bible at nights now and find there is little disturbance when I am with it.

September 3-4: …

September 5: Made nineteen miles and camped on the banks of the Powder River. Little grass, no good wood. I feel awful, and have been up two days with the bowel complaint. Worse today.

September 6: We have not been able to move out of this wretched country. Doc Browne got some medicine from a wagon train, but I had to trade my momma’s good cups for it, but it checked the disease a little. Heard it again last night, along with the cries of a babe, but I swear, as little a mother as I am, that this cry had no affection nor human vulnerability it. Both William and Mr. Henry heard it and say it were a mountain lion. I hope they are right. I do not like camping so close to the water.

Late I am feeling better, so much so that we ventured to move to better camp. Mr. Henry slinked off with his rifle to hunt, but I know he’s off looking for that lion. He says he’ll find us when we camp.

It is late. Mr. Henry has not yet found us.

September 7: Mr. Henry has still not returned. William has asked for him. The Indians say he came by their way after a cat. I knew it. I dare say he’ll find no cat, but I shudder to think that we’ll not find Mr. Henry again neither.

Our cattle are ailing badly for want of good grass. There are three we suspect dead any day now. The complaint has returned, and Mrs. Lidell and Mary have it as well.

September 8: We are all of us feeling better today. Mr. Henry is not with us. William says that we may have to press without him if the heat gets any worse, as there is not grass enough even for one of our cattle.

Two more dead today. We butcher what we can, but the meat is foul and something’s been at it.

September 9: …

September 10: Mrs. Lidell said she saw Mr. Henry last night wandering about camp talking to himself. No one else did, and so she surmised it were all a dream. We are all of us sorry for Mr. Henry. We move slowly so that he might find us. William is sore at him now, as he took most of the ready powder and shot with him, and a whole good rifle. I fear the Indians have cornered him for it and done away with him in the pines.

Cooler today, thank God.

September 11: Climbed up and over the Blue Mountains, the highest hills I ever saw. Cold atop. We suppose if Mr. Henry is to be found, he’ll be at the Indian crossing on the river. I don’t think we will find him. Good hunting on the mountain.

September 12: Sick today, William has the bowel complaint. Thomas drives the team. Proud of him.

September 13: …

September 14: Praise the Lord, we have met again with Mr. Henry. He was in a terrible state, for we awoke to his shouting in the hills. William, Doc Browne and a man from another company went off and found him in a clearing. He seemed flustered and quite tired. Camped in the cold hills so that he might recover a day. No water for our stock, but good forage.

Tonight, while Mr. Henry still sleeps, William tells me that he was screaming the childrens’ names. He swear he’d seen them in that clearing, and following him all the days he was not with us. What madness is in this place? I have not had recourse to sleeping with my bible for several nights, but tonight I surely will. William better, then worse.

September 15: Mr. Henry is better today. Apologized for using so much shot, but could not say what he had used it on. Says his condition was a want for water is all, but the way he says it I cannot believe. We are hold up by William’s sickness. More dead cattle. Doc Browne says cats been at them.

Late, Mr. Henry goes out beyond the fire and stares into the dark. I wish he would go back in his tent. We all know it’s there, Robert, just go back in your tent. I sleep with my bible.

September 16-17: …

September 18: William is better now and we move down the hills some. Men keep talking about the queer calls of mountain lions, but now I am acquainted with them. Never would I mistake what I have heard for them. I do not fear them as the men do I hope they might prey on what moves beyond the firelight.

Men are making their fortunes in every part of this place. Bought a cucumber for a dime, 2 tomatoes for another dime, twenty cents for four onions. Outrageous.

September 19: William, Mrs. Lidell sick again. Doc Browne has gotten more medicine from Dr. Mattox who overtook us last night. I hope this will get us moving, as the dark grows oppressive at nights here. No part of this unhappy country do I like. 3 more dead cattle.

September 20: Company better. Moved five miles, camped on the bluffs, no wood or water save what we brought. William fears we’ll have no cattle by the time we reach Oregon City.

September 21: …

September 22: Scratching at the wagon. Told William, he says it were coons. Did not tell him I heard the laughter again. Mr. Henry was not with us at breakfast and cannot be found.

Mr. Henry returned around noon and did not say a word, but mounted his mule and moved on with us. William believes that Mr. Henry is not sound. I am inclined to believe it. I have feigned illness to ride in the wagon, as I could not stand his eyes on me. How he stares it’s like there’s nothing in it any longer.

September 23: William and myself are able to move and that is all.

September 24: …

September 26: William says he will ask Mr. Henry to leave us. He saw how Mr. Henry looked at me, and after I had retired, has been leering at the children likewise. He does not know what’s gotten into Mr. Henry, but he feels he wants to do us harm.

William confronted Mr. Henry this afternoon and he left us without complaint. We gave him his mule and a small wagon off the train to carry his belongings on. We’ll part ways at the Columbia. It is sore irony that the Indian crossing we had once hoped to Meet Mr. Henry at will be our stiff parting with him.

September 25-26:

September 27: Mr. Henry made off in the night before reaching the Columbia. We are certain he did not take anything of ours, but William says he has left most of his own possessions including the portrait of his wife and daughter. I fear for his wife and child, for I am sure Mr. Henry seeks answers from the Indians about his experience, and that traffic will see him into an early grave.

Reached the Columbia at noon, traveled down it to the Deschute, a powerful stream. Too dangerous to ford. Had to pay dear to the Indians to ferry our wagons and horses. Forded our stock with four losses.

