Death Valley in \'49 by William Lewis Manly
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William Lewis Manly >> Death Valley in \'49
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In the chambers of my mind are stored up the most pleasant recollections
of these noble men whose good deeds in days gone by have earned for them
the right to a crown of glory of greatest splendor.
These noble souls who came here 40 years ago are fast passing away
across the Mystic River, and those who trod on foot the hot and dusty
trail are giving way to those who come in swiftly rolling palace cars,
and who hardly seem to give a thought to the difference between then and
now. Those who came early cleared the way and started the great stream
of gold that has made America one of the richest nations of the world.
I have a suggestion to make to the descendants of these noble pioneers,
that to perpetuate the memory of their fathers, and do reverence to
their good and noble deeds in the early history of this grand State,
there should be erected upon the highest mountain top a memorial
building wherein may be inscribed the names and histories of the brave
pioneers, so they may never be blotted out.
THE JAYHAWKERS.
The most perfect organization of the pioneers who participated more or
less in the scenes depicted in this volume, is that of the Jayhawkers,
and, strange to say, this organization is in the East, and has its
annual meetings there, although the living members are about equally
divided between the East and the Pacific Coast. As related elsewhere,
February 4th is the day of the annual meeting, for on that day they
reached the Santa Clara Valley.
It is greatly regretted that a more direct and complete account of the
Death Valley experience of the Jayhawkers could not have been obtained
for this work. To be sure it was from the lips of a living witness told
in many conversations, but no doubt many striking incidents were left
out. It is, however, a settled thing that these, and other individuals
with whom he was immediately connected, were more intimately connected
with the horrors of the sunken valley which was given its name by them,
than were any other persons who ever crossed that desert region.
It will be considered that this was the most favorable time of year
possible, and that during the spring or summer not one would have lived
to tell the tale.
The Author, to his best, has done his duty to all, and concludes with
the hope that this mite may authenticate one of the saddest chapters in
the history of the Golden State.
CONCLUSION.
This story is not meant to be sensational, but a plain, unvarnished tale
of truth--some parts hard and very sad. It is a narrative of my personal
experience, and being in no sense a literary man or making any pretense
as a writer, I hope the errors may be overlooked, for it has been to me
a difficult story to tell, arousing as it did sad recollections of the
past. I have told it in the plainest, briefest way, with nothing
exaggerated or overdone. Those who traveled over the same or similar
routes are capable of passing a just opinion of the story.
Looking back over more than 40 years, I was then a great lover of
liberty, as well as health and happiness, and I possessed a great desire
to see a new country never yet trod by civilized man, so that I easily
caught the gold fever of 1849, and naught but a trip to that land of
fabled wealth could cure me.
Geography has wonderfully changed since then. Where Omaha now stands
there was not a house in 1849. Six hundred miles of treeless prairie
without a house brought us to the adobe dwellings at Fort Laramie, and
400, more or less, were the long miles to Mormondom, still more than 700
miles from the Pacific Coast. Passing over this wilderness was like
going to sea without a compass.
Hence it will be seen that when we crossed a stream that was said to
flow to the Pacific Ocean, myself and comrades were ready to adopt
floating down its current as an easier road than the heated trail, and
for three weeks, over rocks and rapids, we floated and tumbled down the
deep canon of Green River till we emerged into an open plain and were
compelled to come on shore by the Indians there encamped. We had
believed the Indians to be a war-like and cruel people, but when we made
them understand where we wanted to go, they warned us of the great
impassable Colorado Canon only two days ahead of us, and pointed out the
road to "Mormonie" with their advice to take it. This was Chief Walker,
a good, well meaning red man, and to him we owed our lives.
Out of this trouble we were once again on the safe road from Salt Lake
to Los Angeles, and again made error in taking a cutoff route, and
striking across a trackless country because it seemed to promise a
shorter distance, and where thirteen of our party lie unburied on the
sands of the terribly dry valley. Those who lived were saved by the
little puddles of rain water that had fallen from the small rain clouds
that had been forced over the great Sierra Nevada Mountains in one of
the wettest winters ever known. In an ordinary year we should have all
died of thirst, so that we were lucky in our misfortune.
When we came out to the fertile coast near Los Angeles, we found good
friends in the native Californians who, like good Samaritans, gave us
food and took us in, poor, nearly starved creatures that we were,
without money or property from which they could expect to be rewarded.
Their deeds stand out whiter in our memories than all the rest,
notwithstanding their skins were dark. It seems to me such people do not
live in this age of the world which we are pleased to call advanced. I
was much with these old Californians, and found them honest and
truthful, willing to divide the last bit of food with a needy stranger
or a friend. Their good deeds have never been praised enough, and I feel
it in my heart to do them ample justice while I live.
The work that was laid out for me to do, to tell when and where I went,
is done. Perhaps in days to come it may be of even more interest than
now, and I shall be glad I have turned over the scenes in my memory and
recorded them, and on some rolling stone you may inscribe the name of
WILLIAM LEWIS MANLEY, born near St. Albans, Vermont, April 20th, 1820,
who went to Michigan while yet it was a territory, as an early pioneer;
then onward to Wisconsin before it became a state, and for twelve long,
weary months traveled across the wild western prairies, the lofty
mountains and sunken deserts of Death Valley, to this land which is now
so pleasant and so fair, wherein, after over 40 years of earnest toil, I
rest in the midst of family and friends, and can truly say I am content.
THE END.
[Transcriber's Note: Several variant spellings of, for example,
"medecine" and "Mormon", have been retained from the original.]
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