THE END OF OUR JOURNEY.
Mrs. Curry, Sim, Hillhouse and I are going to town as soon as Mrs. Curry is ready. We held a council whether we should get out our street suits and last summer’s hats, or go in our emigrant outfits, sun-bonnets and short dresses, thick shoes and all. Decided in favor of the latter. No doubt the people of Virginia are used to seeing emigrants in emigrant outfits, and we will not astonish them.
Evening.—We were not very favorably impressed with Virginia City. It is the shabbiest town I ever saw, not a really good house in it. Hillhouse and I, after hunting up and down the two most respectable looking streets, found a log cabin with two rooms that we rented for eight dollars per month. Mrs. Curry did not find a house at all. We thought as so many were leaving there would be an abundance of vacant houses, but there were enough living in tents to fill all the houses that were vacated.
Mr. Curry’s folks and Mr. Kennedy’s will go to Helena. Mr. Bower has a ranch on the Madison Valley. Mr. Grier will stay here for a time, anyway.
The cabin is on the corner of Wallace and Hamilton Streets, next door to the city butcher. The cabin has a dirt roof. There is a floor in it, and that is better than some have. It is neat and clean, which is a comfort. Men have not bached in it.
We found quite a budget of letters at the post-office, the most important of which are from brother Mac and Frank Kerfoot. Mac’s letter:
Cincinnati, August 10, 1865.
Dear Mother, Sister and Brothers:
It is with fear and trembling that I pen this letter. I have not heard from you for more than a month, telling me you had decided to go to Montana. The papers are full of accounts of Indian depredations. I have realized to the fullest extent that “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” In your last letter you had decided to go to Virginia City, so I will direct this letter to be held until called for. I am glad you are not going any farther West. I cannot conceive why you wanted to go to that far off wild Western country. I do wish you had stopped at Omaha, or St. Jo, or even Denver. It would have been better than Montana. With sincerest love to all,
Your son and brother,
Mac.
But oh, the sad, sad news comes in Frank’s letter. Neelie is dead. Oh, the anguish of soul, the desolateness of heart that one sentence gives expression to. Frank’s letter:
Green River, Wyoming Ter., Aug. 18.
Dear Miss Sallie—I write to tell you of our very great sorrow. Precious Neelie is gone. We are all sorely bereaved, but how Uncle Ezra’s family can ever get along without her, I cannot see. Any member of the family, except uncle, could be spared better than Neelie. She got very much better, and the doctor said if uncle would stay there another week, he was sure Neelie would be well enough to travel without danger of a relapse, but if she had another relapse she could not be saved.
The Hardinbrooke train left Monday morning. Mrs. Hardinbrooke was much better. The Gatewoods and Ryans stayed with us. Neelie was much better. She sat up in bed some. That night Uncle Ezra did not sleep at all, he was so afraid of Indians. The next morning, as Neelie had a good night’s rest, and was feeling stronger, nothing else would do but we must move on to Green River, where the soldiers are. We started about nine o’clock, and drove twenty-five miles without stopping. It was very hot and dusty. Uncle drove the family wagon and watched Neelie carefully. After a time she seemed to be sleeping quietly, so he thought she was all right. But it was the sleep from which there is no waking in this life.
Dr. Howard and Dr. Fletcher were both at Green River, and they both worked all night trying to arouse her, but without success. At early dawn Neelie’s sweet spirit took its flight, and we are left desolate.
Miss Sallie, do you remember Carpenter? the young man that made Uncle Ezra so mad by pretending to go into hysterics when the Ryan girls were leaving the train? When he heard that Neelie was gone, he went out on the mountain and found a large, smooth, flat stone, white as marble, but not so hard, and engraved Neelie’s name, age, and date of her death on it, to mark her resting place. He worked all day upon it, and at the funeral he placed it at the head of her grave, and if you ever go over this road it will not be hard to find Neelie’s grave. We gathered wild flowers and literally covered her grave with them.
Darling Neelie, our loss is her gain, for we all know that she was an earnest, devoted Christian. We will start on our now sorrowful journey to-morrow. I wish you were here to go with us, but hope you will be successful where you are, and happy too.
Mrs. Hardinbrooke was much worse after they came here. That hot, dusty drive was hard on well people; for sick people it was terrible. When Neelie died she was very low, but she has rallied, and the rest of the train will move on to-morrow. But Mr. Hardinbrooke will stay here with his wife until she is entirely restored, and they will go to Virginia City on the coach. All send love to you all. Aunt Mildred asked me to write you.
Very sincerely your friend,
Frank.
I believe I am homesick this evening. It is so dreary to go into a strange place and meet so many people, and not one familiar face. But I must not complain, for we are all here, not even Cæsar missing. My heart aches so for the Kerfoots. I do not know how they can bear this terrible bereavement under such trying circumstances.
* * * * *
Tuesday, September 6.
Mr. Curry’s folks have started to Helena. Mr. Bower’s to the Madison Valley, and Mr. Kennedy with them, to drive his team, leaving Mrs. Kennedy with us until to-morrow, when they will take the coach for Helena.
We moved into our cabin this morning. It does not seem as much like home as the wagons did, and I believe we are all homesick if we would acknowledge it.
The boys found a checkerboard nailed on the window where a pane of glass was broken out. We pasted paper over the place. They made checkermen out of pasteboard, and Sim and Winthrop are having a game. Hillhouse is reading the Montana Post. Mother is making bread, and initiating Mrs. Kennedy into the mysteries of yeast and bread-making.
As Hillhouse was on his way to the butcher shop, he passed an auction sale of household goods. The auctioneer was crying a beautiful porcelain lamp. He stopped to make the first bid. “One dollar” he called. There were no other bids and he got the lamp—his first purchase in Virginia City. (He has it yet.)
When he brought it home, with the meat he went to get, mother said: “What is the use of the lamp without the chimney?”
So he went to purchase a chimney after dinner and coal oil to burn in the lamp. He had to pay two dollars and fifty cents for a chimney, and five dollars for a gallon of coal oil, so our light is rather expensive after all. And thus ends our first day in Virginia City, and brings “Crossing the Plains and Mountains in 1865” to an end.
By S. R. H.