September 28: …

September 29: William is not well this morning. Thomas drives the team like he was born to it. Mary and Mrs. Lidell rode in the wagon to sleep some, as they were awfully tired from all the excitement on the rivers. I rode my mule, Sammy, so that they might rest. We made only 5 miles, and the stock are restless and unruly. William says we must hire someone to replace Mr. Henry, for Thomas and himself will not always be well enough to herd the cattle.

Late, we made camp by an unnamed stream. It comes from the water, I know it does. I think William knows about the happenings but won’t say.

September 30: Moved six miles and found camp on the Deschutes again. Almost too cold to try the mountains. Good wood and grass just fifteen miles ahead, so sense going on without wood. Mrs. Lidell tells me she saw Mr. Henry in her dream again, that he entered her tent and told her that the children were possessed. She went on at length about how he mumbled to himself, always about children and babes and Indians. I say it about spooked me to death. I am glad he quit us.

October 1: Still on the east side of the mountains. Cold and miserable.

October 2: Met a Frenchman says thirty head of cattle froze to death around his fire last night, he’s taking the way back. He says th snows block the path ahead and we must take the back track as well. Traveled with him remaking all yesterday’s journey. His name is Mr. Duchesne. Very amiable.

Very late. Three head freeze in the night, despite our fire. God help us we’ll be even poorer when we get to Oregon City than we were back home.

October 3: …

October 4: Made no progress. Woke to find Thomas missing. William, Doc Browne and Mr. Duchesne went out after him, but it was Mary and Mrs. Lidell found him, standing stark cold in the clearing outside camp. The Enemy has his hands in this place. Thomas does not speak, and sleeps the day through and Dr. Browne sees to him.

William talks in low tones with Mr. Duchesne, who is a papist, certainly about Thomas and other strange happenings. I am a mite more agreeable to Mr. Duchesne’s thoughts on the matter, but he is a papist true after all.

William does not want to speak about it.

October 5: Mr. Duchesne left us this morning. He insisted he pay us for our companionship, but William refused. He says his brother is putting in the makings of a mill in Oregon is we know anyone that needs work that way, and we thanked him. Thomas wakes, but he cannot recall why he left. We are a day out from the Columbia where we hope to take passage down below the snows.

Late. Mrs. Lidell says that Mr. Duchesne left a silver crucifix with her. I am not mad.

October 6: Engaged our passage in a canoe with the Indians down the Columbia, leaving our wagons to be shipped to order when the rush is down. Traveled down the whole day until three-o-clock. Company very pleasant, which helped the hours pass. We thought we might travel the night through, but the wind and a sudden swell forces us to lay over for the night. The camp is handsome and the land picturesque. Our guides speak English well and inform us of all the towns west of here. There are so many settlements, even since we set out, that are not yet on the maps.

Late. Our dark companions will not sleep close to the water. I know why.

Late. I hear it and so does William.

October 7: Our guides were back before anyone woke. One of the men who had chartered the canoes with us was consoling his wife who would not stop sobbing. After breakfast the man told us that she had dreamt of her children dying. Prophecy, I fear.

We are layed over after three-o-clock again, the wind nearly forced us onto the rocks. One of our guides asked William where the fifth white man was. There are only four adult men with us, my William, Doc Browne, and two gentlemen from another party. They then made a description of a man they saw wandering the camp when they returned from their own camping place, and it was to the T of a likeness with Mr. Henry. Mrs. Lidell was white as a sheet after that and did not eat a thing but held fast to her bible. This is madness.

Late. William sits up with the rifle. No sounds.

October 8: Set out today early with no breakfast for the perfectly good reason that we had nothing to eat. Still off from the falls. Around eight-o-clock we landed and we glad of it, freezing, wet and chilled from two days on the river. There is something like civilization here, with a few houses and an excuse for a railroad. They pull baggage along the rail by mule and will carry only sick persons. William packs our baggage along while we all walk. We again hired an Indian and his canoe to take us down to the steamboat landing. There were a great many migrants eager to be off, with steamboats and flatboats all booked full. We will wait overnight here.

Late. Hot supper and what seems in our extremity to be a decent bed is fine enough medicine. Doc Browne has seen to many of the migrants and brought back excellent money and trades for his services. Thomas and Mary found many children to play with and make all sorts of trouble. We still have a ways to go, but I feel we are there some.

October 9-10: …

October 11: We have heard from a great many here that Oregon City is a cesspit, and there is no work or claims to be had there anylonger. We will go farther, then. It is a blow to us, but we have come this far.

October 12-15: …

October 16: I am so anxious to settle somewheres, but my anxiousness does not account for much. We meet new friends on this road every day, and William has sold our stock for a goodly bit of living money. The longer we travel the more it becomes clear that there is not a scrap of farmland unclaimed. Spirits high despite.

October 17-21: …

October 22: We have traveled 13 miles and have come to the little village of Salem. It is handsomer than Oregon City, and bigger. We have all gone in search of work. We have met with Mr. Duchesne and his brother, and they will employ William and Thomas for the year. For the winter we will all live in the back of the Duchesneses general store while the lumber mill waits to go up. Doc Browne will go on ahead, as there are already four doctors here. I am sorry to see him go.

…


[This ends the excerpt. The diary continues for three more months and describes the hardships of the northwest winter, putting down new roots and frustration with her husband, who died in mid December of 1852 of a logging accident. The Boggs family lived in Salem, Oregon, until the death of Martin Boggs, Anna Lane's grandson, in 1932, whereupon his papers were donated by his widow, Emma Haskins-Boggs.]

hecc op, it gud

too long

>>19081208

What's the punchline OP? Is this all of it?