Chapter 7: Company Rules

 

April 21, 1847. Crossed the Kaw. One family lost a chair when the ferry tipped. Jenny is French, or partly so, and speaks the language better than I do.

 

“Things ain’t dried out from yesterday,” a farmer named Hewitt grumbled to Mac as they rounded up their teams in a cold rain. After less than two weeks on the trail, Mac could hitch his oxen in half the time it took the first day.

“Listen up,” Captain Pershing told the men, his hands on his hips. “We’re deep in Indian territory now. Best work together instead of arguing.”

“I thought this was a Christian group,” someone called out. “Why didn’t you keep the Sabbath last Sunday?”

“It’s two thousand miles to Oregon.” Pershing thrust his bearded jaw forward. “I can’t molly-coddle any greenhorns. At the Kaw I met another captain. Man named Dawson. We talked ’bout divvying up our groups based on speed.” He squinted at the men. “We’ll rendezvous with Dawson at Potawatomie tomorrow night. Decide what you want to do.”

When they left camp that morning, Doc Tuller walked next to Mac. “What does Pershing mean about splitting up?” the doctor asked.

“Men are complaining,” Mac replied. “Those herding cattle can’t move as fast as those without. Slower wagons don’t want to eat the dust of those ahead. Some folks want to rest on Sundays, others to press ahead.”

Tuller shook his head. “These men ain’t used to taking orders. Farmers are independent cusses. Pershing’s an Army man.”

“So they make each other mad.” Mac grinned.

“You’re a lawyer, right?”

Mac nodded. “Haven’t set up a practice yet.”

“Speak up when we palaver, lad. You’re young, but you seem to work hard and have some sense. Maybe you can help us get along.”

The doctor’s praise warmed Mac as he strode beneath driving rain. He’d started this trek as a lark, but had taken on a duty to care for Jenny. Maybe he’d earn a voice among the men. His father and older brothers had never thought much of what he had to say.

Foul weather continued all day. That evening they stopped near a small creek. Mac wondered how far behind the company from Westport was.

 

April 22, 1847. Made twelve miles. Talk is of splitting up. Each man eyes the others, wondering if we will still be together tomorrow.

 

Ominous low clouds hung in the sky the next morning. Mac left Jenny walking beside the wagon and rode Valiente.

“How you like Pershing?” Samuel Abercrombie asked him. Abercrombie, from Tennessee, was related somehow to Daniel Boone and acted like he knew everything. Most likely, he didn’t. Abercrombie’s older son Douglass was married with two daughters. The younger son, a grown lad named Daniel, was unmarried. The family had two wagons crammed full of possessions.

“Pershing knows the trail,” Mac said. “That’s my concern.”

Abercrombie spat tobacco juice. “There’s more to being captain than knowing which way’s west. I seen Indians fight the Tennessee militia. You trust Pershing to fend off savages?”

“I’m hoping we won’t have any fighting.”

“Oh, there’ll be fighting. Me and my boys can shoot, but we can only do so much. Need the whole company behind us. Don’t you worry ’bout your little wife?”

“Of course,” Mac said. “But I’m more concerned about the terrain and weather than Indians.”

“Got to worry about it all, boy.”

Jenny and Mac ate their noon meal with the Tullers. “You want to stay with the cattle or move faster?” the doctor asked.

“Faster, I hope,” Mac said. “Only two families here have cattle.”

The doctor rubbed his chin. “Aye. Hope those folks take a liking to the Dawson company.”

Through the afternoon Mac talked with many others. Some men wanted the strength of a large company, others wanted speed. Some mentioned resting on the Sabbath, but as one man said, “If we git to Oregon, there’s years to make square with the Lord. If we’re caught in snow come fall, we die.”

Shortly before dusk they arrived at the Potawatomie reservation. The Indian treaty land didn’t look any different than the wide expanse of Kaw valley prairie they had crossed.

“They say Jesuits are starting an Indian school,” Pershing said with a snort. “But ain’t no sign of black robes yet.”

As the last light of day ebbed, the Dawson wagons straggled into camp. It took them an hour to settle, herding a hundred head of cattle behind them. Their wagons creaked with unbalanced loads, pots and tools clanging from ropes on the sides. The Pershing company looked sharp in comparison.

After supper the men of both companies gathered. Pershing passed a bottle of whiskey around the circle. “As I said in Independence,” he began, “this here’s a family train. We’ll do what we can to keep the Sabbath, but I won’t let that slow us down. We’ll go at my pace and stop when I say.” He scratched his bearded chin, looking at Abercrombie. “Anyone can’t follow orders shouldn’t stay with me.”

“I got folks moving cattle to Oregon,” Jem Dawson said. “We’ll travel a mite slower, but there’s plenty of time afore winter. So anyone wants to follow me, be glad to have you. By the same token, any in my company wants to go with Pershing, no hard feelings.”

“What kind of watches will we have?” Abercrombie asked, handing the whiskey bottle to Mac.

“Platoons of four or five wagons each,” Pershing said. “With a sergeant over each group.”

“Why’s that?” Mac asked.

“So’s the same folks don’t eat dust every day,” Pershing responded. “Platoons will rotate the lead. I’ll call our starts and halts each day, choose the campsites, set the guards.” He took the bottle from Mac, gulped a swallow, and belched. “For now, my sons and me will scout, but I’ll assign more men to scouting if need be.”

“We want about twenty wagons to follow each of us,” Dawson said. “Any fewer, and we can’t defend ourselves.”

“We’ll divvy up based on speed,” Pershing said. “I’ll take the fast group. Dawson’ll take those with herds or who need to travel slower.”

Who would agree to travel slower? Mac wondered.

“Dawson and I are walking out toward the prairie. Line up behind the man you choose. If the split ain’t close to even, he and I’ll make the call.” Pershing turned on his heel and marched away.

Mac watched the two captains stride out of camp, then followed Pershing. Samuel Abercrombie was next to him, and Dr. Tuller not far back.

“So you’ll go with Pershing?” Mac asked Abercrombie.

“I ain’t fond of him, but I’m for speed.”

The men from the Pershing company with cattle headed after Dawson, as did a farmer with a large family including elderly parents.

A short distance from camp, Pershing counted the men following him and tallied their wagons. “Twenty-two. Lost three families with six wagons. Picked up five families, eight wagons among them.” He nodded. “No need to swap any with Dawson. Next step is electing sergeants. Need five. Any volunteers?”

“I’ll do it.” Abercrombie stepped forward.

“I nominate McDougall,” Dr. Tuller said.

“Ain’t he kind of young?” Pershing squinted at Mac.

“He’s a lawyer. Can keep order,” Tuller said.

“Who from the Dawson group?” Pershing asked. “Ain’t playing favorites.”

A mustached man waved his hand. “Josiah Baker. Been second to Dawson since we left Westport.”

“All right. Abercrombie, McDougall, Baker. How ’bout Mercer and Hewitt?” Pershing pointed at two farmers. “You five divvy up the remaining wagons. McDougall, put my family in your group.”

Sounded like Pershing didn’t think he could handle a platoon. Mac shrugged. So be it. His group ended up with his own wagon, Pershing’s two, the Tullers, and the Negro carpenter Tanner, who was the last to be assigned.

“Sergeants, set some rules. McDougall, write ’em down. We’ll go over them tomorrow.” Pershing took his bottle and walked back to camp.

 

April 23, 1847. We reorganized our company, and I am a sergeant. What would my father think? Probably not much more than Pershing does.